#SLOWLY LOOSING CONFIDENCE!! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

solxamber · 4 months ago

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Jealousy, Jealousy with: Housewardens

Riddle Rosehearts

It was honestly impressive how oblivious some people could be.

You weren’t even doing anything particularly inviting—just standing in the courtyard, minding your own business—when someone you barely knew strolled up and started laying it on thick.

“Wow, you must be tired,” they grinned, leaning a little too close for comfort. “From running through my mind all day.”

You stared. Slowly blinked. “...I literally don’t know who you are.”

They laughed, undeterred. “Oh, a little mystery! I like that. We should get to know each other. How about a—”

Before they could finish, a very distinct presence materialized beside you, and suddenly, your hand was clasped in a vice grip.

You turned your head, already stifling a grin. Riddle stood stiffly at your side, his expression carefully neutral—too neutral—but his fingers tightened around yours with unmistakable possessiveness.

And then, in the most Riddle way possible, he opened his mouth and immediately started critiquing their uniform.

“Your tie is loose, your shirt is untucked, and your posture is abysmal,” he declared, gaze sharp. “It’s disgraceful. If you have time to loiter and bother people who are clearly uninterested, then you certainly have time to fix your appearance.”

The person, previously brimming with confidence, visibly withered. “I—wait, you’re—”

“Housewarden Rosehearts,” Riddle confirmed, tone clipped. “And if you ever plan to talk to my partner again, I strongly suggest you do so properly dressed.”

There was a beat of silence. Then—without another word—the person bolted, nearly tripping over themselves in their rush to escape.

The moment they were gone, you turned to Riddle, your amusement barely contained. “Riddle,” you said, voice dripping with mirth. “Were you jealous?”

He scoffed, tugging at his collar. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

You raised a brow, glancing pointedly at the way his grip on your hand hadn’t loosened in the slightest. Then, you took in the very obvious, very intense red dusting his cheeks.

He refused to meet your eyes.

You laughed, delighted, and before he could protest further, you leaned in and kissed him, pressing a quick, affectionate peck to his still burning cheek.

Riddle went still.

“…You are jealous,” you whispered against his skin, just to tease.

“I am not,” he insisted, but his voice cracked ever so slightly, and that was enough to send you into another fit of laughter.

Still smiling, you tugged on his hand, leading him away. “Come on, let’s go do something fun before you start assigning uniform inspections as an act of vengeance.”

Riddle let out a heavy sigh, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he laced his fingers more firmly with yours, the corners of his lips twitching—just barely—before he let you drag him along.

Leona Kingscholar

Leona was going to lose his mind.

Three days.

Three days of watching you run around with those two idiots and that furball, pouring over textbooks, muttering formulas under your breath, completely oblivious to the fact that he existed.

You were studying. Fine. He got it. But you were studying with them.

And not him.

The moment the door to Ramshackle creaked open, you knew.

It was a sixth sense at this point—an awareness of a certain presence, of a lazy kind of arrogance that filled the air like a storm cloud waiting to break.

And break it did.

Because before you could so much as blink, a heavy arm was slung around your shoulders, and your entire world tilted.

You let out a startled yelp as you were bodily dragged from the dorm, Ace and Deuce frozen mid-review session, Grim’s tail puffed up in sheer betrayal.

“Oi—!”

“Not oi,” Leona drawled, utterly unbothered by your flailing. “Mine.”

You spluttered. “Leona, I have to study!”

“You can study later,” he dismissed, hauling you across campus with a grip so firm you had no choice but to stumble along. “You’re overdue for a break."

“I don’t have time for a break—”

“You do” he interrupted smoothly, and that was that.

You huffed, glaring up at him. “This is kidnapping.”

“Tch. If I was kidnapping you, I wouldn’t be this obvious about it.”

That was… not reassuring.

By the time he finally dumped you onto his bed, you were half-expecting him to declare an official study ban, but instead, he settled in beside you, his arms casually looping around your waist, his body half-draped over yours like an oversized, incredibly smug blanket.

“Go on, then,” he murmured against your shoulder, voice low and easy. “Study.”

You gave him an incredulous look. “Here?”

He hummed. “Why not? I got old notes. Bet they’re better than whatever those idiots are using.”

You blinked. “You actually have notes?”

Leona scoffed, reaching over to grab a notebook from his desk. “What, you think I just guessed my way through school?” He flipped it open and, to your absolute shock, the pages were filled with neatly written summaries, key points highlighted with the kind of precision that suggested he did actually pay attention. “See?”

“…I hate that this is actually useful.”

“Told you.”

You sighed, already feeling yourself sink into the warmth of him, the slow, steady rise and fall of his breathing, the way his fingers tapped lazily against your side, like he knew you were starting to relax and was deliberately making it worse.

Still. If you had to study, this wasn’t… terrible.

You let your head rest against his shoulder, flipping through the notes. “Fine. But if I fall asleep, it’s your fault.”

Leona smirked, his breath warm against your skin. “Then I guess you’ll just have to take a nap right here.”

You rolled your eyes, but the next time you felt him shift, the unmistakable curve of his smile pressing into your neck, you didn’t even bother fighting it.

Azul Ashengrotto

Azul Ashengrotto was a patient man.

A calculated man.

A businessman.

Which was the only reason he hadn’t already torn his hair out strand by agonized strand over the fact that you had been frequenting some other café for the past two weeks.

At first, he’d assumed it was a novelty thing. Maybe you had a moment of curiosity. Maybe they had some limited-time drink that you needed to try. Maybe you’d simply gotten lost—it happened more often than you liked to admit.

But no. You had kept going.

Loyal, devoted, regular patronage.

To a café that was not the Mostro Lounge.

Azul could not abide it.

So, instead of despairing in silence, he took action.

The next time you announced you were heading there, Azul smiled, adjusted his glasses, and accompanied you.

Because if there was something about this place that had captured your attention, then he would analyze it, perfect it, and eliminate the competition before they could even think about stealing away his most treasured customer.

(And partner. But semantics.)

At first, it seemed innocent enough. You gushed over some ridiculous limited-menu item with a starry-eyed enthusiasm that made him fond despite himself, but it was just cake. Cake was replaceable. Cake was replicable. Cake was nothing.

And then the owner came out.

Azul didn’t move, but his businessman’s smile settled into place with all the calculated precision of a predator fixing its gaze upon its prey.

The café owner, meanwhile, had their full attention on you.

And they were far too familiar.

Far too comfortable.

Far too eager.

Their eyes crinkled with warmth when they spoke to you, their laughter was just a touch too soft, and their entire demeanor—

Azul’s fingers twitched. He did not clench them into fists, because that would be petty, but—

He was going to destroy them.

With a pleasant, affable smile, of course.

By the time you finished your cake (which Azul had methodically analyzed with every bite), he had already formulated seventeen different ways to not only outdo this café, but to erase its relevance entirely.

He escorted you back to your room, silent for once, but his mind was racing.

And then, after a long pause, he asked, “Do you enjoy their presence?”

You blinked. “Who?”

“The owner.”

You stared at him, visibly baffled. “…I like their cake?”

Azul opened his mouth.

Then closed it.

And then, after a long, suffering pause, he sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, because of course you hadn’t noticed.

Because of course you had been utterly, entirely oblivious to the way they had been practically fawning over you.

He didn’t know if he wanted to laugh or cry.

So, in the end, he simply pulled you close and kissed you, long and lingering, with a kind of slow, consuming possessiveness that had you melting against him in pleased surprise.

He held you the entire night, unwilling to let go, much to your delighted confusion.

And if, a week later, the Mostro Lounge mysteriously unveiled a bigger, better, and undeniably tastier version of that limited-edition cake, effectively nullifying any reason for you to return to that café—

Well.

Azul had no comment.

Kalim Al-Asim

Kalim insisted on picking you up after class every day, no matter how many times you told him it wasn’t necessary. He always laughed, dismissing your protests with a wave of his hand, as if the very idea of not meeting you after class was ridiculous. “Why wouldn’t I? I like seeing you first thing after class! It makes my whole day better!” And, honestly, how could you argue with that?

So, as usual, you waited outside, looking for that familiar flash of red and gold. You didn’t mind—Kalim was always quick, always eager, and always a little over-the-top about it, greeting you with his usual sunbeam of a grin and a greeting so enthusiastic it was like he hadn’t just seen you that morning.

But today, before Kalim arrived, someone else approached.

At first, you thought it was just an overly friendly upperclassman looking to chat, but the way they leaned in, the way their eyes swept over you, made your skin crawl. Their words were dripping with false charm, their smile just a little too knowing, and the moment they took your hand, something in you snapped.

You were seconds away from yanking yourself free and letting them know exactly what you thought about their audacity—

And then, before you could react, a firm hand wrenched theirs away from you.

You turned, eyes widening in surprise, and saw Kalim standing beside you.

Only—this wasn’t the Kalim you were used to.

There was no bright, carefree smile, no cheerful energy. His expression was carefully blank, his eyes steady and serious in a way that sent an unexpected shiver down your spine. He wasn’t angry—no, you’d seen Kalim angry before, and this was something different. This was controlled, quiet disapproval as he stared the person down, his grip on their wrist unyielding.

“Don’t touch them.” His voice was even, but there was no room for argument.

The person sputtered something, an attempt at an excuse, but Kalim’s gaze didn’t waver. He didn’t shout, didn’t make a scene, didn’t need to. The sheer weight of his presence was enough, and after a tense pause, the person hurried off, clearly rattled.

And just like that, Kalim let out a breath and turned back to you, his usual grin slipping easily back into place, warm and reassuring. “Are you okay?”

You blinked.

Your heart was pounding. Not from fear—not even from lingering discomfort—but from something else entirely.

Because, apparently, Kalim without his smile was unfairly, ridiculously attractive.

You managed to nod, clearing your throat, forcing yourself to breathe as he took your hand—gently, reverently, the complete opposite of the unwanted touch from before. He squeezed it lightly, beaming at you as if the last few minutes hadn’t happened.

Later that night, as the two of you lounged together, he confessed, a little sheepishly, “I hated seeing them touch you.” His grip on your hand tightened slightly, as if just remembering it made his stomach twist.

You couldn’t help it—you laughed, leaning in to kiss him. He hummed against your lips, pleased, the jealousy from earlier completely forgotten.

And if, after that, Kalim insisted on being even quicker to meet you after class, practically appearing the second you stepped outside—well, who were you to complain?

Vil Schoenheit

You had been meticulous in your planning. A surprise party to celebrate Vil’s latest movie role—because, really, any excuse to throw a party for him was a good one. You coordinated with Rook (a double-edged sword, given his enthusiasm), found the perfect venue, picked out a cake that was as extravagant as he was, and carefully avoided any suspicion.

Or at least, you thought you had.

Vil, on the other hand, was about five minutes away from losing the last thread of his sanity.

You had been avoiding him. Not in the obvious, dramatic way—but in the subtle, infuriating way that made his stomach twist unpleasantly. Shorter conversations, quick kisses before running off, whispering in dim hallways with Rook, of all people.

Rook, who delighted in keeping secrets and spoke in riddles even when he wasn’t actively trying to be cryptic. Every time Vil so much as entered the room, your conversations stopped, and all he got was your innocent, suspiciously wide-eyed smile.

It was unacceptable.

But Vil was not jealous. Of course not. He was above something so irrational. Why should he feel threatened? The very idea of it was absurd. He was merely… curious. Concerned. Watching you sneak around with Rook had been horrible for his blood pressure, but jealous? Certainly not.

(And if his skincare routine had gotten even more rigorous to account for stress-induced breakouts, that was purely coincidental.)

So when you finally waltzed into his room, all bright-eyed and smiling, telling him to get dressed, his patience—what little remained—snapped.

In one smooth motion, he had you caged in against his vanity.

You blinked up at him, startled. “Uh. Hi?”

He narrowed his eyes. “You have been distracted lately.”

“Uh.” Your bluffing instincts kicked in, but it was useless. Vil’s gaze was sharp, his lips pressed into a thin line. He didn’t look angry, exactly—he looked… hurt.

And, well. That was enough to shatter your resolve immediately.

“Okay, okay, I’ll tell you!” You blurted, hands flying up in surrender. “We planned a surprise party for your movie premiere, and I didn’t want to ruin it! That’s why I’ve been sneaking around!”

Silence.

And then—

Vil laughed.

Not a quiet chuckle. Not a delicate, amused exhale. No, he laughed so hard that he had to lean on you for support, his entire body shaking with it.

And just like that, the tension was gone. He exhaled, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead before straightening. “Next time,” he said, smoothing his hands over your shoulders, “just tell me.”

You sighed, half-exasperated, half-fond. “That ruins the surprise.”

“Surprises are overrated,” he declared. “Now, come. You planned this party, and I refuse to let you attend it looking anything less than perfect.”

Before you could protest, he had already grabbed your wrist, dragging you toward his closet.

And honestly? After all that turmoil, matching outfits was the least he deserved.

Idia Shroud

Idia had been off all evening.

Not in the usual, grumbly, "the outside world is a waking nightmare" kind of way. No, this was different. This was pointed.

He was pouting.

You had first noticed it when he refused to meet your gaze, keeping his head turned at an almost comical angle whenever you tried to look at him. Even when you sat next to him, close enough that your shoulders brushed, he still wouldn’t acknowledge you.

At first, you thought he was just having an introvert moment. But then you noticed his fingers—tapping on his controller in short, stilted bursts, his usual fluid movements replaced with something far more sulky.

Something was wrong. And worse, he was refusing to tell you.

So, naturally, you did what any reasonable person would do.

You grabbed his face.

“??!!??!” Idia made an undignified noise as your hands squished his cheeks, forcing him to finally look at you. His wide eyes darted around frantically, looking for an escape, but you just leaned in, resting your forehead against his.

“What’s wrong?” you asked softly. “I can’t fix it if I don’t know what I did.”

For a second, he wavered. You could see it—the way his hands twitched, his lips pressed together in a battle between staying mad and melting like he always did when you held him like this.

But then—betrayal. Pure, unfiltered betrayal flashed in his eyes.

“If you don’t even realize your crimes,” he huffed, “then you don’t deserve to be told.”

…Huh.

You blinked at him, torn between concern and immense amusement. His cheeks were puffed up in an actual pout, his shoulders slightly hunched like an offended cat. His hair even flickered with a dramatic little sizzle, the blue flames crackling indignantly.

So, you did what any responsible partner would do in this situation.

You kissed his cheek.

He made another noise—this one more flustered than betrayed—but at least he wasn’t turning away anymore.

“Idiaaaa,” you coaxed, voice lilting as you gently rubbed soothing circles against his jaw. “Come on. Tell me.”

He hesitated.

Then, in a grievously wounded tone, he finally muttered:

“You did your dailies… without me. Who did you do them with?”

You stared at him.

“…That’s it?”

He gasped, looking even more betrayed. “That’s it?!”

Okay. Maybe not the best response.

“I just—” You tried to stifle your laugh, but failed miserably. “I didn’t know it was that serious—”

“IT IS,” he declared. “We have an unspoken promise! Every night! We do our dailies! We do our pulls! We suffer together in the gacha mines!” He gestured wildly, his voice spiking in distress. “And today—today, you—you—” His voice wobbled. “You betrayed me.”

You clutched your chest in mock horror. “I have committed the greatest of sins.”

“You HAVE.”

You bit your lip, barely holding back another laugh, but then—then you saw his face. The dramatic pout, the still-flickering flames, the way his fingers fidgeted against his sleeve.

And suddenly, it hit you.

This wasn’t just about the dailies. This was his time with you. The one moment of the day where it was just the two of you, side by side, relaxed and rambling about nonsense while farming loot drops.

And you had accidentally robbed him of it.

Your amusement softened into something warmer. You pulled him closer, letting your fingers trail through his hair as you pressed another kiss to his cheek—longer this time.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured, resting your chin against his shoulder. “I didn’t realize how much it meant to you. I did them alone, by the way.”

He mumbled something under his breath, still sulking, but at least he wasn’t pulling away.

“I promise I’ll wait for you every day from now on,” you continued, letting your fingers trace comforting patterns into his back. “Okay?”

“…Tch,” he muttered. Then, after a long pause, he finally slumped against you, his entire weight pressing into your chest.

You grinned. Victory.

“…You are watching the Premo concert reruns with me as compensation, though,” he grumbled, his voice muffled against your shoulder.

You rolled your eyes, amused. “Fine, fine.”

And that was how you ended up in Idia’s room for hours, marathoning concerts.

And if you showed up to class the next day completely wrecked from lack of sleep?

It was fine.

As long as Idia was happy.

Malleus Draconia

Malleus Draconia is above petty emotions.

He is the Prince of Briar Valley, an ancient being of immense power, the strongest fae in existence—he does not succumb to something as trivial as jealousy.

…That is what he tells himself as he watches you, once again, being hopelessly kind to people who clearly do not deserve it.

He watches as you nod along to Crowley’s latest absurd request, despite the fact that everyone knows that the headmaster is little more than a well-dressed menace with a penchant for delegating all responsibility to you.

He watches as some random student—a student who has never once acknowledged your existence before—approaches you with a bright, eager smile, undoubtedly about to ask you for yet another favor.

And he feels a peculiar, simmering sensation coil in his chest.

Malleus is not petty. He does not get jealous.

But he does dislike seeing you taken advantage of.

So, before this interloper can even get a word out, Malleus simply appears by your side, materializing in that eerie, seamless way that only he can. His presence alone is enough to make the student stumble back in terror, but then—just to be certain—he reaches out and takes your hand in his, lacing his fingers through yours with casual ease.

The effect is instantaneous.

The student goes pale. Their entire body stiffens, eyes darting between you and Malleus as if calculating whether their life is worth whatever ridiculous request they were about to make. The answer, apparently, is no, because they immediately spin on their heel and flee.

Malleus watches them go, his expression carefully neutral.

He usually dislikes the way people fear him. But today?

…Today, he finds himself rather pleased.

Satisfied, he turns back to you, fully expecting you to be grateful for his intervention. Perhaps a soft smile, a quiet "thank you," maybe even a fond squeeze of his hand—

Instead, he is met with your grin.

That knowing, teasing grin.

The one that says you know exactly what he just did. The one that says you know he is not as above jealousy as he claims to be. The one that says, without words, oh, so you’re feeling possessive today?

Malleus pointedly ignores it.

“Come,” he says smoothly, giving your hand the lightest tug. “Let us go somewhere… peaceful.”

You let him pull you along, but not without looping your arm around his and leaning into him with unmistakable amusement.

Malleus pretends he does not notice.

Masterlist

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cherrygirlfriend · 22 days ago

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─── SMACK! ♡

♡ pairing: ceo!rafe x housewife!reader

♡ summary: rafe is obsessed with his wife’s ass.

♡ warnings / tags: fluff, smut, MDNI! wc: 1k

♡ author's note: for the person who requested something with rafe who’s an ass man!! also this reminded me of my pilates princess fic !!

HOUSEWIFE MASTERLIST ♡ RAFE MASTERLIST

a prompt smack! echoed throughout your kitchen as you felt rafe's hand land on your ass, giving it a sharp smack over your thin shorts. you simply laughed, continuing to make breakfast for you and your husband as the man wrapped his arms around your midriff, pulling you into him. "you're distracting me..." you mumbled as rafe's lips found the side of your neck, a semi pressing into your ass.

"good. means 'm doin' my job right. appreciatin' my wife." he mumbled into your skin as you continued to poke at the omelette with a spatula, "i'm gonna burn our breakfast." you laughed softly as your other hand trailed up to his head, carding through the short strands of hair. "i'd rather have you for breakfast..." rafe's lips trailed down to your shoulder. "you already did." you grinned, "twice."

"and it was the best thing i ever tasted." "greedy man." you laughed softly as you turned the stove off, moving the pan to a burner that was off, before turning around in rafe's arms, looking up at him with a small smile on your face as his hands slid down to cup your ass, one of them squeezing the round flesh. "you're gonna be late for work." "baby, i make my own schedule." he grinned.

"well, i don't make my own schedule." your words made your husband pout, "what's even on your schedule? i made sure to have all your time when we agreed that your only job was to look pretty." you rolled your eyes at his words, even though you couldn't help the small smile on your lips, your cheeks starting to feel warm. "i'm taking some baked goods to the homeless center, then i have pilates and after that, i'm gonna meet up with lola for coffee."

"god, you're almost as busy as me at this point." rafe tsked, looking down at you with a grin, "my little philanthropist." he gave one last smack to your ass before pulling away, "alright. let's have breakfast i guess." your husband grumbled.

when you got home, you were still in your pilates gear, a pair of tight white leggings, a matching sports bra, and a light pink fitted zip-up jacket. you looked down at your watch and noticed there was still around an hour before rafe would be getting home.

thirty minutes later, as you were cutting vegetables for dinner, you heard the front door open and close, your brows rising slightly in surprise when your husband walked to the kitchen doorway, a grin on his lips, "you're home early." you chuckled softly as he strode to you with confidence, rolling up his sleeves. "i had something urgent to tell you."

"what's up?" you asked, your brows furrowing in confusion and slight concern, only for rafe to bring his lips to yours and sliding his arms around your waist, catching you off guard, until eventually, you melted into the kiss.

when he pulled away from the kiss, you looked up at him with your brows raised, "was that the urgent thing you just had to tell me?" "oh, no." rafe grinned down at you, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, "it was that i missed you."

you smack his chest softly with a floral-patterned oven mitt, feeling your cheeks warm up at his honeyed words, your lips starting to quirk up before you turned back to the vegetables you were cutting, picking the knife back up. "i have dinner to prepare."

"y'know, we could always just order in..." rafe's large hand slid onto your back as his eyes, hungry for something other than the meal you'd planned to prepare, trailed down your body, his hand following suite to the curve of your ass, a grin slowly taking over his lips, "these new?" he mumbled, referring to the white leggings you were wearing, "yeah, yeah. i wore them to pilates."

that made your husband let out a dramatic gasp, "you're telling me you wore these in front of other people?" he gave your ass a soft smack, making you chuckle, "and did you wear them when you went out for coffee, too?" "naturally." that earned you a slightly sharper smack, rafe watching your ass bounce slightly in the skin-tight fabric, "haven't we talked about how i don't want you showing my pretty ass to other men?"

"oh? it's your ass now?" you laughed; you were well aware of rafe's obsession with your ass; he loved smacking it, rubbing it, squeezing it, resting his head on it when you were laying in bed... whenever you two went out somewhere, his hand was unashamedly resting on your ass, no matter how inappropriate.

"as long as you have those rings on your finger this ass belongs to me." rafe grins, pulling you into him, his lips finding your neck, each of his actions convincing you more and more, a low whine leaving your lips, "c'mon, baby. we could order in, fool around on the couch a bit before the food arrives..." his large hand slid down the waistband of your shorts, your breath getting caught in your throat as you arched into him, the back of your head going to rest on your shoulder.

"rafe..." "c'mon..."

when his hand slid down into your panties and rafe's long middle finger made contact with your clit, you could finally feel yourself give in, the knife clattering down onto the cutting board. he spun you around, making you squeal, his strong hands gripping your hips, "is that a yes?"

you rolled your eyes as if it was a bother and let out a soft breath of a laughter.

"it's a yes." you mumbled, connecting your lips with rafe's.

TAGLIST : @raahosh, @nemesyaaa, @purpleplumpudding, @littlelamy, @dollyfiles, @esotericcangel, @mattyskies, @bakugouswaif, @nonietosay, @my-name-is-baby, @tinythebunni, @fratbrochrisgf, @ariieeesworld, @silkylovey, @izumis-salty-penis, @cameronsbabydoll, @love-ella333, @haylorbestie, @k4yr14, @harringtonsbowgirl, @lacelottie

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vacationbimboschool · 3 months ago

Text

Already a pro

Giving bf!rafe head for the first time

Content below: Virgin!reader, head (m!recieving), dirty talking.

The room was quiet except for the low hum of the air conditioning and the distant sound of cars passing outside. The bed beneath your knees was soft, warm from where he’d been sitting, legs sprawled out, watching you with that lazy, knowing smirk. His back rested against the headboard, arms loose at his sides, but the way his fingers flexed against the sheets told you he was anything but relaxed.

Your heart was a drum in your chest. You’d thought about this—fantasized about it in flashes of heat and want—but now that you were actually here, between his legs, looking up at him, you felt small in the best way possible. Nervous, sure. But eager.

"You ever done this before?" Rafe asked, voice low, velvety, with just the faintest rasp.

You shook your head.

His smirk widened slightly, though there was something softer in his expression, too. Something dark and indulgent. He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear before his fingers trailed down, ghosting over your jaw. "Then let me teach you."

You swallowed, nodding, because that was exactly what you wanted—to learn. To be good for him.

"Start slow," he murmured, guiding your hand to the bulge in his boxers. "Get used to how I feel."

You exhaled, your fingers moving hesitantly at first, feeling the heat of him through the fabric. He was already hard, thick and straining, and the realization sent a rush of heat between your thighs.

"Don’t be shy," he murmured. "I’m yours, baby. Take what you want."

Something about that made you bolder. You palmed him more firmly, watching his reaction, the way his eyes darkened, how his jaw clenched just slightly. Slowly, you traced the outline of him, pressing just enough to make his breath hitch.

"Good," he praised, fingers tightening in your hair. "Now take them off."

You hooked your fingers into the waistband of his boxers and pulled them down, your breath catching as he sprang free. He was bigger than you expected, flushed at the tip, a bead of precum glistening there. Your thighs clenched at the sight of him, at the way he watched you with so much expectation.

"Use your hand first," he instructed, his voice steady but thick with something deeper. "Spit on it."

You hesitated for only a second before wetting your palm and wrapping your fingers around him. He exhaled sharply through his nose.

"Start slow," he murmured. "Base to tip. That’s it—fuck, just like that."

Your followed his lead, watching the way his muscles tensed every time you twisted your wrist just right, how his abs flexed when you dragged your thumb over the head.

"You're a quick learner," he groaned. "Try your mouth now. Just the tip first."

You obeyed, leaning in, lips parting as you took just the head into your mouth, tongue flicking experimentally against the slit. He let out a slow, shuddering breath, his fingers tightening in your hair.

"Good girl," he murmured. "Now, hollow your cheeks—yeah, just like that. Keep it slow, let me feel you."

You did, sucking lightly, and his reaction was immediate—a sharp inhale, a quiet curse. It made something molten unfurl in your stomach, a rush of confidence you hadn't expected.

"Use your tongue," he instructed, voice rough now. "Lick up the underside—fuck, yes, like that. You’re so fucking good at this, baby."

Your head bobbed slowly, taking him deeper each time, letting yourself get used to the weight of him on your tongue. His grip in your hair was guiding but not forceful, his hips shifting just slightly as he fought the urge to thrust.

"Relax your throat," he groaned. "Breathe through your nose. You got it, baby—fuck, you feel perfect."

You moaned softly around him at the praise, and the vibration made him jolt, his head falling back against the pillows. "Shit, keep doing that," he panted. "You're gonna make me—"

You wanted to. Wanted to take him all the way there, wanted to push him over the edge with your mouth alone.

"Fuck, baby—" His words cut off in a sharp groan, and then he was gone, unraveling beneath your touch, his body shuddering as he came, his fingers tight in your hair, his head thrown back against the pillows.

You pulled away slowly, wiping your lips as you looked up at him, breathless. He was still staring at you, chest rising and falling, eyes dark and dazed.

“You did great, baby,” he whispered breathlessly “you’re already a pro”

#smut #writers on tumblr #18+ mdni #fanfiction #fanfic #rafe cameron #rafe cameron smut #x reader #rafe obx #rafe outer banks #outer banks #obx #drew starkey smut #drew starkey

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pucksandpower · 8 months ago

Text

Little Star

Max Verstappen x Leclerc!Reader

Summary: you’ve grown used to being overshadowed by your older brother, merely a distant star that seems dull in comparison to the sun of Maranello … and then Max happens

Based on this request

The sun dips low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the paddock of the Autodromo Nazionale Monza. The air still buzzes with excitement from the day’s race, but behind the Ferrari hospitality unit, a different energy permeates the air.

You lean against the cool metal wall, sliding down until you’re sitting on the concrete, knees pulled to your chest. Tears stream silently down your face as you struggle to catch your breath between sobs. The sounds of celebration echo in the distance, a stark contrast to your solitude.

Footsteps approach, and you hastily wipe at your eyes, hoping to erase any evidence of your breakdown. A familiar figure rounds the corner, stopping short when he spots you.

“Hey,” Max Verstappen says, his brow furrowing with concern. “Are you alright?”

You force a smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “I’m fine,” you insist, your voice wavering slightly. “Just ... needed some air.”

Max doesn’t buy it for a second. He crouches down beside you, his blue eyes searching your face. “You don’t look fine,” he says gently. “What’s going on?”

You bite your lip, debating whether to confide in him. After a moment, you sigh. “It’s stupid,” you mumble.

“If it’s making you cry, it’s not stupid,” Max counters. He settles down next to you, his shoulder brushing yours. “Come on, talk to me.”

You take a shaky breath. “It’s my birthday,” you admit quietly.

Max’s eyebrows shoot up. “Today? Why aren’t you celebrating?”

A bitter laugh escapes your lips. “Because everyone forgot,” you explain, fresh tears welling up. “Charles won the race, and ... I’m happy for him, I really am. But it’s like I don’t even exist when he’s around, you know?”

Max nods slowly, understanding dawning on his face. “That must be really tough,” he says softly.

You nod, sniffling. “I’ve always felt like I was in his shadow, but today ... it just hit me harder, I guess. Even my mom forgot.”

“That’s not okay,” Max says firmly. “Your birthday should be special, no matter what else is happening.”

You shrug, picking at a loose thread on your jeans. “It’s fine. I’m used to it.”

“No, it’s not fine,” Max insists. He stands up suddenly, determination etched on his face. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

Before you can protest, he’s gone, jogging away towards the paddock. You’re left alone again, wondering what he’s up to.

True to his word, Max returns a few minutes later, slightly out of breath and holding something behind his back. “Close your eyes,” he instructs with a grin.

Curious, you comply. There’s a rustling sound, and then Max’s voice rings out, clear and slightly off-key: “Happy birthday to you ...”

Your eyes fly open in surprise. Max stands before you, holding a small cupcake with a single candle stuck in the frosting. His face is illuminated by the flickering flame as he continues to sing.

“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Y/N, happy birthday to you!”

Emotion wells up in your chest, a lump forming in your throat. “Max,” you whisper, overwhelmed. “You didn’t have to do this.”

He crouches down, carefully balancing the cupcake. “Of course I did,” he says softly. “Everyone deserves to feel special on their birthday. Now make a wish and blow out your candle.”

You close your eyes, thinking for a moment before leaning forward to extinguish the tiny flame. When you open them again, Max is beaming at you.

“What did you wish for?” He asks, settling back down beside you and offering you the cupcake.

You shake your head, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Can’t tell you, or it won’t come true.”

Max laughs, nudging your shoulder playfully. “Fair enough. So, twenty-two, huh? How does it feel to be so old?”

You roll your eyes, but can’t help chuckling. “Says the guy who’s practically ancient at twenty-six.”

“Hey!” Max protests, feigning offense. “I’ll have you know I’m in my prime.”

The banter feels natural, and you find yourself relaxing for the first time all day. You take a bite of the cupcake, savoring the sweetness. “This is really good,” you mumble around a mouthful of frosting. “Where did you even find it?”

Max grins mischievously. “I have my sources. Can’t reveal all my secrets, can I?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Thank you, Max. Really. This ... it means a lot.”

His expression softens. “You’re welcome. I’m sorry the rest of your family forgot. That’s not fair to you.”

You sigh, your momentary happiness fading slightly. “It’s not their fault. Charles had a big win today, and-”

“Stop,” Max interrupts gently. “You don’t have to make excuses for them. Your feelings are valid.”

You blink, surprised by his directness. “I ... I guess I’m just used to it,” you admit. “It’s always been about Charles. Even before he got into F1, he was the golden child. I love him, don’t get me wrong, but sometimes ...”

“Sometimes you want to be seen too,” Max finishes for you. You nod, grateful that he understands.

“Exactly. And it’s not just Charles. Arthur’s always been following in his footsteps, and Lorenzo ... well, he’s the oldest. I’m just ... there.”

Max frowns. “That’s not true. You’re your own person, with your own talents and dreams. Have you talked to them about how you feel?”

You shake your head. “I don’t want to make them feel bad. Especially Charles. He works so hard, and he deserves his success.”

“His success doesn’t diminish your worth,” Max says firmly. “You deserve to be celebrated too.”

Tears prick at your eyes again, but for a different reason this time. “Thank you,” you whisper. “I don’t think anyone’s ever put it quite like that before.”

Max smiles softly. “Well, it’s true. And for what it’s worth, I think you’re pretty amazing.”

A blush creeps up your cheeks. “You barely know me,” you point out.

“I know enough,” Max counters. “I know you’re kind enough to put your family’s happiness before your own. I know you’re strong enough to handle being overlooked without becoming bitter. And I know you’ve got a great taste in cupcakes.”

You laugh, the sound bubbling up from deep in your chest. “Well, when you put it like that ...”

Max grins, clearly pleased to have made you smile. “So, birthday girl, what do you want to do now? The night is young, and I happen to know where they keep the good champagne around here.”

You hesitate, glancing towards the paddock where you can still hear the sounds of celebration. “I don’t know ... I should probably go find my family.”

Max raises an eyebrow. “On your birthday? Come on, live a little. They can wait.”

A spark of rebellion ignites in your chest. “You know what? You’re right. Let’s do it.”

Max jumps to his feet, offering you his hand. “That’s the spirit! First stop, champagne. Then, who knows? Maybe we’ll steal a golf cart and go joyriding around the track.”

You take his hand, allowing him to pull you up. “Is that even allowed?”

Max’s eyes twinkle with mischief. “Probably not. But it’s your birthday, so I think we can bend the rules a little.”

As you follow Max towards the paddock, a warmth spreads through your chest that has nothing to do with the lingering summer heat. For the first time in years, you feel seen. Appreciated. Special.

“Hey, Max?” You say, causing him to pause and look back at you.

“Yeah?”

You smile, genuine and bright. “Thank you. For everything.”

Max’s expression softens. “Anytime,” he says softly. “Now come on, birthday girl. Let’s make this a night to remember.”

As you walk side by side into the fading light, you can’t help but feel that this birthday might just be the start of something new. Something exciting. Something uniquely yours.

And for once, you’re not thinking about Charles, or Arthur, or anyone else. You’re just thinking about you, and the possibilities that stretch out before you like an open road.

Happy birthday indeed.

***

The Ferrari hospitality suite thrums with energy, laughter and music spilling out into the warm Italian night. Charles Leclerc stands at the center of it all, a wide grin plastered across his face as he basks in the glow of his hard-fought victory. Champagne flows freely, and the air is thick with the scent of celebration.

“To Charles!” Someone shouts, raising a glass. The room erupts in cheers, and Charles feels a swell of pride in his chest.

“Speech! Speech!” The crowd chants, and Charles laughs, holding up his hands in mock surrender.

“Alright, alright,” he concedes, clearing his throat. “I just want to say thank you to everyone here. This win ... it’s not just mine. It’s ours. The team, the mechanics, the engineers, the strategists ... we did this together.”

More cheers erupt, and Charles feels a hand clap him on the back. He turns to see his teammate grinning broadly.

“Well said, amigo,” Carlos says, slinging an arm around Charles’ shoulders. “You drove like a champion today.”

Charles beams, the praise from his teammate adding to the euphoria of the moment. “Thanks, Carlos. Couldn’t have done it without you pushing me.”

Carlos laughs, taking a swig of his drink. “Always happy to provide motivation. Oh, hey, before I forget — can you pass on my birthday wishes to Y/N? I meant to find her earlier, but things got a bit crazy.”

The words hit Charles like a bucket of ice water. His smile freezes, his eyes widening in horror. “W-what?” He stammers, hoping he’s misheard.

Carlos frowns, noticing the sudden change in Charles’ demeanor. “Your sister? It’s her birthday today, right? Her 22nd?”

Charles feels the room spin around him. How could he have forgotten? His little sister’s birthday, on the same day as his big win. The realization crashes over him in waves of guilt and shame.

“Charles?” Carlos prompts, concern evident in his voice. “You okay, mate?”

Charles shakes his head, trying to clear the fog of shock. “I ... I forgot,” he whispers, more to himself than to Carlos. “How could I forget?”

Carlos’ eyes widen in understanding. “Oh, shit,” he mutters. “You didn’t remember?”

Charles runs a hand through his hair, panic rising in his chest. “I was so focused on the race, and then the win ... God, I’m such an idiot.”

He scans the room frantically, hoping against hope that he’ll spot you among the partygoers. But of course, you’re not there. Why would you be, when your own family forgot your birthday?

“I need to find her,” Charles says, already moving towards the exit. “I need to apologize.”

Carlos nods, squeezing Charles’ shoulder supportively. “Go. I’ll cover for you here if anyone asks.”

Charles barely hears him, his mind racing as he pushes through the crowd. He bursts out of the hospitality suite, the cool night air a stark contrast to the stuffy interior.

“Y/N!” He calls out, his voice echoing in the near-empty paddock. But there’s no response.

Panic rising, Charles pulls out his phone, fumbling with the screen as he opens his contacts. He hits your name, holding the phone to his ear as it rings.

Once. Twice. Three times. Then, your voicemail.

“Hey, this is Y/N. Leave a message!”

Charles swears under his breath, ending the call. He tries again, and again, but each time it goes straight to voicemail.

“Come on, come on,” he mutters, pacing back and forth. Where could you be? Who would you have gone to when your family let you down?

A thought strikes him, and he quickly dials another number.

“Hello?” Arthur’s sleepy voice answers.

“Arthur!” Charles practically shouts. “Is Y/N with you?”

There’s a pause, then confusion in Arthur’s tone. “No? Why would she be? Aren’t you guys celebrating?”

Charles feels his heart sink even further. “Arthur, it’s her birthday. We forgot.”

“Shit,” Arthur breathes. “How did we ... God, we’re terrible brothers.”

“I know, I know,” Charles says, the guilt eating away at him. “I’m trying to find her now. Can you call Maman and Lorenzo, see if they’ve heard from her?”

“Yeah, of course,” Arthur agrees quickly. “I’ll call you back if I hear anything.”

Charles ends the call, his mind whirling. Where else could you be? He tries to think back to earlier in the day, wondering if he’d seen you at all after the race. But everything is a blur of champagne and celebration, and he realizes with a sickening jolt that he can’t remember the last time he actually spoke to you.

He’s about to start knocking on motorhome doors when another idea strikes him. Quickly, he opens the Life360 app on his phone. The family had started using it a few years back, mainly to keep track of each other during race weekends.

Charles waits impatiently for the app to load, praying that it will show your location. But when the map finally appears, his heart sinks. Your icon is greyed out, with a message underneath: “Location permissions turned off.”

“No, no, no,” Charles mutters, refreshing the app desperately. But the result is the same. You’ve deliberately turned off your location tracking.

The realization hits him like a punch to the gut. You didn’t just disappear — you chose to be unfindable. And it’s all his fault.

Charles slumps against the nearest wall, sliding down until he’s sitting on the ground. He puts his head in his hands, overwhelmed by the magnitude of his mistake.

“I’m so sorry, Y/N,” he whispers into the night. “I’m so, so sorry.”

As he sits there, memories flood his mind. Your proud smile when he won his first karting race. The way you’d curl up next to him during thunderstorms, seeking comfort. Your unwavering support through every step of his career, even when it meant less attention for you.

And how had he repaid that loyalty? By forgetting the one day that was supposed to be about you.

Charles’ phone buzzes, and he snatches it up eagerly. But it’s just a text from his mother:

Haven’t heard from Y/N. Is everything okay?

He stares at the message, unsure how to respond. How can he explain that he’s lost his little sister on her birthday?

Another text comes through, this time from Lorenzo:

No luck here either. What’s going on?

Charles takes a deep breath, steeling himself. He has to tell them the truth, no matter how much it hurts.

He creates a group chat with his mom, Lorenzo, and Arthur, his fingers shaking slightly as he types:

We forgot Y/N’s birthday. All of us. She’s not answering her phone and her location is turned off. I can’t find her anywhere.

The responses come in rapid succession:

Maman: Oh no. How could we forget?

Lorenzo: Shit. Have you checked with her friends?

Arthur: I’m on my way to the track now. We’ll find her.

Charles feels a mix of relief and shame. At least now everyone knows, and they can all work together to make things right. But the fact remains that they let you down in the first place.

He’s about to reply when he spots a familiar figure walking across the paddock. Max Verstappen, looking slightly disheveled and ... was that a touch of glitter on his cheek?

Without thinking, Charles jumps to his feet and runs over to his rival.

“Max!” He calls out, slightly out of breath. “Have you seen Y/N?”

Max turns, surprise evident on his face. Then, something else flickers in his eyes. Anger? Disappointment? It’s gone too quickly for Charles to be sure.

“Why?” Max asks, his tone cooler than usual. “Suddenly remembered she exists?”

The words sting, but Charles knows he deserves them. “Please, Max. I know I messed up. We all did. But I need to find her, to apologize.”

Max studies him for a long moment, as if weighing his options. Finally, he sighs. “She’s safe. That’s all you need to know right now.”

Relief washes over Charles, quickly followed by confusion. “You’ve seen her? Where is she?”

“I’m not telling you that,” Max says firmly. “She needed space, and after what happened, I don’t blame her.”

Charles feels a flare of frustration. “She’s my sister. I have a right to know where she is.”

“No,” Max counters, his blue eyes flashing. “You had a responsibility to remember her birthday. You didn’t. So now, you don’t get to demand anything.”

The words hit Charles like a slap. He opens his mouth to argue, then closes it again. Max is right, as much as it pains him to admit it.

“Is she ... is she okay?” Charles asks quietly, all fight leaving him.

Max’s expression softens slightly. “She will be. Eventually. But Charles, you really hurt her. All of you did.”

Charles nods, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat. “I know. God, I know. I just want to make it right.”

“Then give her time,” Max advises. “And when she’s ready to talk, really listen to her. Don’t make excuses. Don’t try to justify it. Just listen.”

Charles nods again, feeling utterly defeated. “Will you ... will you tell her I’m sorry? That we’re all sorry?”

Max hesitates, then nods. “I will. But Charles? You need to do better. She deserves better.”

With that, Max turns and walks away, leaving Charles alone with his thoughts and regrets.

Charles pulls out his phone again, looking at the group chat with his family. He types out a message, his heart heavy:

Y/N is safe. A friend is looking out for her. We need to give her space, but when she’s ready to talk, we all need to be there. Really be there. We’ve got a lot to make up for.

As he hits send, Charles makes a silent promise to himself and to you. He’ll do better. He’ll be the brother you deserve. And somehow, someway, he’ll make this right.

But for now, all he can do is wait, and hope that you’ll find it in your heart to forgive them all.

***

The city lights twinkle below as Max leads you into his penthouse suite, the door clicking shut behind you. The space is modern and sleek, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a breathtaking view of Milan’s skyline.

“Make yourself at home,” Max says, gesturing around the room. “Are you hungry? I can order some room service if you want.”

You shake your head, still feeling slightly overwhelmed by the events of the day. “No, thanks. I’m okay.”

Max nods, studying your face with concern. “You sure? It’s been a long day.”

A small smile tugs at your lips. “Yeah, you could say that again.”

There’s a moment of awkward silence before Max clears his throat. “So, um, you can take the bed. I’ll crash on the couch.”

“Oh, no,” you protest immediately. “I can’t kick you out of your own bed. I’ll take the couch.”

Max shakes his head firmly. “Absolutely not. It’s your birthday. You get the bed.”

You bite your lip, an idea forming. “We could ... share? I mean, if that’s okay with you. The bed looks plenty big enough.”

Max’s eyes widen slightly, a faint blush creeping up his neck. “Are you sure? I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“I’m sure,” you say, surprising yourself with your boldness. “Unless it makes you uncomfortable?”

“No, no,” Max says quickly. “I’m fine with it if you are.”

You nod, and another silence falls. Max runs a hand through his hair, looking suddenly unsure of himself.

“Do you want to watch a movie or something?” he suggests. “Or we could just talk, if you prefer.”

“Talking sounds nice,” you admit. “I’m not really in the mood for a movie.”

Max nods, gesturing towards the bed. “Shall we?”

You both settle onto the massive king-size bed, sitting cross-legged and facing each other. It’s oddly intimate, and you feel a flutter of nerves in your stomach.

“So,” Max begins, his blue eyes fixed on you. “Tell me something about yourself that isn’t related to racing or your family.”

You pause, caught off guard by the question. It’s been so long since someone asked about you, just you.

“Well,” you start hesitantly, “I’m actually studying to become an astrophysicist.”

Max’s eyebrows shoot up. “Seriously? That’s incredible! Why astrophysics?”

The enthusiasm in his voice makes you smile. “I’ve always been fascinated by space, you know? The idea that there’s so much out there we don’t understand ... it’s exciting.”

“That’s amazing,” Max says, genuinely impressed. “What kind of stuff are you studying right now?”

You laugh softly. “Are you sure you want to know? I might bore you with all the technical details.”

Max leans forward, his expression earnest. “Try me. I want to hear all about it.”

Encouraged by his interest, you begin to explain your current research project. As you talk, your hands move animatedly, your eyes lighting up with passion. Max listens intently, asking questions and showing genuine curiosity.

“... and that’s why understanding dark matter is so crucial,” you finish, slightly out of breath. “Sorry, I kind of went off on a tangent there.”

Max shakes his head, smiling warmly. “Don’t apologize. It’s fascinating. I had no idea you were into all this. Why haven’t I heard about it before?”

Your smile falters slightly. “Oh, well ... it doesn’t really come up much. Everyone’s usually more interested in talking about racing.”

Max frowns. “But this is incredible. You’re studying to unravel the mysteries of the universe. That’s way cooler than driving in circles.”

You laugh, but there’s a hint of sadness in it. “Try telling that to my family. I think they see it as more of a hobby than a career path.”

“What?” Max looks genuinely shocked. “How can they not be incredibly proud? This is huge!”

You shrug, picking at a loose thread on the comforter. “I guess it’s just not as exciting as F1? It’s okay, though. I’m used to it.”

Max shakes his head firmly. “No, it’s not okay. Y/N, you’re brilliant. Your family should be shouting it from the rooftops.”

Tears prick at your eyes, and you blink them back hastily. “Thanks, Max. That ... that means a lot.”

He reaches out, hesitating for a moment before placing his hand over yours. “I mean it. And for what it’s worth, I think what you’re doing is incredible.”

You look up, meeting his gaze. There’s a warmth there, an understanding that makes your heart skip a beat. Without really thinking about it, you shift closer to him.

Max seems to take this as an invitation, because he moves closer too. Soon, you’re sitting side by side, your shoulders touching.

“So,” you say, trying to lighten the mood. “What about you? Any secret passions outside of racing?”

Max chuckles. “Nothing as impressive as astrophysics, I’m afraid. But I do enjoy sim racing in my spare time.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Isn’t that just more racing?”

“Hey, it’s completely different,” Max protests with a grin. “In sim racing, I can drive any car on any track. Even ones that don’t exist in real life.”

“Okay, okay,” you concede, laughing. “Tell me more about it.”

As Max launches into an explanation of his favorite sim racing setups, you find yourself relaxing more and more. The conversation flows easily, punctuated by laughter and playful debates.

Without really noticing, you both shift positions throughout the night. Max leans back against the headboard, and you mirror him. Your shoulders are pressed together, and you can feel the warmth radiating from his body.

“... and that’s why I think pineapple absolutely belongs on pizza,” Max finishes, looking at you expectantly.

You shake your head, grinning. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this from a world champion. Your taste buds clearly can’t be trusted.”

“Oh, come on,” Max laughs, nudging your shoulder with his. “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.”

“I have tried it,” you insist. “It’s an abomination.”

Max clutches his chest in mock offense. “You wound me, Y/N. And here I thought we were becoming friends.”

The word ‘friends’ sends an odd pang through your chest. Is that what this is? It feels like more, somehow.

As if reading your thoughts, Max’s expression softens. He reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture is so gentle, so intimate, that it takes your breath away.

“Y/N,” he says softly. “I’m really glad you’re here.”

You swallow hard, your heart racing. “Me too,” you whisper.

There’s a moment of charged silence, and then Max is leaning in. You meet him halfway, your lips meeting in a soft, tentative kiss.

It’s brief, just a fleeting press of lips, but it sends sparks shooting through your entire body. When you pull back, Max is looking at you with a mixture of wonder and uncertainty.

“Was that okay?” He asks, his voice husky.

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak. Instead, you lean in again, capturing his lips in another kiss. This one is deeper, more assured. Max’s hand comes up to cup your cheek, and you melt into his touch.

When you finally break apart, you’re both slightly breathless. Max rests his forehead against yours, a smile playing at his lips.

“I’ve wanted to do that all night,” he admits.

You laugh softly. “Even when I was insulting your pizza preferences?”

“Especially then,” Max grins. “You’re cute when you’re indignant.”

You swat at his arm playfully, but you can’t keep the smile off your face. For the first time all day, you feel truly happy.

As the night wears on, you and Max continue to talk, trading stories and stealing kisses. Gradually, your positions shift again. Max lies down, and you curl up against his side, your head resting on his chest. His arm wraps around you, holding you close.

“Y/N?” Max says softly, his fingers tracing patterns on your arm.

“Hmm?” you mumble, feeling drowsy and content.

“Happy birthday,” he says. “I know it didn’t start out great, but I hope it got better.”

You tilt your head up to look at him, a warm smile spreading across your face. “It did,” you assure him. “Thanks to you.”

Max kisses your forehead gently. “Get some sleep,” he murmurs. “We can figure everything else out in the morning.”

As you drift off to sleep, wrapped in Max’s arms, you can’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, this birthday wasn’t so bad after all. In fact, it might just be the start of something wonderful.

***

The early morning sunlight filters through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the room. You stir slowly, awareness creeping in as you feel a strong arm wrapped around your waist. For a moment, confusion sets in before the events of the previous night come rushing back.

You’re in Max Verstappen’s bed. And Max Verstappen is currently spooning you.

A smile tugs at your lips as you nestle back into his warmth, not quite ready to face the day. But fate, it seems, has other plans.

A sharp knock at the door jolts both of you awake. Max groans, burying his face in your hair.

“Room service?” You mumble, still half-asleep.

Max shakes his head, his voice gravelly with sleep. “Didn’t order any.”

The knock comes again, more insistent this time. With a sigh, Max untangles himself from you and slides out of bed.

“I’ll get it,” he says, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “You stay here.”

You nod, pulling the covers up to your chin and watching as Max pads to the door in his t-shirt and sweatpants. He opens it a crack, peering out.

“Can I help you?” He asks, confusion evident in his tone.

There’s a muffled response, and then Max is stepping back, opening the door wider. A hotel staff member enters, carrying an enormous bouquet of red roses.

“Delivery for Y/N Leclerc,” the staff member announces, looking around the room.

You sit up in bed, eyes wide. “That’s ... that’s me.”

The staff member nods, moving to set the bouquet on a nearby table. “Sign here, please,” he says, holding out a clipboard.

Still bewildered, you climb out of bed and make your way over, scrawling your signature on the form. The staff member thanks you and exits, leaving you and Max staring at the ostentatious display of flowers.

“Well,” Max says after a moment, “I guess your brother remembered after all.”

You let out a rueful laugh, shaking your head. “Yeah, I guess he did.”

Max frowns, noting the lack of enthusiasm in your voice. “Aren’t you happy about it?”

You sigh, reaching out to touch one of the velvety petals. “It’s just ... I’ve told Charles a hundred times that I don’t like roses. They’re not my favorite flower. But every time he needs to apologize or wants to do something nice, it’s always roses.”

“Oh,” Max says softly, understanding dawning on his face. “So it’s less about you and more about what he thinks you should like.”

You nod, a lump forming in your throat. “Exactly. It’s like he doesn’t really listen, you know? He just does what he thinks is right without considering what I actually want.”

Max moves closer, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you against his side. “That must be frustrating,” he says gently.

You lean into him, grateful for the support. “It is. And I know I should be grateful. It’s a beautiful bouquet, and he’s trying. But ...”

“But it’s not what you want,” Max finishes for you. “And that matters.”

You look up at him, surprised by how well he understands. “Yeah, exactly.”

Max turns to face you fully, his blue eyes serious. “Y/N, listen to me. It’s okay to be upset about this. It’s okay to want your family to actually listen to you and consider your feelings.”

You bite your lip, tears threatening to spill over. “But they’re trying now. Shouldn’t I just forgive them and move on?”

Max shakes his head firmly. “No. You don’t have to forgive them right away just because they made a grand gesture. It’s okay to make them work for your forgiveness.”

“Really?” You ask, your voice small.

“Really,” Max assures you. “They hurt you, Y/N. They forgot your birthday and made you feel invisible. One bouquet of flowers — flowers you don’t even like — doesn’t erase that.”

You nod slowly, processing his words. “So what do I do?”

Max runs a hand through his hair, thinking. “Well, what do you want to do? How do you feel?”

You take a deep breath, considering. “Honestly? I’m not ready to see them yet. I know I’ll have to face them eventually, but right now ... I just can’t.”

“Then don’t,” Max says simply. “Take the time you need. They can wait.”

A weight lifts off your shoulders at his words. “You don’t think that’s selfish?”

Max cups your face in his hands, his gaze intense. “It’s not selfish to prioritize your own feelings and well-being. You matter, Y/N. Your feelings matter.”

Tears spill over then, and Max pulls you into a tight embrace. You bury your face in his chest, letting out all the hurt and frustration you’ve been holding in.

“Shh,” Max soothes, rubbing your back. “It’s okay. Let it out.”

After a few minutes, your sobs subside. You pull back slightly, wiping at your eyes. “Sorry,” you mumble. “I got your shirt all wet.”

Max chuckles, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I think I’ll survive. Feel better?”

You nod, offering him a watery smile. “Yeah, actually. Thanks.”

“Anytime,” Max says softly. Then, a mischievous glint enters his eye. “So, what should we do with the roses? I vote we throw them off the balcony and watch them scatter in the wind.”

You laugh, the sound bubbling up from deep in your chest. “As tempting as that is, I don’t think hotel management would appreciate it.”

Max shrugs, grinning. “Their loss. We could always donate them to a hospital or something. Brighten someone else’s day.”

“That’s ... actually a really good idea,” you say, impressed. “We could do that.”

Max beams, clearly pleased with himself. “See? I’m not just a pretty face and fast driver.”

You roll your eyes fondly, but can’t suppress your smile. “Careful, Verstappen. Your ego’s showing.”

“You love it,” he teases, pulling you close again.

As you stand there in his arms, surrounded by the cloying scent of roses you don’t even like, you’re struck by how safe you feel. How understood.

“Max?” You say softly.

“Hmm?”

You pull back slightly to meet his gaze. “Thank you. For everything. For making my birthday special, for listening to me, for ... just being here.”

Max’s expression softens, a tender smile playing at his lips. “You don’t have to thank me for that. I ... I care about you, Y/N. A lot.”

Your heart skips a beat at his words. “I care about you too,” you admit.

For a moment, you just stare at each other, the air charged with unspoken emotions. Then, slowly, Max leans in. His lips meet yours in a soft, sweet kiss that makes your toes curl.

When you break apart, you’re both slightly breathless. Max rests his forehead against yours, his thumb tracing circles on your cheek.

“So,” he says, a hint of uncertainty in his voice. “What happens now?”

You take a deep breath, considering. “Honestly? I’m not sure. This is all happening so fast, and with everything going on with my family ...”

Max nods, understanding in his eyes. “We can take it slow,” he assures you. “There’s no rush.”

Relief washes over you. “Thank you,” you say softly. “I do want this — us. I just need some time to figure everything out.”

“We’ve got all the time in the world,” Max says, pressing a gentle kiss to your nose. “For now, how about we get some breakfast? I’m starving.”

You laugh, grateful for the shift in mood. “Breakfast sounds perfect. But maybe we should change first? I’m not sure I want to face the paparazzi in yesterday’s clothes.”

Max grins, a mischievous glint in his eye. “I don’t know, I think you look pretty good in my t-shirt.”

You glance down, realizing for the first time that you’re indeed wearing one of Max’s shirts. A blush creeps up your cheeks. “When did that happen?”

“You got cold in the middle of the night,” Max explains, looking far too pleased with himself. “I offered you my shirt. You were very insistent that it was the most comfortable thing you’d ever worn.”

You groan, burying your face in your hands. “Oh god. Please tell me I didn’t say anything else embarrassing.”

Max laughs, gently prying your hands away from your face. “Nothing too bad. Though you did mention something about my waist being ‘unfairly perfect’. Your words, not mine.”

“Kill me now,” you mutter, but you can’t help the smile tugging at your lips.

Max pulls you close, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Never. I’m rather fond of you, embarrassing sleep talk and all.”

As you stand there in Max’s arms, the morning sun warming your skin and the scent of roses filling the air, you can’t help but feel a sense of hope. Yes, there’s still a lot to figure out — with your family, with Max, with your future. But for the first time in a long time, you feel like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

And that, you think, is the best birthday gift of all.

***

The private terminal of Milan Malpensa Airport buzzes with activity as the Leclerc family waits to board their chartered jet. Charles paces back and forth, his phone clutched tightly in his hand, eyes darting to the entrance every few seconds.

“Charles, honey, please sit down,” his mother, Pascale, says gently. “You’re making me nervous.”

Charles shakes his head, running a hand through his hair for what must be the hundredth time. “I can’t, Maman. Where is she? She should be here by now.”

Lorenzo exchanges a worried glance with Arthur. “Maybe she got held up in traffic?” He suggests, though his tone lacks conviction.

“For three hours?” Charles snaps, immediately regretting his harsh tone. “Sorry, I just ... I’m worried.”

Arthur stands up, placing a comforting hand on Charles’ shoulder. “We all are. But Y/N’s an adult. She can take care of herself.”

Charles lets out a frustrated sigh. “I know that. But after yesterday ... we really messed up.”

“We did,” Pascale agrees softly, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “But we’ll make it right. We just need to talk to her.”

“If she ever shows up,” Charles mutters, resuming his pacing.

The minutes tick by agonizingly slow. Charles alternates between checking his phone and staring out the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of you arriving. But the parking lot remains stubbornly devoid of your presence.

Finally, a staff member approaches the family. “Mr. Leclerc? The jet is ready for boarding. We need to depart soon to maintain our flight slot.”

Charles feels panic rising in his chest. “No, we can’t leave yet. My sister isn’t here.”

The staff member looks uncomfortable. “I understand, sir, but we have a schedule to keep. Perhaps your sister could take a commercial flight?”

“Absolutely not,” Charles says firmly. “We’re not leaving without her.”

Lorenzo steps in, ever the diplomat. “Is there any way we could delay for just a bit longer? It’s really important that we wait for our sister.”

The staff member hesitates, then nods. “I’ll see what I can do. But please understand, we can’t hold the slot indefinitely.”

As the employee walks away, Charles resumes his pacing with renewed vigor.

“This isn’t like her,” he mutters. “She wouldn’t just disappear without telling us.”

Arthur bites his lip, looking guilty. “Maybe ... maybe she’s still upset about yesterday?”

Charles stops in his tracks, turning to face his younger brother. “What do you mean?”

Arthur shifts uncomfortably. “Well, we did forget her birthday. And then when we remembered, we didn’t exactly handle it well. Those roses you sent? Y/N hates roses.”

Charles feels like he’s been punched in the gut. “She ... what? No, she loves roses. I always get her roses.”

“Because you always get her roses,” Lorenzo chimes in, realization dawning on his face. “Not because she actually likes them.”

Charles slumps into a nearby chair, head in his hands. “How did I not know that? What kind of brother am I?”

Pascale moves to sit beside him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “We’ve all made mistakes. But we can fix this. We just need to talk to her.”

“If she’ll even talk to us,” Charles mumbles.

Just then, his phone buzzes. Charles nearly drops it in his haste to check the notification, hope flaring in his chest. But it’s not from you.

“It’s Max,” he says, frowning in confusion.

“Verstappen?” Arthur asks, leaning over to peek at the screen. “What does he want?”

Charles opens the message, his eyes widening as he reads it aloud:

“Y/N is with me. She’s safe and we’re flying back to Monaco together. She needs some space right now. Give her time.”

The silence that follows is deafening. Charles reads and rereads the message, trying to process what it means.

“She’s with Max?” Lorenzo finally says, breaking the silence. “Since when are they even friends?”

Charles shakes his head, still staring at his phone. “I don’t know. I ... I saw him last night. He knew where she was, but I thought it was just a spontaneous thing.”

“Well, at least we know she’s safe,” Pascale says, always trying to find the silver lining. “That’s the most important thing.”

But Charles can’t shake the feeling of unease settling in his stomach. “Why didn’t she come to us? Why Max, of all people?”

Arthur places a hand on Charles’ shoulder. “Maybe because he was there when we weren’t,” he says softly.

The words hit Charles like a physical blow. He knows Arthur is right, but it doesn’t make it any easier to hear.

“So what do we do now?” Lorenzo asks, looking around at his family.

Charles takes a deep breath, trying to calm the storm of emotions raging inside him. “We do what Max said. We give her time.”

“But for how long?” Pascale asks, worry evident in her voice. “She’s our little girl. We can’t just leave her alone.”

“She’s not alone, Maman,” Charles says, surprised by the steadiness in his voice. “She’s with Max. And as much as it pains me to admit it, I think ... I think she might be better off with him right now.”

The family falls silent again, each lost in their own thoughts. The weight of their collective mistake hangs heavy in the air.

Finally, Charles stands up, squaring his shoulders. “We should board the jet. There’s nothing more we can do here.”

As they gather their belongings and make their way to the plane, Charles can’t help but replay Max’s message in his head. You’re with Max. You’re safe. You need space.

He tries to imagine you and Max together, and finds that he can’t. What could have happened in the span of one day to bring you two together? And more importantly, what had driven you away from your own family?

As he settles into his seat on the jet, Charles makes a silent promise to himself and to you. He’ll give you the space you need, but he won’t give up. He’ll find a way to make things right, to be the brother you deserve.

The jet takes off, carrying the Leclerc family back to Monaco. But for Charles, it feels like they’re leaving a piece of themselves behind in Milan. A piece that, he fears, might be harder to reclaim than he ever imagined.

Meanwhile, across the airport, you and Max are boarding his private jet. The contrast between the two scenes couldn’t be more stark.

“You okay?” Max asks softly as you settle into your seat.

You nod, offering him a small smile. “Yeah, I think so. Thanks for ... well, everything.”

Max reaches over, giving your hand a gentle squeeze. “Anytime. You know that.”

As the jet prepares for takeoff, you can’t help but think about your family. Are they worried? Angry? Do they even care?

“Max?” You say, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Hmm?”

You turn to look at him, vulnerability shining in your eyes. “Did I do the right thing? Leaving without talking to them?”

Max considers your question carefully before answering. “I think you did what you needed to do for yourself. And that’s never wrong.”

His words settle over you like a warm blanket, easing some of the tension in your shoulders.

“Thank you,” you murmur. “For understanding. For not pushing me to do what everyone else thinks I should do.”

Max smiles, a soft, genuine expression that makes your heart flutter. “That’s what ... friends are for, right?”

There’s a hesitation in his voice, a question in his eyes that makes you wonder if ‘friends’ is really the right word for what’s developing between you.

As the jet takes off, carrying you away from Milan and the chaos of the past day, you find yourself feeling something you haven’t felt in a long time: hope. Hope for a future where you’re seen, heard, and valued for who you are.

And as you glance at Max, his profile illuminated by the setting sun streaming through the window, you can’t help but wonder if he might be a bigger part of that future than you ever imagined.

The jet climbs higher, leaving the ground and all its complications behind. For now, at least, you’re free. Free to breathe, to think, to feel without the weight of expectations pressing down on you.

You close your eyes, letting out a long breath. Whatever comes next, you know one thing for certain: things will never be the same again. And maybe, just maybe, that’s exactly what you need.

***

The sun is setting over Monaco, shining warmly through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Max’s penthouse apartment. You’re curled up on the plush sofa, a book in your lap, trying to lose yourself in the pages. But your mind keeps wandering, replaying the events of the past couple of days.

Max emerges from the kitchen, two steaming mugs in hand. “Thought you might need this,” he says, offering you one.

You smile gratefully, inhaling the rich aroma of hot chocolate. “Thanks. You didn’t have to.”

He shrugs, settling down beside you. “I wanted to. How’re you holding up?”

You’re about to answer when the doorbell rings. Max frowns, glancing at his watch. “I’m not expecting anyone. Are you?”

You shake your head, a knot of anxiety forming in your stomach. Could it be your family? Are they here to confront you?

Max squeezes your hand reassuringly before getting up to answer the door. You hear muffled voices, then the sound of something heavy being dragged across the floor.

“Um, Y/N?” Max calls. “I think you might want to see this.”

Curiosity overcoming your apprehension, you make your way to the foyer. Your jaw drops at the sight that greets you.

The entire space is filled with bags. Not just any bags, but the kind that comes from the most exclusive boutiques in Monaco. Gucci, Prada, Louis Vuitton, Chanel — the logos stare back at you from every direction.

“What ... what is all this?” You stammer, looking to Max for explanation.

He hands you a small envelope. “This came with it. It’s addressed to you.”

With trembling fingers, you open the envelope and unfold the note inside. You’d recognize that handwriting anywhere.

Y/N,

I know I messed up. We all did. I’m so sorry for forgetting your birthday and for not being the brother you deserve. I hope these gifts can begin to make up for it. Please come home. We miss you.

Love,

Charles

You read the note twice, then a third time, disbelief turning to anger with each pass.

“He’s got to be kidding,” you mutter, crumpling the paper in your fist.

Max steps closer, concern etched on his face. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

You let out a bitter laugh. “This,” you say, gesturing at the sea of designer bags, “is my brother’s idea of an apology. He thinks he can just ... buy me back with expensive gifts.”

Understanding dawns on Max’s face. “Ah. And I’m guessing that’s not going to work?”

“Not even close,” you say, shaking your head. “God, it’s like he doesn’t know me at all. I’m not one of his girlfriends who can be placated with a shopping spree.”

Max winces. “Ouch. Has he done this before?”

You nod, sinking down onto the nearest clear spot on the floor. “Every time he messes up with a girl, it’s the same routine. Flowers, jewelry, designer clothes. And it usually works, because the girls he dates ... well, they tend to be into that kind of thing.”

Max sits down beside you, his shoulder brushing against yours. “But you’re not.”

“No,” you confirm. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I appreciate nice things. But that’s not what this is about. It’s about him actually listening to me, actually seeing me as a person and not just ... his kid sister who can be bought off.”

Max is quiet for a moment, then says softly, “You know, it’s okay to be angry about this. You don’t have to pretend it doesn’t hurt.”

His words break something open inside you. Tears well up in your eyes, spilling over before you can stop them. “I just ... I thought he knew me better than this. I thought they all did.”

Max wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. You lean into him, letting the tears fall freely now.

“It’s like they don’t even see me,” you choke out between sobs. “They see this idea of who they think I should be, but not ... not who I actually am.”

Max rubs soothing circles on your back, letting you cry it out. When your sobs finally subside, he hands you a tissue.

“Feel better?” He asks gently.

You nod, wiping your eyes. “A little. Sorry for breaking down on you like that.”

Max shakes his head firmly. “Don’t apologize. That’s what I’m here for.”

You offer him a watery smile, then turn back to survey the mountain of bags. “So ... what do I do with all this?”

Max considers for a moment. “Well, what do you want to do?”

You bite your lip, thinking. “Honestly? I want to send it all back. Show him that he can’t just throw money at the problem and expect it to go away.”

Max nods approvingly. “I think that’s a great idea. It sends a clear message.”

“You don’t think it’s too harsh?” You ask, a hint of uncertainty creeping into your voice.

“Not at all,” Max assures you. “You’re standing up for yourself, setting boundaries. That’s important.”

Emboldened by his support, you start rifling through the bags, curiosity getting the better of you. “I wonder what he even bought ... oh.”

You pull out a small velvet box, opening it to reveal a delicate tennis bracelet. The diamonds catch the light, sparkling brilliantly.

“Wow,” Max breathes, leaning in for a closer look. “That’s ... that’s something.”

You nod, mesmerized by the way the bracelet shimmers. “It’s beautiful,” you admit softly.

Max watches you carefully. “You like it,” he observes.

You sigh, closing the box with a snap. “It doesn’t matter. It’s going back with everything else.”

“Why?” Max asks, genuine curiosity in his voice. “If you like it, why not keep it?”

You look at him, surprised. “But ... I thought you said sending it all back was a good idea?”

Max shrugs. “It is. But that doesn’t mean you can’t keep one thing if it genuinely makes you happy. You’re allowed to like nice things, Y/N. That doesn’t invalidate your feelings about the situation.”

You turn the box over in your hands, considering. “I don’t know ... wouldn’t keeping anything send the wrong message?”

“I think,” Max says slowly, “that the message you send depends more on what you say than what you keep or don’t keep. If you like the bracelet, keep it. But make sure Charles understands that a pretty piece of jewelry doesn’t fix the underlying issues.”

You nod, his words resonating with you. “You’re right. I’ll keep the bracelet ... but everything else goes back.”

As you start sorting through the bags, separating out what will be returned, you can’t help but laugh.

“What’s so funny?” Max asks, a smile tugging at his lips.

You hold up the bracelet box. “I was just thinking ... it would be a shame to let something this pretty go to waste, right?”

Max chuckles, shaking his head. “Absolutely. It’s practically your duty to keep it. For the sake of the bracelet, of course.”

“Of course,” you agree, giggling. “I’m being completely selfless here.”

As you continue to sort through the gifts, occasionally showing Max particularly outrageous items (“A fur coat? In Monaco?”), you feel a weight lifting from your shoulders. For the first time since this whole ordeal began, you feel like you’re taking control of the situation.

“You know,” you say, folding a designer dress back into its bag, “I think I need to have a real conversation with Charles. With all of them, really.”

Max nods encouragingly. “I think that’s a great idea. What do you want to say?”

You take a deep breath, organizing your thoughts. “I want them to understand that I’m my own person, with my own dreams and desires. That I need them to see me, really see me, not just as Charles Leclerc’s little sister or as an extension of the family name.”

“That sounds perfect,” Max says softly. “You deserve to be seen for who you are.”

You smile at him, a rush of warmth flooding your chest. “Thank you. For everything. I don’t know how I would have gotten through this without you.”

Max reaches out, taking your hand in his. “You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for. But I’m glad I could help.”

As you sit there, surrounded by discarded luxury goods, your hand in Max’s, you feel a sense of peace settling over you. You know the road ahead won’t be easy — confronting your family, establishing new boundaries, figuring out exactly where you stand with Max — but for the first time in a long time, you feel ready to face it all.

You slip on the tennis bracelet, admiring the way it catches the light. It’s beautiful, yes, but it’s also a reminder. A reminder that you’re worth more than grand gestures and expensive gifts. You’re worth being truly seen, truly heard, truly understood.

And as you look at Max, his blue eyes warm with understanding and something that might be more, you think that maybe, just maybe, you’ve found someone who sees you for exactly who you are.

***

The afternoon sun beats down on the streets of Monaco as Charles leans against his Ferrari, fidgeting nervously. He’s parked across from the International University of Monaco, his eyes fixed on the entrance. Students stream in and out, but none of them are the one he’s looking for.

He checks his watch for what must be the hundredth time. Your last class should be ending any minute now. Charles takes a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart. He’s rehearsed what he wants to say a thousand times, but now that the moment is approaching, all his carefully prepared words seem to evaporate.

A group of students emerges from the building, laughing and chatting. Charles straightens up, his eyes scanning the crowd. And then he sees you.

You’re walking with a couple of friends, your bag slung over your shoulder, a smile on your face. For a moment, Charles is struck by how ... normal you look. How at ease. It’s a stark contrast to the tense family dinners and stilted conversations of recent months.

Before he can second-guess himself, Charles pushes off from his car and starts walking towards you. He sees the exact moment you spot him — your smile falters, your steps slow.

“Y/N!” He calls out, waving awkwardly.

Your friends notice him too, their eyes widening in recognition. You say something to them that Charles can’t hear, and they nod, casting curious glances between you and your brother as they walk away.

Charles reaches you, stopping a few feet away, suddenly unsure of himself. “Hey,” he says softly.

“Charles,” you reply, your voice carefully neutral. “What are you doing here?”

He runs a hand through his hair, a nervous habit he’s never been able to shake. “I ... I wanted to talk to you. In person. You haven’t been answering my calls or texts, and I just ... I needed to see you.”

You sigh, adjusting the strap of your bag. “I’ve been busy with classes. And I needed some space.”

“I know,” Charles says quickly. “I know, and I’m sorry for ambushing you like this. I just ... can we talk? Please?”

You glance around, noticing the curious stares from passing students. “Not here,” you say finally. “There’s a café around the corner. We can talk there.”

Charles nods eagerly, relief washing over him. “Yes, of course. Whatever you want.”

You lead the way to the café, a small, cozy place tucked away from the main streets. As you settle into a booth in the back, Charles can’t help but wonder how often you come here, how many parts of your life he knows nothing about.

A waitress approaches, and you order your usual — an iced latte with an extra shot. Charles fumbles with the menu before ordering a simple espresso.

An awkward silence falls over the table as you wait for your drinks. Charles fidgets with a napkin, trying to find the right words to begin.

“So,” you say finally, your tone clipped. “You wanted to talk. Talk.”

Charles takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” he blurts out. “I’m so, so sorry, Y/N. For forgetting your birthday, for not being there for you, for ... for everything.”

You raise an eyebrow, your expression unreadable. “Is that it?”

Charles blinks, thrown off balance. “I ... what do you mean?”

“I mean,” you say, leaning forward slightly, “is that all you have to say? You’re sorry?”

Charles feels a flash of frustration. “What else do you want me to say? I messed up, I know that. I’m trying to make it right.”

The waitress returns with your drinks, and you take a long sip of your latte before responding. “Charles, this isn’t just about my birthday. This is about years of feeling invisible, of being overshadowed, of not being seen for who I am.”

Charles feels like he’s been punched in the gut. “What? Y/N, I ... I had no idea you felt that way.”

You let out a bitter laugh. “That’s kind of the point, Charles. You didn’t know because you never asked. None of you did.”

Charles sits back, his mind reeling. “I ... I don’t understand. We’ve always been close. At least, I thought we were.”

“We were,” you agree softly. “When we were kids. But as you got more and more successful, it was like ... like I faded into the background. Everything became about you, about your career.”

Charles feels tears pricking at his eyes. “Y/N, I never meant for that to happen. I love you. You’re my little sister.”

“I know you love me,” you say, your voice gentler now. “But loving someone and seeing them are two different things.”

Charles nods slowly, realization dawning. “The gifts,” he says. “That’s why you sent them back. Because I was trying to fix things without actually understanding what was wrong.”

“Exactly,” you confirm. “Charles, I don’t need expensive clothes or jewelry. I need my brother. The one who used to listen to me ramble about constellations for hours, who’d sneak me extra dessert when Maman wasn’t looking.”

Charles reaches across the table, hesitating for a moment before taking your hand. To his relief, you don’t pull away. “I want to be that brother again,” he says earnestly. “Tell me how. Please.”

You take a deep breath, considering. “Well, for starters, you could ask me about my life. My studies, my friends, my dreams. And actually listen to the answers.”

Charles nods eagerly. “Yes, of course. Tell me everything. What are you studying? How are your classes going?”

A small smile tugs at your lips. “I’m majoring in Astrophysics, remember? This semester I’m taking a course on Stellar Evolution that’s absolutely fascinating. We’re learning about the life cycles of stars, from their formation to their eventual death.”

As you continue talking, passion lighting up your eyes, Charles feels a mix of pride and shame wash over him. Pride in your intelligence and enthusiasm, shame that he’s missed out on so much of your life.

“That sounds incredible,” he says when you pause for breath. “I had no idea you were studying something so complex. You must be really good at it.”

You shrug, a hint of your old shyness creeping in. “I do okay. It’s challenging, but I love it.”

“I’m sure you do more than okay,” Charles insists. “You’ve always been the smartest one in the family.”

You laugh softly. “I don’t know about that. But ... thanks, Charles. It means a lot to hear you say that.”

Charles squeezes your hand. “I mean it. And I want to hear more. About your classes, your friends, everything. I’ve missed so much, and I want to make up for it.”

You nod, a cautious hope in your eyes. “I’d like that. But Charles, it can’t just be today. This has to be a continuous thing. I need to know that you’re genuinely interested in my life, not just when you’re trying to make amends.”

“Absolutely,” Charles agrees immediately. “What if we set up a regular call? Once a week, we can catch up properly. No distractions, no racing talk unless you want to. Just us.”

A genuine smile spreads across your face. “I’d really like that.”

Charles feels a weight lifting from his shoulders. It’s not fixed, not completely, but it’s a start. “There’s something else,” he says, suddenly remembering. “Max ... are you and Max ...”

You blush slightly, looking down at your latte. “We’re ... figuring things out. He’s been really supportive through all of this.”

Charles nods, pushing down the instinctive surge of protectiveness. “He’s a good guy. If he makes you happy, then I’m happy for you.”

You look up, surprise evident in your eyes. “Really? You’re not going to go all overprotective big brother on me?”

Charles chuckles. “Oh, I’m sure I’ll have my moments. But Y/N, you’re an adult. You can make your own choices. I trust you.”

Tears well up in your eyes. “Thank you. That ... that means more than you know.”

As you both finish your drinks, the conversation flows more easily. Charles asks about your friends, your hobbies outside of studying. You tell him about the astronomy club you’ve joined, the research project you’re hoping to get involved with next semester.

When it’s time to leave, Charles stands up, hesitating for a moment before opening his arms. “Can I ...”

You nod, stepping into his embrace. Charles holds you tight, realizing how long it’s been since he’s really hugged you like this.

“I love you, little sister,” he murmurs into your hair. “And I promise, I’m going to do better.”

You squeeze him back. “I love you too, big brother. And ... I’m willing to give you the chance to prove it.”

As you part ways outside the café, Charles heading back to his car and you towards your apartment, there’s a lightness in the air that wasn’t there before. It’s not perfect, not yet. There are still conversations to be had, bridges to be rebuilt. But for the first time in a long time, there’s hope.

Charles watches you walk away, a mix of emotions swirling in his chest. Pride in the amazing person you’ve become, regret for the time he’s missed, determination to be the brother you deserve.

He pulls out his phone, creating a new reminder: Call Y/N — every Sunday, 7 PM.

It’s a small step, but it’s a start. And as he drives home, Charles finds himself looking forward to getting to know his little sister all over again.

***

The auditorium of the International University of Monaco buzzes with excitement as proud families and friends gather to celebrate the graduating class. In the front row, an unusually high-profile group draws curious glances and whispered conversations.

Charles fidgets in his seat, craning his neck to scan the sea of graduates. “Do you see her?” He asks, nudging his older brother.

Lorenzo chuckles, placing a calming hand on Charles’ shoulder. “Relax. She’ll be here. Alphabetical order, remember?”

On Charles’ other side, Arthur rolls his eyes fondly. “You’d think he was the one graduating, the way he’s acting.”

“Can you blame him?” Max chimes in from the end of the row, a warm smile on his face. “It’s a big day.”

Pascale, seated between Lorenzo and Arthur, dabs at her eyes with a tissue. “My baby girl, graduating university. I can hardly believe it.”

Max reaches across to pat her hand. “She’s amazing, Pascale. You should be very proud.”

Charles turns to Max, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Look at you, all calm and collected. I remember when you were a nervous wreck asking her out for the first time.”

Max blushes slightly, but grins. “Hey, your sister is intimidating. All that brainpower.”

“Shh!” Arthur hisses suddenly. “I think it’s starting!”

The auditorium falls silent as the ceremony begins. The family watches with rapt attention as the graduates file in, searching for that familiar face among the sea of caps and gowns.

And then, there you are. Your eyes scan the crowd until they land on your family, a bright smile spreading across your face as you wave discreetly.

“There she is!” Charles whisper-shouts, practically bouncing in his seat.

Lorenzo chuckles. “We see her. Try to contain yourself, yeah?”

The ceremony progresses, with speeches from the valedictorian and various dignitaries. Charles fidgets impatiently, earning amused glances from his family and Max.

Finally, the moment arrives. “Y/N Leclerc,” the announcer calls.

Charles jumps to his feet, letting out a whoop that echoes through the auditorium. “That’s my sister!” He shouts, drawing startled looks from nearby attendees.

Lorenzo and Arthur quickly join in, their cheers mixing with Charles’. Max and Pascale stand too, clapping enthusiastically.

You walk across the stage, accepting your diploma with a graceful nod. As you turn to face the audience, your eyes lock with your family’s, and your composed expression breaks into a radiant smile.

Charles, caught up in the moment, continues cheering even after you’ve left the stage. “That’s right! Astrophysicist in the house! Watch out, universe!”

Max, noticing the irritated glances from other families, reaches over and claps a hand over Charles’ mouth. “Okay, Charlie, I think she heard you,” he says, laughter in his voice.

Max feels something wet against his palm and jerks his hand away.

“Ugh, gross!” Max yelps, wiping it on his pants. “What are you, five?”

Charles grins unrepentantly. “You started it.”

Pascale sighs, shaking her head. “Boys, please. This is Y/N’s big day. Try to act like adults.”

“Sorry, Maman,” Charles mumbles, properly chastised.

As the ceremony concludes, the family makes their way outside, eagerly scanning the crowd for you.

“There!” Arthur calls out, pointing.

You’re making your way towards them, diploma in hand, your face glowing with happiness. Max reaches you first, sweeping you into a tight hug.

“Congratulations, liefje,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I’m so proud of you.”

You beam up at him, about to respond when Charles practically tackles you both.

“My sister, the genius!” He crows, lifting you off your feet and spinning you around. “I always knew you’d take over the world someday.”

You laugh, hugging him back just as fiercely. “Put me down, you goof! You’re making a scene.”

“Let him have his moment,” Lorenzo says, stepping in for his own hug once Charles releases you. “It’s not every day your little sister graduates top of her class in Astrophysics.”

Arthur’s turn comes next, his hug gentler but no less heartfelt. “Congrats. You’ve officially made the rest of us look like underachievers.”

Finally, you turn to your mother, who’s openly crying now. “Oh, my darling,” she says, cupping your face in her hands. “I’m so, so proud of you.”

You feel tears welling up in your own eyes as you embrace her. “Thanks, Maman. For everything.”

As you pull back, wiping at your eyes, Charles slings an arm around your shoulders. “So, what’s next? Going to discover a new planet? Name a star after your favorite man?”

You roll your eyes fondly. “First of all, I still have to get through graduate school. And second, bold of you to assume you’re my favorite.”

“Ouch,” Charles clutches his chest in mock pain. “After all we’ve been through?”

Max chuckles, wrapping an arm around your waist. “Face it, Leclerc. I’ve got you beat in the favorite department.”

Charles narrows his eyes playfully. “Is that a challenge, Verstappen?”

“Boys, boys,” you interject, laughing. “There’s plenty of me to go around. Now, how about we get out of here? I’m starving, and I believe someone promised me a celebration dinner.”

“Ah, yes!” Pascale says, clapping her hands together. “I’ve made reservations at La Maree. Your favorite, chérie.”

As the family starts to move towards the parking lot, Max hangs back, tugging gently on your hand. “Hold on a sec,” he says softly. “I want to give you something.”

Curious, you turn to face him. Max reaches into his pocket, pulling out a small velvet box.

Your eyes widen. “Max ...”

He opens the box, revealing a delicate necklace. A small white gold star pendant hangs from the chain, a tiny diamond twinkling at its center.

“I know it’s not much compared to your usual study subjects,” Max says, a hint of nervousness in his voice. “But I thought ... well, you’re my star, Y/N. My brilliant, beautiful star.”

Tears well up in your eyes again as Max fastens the necklace around your neck. “It’s perfect,” you whisper. “I love it. I love you.”

Max’s face breaks into a radiant smile. “I love you too,” he says, before leaning in to capture your lips in a tender kiss.

You melt into the kiss, wrapping your arms around his neck as his hands settle on your waist. For a moment, the world fades away, and it’s just the two of you.

The spell is broken by an exaggerated gagging sound. You break apart to see Charles pretending to retch, while Lorenzo and Arthur laugh.

You break apart, laughing. “Real mature, Charles,” you call back.

Charles grins, unrepentant. “Hey, someone’s got to keep an eye on you crazy kids.”

Max rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “Your brother, the chaperone,” he mutters.

You giggle, taking Max’s hand as you rejoin your family. “Don’t worry,” you whisper conspiratorially. “We’ll ditch him at the restaurant.”

As you all pile into the waiting cars, the air buzzing with excitement and plans for the evening, you can’t help but feel overwhelmed with happiness. A year ago, you never would have imagined this scene — your family truly seeing and celebrating you, a wonderful man by your side who loves and supports you, and a bright future ahead in a field you’re passionate about.

The cars pull away from the university, carrying you towards your celebration dinner. As you watch the familiar streets of Monaco roll by, you find yourself filled with an incredible sense of anticipation. This isn’t just the end of your university journey — it’s the beginning of something new and exciting.

You glance around the car — at Charles and Arthur bickering good-naturedly in the back seat, at your mother chatting happily with Lorenzo who’s driving, and finally at Max beside you, his hand warm in yours. Your family, in all its chaotic, loving glory.

“Hey,” Max says softly, noticing your pensive expression. “You okay?”

You smile, squeezing his hand. “More than okay. I’m perfect.”

And as the car winds its way through the streets of Monaco, towards a future bright with possibility, you know that it’s true. You’re exactly where you’re meant to be, surrounded by love, with the stars stretching out endlessly before you.

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greengoblinswifey · 8 months ago

Text

Trust— Rafe Cameron x Pogue!Reader

summary— based on season 4 episode 9, slight spoilers. rafe is convinced he can help you relax, take your mind off the drama on the ship and make you trust him.

warnings— manipulation, oral, praise kink, degrading kink, bondage, unprotected sex, creampie, breeding kink.

Rafe looked up as you entered the small, cramped bathroom, his blue eyes narrowing before softening a bit as he registered your expression. “Come to check on me again?” he drawled, his voice low and rough after days of confinement. Despite his irritation, there was a hint of something else in his tone, something that felt almost, relieved.

“Yeah,” you replied, sighing as you slid down to sit on the floor next to him, finally giving yourself a break from the chaos upstairs. “I needed to get away from everything. JJ's out of control, everyone’s on edge, and it’s just—it's all a lot.”

Rafe raised an eyebrow, shifting a bit to get more comfortable despite his tied-up position. “Sounds like a mess,” he said, a glint in his eyes. “But not surprising. I’d be losing it, too, if I were up there. Though, you don’t seem the type to lose it.”

You exhaled, glancing away. “I don’t know, sometimes I think I'm just about at my limit. It feels like I’m the only one who, I don’t know, tries to keep it all together by being civil.”

Rafe smirked slightly, his gaze unwavering. “You don’t have to, you know. Keep it together all the time,” he murmured, his voice taking on an edge. “Sometimes, you just need to let off some steam.” His voice dropped, a bit huskier. “Maybe even relax a little.” His eyes locked onto yours, and you felt your pulse quicken.

You frowned, glancing at his wrists, still bound. “Rafe…”

“Come on,” he coaxed, his tone almost too smooth. “Untie me. I’m not going to hurt you.” He held your gaze with an intensity that made you falter. “Let me help you relax.”

Hesitating, you chewed on your lip. There was something, different about him right now, and you couldn’t quite pin point it. But, against your better judgment, you reached forward and undid the ropes around his wrists, slowly freeing him.

Before you could process what was happening, his hands were on you, and he pulled you in close, pressing his lips to yours. The kiss was both rough and gentle, catching you completely off-guard. You melted into it, the tension you’d been carrying washing away under his touch. Your mind went blank, and you felt yourself leaning in closer, craving the connection.

“You’re so needy,” he murmured against your lips, “So naughty for letting me loose like this.”

Flustered, you pulled back slightly, breathless. “Rafe…”

He only smirked, his fingers trailing along your jaw. “It’s alright,” he whispered, holding your gaze with a soft, challenging glint. “Now that I’m out, maybe I can return the favor and help you feel a little better.”

You slowly nodded. You couldn’t deny the way he was making you feel.

Rafe’s hands moved slowly over your bare stomach, his fingers tracing delicate patterns across your skin, sending shivers up your spine. His gaze flicked up to meet yours, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “So responsive,” he murmured, watching your breath hitch as his hands continued their slow exploration.

Your cheeks warmed under his gaze, feeling vulnerable but completely unable to pull away. Rafe’s fingers hooked under the waistband of your skirt, and with a quiet confidence, he slipped it and your thong off, leaving you feeling even more exposed. He let out a quiet chuckle, his hands never leaving your skin.

When he pulled off his own shirt, his eyes never left yours, and then he moved closer, his presence between your legs grounding you in the moment. “Trust me,” he whispered, voice low as he leaned in, and before you could fully process the warmth of his breath, he began to press soft, deliberate kisses along your inner thigh, drawing a gasp from you.

“You’re so—” you managed, words slipping away as he looked up at you with that familiar smirk, his gaze unrelenting.

“So what?” he teased, “I haven’t even started.”

Your breath grew shallow, anticipation building as his hands traced along your hips, grounding you in a way you hadn’t expected.

His mouth attached to your clit and it sent a spark through you, his touch patient yet undeniably intent, and you couldn’t help but give in to the sensation, letting yourself relax under his steady hands. His tongue was precise, lapping up every part of your pussy that was soaked with your juices.

“Don’t hold back now,” he murmured. His constant sucking and flicking over your clit made your orgasm wash over you, leaving you completely captivated, and all you could do was let yourself melt into the moment, trusting him entirely.

“I’d say you were my good girl and you are but fuck, you’re such a slut just letting me make you cum like this, I thought you and your friends didn’t trust me?” he chuckled, sitting up til he was beside you. You buried your face into his chest, embarrassed that he was right.

“Oh that’s okay baby, don’t be embarrassed,” he laughed, “you know what would make it all better? Me doing to you what they did to me.”

Your head shot up, confusion etched across your face.

“Not like that baby, you’d be willing wouldn’t you? Would you let me tie you up and use you? Gonna be a good girl for me?” he asked huskily.

Slowly, you nodded. You couldn’t deny his words made you throb. You’d let this man do anything to you. He smirked at your obedience and took up the rope, beginning to tie you in the same position he was before. The rope was tied firmly, but not firm enough to hurt or bruise you.

“Is that okay baby? You like being all tied up for me?”

“Y-yes Rafe,” you muttered, eyes big and full of need.

He slipped down his boxers and your eyes went wider, gasping at the size of him. He was so thick and leaking for you. You needed a taste.

“Open up that whore mouth,” he growled.

Immediately, you did what was told and he shoved his cock straight to the back of your throat making you gag.

“Breathe baby, breathe, I know you can take it, you seem like you’d be such a good cock sucker.”

You wanted to prove him right, you wanted to be exactly what he thought of you. As he slowly thrusted into your mouth, your tongue went to work, swirling over the base and the tip, getting it as sloppy as you could. He moaned deeply above you, as his thrusts grew faster, your lips suctioned around him, making the sweetest little sounds.

You would’ve played with his balls if your hands weren’t tied and so, you leaned your head down, slurping and sucking on his balls as he threw his head back and shivered.

“Fuck, I knew you could do it, I knew you were a little whore, what a fucking mouth.” He slipped back into your mouth, his hands now going to your curls as he held you down on his cock, but before he could shoot his load down your throat, he pulled out.

“I know you’d swallow every last drop of my cum like the whore you are but I’d rather your pussy swallow it,” he chucked.

Heat rose in your cheeks as you thought about him filling you up. You weren’t on any form of birth control and you knew for a fact him or anyone on the ship did not have a condom in their possession. He’d definitely get you pregnant, just like his sister was at the moment. Ironic.

“Now, I have an idea.” You looked up at him curiously then gasped as he lifted your lower body, your hands in a slight awkward position as he held you up to fuck you mid air.

“Think you can take it— oh who am I kidding, you’re going to fucking take it,” he muttered, rubbing the leaking tip of his cock up and down your pussy lips.

“Your pussy is so wet and pretty, so happy you just gave it up to me.” You both moaned in unison as his cock slowly penetrated you. In that moment you partially wished your hands weren’t tied so you could’ve placed it on his abdomen, halting him from any further movements.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he moaned. Your eyes squeezed shut as he began pounding into you, your tits spilling out of the skimpy top you had on. His cock was deep inside you due to the angle, the feeling making your pussy quiver.

“Who’s making you feel this good huh?” he asked, his hands squeezing your hips harshly.

“You are Rafe, you,” you cried out. Your friends had definitely heard your screams.

“Good girl, trust me now?” he chuckled, breathlessly.

“Yes Rafe, I trust you. Faster, please,” you pleaded.

His rough thrusts sped up and the sound of your sloppy pussy and your loud moans filled the bathroom, possibly alerting your friends above.

“I need to feel you cum on my cock baby, you can do it,” he urged.

He went faster and deeper, hitting that spongy spot inside you to draw the orgasm out. Before long, you screamed his name, your pussy squirting all over the bathroom walls as he continued fucking you through your high, pulling everything out of you.

“You’re so fucking hot, good girl,” he cooed.

He began chasing his own orgasm, his hand wrapping around your neck and his other skillfully holding under you as his thrusts grew more sloppy.

“Clench around me baby, I’m gonna pump this sweet pussy full of my cum. Gonna get you fucking pregnant, have you carry my babies inside this sexy body.”

You couldn’t protest even if you wanted to and your walls clamped around him, milking him of every ounce of his cum as he slammed into you. His thrusts grew slower and slower and he held you with one hand, the other unbinding your hands and when he did, he held you close to him, his cock still deep inside your pussy.

You both shivered under each other’s touch, panting slowly subsiding.

You shifted off him, the feeling of his big cock slipping out of you making you wince and whimper at the loss and you sat beside him.

“You look so beautiful and relaxed,” he smirked, pushing your curls behind your ear.

“Well you were right, you could help me relax,” you giggled.

“I’m always right. I meant what I said by the way, you’re gonna carry my babies inside that sexy fucking body,” he smirked, rubbing your stomach.

Before you could respond, there was a pounding on the door, it was your best friend.

“Y/N, what’s all that noise? What’s going on in there?” Cleo called out.

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sugoroo · 8 months ago

Text

ʚɞ warnings. fem!reader, handjob, oral (m receiving), face-fucking, multiple orgasms, praise kink, pathetic choso of course, cum eating, 18+ minors dni.

rockstar boyfriend!choso who is the bassist of an up-and-coming band with some of his friends, but isn't nearly as confident on stage as the other members seem to be.

however, despite the way he tends to shy away from the spotlight, he still receives a lot of letters from his various fans, his poor mailbox almost permanently overflowing with packages and envelopes waiting to be opened.

rockstar boyfriend!choso who doesn't mind this in the slightest! in fact, he's extremely flattered by all the sweet words people write to him on a daily basis. his favourite part, though, is getting you to read them out loud for him while you sit comfortably on his lap.

he thinks the praise sounds even better when narrated by your pretty voice.

rockstar boyfriend!choso who has just invited you over to read through today's mountain of fanmail when he sees an unusual letter encased in bright pink paper peeking out from the top. his curiosity gets the better of him, and he peels it open to read it himself before you've arrived.

rockstar boyfriend!choso who begins reading with a smile as he skims through the carefully handwritten words. it starts off innocently enough; just the usual gushing over him and his band's music. however, slowly but surely, the letter delves into decidedly different territory.

rockstar boyfriend!choso who stares at the sentence 'if you just let me have one chance i'd give you the messiest, most toe-curling sloppy toppy known to man.' for what feels like hours, trying to make sense of what it could possibly mean.

the strange phrase is evidently not one he is familiar with.

rockstar boyfriend!choso who scrambles over to you when he hears the sound of the door opening, frantically waving the bright letter around in and begging you to explain it to him. he just wants to understand what his fan meant to tell him, after all!

rockstar boyfriend!choso who becomes even more confused when you start laughing reading the letter, your pretty eyes brimming with amusement and a hand flying up to cover your mouth. "what's so funny, baby? what does it meann?" he whines.

rockstar boyfriend!choso who is utterly dumbstruck when you purr out that it would be easier to give him a 'visual demonstration' to explain what the fan meant by the statement, slowly sinking to your knees before him.

rockstar boyfriend!choso who just stands there dumbly, shifting around from foot to foot and gulping loudly when he sees you looking up at from your place knelt on the floor with those damned eyes of yours that are currently glinting with mischief.

rockstar boyfriend!choso whose hand instinctively flies to grasp your wrist when you reach up towards the crotch of his dark ripped jeans, his cheeks flushing a furious shade of red and his eyes wide with bewilderment. "w-what are you doing, pretty?"

rockstar boyfriend!choso who quickly falls silent when you reach up with your free hand to press a finger to his lips, the other gently breaking free from his loose grip and brushing over the steadily growing bulge in his pants.

rockstar boyfriend!choso who whimpers when you tease him for how hard he is already, your sultry voice both arousing and embarrassing him. "aww, is my sweet boy all worked up just from seeing me on my knees for him?"

he can only nod weakly in response, already feeling overwhelmed from one barely-there touch and a few simple words. it's not his fault, really! he just can't help himself around you; especially when the two of you have never ventured past making out before.

rockstar boyfriend!choso who tries to bury his blushing face in the side of his graphic t-shirt sheepishly when you start to properly palm him over the material of his trousers, his soft moans muffled by the clothing.

rockstar boyfriend!choso who feels an involuntary pout push at his lower lip when you remove your touch, only for it to melt into a gape when the finger that was hushing his lips moves to the underside of his chin, tilting it downwards so he's forced to make direct eye contact with you.

rockstar boyfriend!choso who practically feels himself fold like a lawn chair the second you coo sweetly to him that he needs to "keep his eyes on you" if he wants you to continue touching him, causing him to nod furiously in response.

rockstar boyfriend!choso who couldn't look away from you now even if he wanted to, his entire being mesmerized by each miniscule movement you make — the way your fingers toy with the button of his trousers, the subtle way your teeth sink into your lower lip in concentration...

god, you have him so whipped.

rockstar boyfriend!choso who has to bite back a pathetic mewl when you finally push his ripped jeans down his hips, leaving him standing there in the entryway of his apartment in just his boxers and a band shirt. he knows he should be embarrassed; but right now, he couldn't care less.

he just wants to know what you're going to do next.

rockstar boyfriend!choso who is so lost in thought imaging all the different things you could do to him, that when you rub your face against the erection straining against his boxers, he accidentally releases a strangled squeal of shock.

panicking, rockstar boyfriend!choso hurriedly reaches down to tangle a hand into the back of your hair, keeping you pressed against his clothed cock so you don't have the chance to open your mouth and tease him for the sound he just let out.

rockstar boyfriend!choso who can't suppress a soft gasp as your tongue flickers out to swipe little kitten licks over his tented boxers, no doubt leaving a small wet patch there. "m-mmph. babyy, that feels so good."

rockstar boyfriend!choso who feels rather than hears the way you giggle lightly against him, the vibrations of the sound making him grow impossibly harder. and, oh, you've hardly even touched him yet and he's already prepared to explode at any moment.

rockstar boyfriend!choso whose chest rises and falls with rapid breaths when you start to slowly peel his boxers off too, his throbbing cock slapping against his pale stomach with a lewd smack! that makes him whine in shame.

his embarrassment only increases when he observes the way you react to the sight of his length for the first time, your tongue darting out to moisten your suddenly dry lips and your pupils visibly dilating. "s-stop staring." he huffs petulantly.

rockstar boyfriend!choso who swears he almost cums untouched when you tell him that you're just admiring how "pretty his cock is", his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water as he tries to think of a coherent response. but any words are quickly lost when you wrap a hand around his base.

"ah!" rockstar boyfriend!choso cries pathetically, the sound resembling that of a wounded animal of some description as you start to gently pump his pale cock in a loose grip, deliberately teasing him with what's to come.

rockstar boyfriend!choso who's so close to the edge already, his balls practically bursting at the seams with the need to release themselves. but then you remove your hand, causing him to whimper in protest and weakly thrust his hips into the air in search of more friction.

"n-no! baby, you're so cruel. please, give me just a little more..." he pants breathlessly, staring down at you with those wide, glossy eyes. shit — how are you supposed to tease him when he looks so painfully beautiful begging for you?

rockstar boyfriend!choso who does actually cum when you lean in to press a gentle kiss against his adorably flushed cockhead, his milky seed splattering lewdly across your features before he can even stammer out some kind of warning.

he prepares to apologize profusely, but trails off when he notices that you seem completely unbothered. no; in fact, you seem to be pleased, licking some of the cum staining the corner of your mouth with a satisfied hum. "you taste so sweet, cho." you purr.

rockstar boyfriend!choso who swears there's a real risk of him fainting if you say another word of praise, so he hurriedly yanks you back by your hair to his still half-hard cock. but he doesn't force you onto it, just brings you close enough that he can feel your breaths fanning across his heated skin, making it visibly twitch.

"p-please can you kiss it again, pretty girl?" rockstar boyfriend!choso whines quietly, his eyes locked on your cum-stained face as you smile softly in response to his request. god, how did he ever get so lucky?

rockstar boyfriend!choso whose entire body convulses when you place another kiss to his profusely leaking tip, quickly grasping the edge of his t-shirt and shoving it between his teeth to muffle some of his sounds as you start to lap at the prominent vein on the underside of his cock.

"such a needy boy." you speak teasingly against him, admiring every adorable change of his facial expression as you continue to coat him in your saliva. and choso think he's the lucky one — god knows how many of his fans would kill to be in your position right now (especially the one who penned that vulgar letter.)

rockstar boyfriend!choso simply nods dumbly, clearly too drunk on pleasure from your touches to deny your words. "just for— mmph! — f'you, baby." he slurs out, his hand stroking through the back of your hair as if you're the most precious thing he's ever encountered.

and to him, you are.

rockstar boyfriend!choso who releases the most pornographic moan once you finally take his sensitive tip into your mouth, the feel of your warm, wet mouth suckling around him making his eyelids droop in bliss. he's never experienced anything so perfect in his entire life.

rockstar boyfriend!choso whose crumpled up shirt falls from his mouth, his jaw slackening as he babbles a string of unintelligible curses and whimpers. you've only taken half of his length between your lips, but he already feels like he's in heaven.

he's so lost in dreamland he hardly notices how long it takes you to get all of him lodged inside your mouth, your nose bumping against the small patch of dark hairs scattered near his base as you try to hold back your gag reflex.

you bet he probably doesn't even know just how big he is.

rockstar boyfriend!choso who glances down at you in concern when he hears a slight choking sound, only to be met with the shockingly beautiful (and arousing) sight of your current state.

drool is involuntarily seeping from the corners of your mouth, your eyes watery with unshed tears as you try to handle having your entire throat stuffed more than full with his thick cock.

rockstar boyfriend!choso who doesn't know what comes over him when he finds his hand tightening in your hair, his hips wildly bucking up into the roof of your plush mouth as if they have a mind of their own — he tries to stop, but he just can't.

rockstar boyfriend!choso who sobs out choked apologies mixed with declarations of love over and over again, contrasting the roughness of his repeated thrusts between your lips. you've never seen him so feral before, but it's a sight you're quickly becoming addicted to.

he cums down your throat in record time, emptying all of his balls into your pliant mouth with a strangled whimper. unfortunately, he can't even keep his eyes open to watch you gulp it all down, too high off the feeling of the best orgasm he's ever had.

rockstar boyfriend!choso who forces himself to come back to reality to check on you, his sweet face contorted in concern as he releases his death grip on your hair and tenderly strokes your sticky cheek with his thumb. "a-are you okay, baby? i didn't mean to be so rough. i-i just got carried away." he says, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly.

you're quick to assure him that it's fine, smiling up at him as if you didn't just suck the soul of the poor man. and then you have the sheer audacity to purr... "you wanna do that to another part of me too, cho?"

rockstar boyfriend!choso who is absolutely positive you're going to be the death of him one of these days.

LIKES AND REBLOGS APPRECIATED!

#★sugoroo #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk #choso #choso x reader #choso smut #choso kamo x reader #choso x you #choso kamo smut #jjk drabbles #jjk headcanons

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thepencilnerd · 2 months ago

Text

Anatomy of Want

summary: Jack Abbot never thought he'd be this undone over a resident. But you were unlike anyone he'd met—brilliant under pressure, quick on your feet, and impossible to ignore. What begins as admiration quickly becomes something deeper, something that simmers beneath every shared shift, until it threatens to boil over. warnings/notes: 18+ MDNI, age gap, slow burn, mutual pining, jealousy, praise kink, shameless smut, oral sex (f&m receiving), body worship, depictions of war scars, literally just an excuse to write jack abbot smut & you kissing his scars bc that man lives in my head rent free wc: 5.4k a/n: forgot i posted this on ao3 but not here :}

You joined the night shift in a flurry of quiet confidence and dazzling competence, and Jack noticed you immediately. It wasn’t just the way you handled patient load like clockwork, or how you navigated the trauma bay with a calm assurance usually reserved for seasoned attendings. It was the way you asked questions, the way you looked at problems sideways, the way you never folded, even when things got messy.

He told himself he was just impressed. That it was his responsibility, as your mentor, to push you. And he did—assigned you the trickiest cases, brought you into every complicated intubation, every crashing patient. You rose to each occasion like you'd been waiting for it, and Jack couldn't stop himself from watching.

"Nice call on that bleed in bay three," he said one night, as you stripped off your gloves, blood spattered on your gown. "You didn’t hesitate."

You shrugged, a wry smile on your lips. "Wasn't much time to, I could've acted faster."

He looked at you a beat longer than necessary. "Take the win, Dr. L/N."

That was how it went for months. Shifts passed in a rhythm he hadn’t felt in years. He trusted you. Relied on you. Admired you, yes, but more than that. There were moments—lingering looks across trauma bays, soft laughs shared over half-spilled coffee at 3 a.m., casual brushes of your hands when passing charts that lingered a beat too long.

Once, when you struggled with a stubborn intubation, he’d leaned in close, murmuring, "You've got this," low enough that it was meant just for you. His hand steadied your elbow, brief but grounding. You’d nailed the tube placement. He’d smiled the whole rest of the shift.

After the harder nights, he started climbing to the roof again. The first time he found you there—legs dangling off the ledge, coffee in hand, still in scrubs—he thought it was coincidence.

It wasn’t.

"Couldn't sleep either?" you'd said without looking at him, voice soft with exhaustion.

He didn’t answer right away. Just sat beside you, shoulder brushing yours.

You didn’t say much after that. Neither did he. Just silence, and the hum of the city below, and a sense of belonging he hadn’t realized he’d been missing.

Some nights, you’d pass a bag of vending machine pretzels back and forth in companionable quiet. Other nights, you'd trade war stories—the worst consults, the craziest saves—your voices low, private, confessions to the stars.

It was easy. Natural. Dangerous.

Jack tried to tell himself it didn’t mean anything. That it was just friendship. Just exhaustion.

But then there were the nights he caught himself watching you laugh at something small, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, and his chest tightened with something he couldn’t name.

The tension built slowly, like pressure behind a dam.

Then came the morning you were signing out charts at the nurse’s station, still in your scrubs and rubbing at a bruise forming on your shoulder. Samira Mohan breezed in, bright-eyed, coffee in hand.

"Don’t forget," she said, pulling up beside you. "8pm tonight. David from anesthesia."

"Shit." You'd totally blanked. "I almost forgot, I'm sorry."

"You’re gonna be great," she assured. "He’s nice. And hot. Like... surgery hot."

You couldn't help the snort that escaped you. "What do I even wear? It’s been so long. I bought that one thing..."

Samira's eyes lit up. "Oh, the black lace set?"

"Samira!" Your hands flew up to cover her mouth, cheeks pink and lips pressed tight. "Keep your voice down!" The words came out tight.

"It’s classy!" she laughed, prying your hands off her mouth. "I stand by it. Black is always a good call."

Neither of you noticed Jack at the far end of the nurses' station, flipping through charts but not actually reading them.

He stood there longer than he needed to. Long enough to hear about the date. Long enough to hear about the lingerie. Long enough for his mind to start betraying him—already picturing you in it, delicate black lace against your skin, curves he'd only admired from a respectful distance until now. He wasn't sure whether he'd be more desperate to tear it off you with his hands or his teeth.

And something in him shifted. Just a little. But enough to curl his fingers tighter around the chart in his hands, to clench his jaw until it ached. You sounded hesitant, unsure, nervous in a way that didn’t track with the woman who could crack a diagnosis under pressure without breaking a sweat.

He heard the waver in your voice when you said, "I’m just… worried," and it rang in his head like bolded text. Jack knew you too well not to read between the lines. You weren’t worried about the guy—you were worried because someone else already occupied your mind.

And damn it, he wanted nothing more than for it to be him.

He didn’t want anyone else to be close to you like that. Not because he thought you needed protecting, but because he’d never met someone whose mind, whose hands, whose presence made him feel like maybe—just maybe—he could let someone in again.

Samira nudged you with her elbow, oblivious to the ripple effect her words had left in their wake. "Go home, take a nap, put on something that makes you feel good, and just... have fun, okay? It's your first night off in weeks—you deserve to enjoy it."

You hesitated, biting your lip. "I don't know... it's been a while. What if it's awkward? What if I forgot how to do this?"

She grinned like the devil herself. "You don't forget. It's like muscle memory. Besides, you’re hot. And smart. And wearing black lace. You'll be fine."

You laughed weakly, dropping your voice. "It's just... first date sex? After a dry spell? I feel like I'll crash and burn."

Samira waggled her eyebrows. "Best way to crash. Trust me."

A snap echoed through the room—the sharp, unmistakable crack of plastic breaking.

You and Samira both glanced up.

Jack bent calmly, retrieved the shattered halves of a pen from the floor, and tucked them into his pocket like nothing had happened.

You blinked. Samira blinked. Then shrugged and kept talking.

"Go have fun," she repeated, nudging you again. "Tonight's about you. No pressure, no expectations. Just... have a good time."

You nodded, though your heart wasn't in it. The twist in your stomach wasn't nerves about the date.

It was the thought of someone else entirely.

You smiled weakly and nodded, though your stomach twisted in ways that had nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with someone else entirely.

On your way out, you passed Jack by the charting station, offered him a quiet, "See you on Monday, Dr. Abbot." He gave you a tight-lipped smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Eight o’clock rolled around faster than you expected.

You stood outside the restaurant, already regretting your decision. The lace set beneath your outfit felt less like a confidence boost and more like a secret that didn’t belong to this version of the night. Still, you squared your shoulders and walked in, searching the tables until you saw a man wave—clean cut, kind smile, textbook charming.

David was, by all accounts, exactly what Samira had described. Funny, intelligent, a bit pretentious, but typical for your average resident. He complimented your dress. Asked about your shift schedule. Talked about scuba diving in Belize, his past summer at his parent's beach house.

But your smile stopped at your cheeks. You laughed at the right moments. You answered questions politely. And every so often, your mind wandered back to a different voice—rougher, lower, more familiar.

You thought of Jack’s dry wit. The way he tucked his hands into his scrub pockets when he was thinking. The sound of his laugh, more of a chuckle, rare but always sincere. The heat in his gaze when he really looked at you, like he was trying to hear what colors tinted your thoughts.

You forced yourself back to the conversation with rapid blinks, nodding at whatever David was saying about residency rotations and placements. He was nice. He really was.

So why did you feel like you were somewhere you didn’t belong?

Maybe it was the way David's hand reached for yours across the table, smooth and tentative, and how you instinctively pulled back before you could stop yourself. It wasn’t rude—just reflex. It didn’t feel right. It didn’t feel familiar.

Not like Jack’s hands—callused and warm—when they’d guided your wrist during your first real incision, steadying your nerves with his quiet presence. His grip had been firm, reassuring. You could still remember the way his fingers curled gently but purposefully around yours, the scent of antiseptic and adrenaline in the air.

David’s hand was too small. Too soft. Too unsure. There was no strength in it. No certainty. No experience.

God you were going insane.

"Sorry," you exhaled, offering him a polite smile. But your attention was already drifting, your eyes drawn to a familiar silhouette across the room.

Salt and pepper curls caught the neon light just right. Jack Abbot stood at the far end of the bar, one hand wrapped around a beer, the other resting on the wood tabletop, eyes cast toward the floor—until he looked up.

And found you.

Your breath caught. The background noise dulled to static. For a suspended moment, the two of you just stared. Time slowed. Jack didn’t blink. He didn’t look away.

He didn’t have to.

You felt it in your gut—the electric pull of something intangible.

David started talking again, but it was white noise. The clink of a glass, the hum of conversation, all drowned out by the weight of that look, of Jack watching you like you were the only person in the room.

And suddenly, you were.

You raised your wine glass slowly, holding his gaze as you took a sip. Jack mirrored you, bringing his beer to his lips with a quiet intensity that made your chest tighten. The silence stretched between you like a live wire.

Fingers tightening around the stem, you set your glass down with a little too much force, feigning a glance at your phone as if a sudden messaged had triggered a vibration. "Shit, it's an emergency," you lied, offering a rushed, apologetic smile. "Something came up at the hospital. I have to go. I'm so sorry."

David looked disappointed, but nodded, ever the gentleman. "Of course! Rain check?"

A small, apologetic smile tugged at your lips as you rose, shrugging into your coat. Pulse pounding in your ears, you threaded your way through the maze of tables, slipping out the door with a tight exhale.

Behind you, the scrape of a barstool echoed a second later—quick, deliberate.

Out in the cool night air, you rounded the corner into the alley beside the building, your breath misting as you leaned against the brick wall. The adrenaline had only just begun to settle in your bloodstream when you heard the trailing of familiar footsteps.

Jack Abbot appeared a moment later, turning the corner with his hands outstretched, his brow furrowed like he wasn’t sure what he was doing there until his eyes found yours.

"You okay?" he asked, his voice low. He shifted closer to you, arms now crossed.

You nodded. "Yeah. I just... needed air."

A pause. Eyes dipped, then lifted again, something unspoken skating between you.

You cleared your throat. "How was your evening?"

Jack blinked at the pivot, letting it settle between you. "Uneventful."

"What were you doing at that bar?" you asked, an arch to your brow that softened the tension.

He allowed himself a grin, shoulders relaxing just slightly. "It’s my usual spot. Popular with the old folks."

"Samira did say it had a vintage charm to it when she picked it out," you replied with a smirk.

Jack scoffed at the poke at his age, making both of you laugh.

"Alright then," he countered, eyes narrowing with a spark of mischief. "What were you doing there?"

You hesitated, then exhaled a slow breath. "Ruining my chances of settling down."

His expression flickered.

"What?" You gave a half-laugh, smile twisted with self-deprecation. "Isn't that the whole point of dating as a doctor? Just a long game of figuring out how emotionally unavailable I still am and forever will be?"

Abbot sighed, long and quiet, like it came from somewhere deeper than just the moment.

You tilted your head slightly, watching him, curiosity tugging at your features. "Were you… waiting on someone?"

That gave him pause.

Jack stilled. The corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a frown, not quite a smile. His gaze didn’t meet yours at first. He looked past you, to the mouth of the alley, like the answer might be written in the shadows or the neon lights beyond. Like if he stalled long enough, you might forget you asked.

"Not exactly," he started, voice rougher than usual.

You lifted a brow.

He exhaled again, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. "I didn’t come here for that. But when I saw you…" He trailed off, eyes finally locking onto yours. "Guess I started waiting."

Your breath caught. The weight of his words settled in your chest—slow and warm and heavy. Something about the way he said it made it feel less like a confession and more like an inevitability.

He’d been waiting. Watching. Wanting. The same way you’d been tiptoeing around the truth since you'd stepped foot into that ER—since the very first time your fingers brushed as he passed you a chart, since the first time your eyes met across the trauma bay, since that first quiet moment together on the roof.

With the dim alley light casting soft gold between you, something gave. Tension melted into gravity, and gravity into pull, pull into a quiet explosion. You stepped forward just as he did, meeting in the middle, neither of you saying a word. The kiss hit like floodgates bursting—urgent, aching, years of held-back desire finally snapping loose.

His mouth was warm, tasting of beer and something deeply Jack. His cologne clung to the collar of his coat, smoky and crisp, and you inhaled it like oxygen. Hands found your waist, large and steady, trailing down to your hips and cupping your curves like he'd memorized them long before ever touching. Your fingers curled around the lapels of his jacket, pulling him closer, needing more.

It felt like one of those messy makeouts from college—reckless, hungry, impossibly heady. But this wasn't some clumsy hookup. This was the culmination of every stolen glance, every almost-touch, every moment spent not saying the thing that burned between you.

You were both sober enough to know what this was—what it meant. When Jack pulled away, just slightly, his breath brushing your lips, his voice dropped into something gravel-soft. "You're not drunk?"

You shook your head, words catching in your throat. "One glass of wine. I've never been more sure of anything in my life."

That was all he needed.

You surged forward, capturing his mouth again with a need that bordered on desperate. Jack backed into the wall with a soft grunt, pulling you in like the space between you had always belonged to him. His hands roamed—one sliding up to cup your jaw, the other finding your lower back, anchoring you like he was terrified you'd disappear.

The kiss deepened, his tongue brushing yours, tasting of mint and longing and everything unspoken between you. You whimpered into his mouth, fingers threading through the curls at the nape of his neck, feeling him shiver at the contact. He devoured you like a man starved, and when he pulled back, just enough to look at you, lips swollen and voice rough, he rasped, "Let me take you home."

You nodded, breathless, pulse thundering in your throat. The walk back to your apartment was quiet, the tension between you humming like electricity under your skin. Jack simply held your hand the entire way. The air crackled, your hand brushing his once, twice, before he finally laced your fingers together.

Arriving at your front door, your hands trembled slightly as you unlocked it. The weight of what was about to happen anchored itself deep in your stomach. You stepped inside, the warm light of your living room spilling over the hardwood floors. Jack hovered in the doorway, hesitant, until you reached for his hand again.

"Come in," you said softly.

He followed.

You led him to the couch, asking quietly if he wanted anything to drink. Jack shook his head, stepping closer until your bodies were barely apart.

"I don’t need anything," he murmured. "Except you."

You inhaled sharply, but before you could speak, his lips were on yours again—slower this time, reverent, like he was memorizing every contour of your mouth. His hands cupped your face as he pulled you closer, until you felt the full heat of him against you.

You reached for the hem of his jacket, pushing it off his shoulders, then your fingers found the buttons of his shirt, fumbling slightly. Jack took over, shrugging out of it with ease. Beneath, his skin was warm and firm beneath your wandering hands, the light dusting of chest hair catching the soft glow of your floor lamp.

Jack’s hands slid under the hem of your top, brushing up your sides, warm palms skating over bare skin. When he pulled it over your head and saw the black lace lingerie beneath—filigree against your skin, delicate and dark—his breath caught in his throat.

"That kid," he spat, "wouldn’t know how to take care you."

You managed a breathless laugh, the tension and heat between you turning reckless. "And what exactly does taking care of me imply, Dr. Abbot?" you teased, voice low and daring.

Jack's eyes darkened immediately, his fingers tightening slightly where they gripped your waist. "Everything you need," he rasped. "And more."

You smiled, bold with adrenaline, tipping your chin up toward him. "And you think you can handle me?"

He leaned in, mouth grazing your ear, voice wrecked and certain. "Sweetheart," Jack said, "I'm counting on it."

He unclasped your bra with one hand, letting it fall away before sliding his palms across your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your nipples in slow, deliberate strokes. "You’re perfect."

You arched into him with a quiet gasp, his touch both soothing and incendiary. He kissed your neck, down your collarbone, until he was lowering you gently onto the couch.

"Let me take care of you," he said, voice hoarse with restraint.

Your only answer was a nod, a whispered, "Please."

Jack kneeled between your thighs, kissing his way down your stomach, murmuring soft nothings against your skin. He slipped your underwear down slowly, eyes locked with yours. He paused only briefly, kissing the inside of your thigh before taking two fingers and teasing them along your entrance.

You gasped, hips bucking as he gently eased a finger inside, curling it expertly. "So wet for me," he murmured, awed. "God, you’re dripping."

And then he was lowering his mouth to you, tongue parting you gently. When he sucked your clit into his mouth, your back arched and your fingers dove into his hair, holding tight.

Jack groaned against you, the sound vibrating through your core. "I could live here," he muttered. "Die happy between your thighs."

You whimpered, tugging harder at his hair. "Jack—please—"

He didn’t stop. His tongue moved in rhythm with his fingers, slow at first and then faster, guided by your every gasp and shudder. The sound of him—soft groans muffled against your slick, the wet sounds of his mouth working you over—had your skin tingling. The taste of you seemed to drive him wild, his chin slick with your arousal as he murmured, "Fucking incredible," into your core.

His fingers curled just right, finding that perfect spot with unerring precision. Your moans spilled out freely, hands clutching at his hair, holding him there. He groaned again, a sound of pure pleasure. "That’s it, sweetheart. Let go for me."

When it broke—when you shattered with a breathless, keening cry—Jack held you through it, grounding you with his strong hands bracketing your hips. His lips never left you, drawing out every tremble, every ripple of your climax until it became too much. Your thighs twitched, pleasure tipping toward the edge of pain, and with trembling fingers, you tapped gently at his shoulder. A silent plea for mercy.

He stilled instantly, pulling back with his mouth slick and eyes dark, but gentle.

You could only scoff, breath shaky and a smile of bliss coloring your face. Jack leaned forward to press a kiss to your thigh, tender and unhurried. "You’re unbelievable," he whispered, voice rough with awe and restraint.

He pulled back slowly, face glistening, licking his fingers clean before sucking them into his mouth, savoring every bit of your taste. Then he looked up at you like you were the only thing that existed. Like he'd just touched heaven.

As he kissed up your body, his breath fanned across your damp skin—each kiss a pause, a confession. His facial hair scraped lightly in contrast to the softness of his lips, leaving trails of heat along your ribs, then your collarbone. When he reached your neck, he lingered there, nuzzling the hollow beneath your jaw before pressing a kiss to it, like he couldn't get enough of the way you tasted, the way you felt, the way you breathed beneath him.

"Can I undress you?" you whisper, running your fingers through his hair. He looks up at you like the morning sky, warmth, admiration, and affection—but there's hesitation there too.

He swallows, jaw flexing slightly, before nodding. "Yeah," he says quietly. "Just... heads up."

You pause, thumb brushing the edge of his cheek. "Jack?"

His voice is rough. "You’ll see scars. From before. It’s not a big deal, just... some of them are pretty bad." He tries to laugh it off, but his eyes flicker away and his shoulders tense. Your heart cracks open at the vulnerability he rarely lets anyone see.

"Hey," you murmur, tilting his face back toward yours. "Whatever you’ve been through, whatever you carry—I want to see all of you. Every piece."

Jack's throat bobbed with a swallow, eyes glassy as he searched your face for doubt—and found none. His fingers brushed lightly along your jaw.

You undressed him slowly, fingers trembling as you tugged his belt open, then popped the button of his slacks. His cock strained against the fabric, an eager outline that made your mouth water. When you pushed his pants down, the sight made you pause—he was perfect. Not too much, not too little—cut, well-groomed, thick and just the right length. A light trail of hair led up to a stomach carved with muscle, the kind earned by years of hard work, not vanity.

You wrapped your fingers around him, gave him a few slow pumps, marveling at the weight of him in your hand. When you ducked your head and pressed a kiss to the flushed tip, he hissed softly, hand threading into your hair. You licked him experimentally, kitten licks at first, savoring the velvet softness of his skin, the way he twitched at every flick of your tongue.

You took him into your mouth, slowly, a few shallow bobs that had him groaning low in his throat. His other hand gripped the back of the couch behind you as his hips twitched forward, but just when you began to settle into a rhythm, he gently but firmly pulled you back.

Jack crushed his mouth to yours, desperate and breathless, his hands cradling your face. "Not like that," he murmured, voice trembling against your lips. "I’m not coming anywhere but inside you. I want to feel you, every inch, every heartbeat." He drew back just enough to look at you, something raw and uncertain flickering in his eyes.

"If you're sure," he whispered, thumb stroking your cheek, "I want to take care of you. Let you shut everything else out—just feel me."

You nodded, breath catching. "I need you."

His breath shuddered out, the last thread of restraint snapping in his chest. With worship and heat in his eyes, Jack kissed you again—slower this time, deeper, as if trying to memorize the very shape of your mouth. Reaching over to the end table, you pulled out a condom wrapper and tore it open, your fingers trembling with anticipation.

With a breathless murmur of his name, you rolled it onto his length—slowly, deliberately—giving him a few teasing strokes first. His cock twitched in your hand, heavy and perfect, and your thumb brushed over the slick tip, spreading the pre-cum like a promise. Jack's breath caught, eyes dark as he watched you, jaw clenched with restraint, like you’d just lit a match in a room full of gasoline.

He guided you down gently, his body pressing into yours, firm and certain, a grounding weight that promised not just desire, but devotion.

You moved first, hips sliding up and down in slow, deliberate strokes, and Jack almost exploded at how good you felt. Every part of him molded to you, surrounding you like safety and fire all at once. His hands cradled your face like something sacred, and the press of his chest against yours ignited sparks beneath your skin. You couldn't remember sex ever feeling like this—like your very soul was unraveling. It was almost a religious experience, divine and consuming, the way he fit with you, moved with you. It felt like surrender.

"Fuck." It punched out of Jack Abbot like a confession, like he’d been holding it in for months. You felt like pure velvet around him—tight, warm, impossibly soft, dragging him to the edge with every glide of your hips. His head tipped back for a moment, jaw clenched, trying to hold on. The sounds spilling from your lips—soft gasps, high whimpers, breathy moans—were branded into his memory already. God, he thought, if he could bottle them, he’d keep them forever. Hoard them. Pray to them for forgiveness.

Your hands were grasping onto whatever they could—his shoulders, the cushions, the curve of his neck—anything to anchor yourself. When your nails dug into his back, Jack groaned low and deep, the sound vibrating against your skin like a warning and a reward. He definitely had a thing for rough, and that knowledge thrilled you.

You leaned in, breathless, and whispered praises against his ear—how good he felt, how perfect he was, how he filled you like no one else ever had.

"Please," you begged, voice shaking.

Jack groaned, the sound catching in his throat. "You’re everything I've ever dreamed of," he rasped, pressing his forehead to yours. "You feel like heaven."

Your nails raked down his back, and he hissed through clenched teeth, clearly loving it. "You take me so well," he murmured, lips brushing your temple, his hand smoothing along your spine. "So fucking good—perfect, you’re made for me."

"Jack—God, please—don’t stop," you whimpered, arching into him. His rhythm faltered for a heartbeat at your words, his grip on your waist tightening like a man barely holding on.

"Never," he whispered. "Gonna keep you like this. You're mine."

Each word wrapped around you like silk, the praise as intoxicating as the rhythm of his hips. You drank him in like water in a desert, letting it fill every hollow part of you until you were burning with it—consumed, adored, alive.

Jack shifted, pulling you with him, guiding you until your hands were braced against the couch and your body arched for him. The air thickened as he pressed behind you, one hand splaying over your lower back, the other skimming down to grip your hip firmly.

He slid back inside slowly, a groan torn from his throat at the new angle. "Fuck, look at you—" he breathed, eyes roaming over the arch of your spine, the way your skin glowed beneath the dim lights.

Your breath caught at the intensity. He moved with purpose now, hips snapping against yours, the sound of skin on skin echoing in the dim light. His grip bruised in the best way, grounding you, guiding you, adoring you with every thrust.

Every movement lit you up, sending shocks through your body until you were keening, meeting him stroke for stroke. Jack leaned over you, one hand splaying across your lower back while the other slipped beneath to rub tight, teasing circles over your clit. The added pressure was too much, the timing of his thrusts too perfect. You were a whining mess, trembling and begging for release, the pleasure cresting like a tidal wave.

"That's it, baby," he groaned, his voice wrecked. "Let go for me. Give it to me."

You clawed at the cushions, barely able to hold yourself upright, your body burning at every point of contact. And when his teeth sank gently into your shoulder, scraping over sensitive skin and biting down with a growled praise, everything inside you shattered.

You came with a strangled cry, ears ringing, vision going white around the edges, the force of your orgasm crashing over you like fire and light. Jack held you steady, worshipful even now, as you pulsed around him—his voice in your ear, a low whisper of your name like a prayer he’d never stop saying. He pressed kisses down your shoulder blades, pausing to give you a break, his breath shaky with restraint.

Then, without a word, he gathered you into his arms, shifting you with care. He carried you up effortlessly, propping your legs over the edge of the couch so you were just hanging off, perfectly open for him. Nestled into the crook of your neck, Jack rocked into you with purpose, his thrusts slow but relentless, chasing his own release. Your hands wrapped protectively around his head, fingers stroking through his hair, grounding him.

"Are you going to fill me up?" you edged, voice breathless, lips brushing the shell of his ear. "Have me dripping for days so everyone knows who I belong to?"

"Jesus Christ, Y/N," he gasped.

That was it.

Jack shuddered, a low, desperate groan escaping him as he pressed himself deeper into you. He trembled, a broken moan tearing from his throat. His fingers clutched your thighs as he buried himself to the hilt, the sound of your voice—the permission, the trust—pushing him over the edge. His release surged through him, hips stuttering as he spilled into you, heart hammering as he held you close, breathless and undone. He collapsed gently against you, all tension melting as he pressed a kiss into your neck, lost in the aftershocks of something that felt like more than just pleasure.

A long moment passed before he pulled back just enough to look at you. His pupils were blown wide, the edges of his eyes glistening with overwhelmed want, cheeks flushed with effort and awe.

"What did I do to deserve you?" he murmured, cracking with disbelief. His gaze searched yours—earnest, sincere, undone.

He leaned in again, kissing the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, as if he couldn't stop reassuring himself you were real. "You okay?" he asked softly, still breathing hard. "Was that too much?"

You smiled through the afterglow, brushing your fingertips over his jaw. "I've never felt anything like that. It was perfect."

Jack exhaled a shuddering breath of relief, then smiled too—soft and disbelieving, like he’d just found something sacred.

Later, after the two of you had cleaned up and slipped beneath the covers, the world slowed to a hush. Jack lay beside you, one arm tucked beneath your shoulders, the other lazily tracing shapes across your skin. Hearts, spirals, question marks—he wasn’t thinking, just moving, touching, grounding himself in your presence.

The silence between you was full—not empty—with comfort and understanding, the kind only found in someone who sees every scar and stays anyway.

Your body ached in the sweetest way, muscles languid and sated. You felt Jack’s chest rise and fall with slow, steady breaths against your back, the heat of his body a constant balm. You turned slightly to glance at him, catching the way his eyes fluttered closed, then opened again to meet yours.

"Stay with me?" you whispered, though it wasn’t really a question.

He leaned in, pressed a kiss to your temple. "Always."

Every quiet morning after that was a sort of miracle—waking tangled in his warmth, with the sun filtering through the curtains and the scent of coffee already brewing. Even the hardest days felt lighter, the sharp edges dulled by his steady presence, by the simple truth that he was yours, and you were his.

And in that stillness, that shared understanding, you knew: this was only the beginning.

#the pitt #jack abbot #dr robby #dr abbot #jack abbot x reader #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt x reader #shawn hatosy #noah wyle #dr abbot x reader #smut #dr abbot smut #jack abbot smut

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vanteguccir · 3 months ago

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ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤSURPRISE PARTY TOUR: BOSTON SURPRISE * MATT STURNIOLO

SUMMARY　::　Where is the Boston show of the Surprise Party Tour, Y/N is pregnant, and it's Matt's turn to bring his surprise.

FEATURING　Matt Sturniolo x reader　REQUESTED?　yes.

WARNINGS　::　being pregnant.

AUTHOR'S NOTE　::　that is my work, I DON'T authorize any form of plagiarism; copy, "inspiration" or translation! | english isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

After a long two year wait, the Sturniolo Triplets Surprise Party Tour was finally on the road.

The buzz of the theater was really electric, the pre-show jitters vibrating as fans filled the seats just beyond the thick curtains separating backstage from the main stage. Y/N practically radiated excitement, her steps light as she roamed around, eyes scanning every corner for Matt.

She was beyond ecstatic, to say the least. Being on the road with the triplets was her absolute favorite thing, and she had missed it so much since their last tour in 2023.

Her oversized custom shirt - the one that Nick had personally designed - hung loosely over her frame, matching his own shirt for the night. She smiled softly as she walked past crew members, setting up last-minute details. Nick and Chris were talking to the organizer somewhere behind the stage, deep in conversation, but her only focus was on finding Matt.

Just as she rounded a corner, Paula’s familiar voice echoed.

"Y/N! You look stunning."

Y/N turned her head, catching sight of the boys’ stylist walking toward her, a warm smile on her face.

"Nick did amazing with this shirt." Paula continued, eyes scanning the outfit with approval. "It looks amazing on you."

"You're too nice, Paula." Y/N’s cheeks heated as she grinned. Paula always had a way of making her feel extra confident. "Have you seen Matt?"

"He’s still in his dressing room." Paula replied before a yell of her name echoed, followed by the woman quickly excusing herself.

Y/N continued down the hall, stopping in front of the door marked with Matt’s name. She knocked gently, the sound barely audible over the distant hum of the crowd outside.

Slowly, she pushed the door open just enough to peek her head inside.

"Hey." She greeted softly, her lips curving into a small smile at the sight of Matt's fingers fumbling with the button of his jeans, his shirtless torso on full display.

His soft blue eyes lifted to meet hers as she stepped in and closed the door behind her, and the moment they locked onto hers, his entire body seemed to relax just slightly.

"Hey angel." He muttered gently.

She wasted no time crossing the room, stepping into his space as her arms wrapped tightly around his bare waist. Her hands ran up the milky skin of his back, relishing the warmth radiating off him as she pressed soft kisses against his lips before tucking her head into the crook of his neck.

His arms wound around her immediately, pulling her so close she could barely breathe, but she didn’t care. She loved being wrapped up in him like this.

A heavy sigh left Matt’s lips as he rested his chin atop her head. He was holding her like he never wanted to let go, and Y/N could feel it - his tension, his nerves, the anxious beat of his heart against her own chest.

She pressed a hand flat against the middle of his back, rubbing small, soothing circles.

"Hey, deep breaths, baby."

He obeyed, inhaling deeply, his hands sliding down to settle against her hips. His thumbs brushed over the soft fabric of her shirt above her lower stomach as if grounding himself.

"M'so nervous." He admitted, voice raspy and low, his forehead dipping against hers. "Not about what my- our family will say, I know they’ll be happy. But the fans..." His arms tightened slightly. "I just- this is so big, y'know?"

Y/N smiled softly, tilting her chin to kiss him once more, her lips lingering in reassurance.

"They’re going to be so happy, Matt." She murmured against his lips, her hands cupping the soft skin right above his ribs. "And even if they need a second to process it, we have each other. We’ve always had each other."

His eyes softened, filled with nothing but love and admiration as he let out a shaky breath. He leans in even more, basically smothering her, but she doesn’t mind - he needs the comfort, and he’s always only been able to be calmed by her.

"I love you." He whispered, pressing a lingering kiss to her forehead.

Before she could respond, a loud knock rattled the door.

"Matt!" Nick’s voice rang from the other side. "Are you dead in there? We gotta go!"

Matt groaned.

"Angel." He exhaled sharply, anxiously searching for Y/N's eyes one last time.

"You got this, my little star." Y/N nodded softly, and Matt's grip tightened for just a second longer before he finally, reluctantly, pulled back.

She smiled, squeezing his biceps one last time before stepping aside as he grabbed his shirt, ready to walk out onto that stage and into one of the biggest moments of their lives.

Matt, Chris, and Nick were lounging on stage like it was their living room, already used to the two iconic, slightly worn orange couches that had followed them across the country like loyal dogs.

Matt had claimed the right couch for himself, sitting cross-legged with a mic resting casually in one hand. On the left couch, Chris and Nick sat shoulder to shoulder, mirroring each other’s relaxed posture.

In the crowd, Y/N was in her usual spot - dead center, front row, the seat Matt always reserved for her. The one where he could look down and find her face instantly, grounding himself with just one glance.

But tonight, she wasn’t alone.

To her right sat Mary Lou, her hands folded neatly in her lap and a warm smile decorating her radiating face. Next to her was Jimmy, sitting tall and expectant, eyes scanning the stage like he was trying to drink it all in.

It was the first - and only - show they could attend, thanks to this tour stop being just a short drive from home. The last time they saw their sons on stage felt like a lifetime ago.

Suddenly, the giant screen behind the triplets lit up. A video snapped to life, flickering for a second before showing a clip of Matt fixing his tie.

And just like that, the room erupted. Screams shot up like fireworks, echoing off every wall.

Matt leaned back dramatically, flopping his free arm up.

"Alright, alright, chill out!" He grinned, voice teasing over the noise, trying not to laugh with the giddiness that came with his fans' reactions to himself. "First of all, I just wanna say, I deserve a full-blown award for keeping this secret."

Nick whipped his head toward him with a suspicious look, brows raised.

"No, I’m not even joking." Matt laughed, eyes wide with mock seriousness. "You guys have no idea how hard it was not to spill. Like, not just to you." He pointed at his brothers. "But to them too."

He turned, locking eyes with his parents, who were watching him intently, frowning.

"But when I found out we were doing a Boston show." Matt continued, voice dipping into something more sincere. "I knew this had to be my big surprise. I’ve been waiting for this moment for months."

The cheers kicked back up again - high-pitched, chaotic, and full of love.

"Okay, before we play the video, I need y’all to promise me something." He pointed toward the audience. "I need complete silence while it plays. Like, I want every single one of you to just sit back and take it all in." He smirked. "Don’t worry, you can scream after."

As the room quieted, you could feel the shift.

And then - click - the screen changed.

A home video. The inside of the triplets' LA house flickered onto the screen.

The camera wobbled for a second before being placed down on the coffee table. The image sharpened, revealing Matt's upper body moving a bit away from it, leaning down against the cream-colored couch, red hoodie up, grey sweatpants low, looking as cozy as humanly possible.

He waved at the camera with a little grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes yet.

"Hey, guys. If you’re watching this." He started, voice soft. "That means I finally get to say something I’ve been dying to share."

He ran a hand through his messy hair, exhaling slowly like he was about to let go of a weight he'd carried for way too long.

"This message is for two very important groups." He said, pointing toward the lens. "One, my family. And two, every single fan watching right now."

Back on stage, Nick was glued to the screen, eyes narrowed, completely focused. Chris, meanwhile, kept shifting, glancing between Matt and the video like he was trying to figure out what was coming next, his leg bouncing with anxiety.

"So, here’s the deal." Video-Matt continued. "Two weeks ago, something happened. Something kinda insane. And when I found out about the tour the next day, I knew... I just knew this had to be one of my surprises."

He leaned forward, eyes flickering down for a second as he nervously clasped his hands together, like grounding himself.

"So, uh... yeah. Here it is."

The screen went black.

And then a low, steady sound filled the theater.

Thump-thump.

Not music.

Not a voice.

Something deeper, more alive.

A heartbeat.

Small, fast, and impossibly real.

The video sharpened into focus, though clearly filmed on a phone, the angle a little off-kilter like it had been propped up in a rush. The room on screen was soft and warm, washed in late afternoon sunlight.

Not a studio, not a stage. A hospital room. Neutral-colored walls. A monitor to the side.

Y/N lay on the examination bed, her brown sweater lifted to reveal her lower belly, shiny with gel. Her leggings were pulled down slightly, allowing the doctor to gently move the ultrasound wand over her skin.

Matt was right by her side, and he looked wrecked in the most beautiful way. Completely undone.

His eyes were glassy and red-rimmed, cheeks blotchy with emotion. Tears slipped down silently as he gripped Y/N’s hand like it was the only thing tethering him to the planet. His commitment ring shimmered in the soft light as his right hand constantly - and very awkwardly - cleaned the tear tracks.

Y/N had her free hand over her mouth, her chest heaving as she tried to breathe through the sob building between her ribcage and going up full force. Her eyes were locked on the monitor, wide and wet, as a tiny, hazy figure wiggled faintly on the screen.

The doctor’s voice was quiet, almost reverent.

"That’s your baby’s heartbeat."

And Matt let out this broken, wet laugh, the kind that happens when you’re completely overwhelmed and overflowing all at once, a sob following right behind. He shook his head like he couldn’t even process what he was seeing.

"That’s our baby." He whispered, his voice cracking in half as he pulled Y/N’s hand to his lips and kissed it, keeping it pressed against his mouth. "That’s literally our baby."

Back in the theater, no one moved.

Not a sound.

It was like everyone in the room had just had the wind knocked out of them. Mouths covered in shock, eyes wide with disbelief.

Chris sat frozen, his jaw slack. Nick blinked slowly like he was trying to reboot.

Neither of them said a word - they couldn’t.

Their brother was having a baby.

Mary Lou, on the other hand, was already sobbing into her hands, her shoulders shaking, eyes covered in glasses tightly shut as if trying to hold back even more tears. Jimmy sat beside her with shining eyes, blinking back upcoming tears with a shaky inhale like he didn’t know what to do with himself.

On the screen, Matt’s watery smile stayed glued to the monitor, completely and utterly obsessed.

"Can’t believe y’letting me make you a mumma." Matt hums, almost in awe, like the words tasted too good to be true. "Gonna be the best, angel. I know it."

The video faded to black again.

Y/N, sitting quietly in the theater seat, was trying her best to keep it together, her eyes glassy and full. She pressed her pink tinted lips tightly together, like any little crack would shatter her.

The sound of her baby’s heartbeat echoed in her ears, and it was everything - terrifying, surreal, breathtaking. She clutched her stomach with both hands without thinking, her decorated nails lazily scratching over her shirt, like holding the secret tighter would make it easier not to cry.

Then, one last clip.

Matt, back in their cozy LA living room, sitting in his usual spot on the couch, his eyes slightly red but glowing, lit up with so much love.

"So, yeah." He sniffled, grinning shyly. "I wanted to tell you guys in the best way I knew how." He paused, visibly holding back more tears. "Y/N and I are having a baby."

He glanced off to the side for a second, sniffing.

"And we couldn’t be happier."

The screen went black.

Not a sound.

Not a breath.

And then, the world exploded.

Screams ripped through the air like a tidal wave, the theater shaking from the sheer force of it. Fans were crying, sobbing, yelling, clutching their faces in disbelief. It was chaos - beautiful, euphoric chaos.

Nick was the first to move, and he didn’t move. He launched. One second, he was sitting on the couch. The next he was across the stage, slamming into Matt with so much force, it nearly knocked them both down to the floor.

Chris was right behind him, eyes glossy, chin wobbling, and then suddenly, all three brothers were in this tangled, messy pile of limbs and love.

"Oh my god, Matt." Nick choked out, arms locked around Matt’s neck. "You’re gonna be a dad. You’re gonna be a freaking dad."

Chris was now crying - full-on crying - Fresh Love covered shoulders shaking, fingers gripping the back of Matt’s jacket like he didn’t wanna ever let go.

"I’m gonna be an uncle." He whispered, voice breaking like glass, pink lips wet with tears. "I get to be an uncle, man-"

And Matt just stood there in the middle of them, eyes wide, smile splitting his face in half, heart pounding like a drum solo inside his chest.

Down there, Mary Lou had already jumped to her feet, tears streaming down her face as she delicately pulled Y/N up and into her arms, pulling her shaking body into the warmest, tightest, most mom-like hug imaginable. The kind of hug that made everything feel safe.

"Oh, sweetheart." She whispered, voice shaking with emotion. "You just made me the happiest woman alive." She pulled back for a second just to cup Y/N’s cheeks, ignoring how her fingers got wet by Y/N's salty tears, soft eyes twinkling with pride and love. "You’re gonna be such a good mom. And I’m gonna spoil the hell outta this baby, just you wait."

Y/N couldn’t even speak. She just nodded, blinking through fat tears, heart hammering against her ribs.

Then, Matt looked down.

Somehow, in the storm of screaming and crying and fans limbs and lights, his eyes found her. His girl. Standing between the stage and the front row, being held by his mom, trembling hand over her belly, absolutely wrecked by the moment. Teary, overwhelmed, glowing in the most heartbreakingly beautiful way.

And something snapped in him.

He didn’t think.

He ran.

The bodyguards surrounding both sides of the stage went wild, arms outstretched, trying to block or guide him back, yelling over their earpieces.

But Matt didn’t care.

He dodged through them like it was instinct, ears muted to the fans yells from the front row, like his body was already halfway to her before his mind even caught up.

He reached her.

And without a word, without a second’s hesitation, he pulled her into the tightest hug, body accidentally hitting Mary Lou's in the process.

Big hands met Y/N's back, circling around her upper body, lifting her slightly off the ground as he wrapped himself around her like she was the only thing keeping him alive.

"You- you-" He stammered against her cheek, their tears mixing between skin. "You did this. You’re giving me everything."

He kissed her face - cheeks, nose, forehead - his lips shaky and soft and desperate.

And then, with one hand still on her back, the other reached for the mic.

He turned back to the crowd, chest heaving, heart out in the open.

"I’M GONNA BE A DAD!!"

The theater detonated.

Y/N laughed through her now ugly cry, burying her face into Matt’s neck.

And Matt just held her tighter.

"So that's the reason Y/N's been using more hoodies than normal."

2K notes · View notes

pathologicalreid · 3 months ago

Text

the eye of the beholder | s.r.

in which you and Spencer try a new method of sensory deprivation in the form of a blindfold

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: smut (18+ mdni) content warnings: dom/sub dynamics, dom!spencer, sub!reader, sensory deprivation, blindfolded sex, fingering, protected p in v sex (condom), munch!spencer, lots and lots of pet names, aftercare, reader has loose hair, hickeys, nipple play, mild manhandling, laughgasms, (almost) coming untouched, explicit communication and check-ins word count: 3.54k a/n: thank you to the anon who asked if i could "become freaky again" you gave me the confidence to write this

Finding your back flat on his mattress wasn’t a scene that was new to you, everything about it felt familiar, the champagne-colored sheets that were just beginning to stick to your bare skin and the curtains that were haphazardly closed, blocking the sunlight from directly getting into the room and instead diffusing any harsh light from illuminating your actions.

The only part that felt foreign to you was the way Spencer kept pulling himself up, trying to sit up before finding himself entranced in your kiss and coming back down to you. Your arms were slung lazily around his shoulders, your legs separated in order to give him room to slot himself between them, and you periodically lifted your hips to add pressure between your core and his cock.

A low moan vibrated from his body into yours, and as you felt him lifting away from you again, you prepared yourself to drag him back, only to be met with a large hand placed on the side of your throat. Holding your neck with a startling gentleness, your eyes fluttered open to see Spencer, kneeling between your legs, an impish grin blooming on his face as he withdrew his hand, and his lust-blown eyes scanned your body. “Hey, pretty baby,” the sickly-sweet words slipped past his puffy lips.

Sexual frustration was no mystery to your relationship, sometimes going weeks without seeing each other, but it was hard to be frustrated now when he said such gentle things and looked at you as a fallen star. “Spence,” you sighed, lolling your head to the side and smiling softly. You shifted your hips on the mattress, and his eyes instinctively looked at your pussy.

Your sundress had rolled itself down to your hips, exposing what was surely a soaked pair of panties, stained with the slick of anticipation—a result of an hour of heavy petting in his bed. He groaned at the sight, “I want you.” Spencer’s voice was gruff from lack of use and, you assumed, a bit of exhaustion from his last case.

Humming, you raised your eyebrows at him, “You have me.” Mild confusion settled in your mind, wondering what about the situation seemed like you were anything but needy for him. “Spencer?” You said his name in a sing-song tone, trying to get his attention—you’d thought partial nudity would be enough.

“Can we try something new?” He asked, leaning back so his white t-shirt stretched thin across his chest. You nodded slowly, though, at this point in the evening, you would’ve agreed to almost anything he proposed. “I want to cover your eyes,” he explained, brown eyes skimming up and down your bare legs.

Your eyebrows rose in curiosity, “Like a blindfold?” Tilting your head to the side, you steadied your breathing so you could have a conversation with him. Sensory deprivation wasn’t entirely new to you, Spencer had a tendency to put your wrists above your head while he rutted into you, but you always had your eyesight.

He looked around him on the bed, patting at the rumpled comforter and mess of discarded clothing, “We don’t have a blindfold, but…” His voice trailed off while he picked up a familiar item from the bed, holding up his tie from the day between his index and thumb. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

“No, I want to,” you told him, propping yourself up on your elbows and bringing your bottom lip between your teeth. “It’s just… I’m not…” you fumbled through your words, groaning in frustration.

Spencer hummed understandingly, moving himself back so he was hovering over your body, “We can always try it, and if you don’t like it, all you have to do is let me know.” He gently nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck, placing timid kisses along the column of your throat. “What are your concerns?”

Leaning your head to give him more access to your neck, you moaned softly at his little kisses. “Not being able to see what I’m doing,” you answered honestly. “What if I do something that looks stupid without realizing it? Or what if I accidentally poke you in the eye because I can’t see where you are?”

“I will keep an eye out for any roaming fingers,” he assured you. “And I don’t want you to worry about what you look like. You look particularly gorgeous today. That’s how we ended up in this position in the first place,” he reminded you, skimming a hand down your dress before resting it on your upper thigh.

Your face warmed at the compliment, “That wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that you picked this dress out at the store, would it?”

Spencer groaned as he admired the fabric adorning your body once more, “I have incredible taste in sundresses.”

Soft giggles bubbled through your throat as you beamed up at him, knowing his master plan to put you at ease had worked. Your trust in Spencer was already well-established, and you knew at even the slightest hint of discomfort you could call it off. Even if you didn’t do it yourself, he’d be on high alert for any changes in your body. “Where’s the tie?” You asked, trying to act nonchalant when you knew what was coming.

He produced the purple silk again, holding it in front of you for you to see. Using his other hand, he pulled you to a sitting position and languidly dragged the fabric over your bare skin. Leaning forward, he kissed your cheek, dragging his lips down to press firm kisses along your jawline, “What’s the word, princess?” His breath ghosted against your skin, sending goosebumps sprawling across your arms.

Safeword flashed in your head like a neon sign, leaving your breath to catch in your throat while you eyed the makeshift blindfold expectantly, “Cactus.” The word was engraved into your brain at this point, Spencer made sure you’d remember it no matter how many orgasms deep you were into the evening. If you craned your head a little to the left, you’d be able to see the houseplant that had been the original inspiration.

“Good girl,” he whispered, a gravelly aspect to his voice beginning to appear. If you placed your hand on his slacks right now, you’d find his cock rock hard beneath the fabric.

While you eyed his bulge, his fingers delicately brought the tie to your face. He pulled your head down so he could tie it at the back of your head before placing a kiss over your hair and asking if it was too tight. You shook your head no.

In response, Spencer hooked a finger beneath your chin and lifted your head just as carefully as he’d pulled it down. “Use your words,” he urged, leaving his finger beneath your chin so you wouldn’t pull away.

“No,” you answered aloud that time. “It’s all good, baby.”

With your reassurance, he took the opportunity to drag his fingertips down the length of your body, starting at your shoulders and ending just below your knees. He brought his hands back to your shoulders and guided you back to the mattress. With your spatial awareness completely out the window, your heart pounded with every passing moment until your back met the sheets.

Spencer began the precarious mission of getting you out of your dress, moving your arm out of the way so he could undo the zipper along your ribcage. You tried to help, but he did the brunt of the work, guiding your arms out of the thin straps and tugging the dress down, “Lift your hips,” he hummed softly.

You obliged, arching yourself above the mattress so he could pull the fabric from your body, leaving you in your bra and underwear. Placing a hand over your ribcage, Spencer let you know where he was before bringing his lips to your chest. Along the cup of your bra, he placed wet, open-mouthed kisses on the flesh of your breasts. Your breathing deepened as the cold air met the ghosts of his kisses, you moaned softly when his arms went around your torso, pulling your back up ever so slightly so he could undo the hooks of your bra.

“Arms up, angel,” he directed you again, fingers skimming along your arms, so you didn’t have to worry about how much space you were taking up. With his other hand, he slipped his fingers beneath the gore of the bra and deftly pulled it off of your body, as he had hundreds of times before.

Even without your sight, you could tell your nipples were standing at attention in the cool air of your bedroom. As if you could feel Spencer’s eyes on you, you shuddered under his watchful gaze, face burning as he pulled your panties down your legs—gasping softly when the fabric separated from your wet core.

Spencer’s fingertips traveled up and over your navel, crossing above your ribcage until he’d taken each of your breasts in his hands, fingers expertly tracing circles around the peaked buds until you were writhing beneath him. “Poor baby,” he teased when you whimpered beneath him, your hips bucking involuntarily only to find disappointment when you didn’t find him hovering above you.

His lips attached themselves to your chest, gently massaging the tender flesh while sucking at your skin. Nipping gently at your skin, you were whining inconsolably at the sensation of him marking up your chest, taking the supple skin between his teeth before moving to an unmarred location. You moaned his name when he finally pulled away, but in the chaos of your own pleasure, you lost his location.

Shifting your hips slightly as you waited for his touch, you felt your breathing slow. Relaxing enough to part your thighs while wondering where he was. Periodically, your ears would perk up at the sound of fabric sliding, but the noises were so soft that you could disregard them.

Cold air was blown on your wet cunt, sending goosebumps flying over your thighs while warm arms wrapped around your thighs. Your boyfriend chuckled darkly from his new station between your legs. “Oh, honey,” he cooed, placing a soft kiss above your lower lips. “How are you doing?” Taking a moment from his relentless teasing to check in with you, his hand slipped beneath you, squeezing your butt affectionately.

Somehow, you were entirely out of breath, and he had barely touched you. You sighed contentedly, “I’m good. I need more,” you took a deep breath, “More of you.”

“Where do you want me?” He offered, skimming his thumbs over your bare thighs.

You hummed thoughtfully, “I have a feeling I’ll like what you were planning on doing just now.” You took your bottom lip between your teeth in anticipation, your chest deflating when Spencer flattened his tongue and licked a fat stripe between your folds.

Instinctively, you tilted your head down to get a good look at what he was doing, briefly forgetting that your sense of sight was restricted before you realized you couldn’t see him. You couldn’t gauge what he was doing, nor could you see where his hands were at any given moment—it made your stomach bubble with anticipation. A loud moan was ripped from your throat when Spencer wrapped his lips around your clit, his tongue periodically coming between his lips to flick at the sensitive bud. His arms tightened around your thighs to prevent you from wriggling away from him, and you knew he wanted you to breathe through it. Your orgasm built hard and fast, and Spencer could sense it in the way your breathing hitched, and a whine slipped from your throat.

With his mouth sucking on your clit, your jaw slackened, and your hips fought against his grip while you came against his mouth. He kept you in place until your instinct was no longer to pull away from him but to grind your sensitive pussy against his mouth. Obliging you, Spencer’s lips separated from your clit, instead moving softly against your cunt, licking you as your hole spasmed around nothing. He worked you through your orgasm until he started building up another one, now unraveling his arm from its position around your thigh until his fingers were gently placed at your entrance.

“Shh,” Spencer whispered, and it was left to you to imagine how he looked at that moment. Entirely drunk on you, your slick encircling his mouth while he encouraged you to steady your breathing. “You’re doing so well. You look so pretty,” he murmured up to you.

You moaned softly, “Feels good,” you told him, referring to the way his fingertips were playing with your core, thumb skimming over your sensitive clit while his index finger tantalizingly swirled around you. “Spence,” you sighed his name once your walls stopped clenching, giving him the okay to proceed.

He wasted no time in slipping his finger into your wetness, you moaned at the feeling of being filled after hours of teasing, and when Spencer returned his mouth to your core, you responded by blindly searching for his head. Joy filled your chest when you found it, threading your fingers through his hair, the familiar motion bringing you comfort while his movements brought you mind-numbing pleasure.

Slowly, Spencer withdrew his index finger, waiting for half a beat before sliding it back in again, repeating the motion until he found a comfortable rhythm for the both of you. You couldn’t see him, but you could feel the mattress move beneath you as he rutted against it, the simple action of bringing you pleasure was getting him off, and when his tongue lapped against your swollen clit, a long moan vibrated from your throat. “Spence,” you moaned his name, gasping when he responded by adding another finger to the mix.

His hand maintained the rhythm, but he pulled his mouth away, replacing it with his thumb and resting his head on your abdomen, catching his breath while you lost yours. All coherency was lost in pleasure, leaving you gasping for breath as you desperately chased that second high, mindlessly babbling, “Please, please, please.” The words escaped from your lips so many times that they had lost any and all meaning.

“Are you gonna come again?” Spencer asked, a low gruffness to his voice as he nearly lost himself in his own pleasure, trying to get you to yours before he came untouched. You nodded, “Come on my fingers, baby. It’s okay, you can let go,” he assured you.

He pushed your hips back down as soon as they lifted off of the mattress, his fingers slowly moving in and out of you as the force of your orgasm pushed them out. “Fuck,” you gasped, feeling yourself return to your body. “Baby,” you mumbled, aimlessly grabbing at nothing in an attempt to get Spencer to come up to you.

“What’s wrong, angel girl?” He whispered gently, “What do you need?”

You hummed, tipping your chin back slightly, “Kiss, please.” You smiled softly when he responded by pressing his lips to yours, the tang of your own slick passing through as you slipped your tongue into his mouth. “I love you,” you murmured against his lips, nipping gently at the bottom one.

Tilting his head, Spencer placed his clean hand on your throat and deepened the kiss. “I love you,” he answered when he came up for air. His lips moved expertly against yours until you’d nearly wiped evidence of your actions from his mouth. “Do you think you have one more in you?”

You nodded, “Yeah,” you assured him, depending on your familiarity with his body to run your knuckles up and down his arms.

He left a pout on your lips when he pulled away from you, lost somewhere you couldn’t find by reaching your hands out. He was fiddling with something, and goosebumps found their way to your body in waves, your ears perking up like a bloodhound when you heard the familiar tear of a condom wrapper.

While you searched for him, his hand found yours with ease, guiding your hand to his cock. That way, you weren’t shocked when you felt his covered tip at your heat, it was as if you had brought it there yourself. The gentleness by which he did it surprised you, the care that he was taking only added to the warm feeling in your lower belly. “Oh,” you breathed when he filled you, moving slowly and stopping completely once he was fully sheathed in you.

Sometimes, you felt like you could stay like this forever, physically intertwined in the same way your souls were, but from the way Spencer was straining, you could tell he was holding himself back.

You’d feel it in the morning, but you hummed softly, “Fuck me.” Your voice was gentle, encouraging him to move in you, and he withdrew slowly before snapping his hips back to yours. “Yes,” you moaned in response, tilting your head back as he hoisted your legs up, bending you at your hips while continuously rutting into you.

“So good,” Spencer grunted, dropping his head in the crook of your neck while he fucked you, his hot breath steaming against your skin while you wrapped your arms around him. Your nails dug into his back as you felt the taut muscles flex with every thrust, “Fuck, baby.”

Trying to catch your breath to talk to him, you tightened your grip on his torso, “Come in me.” Your encouragement led him to moan directly in your ear, sending you into a spiral, “Spence…” your voice was a warning now, letting him know about your own impending orgasm.

He lifted himself up off of you. “I need to see you,” he said, haphazardly pulling your blindfold off. “I want to see you come on my cock,” he explained, resting his forehead against yours.

Your senses were overloaded when even the dim light of your bedroom blinded your eyes, leaving you to raise your hands and use them as blinders while the only noise that escaped your mouth was the steady “Ah, ah, ah,” that came with each thrust. There was no warning when you snapped, your thighs trembling around Spencer’s hips while your orgasm crashed over you. The overwhelming pulsing of your cunt while he continued thrusting into you made your head spin until his movements grew unsteady.

Gasping for air as Spencer spilled his cum into the condom, he dropped his head on your shoulder as you lifted your chin and caught your breath. Slowly, you drifted from being out of breath to being overjoyed, tiny giggles slipping from your swollen lips while Spencer pushed himself up on his arms and looked at you like you’d completely lost it. “I love you,” you told him through giggles.

“What is going on?” He asked, dumbfounded. Spencer slowly pulled out of you, and you winced slightly, but it didn’t interrupt the fit he thought you were having.

You opened your mouth to explain, but you couldn’t get the words out before you started laughing again. “You took the blindfold off,” you told him, watching him nod with confusion plain on his face. “You took the blindfold off,” you tried again, “Because you wanted to see my orgasm face.”

Rolling his eyes, Spencer tucked his hands beneath your back and pulled you into a sitting position, letting you rest your head on his shoulder while he carefully untied the silk fabric at the back of your head. Gently, he pressed a kiss to the crown of your head, “It was worth it.”

A laugh caught in your throat, and Spencer jostled you like he thought you had stopped breathing. You sighed contentedly, relaxing your body into his. His comment wasn’t silly, it was sweet—in a remarkably horny way. You kissed his bare shoulder gently while he removed the tie from your head, careful not to remove any hair in the process. “I love you,” you echoed, smiling softly while he maneuvered your exhausted body so he could see your face.

“I love you too, silly girl,” he responded, frowning when his eyes scanned yours. “Did the tie hurt you?”

You shook your head, “No, the tie was fine Spence.” Self-consciously, you lifted your hands to your face and touched the apples of your cheeks.

His frown remained, “There are little marks on your face,” he explained, pulling your hands from your cheeks and holding them in his. “Do they hurt?”

“No,” you reassured him, “I promise. I’m not hurt,” you told him, not knowing how he’d react if you were in any pain. “I’m alright, honey,” you insisted.

Spencer still looked unconvinced, leaning forward and pressing dozens of tiny kisses over your face until you were lost in another fit of giggles. Each kiss on your cheek made you nearly shriek with joy until he slowed down and kissed your lips tenderly, “Do you want to take a bath?”

You hummed, “In a bit.” You slung your arms around his shoulders and rested on him, in response, he wrapped his arms around you and held you tightly, rocking ever so slightly.

#criminal minds #spencer reid #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid fanfic #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #criminal minds smut #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfiction #dr spencer reid #spencer reid oneshot #spencer reid imagine #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds oneshot #written by margot #mdni #margot after hours #softdom!spencer

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yasministration · 3 months ago

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A motherly visit - son!harry potter

summary: when harry sends you another owl claiming that professor snape has it out for him, you decide to pay them a short visit wc: 1.5k+

Irritation flooded through yours veins, your eye nearly twitching with annoyance as you read through Harry’s letter. Once again, your son had been unfairly treated by his Potions teacher, graded lower on his exams and essays than he deserved. Your chair scraped loudly on the floor of your potions lab as you pushed it out from under your desk, grabbing your coat as you made your way to the fireplace in your office.

You wiped down your clean hands on the soft fabric of your coat before grabbing a handful of floo powder and travelling to Professor McGonagall’s office. As the green flames died away, revealing your confident stance, Professor McGonagall blinked slowly, only mildly surprised to find you in her office. “I need to find my son so we can have a chat with Professor Snape.” The older woman opened her mouth to reply, but you were already walking out of her office. She sighed, leaving you to your own devices in the rogue hallways of the Hogwarts castle.

Luckily for you, a loud call of “Mum!” had you stopping in your tracks and spinning on the balls of your feet to see Harry jogging towards you, his book bag flapping uncontrollably at his side. Harry gripped the strap of his back, holding it snugly against his jumper clad chest as he ran towards you with a smile. Ron and Hermione immediately quickened their pace to catch up with their friend, who threw his arms out to engulf you in a tight hug.

“Hey, sweetheart.” You mumbled, lips pressed against Harry’s forehead as you wrapped your arms around him. “What are you doing here?” He questioned excitedly, adjusting his glasses in a way that instantly reminded you of your husband. “I got your letter.” Harry furrowed his eyebrows. “I sent you that like an hour ago!”

“And I’m sick of hearing about how your incompetent Professor keeps poorly grading your papers, which I know deserve higher grades on.” You huffed angrily, putting both your hands on your hips. “You have your papers on you, don’t you?” Harry nodded, immediately ruffling through his book bag. You winced at the sight of loose papers in the bag but looked away, instead busying yourself by greeting your son’s two best friends. Harry made a noise of achievement as he pulled out two separate stacks of papers, presenting them to you with a smile. You scanned through them quickly as he explained “That’s my essay on the uses of mandrake plants in advanced potion making, and then that’s our most recent end of unit test.” “Well, come along then, Harry.”

“Mum, I’ve got a lesson now.”

“Don’t worry, I’m sure your Professor will understand I’m on a time crunch.” Your heels clicked loudly against the concrete floors, heads of students turning to look at you curiously. That would probably be one of two reasons: 1. You were a parent who had no business currently being at Hogwarts. 2. You were the most successful potioneer of your generation, specialising in poisons and their remedies, with a success so prominent that every potions student in Year 5 and above stared at your name on the cover of their potions textbooks every time they used it.

The chilly atmosphere of the dungeon welcomed you as you made a beeline to the potions classroom. Harry’s thoughts were racing as he tried predicting what you were going to tell Professor Snape, holding your son’s exam papers in hand.

Luckily for you, Snape had just exited his classroom, opening his mouth to let his students into the dark room, when he spotted you. His eyes were immediately clouded with annoyance, but something else lingered in his gaze. “Snape,” You started, glancing at the group of students waiting to be called into their classrooms. “I suggest you give your students a free period. We have things to discuss.” You didn’t wait for Snape to respond, pushing past him to walk into his classroom. You settled your things down on a table near Snape’s desk, standing up behind the uncomfortable stools. “Take a seat, sweetheart.” Harry smiled gently as you returned your gaze to him, eyes softening as they took him in. You pushed a rogue strand of hair away from his face before turning around to meet Snape’s eye as he trudged towards you.

“You realise it’s been almost twenty years, right?” Harry wasn’t expecting those to be your first words. “So I suggest you get over your little crush on me and your hatred towards my husband, because my son is facing the consequences of your feelings.” Harry gasped at the revelation, his eyes wide with shock. He pursed his lips suddenly to suppress his laughter.

Snape hated him because he was jealous of Harry’s father?

You turned over Harry’s papers to face the Professor. “Look me in the eye and tell me you believe these deserve a Poor.” Snape looked up, making solid eye contact with you, though he didn’t say anything. “Y/N-” “It’s Mrs. Potter to you, Snape.”

The long-haired Professor inhaled deeply. “Mrs. Potter, I strongly believe that your son’s papers deserve the grades they were awarded.” You hummed, entirely unconvinced. Pushing Harry’s essay to the side, you flipped his exam paper open. “Then we seriously need to question your teaching. Green pen, please.” Snape grumbled quietly as he stood up walking to his desk to retrieve a green pen for you, placing it in your extended hand.

“Let’s see.” You spoke under your breath, moving around the table to stand next to Snape. The next few minutes were dreadfully tense for Harry, watching as Snape spent most of the time looking at the side of your face rather than the paper, where you were adding small check marks next to Harry’s answers. When you reached the end of the paper, you flicked back to the beginning, counting the marks in a quiet whisper.

“You’ve given my son an 18/50. The mark he should have gotten is a 39. Not an outstanding by any means, but still two entire grades above the one you gave him.” Harry swallowed thickly as you spoke, crossing your arms over your chest whilst you stared down Professor Snape.

“Keep up with this prejudice against my son and I promise, you will come out of a job.” Snape scoffed, finally saying “You act as though anyone will take your word over mine.” Your genuine laugh surprised Harry. “You can stop pretending you think they’ll choose you over me. We both know Professor Dumbledore has been begging me to take this position for, what, four years now?” All colour drained from Professor Snape’s face as you revealed that information. You walked around the hopeless professor to place a hand on your son’s shoulder.

“Who knows, maybe next year I’ll take his offer?” You leaned closer to Professor Snape, bringing your voice down to a whisper. “If I don’t hear that you’ve changed my son’s grade by tomorrow, I promise, worse things will happen to you than losing your job." You straightened up, clearing your throat before adding "Who knows, maybe I’ll even send my husband to visit you.”

Harry revelled in the way Snape shuddered at the mention of his father. He didn’t bother hiding his smile at Snape’s reaction to your friendly threat, holding his hand out for you to hold as you gathered your things. You took Harry’s hand, guiding him out of the room with a satisfied smile. “Is it true they asked you to come work here?” You nodded with a hum.

“Why didn’t you take the offer?” You turned to look at Harry’s hopeful eyes, furrowing your eyebrows. “I didn’t want to be invasive. I mean, I know for a fact I wouldn’t have wanted my parents to hear every rumour that was spread, or know every time I got into trouble. That would be inevitable if I worked here, and, you know, I want you to have some freedom.”

“Well, what if you came next year?” You stopped in your tracks at Harry’s question, turning to look at him properly. “You know, it’ll be my last year, so I’d have had my freedom, and you’ll be a great teacher for everyone. And I guess it would be nice having you around.” Harry’s cheeks were flushed pink and your heart warmed as you realised the true reason for his request. He missed you and his dad.

“Okay.”

“Okay!?” Harry jumped up at your agreement, laughing joyously. “But!” “But?” Harry echoed, sounding slightly horrified. “I’ll still live at home. I won’t stay here overnight like some Professors do. We’re just one apparation from home anyway. But I guess I’ll stay here until late afternoon if I have to mark papers.” Harry grinned, throwing his arms around your shoulders to bring you into a tight hug. You laughed, eyes widening as you realised he was looming over you despite the heels you wore. “Harry, honey, you are getting too tall.” The boy shrugged as he let go of you. “Madame Pomfrey said I’m still growing. I’ve still got a couple of inches ‘til I catch up to dad anyway.”

“He won’t be too happy about that, but the two of you can argue about it at dinner tomorrow, yeah? I’ll send McGonagall an owl to let her know. Just come by using floo.”

“Ooh and can we play a game of Quidditch after?”

“Only if you’re willing to lose.”

taglist: @ravisinghs-wife, @starry-remus, @pain-in-the-ashe, @hiireadstuff, @treefairy-28, @superlegend216, @kitkatkl, @juliet-017, @boromoony, @fl0weryannie, @tiaajosephin

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l0vergirlwrites · 4 months ago

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the science of kisses ; spencer reid

synopsis: during a make out session, you & spencer explore the concept of erogenous zones.

warnings: established relationship with fem!reader, mentions of kissing & slight sexual suggestive content, spencer being smug af because he’s confident in your relationship, reader matching spencer’s vibe!!!

note: i just had to write this after having a psych lecture about it, so this is hella indulgent but i hope y’all enjoy 💋

minors dni with this post!

“did you like that?”.

nodding your head, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, but it sounded more like a mewl as it escaped your lips.

it was late.

both you & spencer were well aware of the how the time had dipped from the late night to absurdly early morning, but neither of you cared. at least, not when his body was draped over yours like this, lips moving across your neck in languid strokes like a painter.

“feels nice” you said real breathy & cute, causing spencer to press another kiss to the same spot just at the side of your neck below your ear, smiling into your skin when your hands gripped his sides a little tighter.

he couldn’t help but feel giddy at the thought of him being the reason why you were falling into bliss like this.

“do you know why it feels nice there?” he asked in a hushed tone due to the close proximity of his mouth to your ear.

you almost groaned in response because surely spencer knows what effect his words have on you, right?

“because it’s an erogenous zone?” you asked, shutting your eyes when his teeth lightly grazed your pulse point as if he was giving you a reward, feeling his thumb press harder into your hip on top of the mattress.

“good answer” he pulled back to get a good look at you, lips slightly swollen with pride as he looked down at you.

the way your chest rose up & down a little quicker, the hazy gaze in your eyes—you were enjoying every minute of it.

“erogenous zones feel so nice because the stimulation in those areas increase feelings of pleasure” your eyes stayed focused on the way his lips moved as he spoke, how they curled into a knowing smile when he realized your attention was locked in on them.

humming in response, you lifted a hand to cup spencer’s cheek, dipping your thumb to smooth over his bottom lip after a moment, relishing in its softness. “you’re real cute when you talk like that”.

latching a hand to yours, spencer pulled your hand back before pressing a few kisses to the inner part of your wrist, inching his way to your palm & back all innocently.

your jaw went slack as he maintained eye contact.

“everyone has multiple erogenous zones on their body, some are more heightened than others,” he spoke slowly as his lips touched the heel of your palm, noting how tightly you continued to grip his shirt.

that’s another one, he noted in his mind.

“why do you think that’s the case?” spencer pulled your hand away, gently placing it back onto the mattress before leaning closer to your face again, humming when your hand run through his hair, scraping his scalp in just the right way to make him preen.

you smirked with satisfaction.

“because the skin is the body’s largest organ, so it makes sense why there’d be multiple spots with—oh—uhm, heightened sensitivity” you tried keeping your composure as he made his way to the right side of your neck, continuing his kisses across you skin before sucking on a few spots, humming when you finished your sentence.

“i should give you a gold star for that one”.

“you basically already are”.

“you’re right”.

“i kno—shit, spence” you exhaled sharply when his lips sucked just above your right collarbone, aiming to leave a sweet mark as a memory.

you were sure you’d feel the slight bruise in the morning, but you didn’t mind.

not when it felt so good.

“you were saying?” he lifted his head up, ignoring the way you rolled your eyes & how your eyebrows were pinched together in relief.

“shut up” you let a smile slip loose, shoving him away weakly before reeling him back in, letting his nose nudge yours. “you’ve got a mouth on you, reid”.

“so i’ve been told. but i don’t think you mind it much, sweetheart” he said all suave, drifting a hand down to the crevice of your right knee to let him pull your thigh taut to his hip, caging him into your form without any protest.

spencer was turning you on with science, & you were falling for it. but what else were you supposed to do?

“if i say i like it, will you kiss me?” you asked, lips ghosting his own, his eyes trained on the way you bit your lip in anticipation for whatever is to come.

spencer shrugged his shoulders playfully, “i wouldn’t be against that”.

“okay, i like it. kiss me—“ he stole your breath away eagerly, chests pressed against the other as you sucked his top lip between yours, moaning at the feeling of his tongue swiping your mouth like he’s done so many times before, but the feeling never failed to send shivers down your spine.

“baby—“ you breathed, hands gripping his hair like a vice the longer he kissed you back, tummy flipping when his hips pressed firmly into yours in response to the pet name.

“yeah?” spencer licked his lips once he pulled away, pupils blown wide as his heart raced, staring at you like you were the woman only alive.

“show me where your erogenous zones are, please?”.

you’ve never seen his head nod so fast.

#l0vergirlwrites💌#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid oneshot #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid short #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid criminal minds #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #matthew gray gubler #matthew gray gubbler x reader #mgg #mgg fanfiction

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kngrose · 7 months ago

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𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐀𝐓 𝐀 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄 𝐒𝐎 𝐈'𝐌 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐃...

imagine a situationship with sevika

WARNINGS: mentions of cheating, drinking, bi! reader but wlw, eventual smut, modern au

from roselí. ᡣ𐭩 : i have way too many thoughts about this— this will have multiple parts. see part two here. ^^

It wasn’t supposed to happen. You didn’t plan for it. But somewhere along the line, something changed. Your relationship had gotten too… comfortable. At first, the changes were subtle; He wasn’t saying anything outlandish, nothing to make you question your relationship.

But there were small instances, ones where he’d forget plans you made, or when he’d linger on his phone a little longer than usual in your company. You told yourself it was nothing; he might just be a little more stressed than usual– maybe there’s something personal he’s going through.

But as time passed, the pattern became clearer. Conversations that used to flow easily were now strained, almost forced, filled with half-hearted responses. He didn't pick up on the little things anymore; your new manicure or your haircut you had gotten to perfectly frame your face, in hopes that he would notice.

He wouldn’t be as passionate anymore, the fire he once held slowly dimming before your eyes. It was disheartening. The spark that once kept your relationship alive is fading, and you're left with a gnawing feeling of emptiness that you can’t quite explain.

And then there was her.

It wasn’t anything too large, the event. Just a kickback amongst some of your shared friends and some extras they’d invited. You’d tagged along with your boyfriend who’d long forgotten about you, chopping it up with a few of the guys on the couch. You felt a sour twinge in your gut as you sat beside him; this is the most enthusiasm he’s shown in weeks.

You’d noticed her in your solitude; shooting you glances across the room. Similar to you, she hadn’t said much of anything, just idly man-spread on the neighboring couch, red cup held loosely in her hand. You’ve never seen her before… you wonder whose friend she is.

You can't help but return the glances– look at her. Her broad shoulders, her thighs, her hands decorated with rings. The piercings that decorate her face. Those eyes, assessing you as she circles the rim of her cup with an index finger, a little smirk forming on her dark lips.

How could you help it– when she’s just radiating with unspoken confidence? It’s captivating, drawing you in like a deer in headlights. There’s a sharpness in her eyes that unsettles you, and yet, something about it excites you. She’s not like anyone you’ve ever seen.

You realized later that she was just waiting. Waiting for your boyfriend to excuse himself so she could move in. It’ll make you wonder later, how much of this she premeditated. It doesn’t take her long to approach you when he leaves, sliding into the spot next to you curtly, smirking as she meets your eyes. She’s beautiful up close.

She’s looking at you with that calculating gaze, making it clear she’s intrigued. She scans your face up and down, “Like your hair… suits you.”

Her voice was deep, commanding, like she had the power to bend the world to her will. You feel your cheeks warm under her gaze, touching your hair softly. “Thank you.” You manage to retort, embarrassingly glancing away. When you shot your eyes back to hers your breath got caught in your chest, her gaze is unwavering. A chuckle rumbles from her throat, “You’re cute.”

But it's not just the look—it’s the way she speaks to you. It’s amazing how easily she manages to fluster you, it’s effortless. Sevika, you learn that her name is, charms you with her dry humor and college stories, entertaining you the entirety of the night.

She tells you about all of the petty fights she’s been in, and all of her run ins with the police. Some of which are so descriptive you have to wonder if she’s being generous with the details. All the while she’s charming you up, placing a hand on your knee, then to your thigh, drawing small circles. You take note of the way she seems to fixate on your hair, constantly moving it from your face or twisting the strands between her fingers.

The flirtation feels different—darker. Her voice rumbles with a kind of quiet power, and when her hand brushes against yours, it lingers just a little too long. You want to pull away, but instead, you stay. The tension builds, and despite your better judgment, a part of you is drawn to it. To her.

You wish you could go back in time and slap yourself. You knew better than to get yourself alone with this girl, this freakishly charismatic, freakishly, randomly attractive girl. But you let her lead you away to a secluded hallway of the house, her excuse being the music was too loud.

And she continued conversing with you, leaning against the wall and swallowing down the rest of the cup. She huffed out something between a scoff and a laugh, “You a nanny or somethin’?” You shot her a confused look in response. She looked down, nodding her head towards the red cup in your hand. “You’re babysitting.”

“Oh, this…” You mutter, swirling the drink around plainly. “Not much of a drinker.” You notice the roll of her eyes as she pushes herself off the wall and your breath hitches as she closes in on you. She pulls the cup from your hand, raising a large hand to your chin to tilt your head back. You barely manage to sputter, “What are you doing–!” before she orders you to, “Open,” nudging your chin softly.

You lock eyes with her for the umpteenth time, her eyes filled with something different this time around. You hesitantly part your lips, allowing her to pour the rest of the content into your mouth. There’s a soft groan leaving her mouth as she watches some of it spill from the corner of your lips down your chin.

The way her eyes lingered on your lips made your heart race. You were suddenly aware of how close you were, how her scent filled your senses, how her gaze felt like a slow burn.

You don’t say anything, but you can feel the heat between you both, the pull that’s been growing stronger with each passing second. Before you know it, she’s kissing you—rough and urgent, her hands gripping your hips with a hunger that matches the storm brewing inside you. Her kiss is overwhelming, like a fire that consumes you whole. You melt into it, into her, not thinking about the consequences, not thinking about him.

The moment ends just as quickly as it began, but the aftershocks are impossible to ignore. You stand there, breathless, disoriented, and yet, there’s a part of you that doesn’t regret it. It feels raw, real, and alive in a way you haven’t felt in a long time.

You pull away from Sevika, your chest tight with confusion and shame. But Sevika just watches you, unfazed. There’s no sympathy in her gaze, in fact, all you could register was a sly smirk on her lips. Sevika moves to stand close to you, her presence overwhelming, wrapping a hand around your throat, "What's holding you back?" she mumbles against your lips.

And in that moment, you realize that nothing is holding you back. You’ve already made your choice without even knowing it.

There’s no turning back now.

please let me know if you would like to be added to my taglist to be notified everytime i post, xx

taglist: @opropheticsoul

#sevika #sevika arcane #sevika x reader #arcane sevika #sevika x oc #sevika smut #arcane #arcane league of legends #arcane season 2 #arcane smut #arcane x reader #wlw #lesbian #ao3

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brookghaib-blog · 26 days ago

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Loose Ends

Pairing: Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x reader

Summary: Y/N and Bob meet at a Narcotics Anonymous meeting, both struggling with addiction. They form a deep bond that slowly grows into love. When Bob suddenly disappears, Y/N relapses and falls apart. Months later, Bob returns, determined to help her heal. Together, they face their pasts and find hope and love in each other’s arms.

Word count: 11,6k

Warning: Drug addiction, depression, self-esteem issues, sexual themes, suicidal thoughts

Note: Based on this request! I'm back for a bit, responding to the requests, just a reminder that I don't respond to the messages on the box to keep them in order and to read them, I do read everything you send me, and if I feel like your idea it's not meant to be written by me, I'll tell you!

The folding chairs creaked beneath restless bodies, the stale scent of burnt coffee and old books clinging to the small community room like ghosts of relapses past. It was just another Tuesday night, but for Bob Reynolds, it felt like his first day on Earth. The fluorescent lights were too bright, the circle of strangers too close, and every eye felt like it was boring straight through his skin.

He didn’t want to be here. But he didn’t want to be anywhere else, either.

Bob sat hunched, his fingers twitching in his lap. His knuckles were red, cracked from the cold and the endless clenching of fists that used to hold glass pipes. He hadn’t spoken to anyone when he walked in. Just nodded awkwardly at the man with the clipboard and found the nearest empty seat. He could feel the tremors under his skin, the echo of a chemical hunger that had hollowed him out for years. It was his first meeting. The beginning of something he didn’t quite believe in yet.

She was already there when he walked in.

Y/N sat across the circle from him—her back straight, hands resting neatly in her lap, a calmness in her posture that said she had done this before. She looked…clean. Not in the way the program used the word, but in a way that radiated control. Confidence. She was beautiful—he noticed that instantly, though guilt pricked the edge of the thought. Her hair was tucked behind one ear, her eyes sharp but gentle, scanning the room like she was watching for someone who might need saving.

She didn’t look at him.

Not at first.

When it came time for introductions, Bob’s voice almost gave out. His throat burned with dryness and shame. “I’m Bob,” he managed, eyes fixed on the floor. “And I’ve been clean for… three days.”

The silence that followed was heavy but not cruel. It was filled with understanding, a quiet solidarity. A few nodded. One man said, “Keep coming back.” Bob barely heard him.

But she looked at him then.

Y/N’s gaze lifted, met his like a flicker of light through a crack in a door. Something sparked—just for a second. Not recognition. Not sympathy. Something gentler. Something that could have been hope, or maybe just human connection.

After the meeting, people filtered out in quiet pairs and solitary steps. Bob lingered, unsure of whether he should leave or stay, his hands shoved into his hoodie pocket like they might keep him from falling apart. He didn’t notice her approach until she was right in front of him.

“Hey,” she said softly, a small, almost hesitant smile tugging at her lips. “First meeting?”

He blinked. Nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

“I figured. You did good.” Her voice wasn’t patronizing. It wasn’t fake. It was just… kind. “Three days is still three days. That’s something.”

Bob shifted, a bit uncomfortable. “Thanks.”

She extended her hand. “I’m Y/N. I’ve been clean for three months.”

He stared at her hand for a moment before taking it. Her grip was firm but warm. “Bob.”

“I know,” she smiled again, gently teasing, “you said that earlier.”

His face flushed. “Right. Sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” she said, and he could tell she meant it. “I just… wanted to say hi. First meetings can feel like hell. Thought you might want someone to talk to.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. Part of him did want to talk—scream, even—but the words didn’t come easy anymore. Not after the meth, not after the years of silence and paranoia, not after everything he’d lost.

But her kindness… it didn’t ask for anything. It didn’t probe. She was just there, steady and unflinching, like she knew what it was like to come in broken and be too afraid to admit it.

“I appreciate it,” he said finally. And he did.

She nodded. “Maybe I’ll see you next week?”

He almost said “I don’t know.” Almost said “probably not.” But then he caught the faintest trace of something in her eyes—something haunted. Like maybe she hadn’t really come back to these meetings just to stay on track. Maybe she was here because, like him, part of her still longed for the high. Still dreamed of it, teeth grinding in the night, heart racing at phantom memories.

“Yeah,” he said instead. “Maybe.”

She left then, offering him one last soft smile before disappearing through the double doors.

Bob stayed behind a few more minutes, staring at the spot she’d stood. The ghost of her warmth lingered like a handprint on his chest. For the first time in months—maybe years—he didn’t feel entirely alone.

And for the first time since the meth left him hollow, he wanted to come back. Not just to stay clean.

But to see her again.

It started with short glances after meetings—awkward smiles, mumbled goodbyes. Y/N always sat three chairs from the front, her posture perfect, her clothes crisp and clean like she’d stepped out of a magazine ad for recovery itself. She was the kind of person people imagined when they thought of someone who had “made it out.”

Bob… wasn’t.

He always sat in the back. Always kept his hoodie on. Always looked at the floor when he spoke—if he spoke. Most weeks, he didn’t. Most weeks, he just listened. But he watched her. Not in the way men stared at beautiful women, though God, she was beautiful. She had a glow to her—not from makeup or hair or skin, but from something inside her. A steadiness. A quiet strength. Something that felt unreachable to someone like him.

He figured she wouldn’t even notice him. Why would she? She had her life together. She was healing. He was still trying to figure out how to stop shaking in the mornings, how to sleep without his skin crawling. But then, one night, she looked at him. Really looked. And something shifted.

But after every meeting, she walked up to him—confident, open, her smile soft but not pitying.

They talked, just a little, about the weather, the meeting, what he thought of the group. And he barely said more than two sentences, but she didn’t seem to mind. She carried the conversation with warmth and patience, like she knew what it was like to forget how to use your voice.

That was how it started.

Weeks passed, and the after-meeting conversations grew longer. Slowly. Naturally. She never rushed him. Never filled silence with noise. Just stood there beside him, sipping her tea or twisting her car keys in her fingers, letting the minutes stretch as he searched for the right words.

Then came coffee. Then a walk. Then dinner—sober bars, late-night diners, quiet sidewalks lit by streetlamps and the occasional hum of traffic.

They became friends.

Bob didn’t even notice how much he looked forward to her texts until he found himself checking his phone every few hours. She’d send him memes she thought he’d like. Songs with sad lyrics. Random photos of dogs she saw on her lunch break. It wasn’t flirtation—not exactly. It was something deeper. It was her letting him see the pieces of her life she still held close. And she let him into them, one bit at a time.

He couldn’t understand her sometimes—how someone so composed could be so kind to someone like him. She had a nice apartment with bookshelves and candles and a cat that hated everyone but her. She had a real job in a building with windows and desks and coffee machines that weren’t broken. She had friends who called her on weekends and inside jokes he didn’t get but loved hearing. To him, she was the kind of person who made surviving look easy.

But she never made him feel small.

He remembered sitting across from her at that booth in the bar, his fingers wrapped around a club soda, watching her pick at her napkin. Something in her was different that night—quieter, more distant. She wasn’t smiling. Not really.

“You okay?” he’d asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

She paused, then said, “Yeah.” But it didn’t land. Her eyes flickered toward the floor, and her fingers kept pulling the napkin into smaller and smaller pieces. Finally, she looked up and sighed.

“You ever wonder how I ended up at NA?” she asked.

Bob frowned. “No,” he said quietly. ��But I bet a lot of people do.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Because you’re the kind of person people look at and think you’ve got it all figured out,” he continued. “You’re… steady. You show up. You laugh at people’s bad jokes. You hold your head up even when you’re having a shit day. You’re the girl everyone wants to believe gets out clean.”

Something cracked in her expression. A flash of pain. A memory rising too fast.

She leaned back, her drink untouched. The light caught her face just right—made her look like someone caught between the past and the present. Then she started to talk.

“I used to work at a club,” she said, slowly. “Not a dive. Not some hole-in-the-wall. This was elite. Velvet ropes, celebrities, champagne towers. Girls like me wore thousand-dollar heels and smiles that hurt by the end of the night. Rich men loved it. We were ornaments to them.”

Bob listened, silent.

“I had friends there. A boyfriend. We were the pretty ones, the ones everyone else envied. Coke was just part of it. Like perfume. Everyone used. Everyone smiled. Nobody asked questions.”

She looked down at her drink, eyes glassy.

“Then he started hitting me.”

Bob’s heart dropped. His grip on the glass tightened.

“Not with fists. Not at first. Just words. Isolation. Manipulation. He said I was his, that he was protecting me. From other men. From myself. I believed him.”

Her voice broke then, and she swallowed hard.

“He started using me. Stole from me. Made me feel like nothing without him. And when I was too broken to fight back, he left. Took my money, my name, everything. Ran off with some other girl who probably believed his lies the way I did.”

She laughed once—sharp and hollow.

“My friends? They turned their backs. One of them slept with him before he even left me. They all knew. They let it happen.”

Bob felt something ache in his chest. Not pity—grief. Anger. Empathy.

“And my job? The one place I thought I still had control?” She shook her head. “It turned ugly. Backroom deals. ‘VIP experiences.’ They called it empowerment. But it wasn’t. I was spiraling, and the only thing that felt good anymore was the coke.”

She finally looked at him, and there were tears she wouldn’t let fall.

“I didn’t want to feel. I just wanted to disappear.”

Bob reached for her hand, unsure at first. But when she didn’t pull away, he held it, firm and steady.

“You’re not that girl anymore,” he said, voice rough. “You got out.”

“Barely.”

“But you did.”

She looked at him like he didn’t understand. But he did. God, he did.

“You think I’m strong,” she whispered. “But I’m not.”

Bob shook his head. “You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met.”

The silence between them stretched long after she finished speaking. The kind of silence that didn't demand to be filled, only understood. Bob’s hand was still loosely curled around hers, but his thumb had stopped moving. He was frozen in place, staring at her with this look—somewhere between guilt and awe, like he was still trying to understand how someone who had been through that could still look at him the way she did.

Then he broke.

It was quiet at first, a barely-there tremor in his voice. “I’ve been lying,” he said.

Y/N looked up, her eyes soft and tired. “About what?”

Bob’s throat tightened. It felt like trying to swallow glass.

“I’m not… clean,” he whispered. “Not really. I mean—I go to the meetings. I want to stop. God, I do. But… I haven’t. Not fully. Not yet.”

He couldn’t look at her. His shame was too loud. Too real. He kept his eyes on the table, watching the condensation drip from his untouched drink onto the wood. He was bracing himself—for disappointment, disgust, maybe even pity. He didn’t know which would hurt more.

But Y/N didn’t flinch. She didn’t pull her hand away. She didn’t move at all.

“I know,” she said quietly.

That made him look at her. His eyes were wide, startled, and for a moment he looked almost like a child caught sneaking out of the house.

“You… knew?”

She nodded slowly. “Yeah. I figured it out a while ago.”

Bob’s face fell. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because,” she said gently, “I know what that shame feels like. I know what it’s like to wake up every day telling yourself this is the last time—only to fall right back into it by sunset. I know what it’s like to look in the mirror and hate what you see, but still not be able to stop.”

She paused, her voice growing softer, like she was afraid it might crack. “I knew because I used to be you.”

Bob blinked fast, trying to keep the tears from spilling. His throat burned, and the knot in his chest tightened with each word she spoke.

“I used to show up to meetings high out of my mind,” she continued. “Sat in the back row with sunglasses on, nodding like I understood recovery while my brain was still buzzing. I smiled when people clapped for my fake milestones. I told everyone I was clean because I wanted them to believe I could be.”

A shaky breath escaped her. “But I couldn’t even believe it myself.”

Bob felt his shoulders slump. The weight of everything—the guilt, the pretending, the fear—pressed down on him like a thousand bricks. But somehow, her words made it feel just a little bit lighter. Not because she excused him. But because she understood.

“I hate who I am when I use,” he said. “I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

Y/N leaned in, her voice almost a whisper. “You’re still in there, Bob. He’s still in there. You’re just lost right now. And that’s okay.”

“It doesn’t feel okay.”

“I know,” she said. “It never does.”

He looked at her, his eyes glassy, his hands trembling slightly. “I thought if I got clean, you’d finally see me as someone worth knowing.”

Her face crumpled—not with pity, but something deeper. Something closer to heartbreak.

“I already see you,” she said. “I see how you listen to people when they talk, even when you don’t say much. I see how you text back with full sentences, like you’re trying so hard not to sound messed up even when you feel like you are. I see the way you show up—even when you’re still using. You’re trying. That means something.”

Bob looked away, ashamed all over again. “Trying doesn’t feel like enough.”

She reached out, her hand brushing his cheek. “It is. Right now, it is.”

And then, without asking, she pulled him into a hug. It wasn’t gentle or careful. It was desperate—like she was trying to hold together all the broken pieces of him before they fell through her fingers. And Bob, whose body hadn’t been held without expectation or violence in years, melted into her.

He let the tears fall. Quietly. Messily. Into her shirt, which smelled like vanilla and rain. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t rush him. Just held him tighter, like maybe if she held on long enough, he might start believing in his own worth too.

“I’m scared,” he whispered into her shoulder.

“I know,” she said. “Me too.”

They stayed like that for a long time—two recovering souls on the edge of something raw and fragile, holding onto each other in a world that didn’t offer many safe places.

Bob didn’t know what would happen tomorrow. If he’d relapse again. If he’d lose this fragile thing growing between them. But in that moment, with her arms around him and her voice steady in his ear, he felt something he hadn’t in a long time:

Hope.

Even if it was cracked and trembling.

From that night on, something shifted.

She was there. That was what mattered.

Sometimes it was subtle—a soft text before his meetings, “You’ve got this. Even if you don’t feel like it.” Other times it was more direct. Sitting beside him when the urge itched under his skin so badly he thought he might peel it off. Making tea in her little kitchen while he shook on her couch in the middle of a sleepless, twitching night. She never asked for explanations. She never recoiled from the ugly.

She just stayed.

Bob didn’t know how to thank her, not really. Words felt too small for the way she seemed to see through all the rot and wreckage and still come closer. He hadn’t had that before. Not when he was sober. Not when he was using. Not even before he broke into pieces. Most people ran. But not her.

She stayed.

He lost his apartment two months later.

The landlord had already been breathing down his neck for weeks. Bob had stopped opening his mail, knowing each envelope only echoed his failures in ink and numbers. The eviction came quietly. There wasn’t even a real fight. Just a cold knock on the door, a brief, awkward interaction with a man who wouldn’t make eye contact, and a few garbage bags of his life left on the curb like they were waiting for the trash collector.

He didn’t have anywhere to go. He didn’t even call anyone. He just sat on the sidewalk for what felt like hours, his arms wrapped around his knees, a duffle bag pressed against his chest like a shield. The sky went gray and then darker, and he didn’t cry. He just shut down.

Y/N found him like that.

She didn’t say “I told you so,” or ask why he hadn’t called. She just stood over him, arms crossed, a bag of groceries still dangling from her wrist. Her eyes softened the second she saw his face.

“Come home,” she said, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Home.

That word hit harder than he expected.

It wasn’t a big place, her apartment. Just a one-bedroom tucked into a quiet neighborhood that smelled like old leaves and coffee in the mornings. Her couch wasn’t comfortable, and her shower leaked sometimes, and her fridge hummed too loudly—but it was safe. It was warm. It was hers. And when she opened that door for him, Bob felt like she was opening it to something bigger than just a place to sleep.

She gave him a key a few weeks later. Not with a big speech or anything. She just placed it on the kitchen counter beside a fresh mug of coffee and said, “Figured it might be easier than buzzing me in every night.”

Bob held the key in his hand for almost an hour before he worked up the nerve to put it on his keychain.

Time passed in fragile, unsteady weeks.

He helped around the apartment—washed dishes, cleaned windows, tried to make himself useful in small, quiet ways that wouldn’t make him feel like a burden. Y/N never made him feel like one, but the weight lived in his bones anyway. He couldn’t help it.

Eventually, she helped him find another job. It wasn’t anything fancy—a delivery driver for a small company on the edge of town—but it paid enough for groceries and gave him something to do that didn’t involve pacing and self-hate. On the days when the cravings got too loud, he’d text her mid-shift and she’d send something back fast. A joke. A memory. A stupid meme. Something to tether him.

He told her once that her words were like sandbags during a flood. She didn’t know what to say to that, so she just hugged him.

Over time, their routines melted together.

He cooked when she worked late. She made playlists to help with his insomnia. They sat on the floor together on Sunday mornings, sorting laundry and talking about nothing in particular. She showed him old childhood photos once, laughing at her awful middle school haircut, and he caught himself smiling so hard it hurt. He hadn’t smiled like that in years.

They still went to meetings together. Sometimes he didn’t want to. Sometimes he said he was tired, or too anxious, or not in the mood. She never forced him. But she always asked if she could drive him anyway. And somehow, her presence always made it feel a little easier.

Bob started counting the days.

Not just his clean days—though he did that too, quietly, afraid of jinxing it—but the days with her. The ones where he woke up to the smell of her shampoo and the soft creak of her kitchen cabinet. The ones where they watched old movies on her laptop and fell asleep side-by-side on the couch, legs tangled like roots.

He didn’t call it love. Not yet. He didn’t think he was allowed to.

But he called it safe.

And for someone who had lived most of his life either chasing the high or drowning in the aftermath, safe felt like the rarest, most impossible thing in the world.

Sometimes, in the middle of the night, when she was asleep and everything was still, he’d look at her—curled up on the edge of the bed, one hand under her cheek, breathing softly—and wonder what he’d done to deserve any of this. The softness. The safety. Her.

He didn’t know the answer.

But he hoped—desperately, silently—that whatever it was, he could hold onto it a little longer.

They both remembered that day. The moment it shifted—not with drama or confessions, not with a kiss or tears—but with something quieter. Softer. The kind of shift that feels like the slow blooming of spring after a long, bitter winter.

It was a Saturday.

The kind that starts already warm, with golden sunlight leaking through the windows before either of them stirred. Y/N had woken first, barefoot on the creaky floorboards, hair a sleepy mess, moving like someone who didn’t feel the need to rush. Bob followed soon after, drawn to the smell of coffee and the sound of toast popping up from the kitchen. It was simple. Easy. The kind of morning people write poems about—not because it was extraordinary, but because it was still.

They ate breakfast on the balcony. Two mismatched mugs. A chipped plate between them, loaded with scrambled eggs and strawberries, toast buttered to the corners like she always did. The city murmured beneath them—distant laughter, someone walking their dog, a child shrieking joyfully two stories below. A car honked, then another. Life rolled on steadily, like background music.

Y/N was leaned back in her chair, her legs tucked under her, head tilted back with her eyes closed. Her face was bathed in sunlight, and for a moment she looked untouchable. Serene in a way Bob had never known serenity. Her lips were slightly parted, like she’d forgotten the world and was letting the sun warm all the parts of her she usually kept hidden.

Bob watched her. Not like he meant to. Not like he knew how to stop.

She was beautiful, yes. He always thought that. But there was something else about her in that moment. Something real. Not the kind of beauty that came from makeup or a pretty dress, but the kind that came from surviving. From healing. From being the kind of person who made a broken man feel safe again.

He sipped his coffee, trying to distract himself from the way his chest ached.

“This is nice,” he said quietly, more to the air than to her. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt… this peaceful before.”

Y/N hummed, the sound low and soft in her throat. Her eyes stayed closed. She didn’t need to see him to hear the weight in his voice. She knew what peace meant for someone like him—someone whose mind often felt like a battlefield.

“I like Saturdays,” she said simply. “It’s the only day people slow down.”

He looked at her, then. Really looked.

There was sunlight tangled in her lashes. A faint smile resting on her lips. Her skin glowing in that effortless way it always did when she didn’t care how she looked. She was… real. Right in front of him, not some dream or distant kindness, but here. Tangible.

She opened her eyes slowly, as if she’d felt his gaze. And when she looked back at him, it wasn’t casual. It wasn’t fleeting.

It was deliberate.

Like she was seeing him all over again.

Her expression shifted, just slightly—softening at the edges. And in a movement so smooth, so casual and intimate it stole his breath, she reached across the table and took his hand.

Not forcefully. Not nervously.

She simply lifted it and placed it gently on her lap. Her other hand settled on top of his, warm and still. Then, like nothing had changed, she tilted her head back again, letting the sun hit her face as if nothing in the world was worth worrying about.

Bob didn’t move.

He couldn’t.

His heart was beating so loudly he was sure she could hear it through his ribs. His hand, resting in hers, felt clumsy and awkward, like it didn’t know what to do with the sudden weight of tenderness. Her thumb brushed lightly over his knuckles, and that tiny movement nearly undid him.

He looked at her again.

And God, she looked peaceful.

His eyes traced every detail of her face—the soft curve of her mouth, the sunlight catching on the fine strands of her hair, the faint crease between her brows that never quite disappeared, even when she was relaxed. She was everything. She had been everything, and now she was here, holding his hand like it was nothing.

Like it was normal.

And something inside him cracked—not painfully, but openly. Like a locked door finally swinging inward. He felt it happen. Felt the ache in his chest rearrange itself into something terrifying and warm and real.

He was in love with her.

Not in the loud, desperate way he’d felt about people before. Not in the chasing-highs, clinging-to-anything kind of love. This was different. This was the kind of love that crept in when you weren’t looking. That grew roots under your skin while you were busy surviving.

He didn’t say anything. Neither did she.

But that silence was full of things. Full of knowing.

The sunlight stretched across their hands, warm and gold. The sound of life continued beneath them—cars, people, wind through leaves. But none of it mattered. Not really.

Because in that stillness, with her thumb brushing his skin and his heart thudding in his chest, Bob realized what had changed.

Being in love with someone you know isn’t yours wasn’t just painful—it was paralyzing.

Bob never made a move. Not once. But neither did she.

They both danced in that unspoken space between friendship and something more, circling around each other like they were afraid to touch the glass. A look held just a second too long. A brush of fingers that lingered. Long walks in silence that said too much, and late-night conversations that always stopped just short of the truth. The kind of closeness that felt like a secret.

Y/N wasn’t dumb. She felt it. She saw it—in the way he watched her when he thought she wasn’t looking, in the way his voice softened when he said her name. She wasn’t imagining the weight in the air when he sat too close, or how her heart quickened when his hand brushed hers and he didn’t pull away.

She wanted him.

God, she wanted him. And maybe it wasn’t logical or safe or even the right time—but love never listened to reason.

So she planned something.

Just for him.

She spent days thinking about it—what she would cook, what she would wear, how she would decorate the table, how she would finally, finally tell him. Not in some dramatic, tear-filled moment. Not with trembling hands or grand speeches. Just something real. Something warm and quiet, like the way they’d grown close in the first place.

He liked lasagna. She remembered him saying it once, half-laughing over some bland cafeteria food, admitting it was the only thing his mom ever made that felt like home. So she made it from scratch. Spent hours on it, hands dusted in flour and cheeks flushed from leaning over the oven. She lit candles—real ones, not the battery-powered kind—and strung up warm lights in the kitchen so everything looked golden and soft. A single bottle of white wine sat in a bucket of ice—because he never liked red, said it was “too bitter, like medicine.”

She even made a cake. Small and simple, chocolate with vanilla icing, and piped onto the top in slightly messy, trembling letters were three words she’d rehearsed a thousand times but never said: I love you.

The clock ticked.

6 p.m. came and went.

Then 6:15.

7:00.

She didn’t panic at first. Maybe he lost track of time. Maybe he was caught up in something. Maybe he was just being Bob—flighty and quiet and a little scattered when his mind took over.

But then 8:30 arrived. The lasagna was cold. The wine sweat into the tablecloth. The cake sat untouched, the words slowly blurring as the icing melted in the heat of the flickering candles.

She stared at her phone.

No texts.

No missed calls.

No excuses.

Something in her chest started to turn. That creeping kind of worry that starts in the stomach and climbs. Maybe something happened. Maybe he got hurt. Maybe he was using again. Maybe he was lying somewhere in a hospital bed or curled up in some alley trying to remember his name. Maybe he was dead.

Her mind spiraled.

She grabbed her phone again—called this time. Straight to voicemail. Again. Again. Again. Each unanswered ring was like a punch to the ribs.

By 10 p.m., the worry became something else. Something sharp. She stood there in her kitchen, surrounded by the dinner she made in his name, and felt something in her begin to crack. Her eyes burned, but she didn’t cry. Not yet.

She told herself maybe he’d show up. Maybe he’d knock on the door, stammering and apologizing, saying he got caught somewhere or panicked or forgot—but that he cared. That he wanted to be here.

But it never came.

And when the candles began to flicker low, and the silence got too loud, she finally gave up.

She made her way toward her room to grab a jacket—planning to go out and look for him, even if it meant driving through every alley and knocking on every shelter door. Her heart was a thunderstorm in her chest. Her thoughts screaming. She just wanted to see him. To know.

Then she saw it.

Sitting there on her bed.

A piece of paper—ripped from one of the journals he used to scribble in when he thought she wasn’t paying attention. Her name wasn’t on it. There was no date. But the moment she saw it, she knew.

She walked over slowly, her hands shaking before she even touched the paper.

It wasn’t long. Just one sentence, scribbled in a hurried hand that barely looked like his.

You don’t deserve this. I’m sorry.

That was it.

No explanation. No goodbye. Just a wound left open on her bedspread, in the space where she had once dreamed of him waking up beside her.

The paper fell from her hand.

And then she cried.

Not the pretty kind of crying. Not the kind with delicate tears and soft sobs. It was the ugly kind—the kind that split her open from the inside, pulled a scream from her throat that she buried into her palms because she couldn’t let the neighbors hear. She sank to her knees on the floor, arms wrapped around herself like it was the only thing keeping her together.

He was gone.

And the worst part wasn’t even that he left.

It was that he believed she didn’t deserve him. That he couldn’t let her love him. That he thought the best gift he could give her was his absence.

And she would’ve taken him broken. She wanted him broken. She loved him broken. But he never gave her the chance.

The lasagna sat untouched.

The wine lost its chill.

The cake slowly collapsed under the weight of the words she never got to say.

And Y/N, alone in a house full of candlelight and cold food, sat in the ruins of the future she tried to give them.

Losing Bob didn’t feel like a heartbreak.

It felt like death.

A quiet kind of death. The kind that doesn’t come with sirens or funerals, just silence. A sudden stillness in her chest, like her heart stopped beating the moment he left, and never remembered how to start again.

At first, she tried to be strong. She told herself that she was used to pain. She'd survived worse. She’d crawled out of hell once before—out of abuse, betrayal, withdrawal, shaking in cold sweats on cheap apartment floors. She had survived so many versions of herself that died in the dark.

She told herself she could survive this too.

But it didn’t take long to realize that she hadn’t just loved Bob.

She had fallen for him. Tripped and tumbled and crashed headfirst into something raw and consuming and real. She hadn’t seen it coming—not in the quiet mornings on her balcony, not in the way he said her name, not in the long, wordless car rides. But somewhere between those moments, it had happened.

And when he disappeared, it felt like someone had torn out a part of her and left a bleeding hole in its place.

She tried not to spiral. God, she tried.

She went to her meetings. She smiled when her sponsor checked in. She told her friends she was fine, that she was just tired, just busy, just needing space.

But every time she walked down the street, she looked. Every alley. Every shelter. Every bench with someone sleeping under a thin blanket. Every set of shoulders hunched low, every man with blond hair or slumped posture. Her eyes scanned faces like a prayer, like maybe he would just appear, just be there, as if the universe could feel how much she needed him to still exist in it.

Every time her phone buzzed, her heart leapt. And every time it wasn’t him, it sank deeper. And deeper.

Nights were worse.

She’d sit in the same kitchen where she once set out candles and wine and cake and a stupid little lasagna, and she’d stare at the empty chair across from her and ache. Ache in places that weren’t physical. Ache in memories that hadn’t even had a chance to happen. Her mind filled in the blanks—what he might’ve said if he’d shown up, how he would’ve looked smiling across the table, how his hand would��ve felt in hers if he let himself stay.

But he didn’t stay.

He left.

And with that single note, he shattered her belief in being enough. In being someone worth staying for.

The worst part? She didn’t even blame him.

She knew what it was like to feel like poison. To believe that your presence only infected the people who cared. Bob had been fragile, so delicate in his guilt and fear. He wore shame like skin, like every good thing that touched him was going to rot from the inside out.

But even knowing that didn’t dull the sting. It didn’t stop the nightmares. It didn’t stop the longing.

And longing—it’s dangerous.

It’s quiet at first. A whisper in the back of your mind. A thought you tell yourself to shake off: Where is he now?

But it grows. It grows until it becomes obsession. Until your fingers start to shake when you see a syringe in a movie. Until your throat tightens when someone says the word “meth” at a meeting and you think of his face. Until your mind starts to scream just to feel anything again, because loving him was something, and now you feel nothing.

She lasted three weeks.

Three weeks of pretending.

Three weeks of smiling and lying and checking her phone like it might still save her.

And then she relapsed.

She didn’t remember making the choice—not really. It wasn’t a grand decision. It was a moment. A crack in the armor. A single bad night where the world felt too quiet and her heart felt too loud and she thought: Just once. Just something to make this stop.

But addiction doesn’t take “just once” as an answer.

It came back like a flood. Like it had been waiting for her, just behind the door, and the second she opened it, it crashed over her and pulled her under.

And with the high came the silence.

And the shame.

And the slow realization that she had lost not only Bob, but herself.

She started canceling meetings. Ignoring friends. Skipping work until her job sent a warning email. She stayed in bed until the afternoon, curtains drawn, phone face-down on the nightstand. She hated herself. She hated the weakness. She hated that all it took was love—just love—to unravel everything she’d worked so hard to rebuild.

She’d told herself she didn’t need anyone.

She had her life together.

She had her own apartment, a good job, sobriety, control.

And she lost it all for him.

And still, even as the drugs blurred her mind and numbed her pain, she found herself crying in the middle of it. Crying for the way he said her name. Crying for the way he looked at her that last morning on the balcony, when the sun lit his face and his hand sat warm in hers. Crying because maybe, just maybe, he had loved her too.

But she would never know.

Because he was gone.

And she was no longer strong.

And the cocaine didn’t fill the hole. It just made it harder to breathe around it.

She thought she was better than this.

She thought love couldn’t break her.

But it did.

And now she was just another ghost of herself, whispering “I love you” to an empty bed, and trying to remember who she was before she let someone in.

Bob had imagined this moment a thousand times.

He’d practiced what he would say on flights, in mirrors, in the shower, in dreams. He’d imagined her face when she saw him again—maybe surprised, maybe angry, maybe even relieved. But never this.

He stood at her door with a sick feeling in his chest. Four months. Four months of silence, four months of guilt rotting him from the inside out. Every day, he woke up with her name in his mouth. He should’ve stayed. God, he should’ve stayed.

When the door finally opened, Bob braced himself.

But nothing could’ve prepared him for her.

Y/N stood there like a shadow of the girl he left behind.

So thin—painfully thin, her cheekbones sharp, collarbones jutting out beneath a baggy shirt that hung off her frame like a flag of surrender. Her skin had lost its glow, pale and dull, with purple rings under her eyes like bruises of exhaustion and grief. Her hair was a tangled mess, thrown up haphazardly like she hadn’t touched it in days. The light in her eyes—the one that used to make him feel human again—was gone. Just hollow, glassy, and so very tired.

And her apartment… it was chaos.

Pill bottles on the table. Empty glasses. Dishes unwashed in the sink. Blinds closed tight against the sun. It smelled like stillness and sleep and stale air. Like a place where nothing lived, only lingered.

He stepped back like her pain had hit him physically.

“Y/N…” he whispered, stunned, his voice cracking on her name.

She blinked at him like she didn’t believe he was real. Her mouth parted slightly, chest rising and falling as if she’d forgotten how to breathe.

Then her lip trembled. And she began to cry.

Not soft, cinematic tears. But ugly, shattering sobs. Her whole body shook as she clutched the door frame for balance, the sound ripping out of her like it had been waiting—building—for months. A scream with no voice.

“Don’t—don’t look at me,” she whispered between sobs, covering her face. “Please don’t look at me like this…”

He stepped forward instinctively. “Hey—no, no—Y/N, please—”

But she flinched, not away from him, but from herself. Her shame was a weight, choking her, burying her. “I—I was doing so well, Bob. I had it under control,” she choked out. “I was going to tell you. I was going to tell you that I loved you, and that I believed in you, and you left—and I—I thought you died—I thought you were dead or you hated me—”

“I didn’t hate you,” Bob interrupted, tears filling his own eyes now, voice hoarse. “I never hated you. I hated myself.”

She looked up at him finally, really looked at him—his cleaner face, clearer eyes, steadier hands. And then came another wave of tears. She sank down right there on the floor, knees to her chest, sobbing into her arms. “I relapsed,” she confessed in a broken whisper. “I fell apart without you. And I hate that. I hate that I needed you so badly. I hate how weak I am.”

Bob dropped to his knees in front of her, overwhelmed by the wreckage—wreckage he caused. He touched her face with trembling hands, wiping the tears as they kept falling. “You’re not weak,” he said. “You’re not.”

She shook her head. “I was strong. Before you. Before I—before I loved you.”

Bob’s heart cracked wide open.

“I thought I had everything,” she went on, broken and breathless. “I thought I didn’t need anything else. And then you walked into that stupid meeting, and I felt something. And I didn’t know how fast it could all fall apart. How fast I could fall apart.”

“I’m so sorry,” Bob whispered. “I thought I was protecting you. I thought walking away would stop me from ruining your life. I didn’t realize I already had.”

She buried her face in his shoulder, and he wrapped his arms around her like he never wanted to let go again. Her body was small against him, fragile, shaking with all the tears that never had a place to go until now.

“I’m clean,” he said against her hair. “I did it. I got better. I wanted to be better. For me. But also for you. Because I knew that if I ever came back, I wanted to stand in front of you and say it honestly. That I fought through it. That I made it.”

Her hands clung to the fabric of his jacket like a lifeline.

“I don’t care,” she whispered, voice hoarse. “I don’t care that you left. I just wanted to know you were okay. I looked for you. For months. Every street corner. Every man with your exact same hair. Every time my phone buzzed, I hoped—God, I hoped—”

Bob kissed the top of her head. “I should’ve come back sooner. I’m so sorry.”

She cried harder, but her arms wrapped around him now, pulling him closer, like even if she couldn’t forgive him yet, she couldn’t bear to let him go again.

He sat there with her, on the floor of the life she’d been drowning in. And he didn’t try to fix it. He didn’t offer empty promises. He just held her. Held her and cried with her and let the silence between them say all the things they couldn’t yet.

He didn’t wait.

The moment he had her in his arms—shaking, thin, breaking—Bob couldn’t hold it back anymore. The words came in a rush, tumbling out between gulps of breath and trembling hands. He told her everything.

About Malaysia. About how he ran, numb and wild, not knowing where he was going, only knowing that he had to disappear before he destroyed her too. About the facility, the experimentation, the people who found him, used him, saved him, controlled him. About what they made him—what he became.

She listened with wide, disbelieving eyes as he spoke of strength he never asked for, powers that tore at his mind, a glowing blue rage that lived inside him like a second heartbeat. The violence. The void. The silence that followed every mission.

“I’m not… just Bob anymore,” he whispered, forehead pressed against hers, voice cracking. “They call me something else now. Sentry. Some hero with power that terrifies the people who made me. But I still feel like me… like the junkie who walked into that meeting room trying not to die. I still feel like the man who forgot how to breathe until you looked at him.”

She stared at him, dazed, her fingers tightening on the sleeves of his coat. Her thoughts were spiraling—circling like vultures around her mind. He was back. And not just back—transformed. Elevated. Resurrected in some impossible way.

The man she loved walked out broken and came back untouchable.

And she was still here. Still small and wrecked and ashamed and relapsed. Her chest felt tight. She didn’t know whether to fall to her knees in worship or scream. Her sobs returned—not because of what he said, but because of what it meant.

“You’re a hero,” she whispered, voice thin and hollow. “And I’m nothing. I couldn’t even make it four months without you. I—” Her voice cracked. “I was doing so good, and I lost it. You went and fought demons, and I couldn’t even fight a line of powder.”

Bob shook his head violently. “Don’t do that. Don’t.”

“It’s true.”

“No,” he whispered. “No, Y/N. You don’t get to erase everything you were to me. You saved me. You gave me a bed when I was sleeping on floors. You made me my favorite meals. You held my hand when I thought I didn’t deserve to be touched.”

His eyes burned.

“And you never asked me to be anything other than a man trying his best. Why would I ask you for more than that now?”

She bit her lip so hard it bled. The tears kept falling. Her voice was barely audible when she spoke again. “But now you’re strong. And good. And whole.”

Bob laughed—choked, broken. “I’m not whole,” he said, almost angry. “Jesus, Y/N, I’m barely keeping it together. I might be glowing and flying and doing missions, but none of it makes sense without you. I still wake up in cold sweats. I still hear the cravings sometimes. I still see your face in every crowd. I still talk to you when I’m alone.”

She looked at him like she couldn’t believe it.

“I thought I lost you forever,” he breathed. “And when I saw you tonight, when I saw what happened… I realized I downplayed my place in your life. I thought I was the weak one. But we needed each other. We need each other.”

Her body was trembling again, shaking like something inside her was coming undone.

“I don’t want you to feel like you have to carry me,” she whispered. “I don’t want to be your burden now.”

“You were never a burden.”

“But I am now—”

“No, you’re mine.”

He reached for her hand, placed it on his chest, where his heart was beating wildly.

“You gave me your love when I couldn’t even love myself. Now it’s my turn. Let me take care of you. Let me remind you how strong you are. Let me fight with you.”

She collapsed into him, arms tight around his torso, sobbing against his chest. Not just for him. Not just for herself. For all the time they lost. For the cake that went cold on the table. For the lasagna uneaten. For the mornings he didn’t see her basking in the sun. For the way love didn’t save either of them—but could now.

He didn’t ask her to stand. He didn’t demand anything.

He just held her.

Kneeling in the wreckage of her life, in the ashes of their broken time, holding her like she was still precious—still whole—even if she didn’t believe it yet.

“I’m here,” he whispered into her hair. “And I’m not leaving again.”

He didn’t give her much time to argue. Not when he saw the way her hands still shook. Not when he found the stash she didn’t even remember hiding behind her bookshelf. Not when he saw how she cried in the middle of the night—not from pain, but from absence. Her own. The absence of herself. The one she used to be.

So he asked her to come with him.

Live with him temporarily. Stay in the Watchtower, up in the sky, far away from the street corners and bathrooms and apartment ghosts that called her back every time she blinked too long.

He told her he wanted to keep her close until she was ready to find her own place in New York again. That it wasn’t forever—just until she could feel safe breathing again.

And she said yes.

Not because she believed in herself. But because she believed in him.

At first, it felt like a fever dream.

The Watchtower wasn’t made for someone like her. It was too sterile, too futuristic. Glass walls, strange lights, the hum of technology and power beneath every floor tile. But Bob was there. That’s what mattered.

She became seriously co-dependent—something she’d once told herself she would never allow again. But it wasn’t like with her ex. It wasn’t fear that tied her to Bob. It was need. It was how he looked at her and didn’t flinch. How he made coffee exactly the way she liked it without asking. How he stood in front of her when her hands curled into fists and her chest threatened to explode from the phantom need for a high.

Bob was her gravity.

He found her a job—one she didn’t even apply to. He pulled strings with Valentina, she didn’t know he had. A quiet, well-paying assistant position with flexible hours and no questions asked. The kind of job you only get when someone with serious power wants you to heal.

She hated how easy he made it. How the roles reversed.

At first.

She hated how he caught her when she was falling apart and didn’t scold her. Didn’t tell her to be strong. Just held her, even when she screamed. Even when she tried to hit him. Even when she told him she hated herself, hated this, hated how her body still wanted it. Hated how her blood still sang at night.

He’d just put his forehead to hers and whisper, “I know. I know. I know.”

Free time was dangerous. It always had been.

So Bob made sure she rarely had it. If she wasn’t working, he’d find ways to fill the hours. He’d drag her to the gym, even if she only sat on the mat and watched him lift. He took her on quiet walks above the clouds in the Watchtower, showed her the world from a view few people ever saw.

When the sun rose above Manhattan and she stood next to him with tired eyes, he’d whisper, “We’re still here. That’s a win.”

Some days were okay. Some days they even laughed.

Some days she forgot the weight in her bones and remembered what it felt like to be alive. On those days, she’d smile in the mirror and wonder if it was the beginning of something. But it was always followed by a crash.

And when the crash came, she’d scream at herself.

Because she still wanted it. Still ached for the cold powder and sharp sting. And what kind of monster misses the very thing that ruined her?

But Bob didn’t let her spiral alone.

He knew. He knew.

He’d pull her into his lap, even when she pushed him away. He’d wrap her in a blanket and play music she liked, or just sit in silence and let her sob against his chest. He didn’t fix her—he stayed. Which meant more than anything.

And she started leaning on the others, too.

Turns out, the team—misfits and freaks and weapons, all of them—was good for her.

Yelena would sometimes drop by the tower and plop on the couch with popcorn and zero small talk. “Let’s watch something bloody,” she’d say. “Nothing romantic. Romance is a scam.”

Alexei told awful dad jokes and made her soup when Bob was away, pulled against his will from her by Valentina. She didn’t ask what was in the soup. She didn’t want to know.

Even Walker, gruff and distant, once gave her a protein bar and said, “You look like shit. Eat something.”

Strangely, it meant the world.

But she still struggled.

She still felt like she didn’t belong in the sky, didn’t belong next to someone who glowed when angry, who people whispered about like a god.

And Bob would catch her staring sometimes. He’d take her hand and press it to his chest.

“You got me sober,” he’d remind her.

“You weren't when you left, it wasn't me, and I’m not even one week sober yet.”

“You will be.”

She’d cry again, every time.

Because maybe—just maybe—she believed him.

She felt herself becoming better.

It wasn’t dramatic. There were no fireworks, no moment where the clouds suddenly parted and she woke up healed.

It was slow. Raw. Grueling.

It was the kind of better that came with shaking hands and silent sobs in the shower. The kind of better that meant she didn’t throw up every morning from withdrawal anymore, but still woke up screaming from the dreams. The kind of better that looked like finally holding down breakfast, or laughing once during a dumb movie Bob put on just to see her smile.

There were still days—horrible days.

Days where she’d stare at the sky through the Watchtower windows and think I can’t do this anymore.

Days where her chest tightened and her fingers itched and every molecule of her blood screamed for one more hit, one more line, one more second of peace—even if it meant death.

And those were the nights Bob found her on the floor of the hallway, her knees to her chest, whispering things like:

“I ruined everything.” “I should’ve died months ago.” “You shouldn’t have come back for me.”

And Bob—quiet, patient Bob—would always get down next to her. He didn’t always say the right things. Sometimes he didn’t say anything at all. He just held her. Let her break. Let her be broken, without judgment.

“I’m here,” he’d murmur into her hair, voice shaking. “Even if you can’t love yourself right now, I do. I’m not leaving.”

He made it impossible to relapse.

Not just by removing access—though he did that, completely. The Watchtower had no hidden corners. No dealers. No temptation. He even kept her medication locked, except for what she needed. Not because he didn’t trust her, but because she asked him to. Because she couldn’t trust herself yet.

But more than that—he made it impossible because he gave her reasons to stay.

Every time she got through a hard day, Bob celebrated it like a victory. Every tiny step—making the bed, going to work, brushing her hair—he noticed. He noticed, and that made her want to try again. Want to show up again.

And after months of darkness, she was finally starting to believe in something again.

Believe in him.

Believe in herself.

That’s when she started planning.

It had to be perfect.

Because the first time—when she tried to confess, with the candles and lasagna and wine and the cake that said I love you—he never showed. She’d found a letter instead. Four words that shattered her: You don’t deserve this.

And now, months later, after everything they’d been through, she still remembered the ache of that night. The humiliation of sitting in a chair for hours, watching the lasagna go cold. The cake untouched. The lights flickering softly over an empty table.

But she also remembered how it hadn’t ended there. How he came back.

So this time, she wasn’t afraid.

She asked the team first. Told them the truth—well, most of it. She asked if she and Bob could have a room in the tower for the evening. Just a few hours. A quiet space, uninterrupted. “I want to do something for him,” she’d said. “Something honest.”

Yelena had raised an eyebrow and said nothing—but handed her a lighter for the candles. “Don’t burn the place down.”

Alexei had beamed like a proud uncle and muttered something in Russian that sounded suspiciously like “About time.”

Even Walker gave her a dry nod and cleared the space without question.

No one said no.

She remade it all.

The lights, soft and golden. Candles flickering across the shelves and windows. The air smelled like rosemary, garlic, and hope. Her old lasagna recipe—the one he always said was better than any five-star restaurant—bubbled in the oven. She found white wine again, because he didn’t like red, and she remembered everything. She even made the cake.

But not the same one.

This time, instead of “I love you,” it said in messy pink frosting:

“You came back. So did I.”

She set the table. Two plates. Two glasses. The weight of it all hanging in the air like a heartbeat.

She wasn’t wearing anything fancy. Just a soft, simple sweater he once said made her look peaceful. Her hair still damp from the shower, cheeks flushed from nervous energy.

She wasn’t the woman she used to be.

But she was here. She was trying. And that had to count for something.

When Bob walked in, he stopped cold in the doorway.

He looked at her.

Not just with surprise.

But with everything.

With four months of absence. With every regret he carried like an anchor in his chest. With all the love he never said out loud and all the apologies he had whispered to himself in the dark.

“You... did all this?” he asked softly.

She nodded, heart thudding.

“I know it’s not perfect. But—” her voice cracked, “—I’ve been thinking about this since the day you left. And I never got to say it. Not really. But I love you. I still love you. Even after everything. Even now.”

Bob looked at her like she was the only thing left keeping him alive.

Then he walked forward—slowly, carefully—and cupped her face in his hands.

“I never stopped loving you,” he whispered. “And I promise… I’m not leaving again.”

The movie flickered on the screen in front of them, but neither of them was really watching.

Bob sat propped up against the headboard, a soft grey t-shirt clinging loosely to his chest, a pair of worn joggers sitting low on his hips. Y/N was curled into his side, one of his old hoodies hanging off her frame, sleeves too long, hair tucked messily behind one ear. The room was dim, bathed in the gentle glow of the screen and the golden spill of the hallway light leaking under the door.

Blankets were tangled around them, warm and grounding. Bob’s arm wrapped around her shoulders, his hand resting calmly against her ribcage, feeling every quiet breath she took. Her head was nestled beneath his chin, the smell of her shampoo—lavender, faint but familiar—lingering between them.

They had finished the lasagna hours ago. Cleaned up the dishes while teasing each other about who burned the garlic bread (it was him). Shared cake and laughter, both of which came softer now, tentative, but real. It felt like something out of another life. Something they thought they’d lost for good.

A promise once made in a kitchen full of hope was finally being fulfilled—in the silence of a bedroom, in the safety of arms that didn’t let go.

Bob had waited years for something like this. Years for this kind of peace. For the slow, steady heartbeat of someone trusting him enough to fall asleep against his chest. For a night that didn’t end in pain or running. For a girl like her to look at him and still choose him, even after seeing all of him—torn, addicted, lost.

He hadn't expected what came next.

Y/N shifted beside him, pulling back from the cradle of his chest to look at him. Really look at him.

Her hand came up to his cheek, cradling it. Her thumb brushed against his stubble, her eyes searching his like she was memorizing him all over again.

“Y/N?” he asked, voice hushed, as if afraid he’d scare her off.

But she didn’t answer.

Instead, she leaned forward—and kissed him.

Soft at first. Gentle. Almost like a question. A breath between them, mouths barely touching, her lips tasting of frosting and fear.

Then she kissed him again—harder.

And Bob felt his whole body shudder.

It was everything he had ever wanted. Every quiet longing. Every moment he’d spent staring at her when she wasn’t looking. Every time he’d held her hand and wished it meant something more. Every night she cried in his arms and he ached to tell her how much he loved her but didn’t dare ruin what little they had.

And now—here she was.

Kissing him like she knew what he meant to her. Like he was more than her sponsor, more than a friend, more than a haunted past. Like he was hers.

Bob didn’t waste a second.

He kissed her back.

One arm curled around her waist, the other hand tangled in her hair, pulling her impossibly close. Her body pressed against his, warm and trembling. Her breath hitched as he deepened the kiss, years of restraint melting into a single desperate moment.

She gasped into his mouth, breaking the kiss, only to whisper against his lips:

“I love you, Bob.”

Tears welled in her eyes. She didn’t even try to hide them.

“I love you so much,” she choked, fingers still on his cheeks. “And I don’t care what happens next. I just needed you to know. You saved me. You saved my life.”

Bob’s hands trembled as he pulled her back into him, wrapping her up in his arms like he could shield her from every wound she still carried.

“No,” he murmured into her shoulder, his voice thick with emotion. “You saved me. You remember what I was? I didn’t think I had anything left to live for until I met you. You gave me hope again. You made me fight.”

She pulled back, her eyes locked with his—wet and red and devastatingly alive.

“I almost gave up,” she admitted, her voice barely audible. “When you left... I was already holding on by threads. And then you were gone and I thought I’d imagined the whole thing. I thought I wasn’t enough for you to stay.”

He shook his head furiously, his own eyes shining now.

“I didn’t leave because of you,” he said. “I left because I didn’t think I deserved you. I was still so fucked up, still using, and you were everything pure and kind in my world. I thought if I left, maybe you’d find someone better. Someone whole.”

“I didn’t want someone whole,” she said. “I wanted you.”

Their breath lingered in the space between them, shallow and soft—like a secret.

Y/N could still taste him on her lips, the echoes of their kiss reverberating through her chest. Bob hadn’t moved far from her. His hands were still cradling her waist, his forehead pressed gently to hers, and in that quiet lull between kisses, between confessions, she felt something fragile blooming—something terrifying and beautiful.

She kissed him again, this time slower. A sigh escaped her lips as her fingers slid up under the hem of his shirt, feeling the heat of his skin. Bob leaned into her touch, his mouth meeting hers in deeper waves now, their hearts thundering in sync. And when she tugged at his hoodie—her hoodie, technically, the one she’d stolen weeks ago that still smelled faintly like him—he raised his arms without hesitation, letting her lift it over his head.

She pulled back, eyes trailing down his torso—and gasped quietly.

He had changed.

The gauntness she once knew was gone. In its place were strong arms, broad shoulders, and a chest sculpted with quiet power. His abs—defined, real—moved with every breath he took. His body told the story of someone who had survived, someone who had clawed his way back to life. It was strength built on pain, on discipline, on love.

“You...” she murmured, brushing her hand over his stomach, “you look so different.”

His hand reached for hers, gently interlacing their fingers. “I feel different,” he said. “I had to become someone I could live with again.”

She swallowed hard, trying to ignore the sudden twist in her chest.

Bob looked like he had been forged from fire—meanwhile, she still bore the ashes.

She bit her bottom lip, hesitating. Her arms, still hidden in her oversized hoodie, tightened slightly around herself. Though she had been clean for weeks, her body hadn’t yet caught up. Her cheeks were hollow. Her skin still looked too pale in certain light. Her clothes hung loose. She hadn’t gained back the weight. And standing there, across from someone who had reclaimed his life so completely, she suddenly felt small again.

She looked away.

But Bob noticed.

“Hey,” he said softly, cupping her face and turning her gaze back to him. “What’s going on?”

She hesitated. “I just... I’m not like you right now. You’re... strong. You got better. And I’m still—” Her voice cracked. “I still don’t like what I see.”

His brows furrowed, and for a second, something sharp flickered in his eyes—not anger at her, but heartbreak. He leaned in, kissing her forehead with reverence, then trailed his lips down to her cheek, and finally, her mouth.

“I’m in love with you,” he said, pulling back just enough to look at her. “Not the version of you you think you have to be. You’re not broken, Y/N. You’re surviving. And that’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Tears threatened to rise, but she let them stay where they were. Bob’s hands slid down to the hem of her hoodie, hesitating.

“Can I?” he asked.

She nodded.

He lifted the hoodie slowly, carefully, as if he were unwrapping something precious. As it slipped over her head, she looked away, vulnerable, exposed.

But Bob didn’t let the silence linger. His eyes never wavered, never darted away. He took her in like she was a masterpiece.

“God,” he whispered. “You’re so beautiful.”

And then he kissed her collarbone. His lips warm, soft, trailing to her neck. His arms wrapped around her back as he pulled her into him, his body heat surrounding her, grounding her. His mouth brushed the spot behind her ear, her shoulder, her jaw.

“You don’t have to hide anymore,” he whispered.

She let her hands rest on his back, feeling the firmness of his muscles, the warmth of his skin. He was solid. Steady. And she was safe.

As they undressed the rest of the way—slowly, reverently—there was no rush, no hunger born from lust. Only devotion. Only the aching need to be close, to feel what they had both feared they’d lost.

Bob’s hands never stopped reassuring her, tracing her spine, cradling her face, holding her as if she were made of gold. His voice was a balm, murmuring soft truths against her lips, over her chest, along her ribs, keeping his thrusts steady and soft, almost afraid to hurt her.

“You’re perfect.”

“I love you.”

“You saved me.”

And somewhere between those whispers and the heat of skin on skin, she stopped trembling. She let herself feel his hands without shrinking from them. Let herself be kissed without fear. Let herself be loved.

Because she did love him.

And he loved her.

And for the first time in a long time, that was enough.

They made love quietly, sweetly, like two people who knew what it meant to lose everything—and were finally brave enough to take it back.

They stayed tangled beneath the blankets. Y/N rested her head on Bob’s chest, listening to the rhythm of his heart—steady, strong, unwavering. His fingers traced gentle patterns on her shoulder, his breathing syncing with hers.

Neither of them said much.

They didn’t need to.

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