#Voice-activated routines

[ezzybrownmedia]

Experience Smart Living with Echo Show 10 (3rd Gen)

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[yi3248]

ive already lived my life without you (is it okay to want you?)

the ghoap animatic that has occasionally haunted my files is finally done!!! (albeit with choppy timing lmao)

[anghimalaaynasapuso]

DISCORD BOYFRIEND KÖNIG

sfw + nsfw. this is just an amalgamation of all my ideas

könig has never been one for putting his face on social media. even before the scars that pull at the skin of his cheek, reshaping his expression in ways he’s never fully grown used to, the idea of being seen, really seen, has never sat right with him. there’s a certain comfort in anonymity, in keeping the world at arm’s length. easier that way. safer.

that unease, paired with what some might consider his more nerdy interests, means he gravitates toward spaces like discord rather than the highly curated feeds of instagram or facebook. there, he doesn’t have to worry about photos or videos— just a username, and a presence in text.

his handle is simple: king 👑. a nod to the name he’s carried for so long, stripped of rank, stripped of weight.

even in the server where he’s most active, he keeps things vague, blending into discussions about games, military history, or whatever niche interest has caught his attention that week.

every now and then, he’ll let something slip— a mention of deployment, an offhand comment, disappearing for months at a time, only to return with a sudden burst of activity. some put the pieces together. most don’t. and könig prefers it that way. it’s easier to let them think he’s just another guy with spotty internet.

your first interaction is rather simple in retrospect.

he’s back after weeks of recon, shaking off the mission like dirt from his boots, easing into the familiarity of a gaming server he’s called home for years.

it’s not a small server, so new people come and go. he does his usual routine— an automated, slightly impersonal welcome but what he doesn’t expect is the sheer enthusiasm in return.

“hi!!!!”

he stares at the message for a second, counting the exclamation marks. three. four. five? a small smile tugs at his lips before he even realizes it.

it doesn’t take long before you’re at his metaphorical side, sending a friend request before the conversation even shifts from your college courses.

the older members tease him. something about his last deployment scrambling his head enough to take a newbie under his wing. he lets them talk. he doesn’t mind.

soon enough, you’re in his private messages, dramatically lamenting your latest loss in a game he’s only vaguely familiar with. könig listens— well, reads— as you rant, words spilling out at a rapid-fire pace, interspersed with keyboard smashing and increasingly incoherent frustration.

he’s not much for new releases, preferring to sink his teeth into a single game for months on end, grinding away until mastery is muscle memory. still-

one evening, without preamble, he sends you a link. his profile. in your game.

the response is immediate. ‘king!!! 🥺’ you type, followed by an onslaught of keyboard mashing that takes up half his screen.

he exhales a short laugh, shaking his head. he wonders if you know how easy it is to make him grin like an idiot.

the calls are… an unexpected development.

könig doesn’t make a habit to join server calls. ever. it’s not even about anxiety, not really, just preference. too many voices, too much noise. he never expected to be comfortable enough with anyone to want to be in a call, let alone initiate one.

but when you start gaming together, it becomes a necessity. typing mid-match isn’t exactly efficient, and you’re the first to point that out.

“okay, listen, king, i am not about to lose another ranked match just because you take five years to type ‘behind you.’” he huffs, amused, but relents.

soon enough, calls become second nature— no longer tied to gaming, no longer requiring an excuse. you always ask first, polite thing that you are, and könig always agrees. sometimes it’s an unspoken invitation, a simple “call?” sent in the quiet hours of the night. sometimes he beats you to it, pressing the button before he can think too hard about it.

one time, it’s you who calls. he answers on the first ring.

“are you- wait.” you pause, listening. there’s a distinct, rhythmic thud-thud-thud in the background. not footsteps, but something heavier, more controlled. “are you on a treadmill?”

“mm.” his voice is steady, unaffected. a quiet confirmation.

you gasp, and he can practically hear the amusement brewing in your tone. “oh my god! you actually work out? i thought you were lying.”

he snorts, breath hitching slightly as he adjusts his pace. “why would i lie about that?”

“i don’t know! you just- i mean, you sit at your desk all day, playing the same game for hours, and you’re always online at weird times-”

“you are describing yourself,” he points out.

“shut up.”

there’s a pause, and then, with the kind of mischief that only comes from knowing exactly how to push his buttons, you add, “prove it.”

he slows to a walk, swiping open his phone. a moment later, you receive a picture. him, flexing. the lighting is dim, but you can still make out the cut of his forearm, the solid shape of his bicep. just to humor you, he throws up a peace sign.

“not stolen from pinterest.”

you burst into laughter so sudden and bright that he finds himself smiling before he can stop it.

you learn what it means to miss könig pretty early on.

it happens suddenly. one day, he’s there, active as usual, sending the occasional meme, idling in voice chat even if he’s not talking. the next? radio silence. not even a ‘typing…’ indicator.

at first, you don’t think much of it. maybe he’s sleeping in. maybe he’s busy. time zones are weird. it’s fine.

but then a whole day passes. then another. you check his status— nothing. not offline, not do not disturb, just… gone.

curiosity turns into concern, and before you can think better of it, you ask in the server.

“hey, anyone heard from king?”

the response is casual. unbothered. “oh, dude’s probably deployed again.”

you blink. reread the message. “deployed?”

“yeah, king’s military.”

there’s no warning for the way that statement knocks the air from your lungs.

military? as in, real-life combat? as in, war zones and danger and actual life-or-death situations?

you stare at the screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard, unsure what to even say to that.

he doesn’t resurface for weeks.

you don’t realize how much you’ve come to rely on his presence until it’s gone. his absence is loud in the quiet moments of your day, in the spaces where a message from him would normally be.

you check the server out of habit, catching yourself before you can search his username. it’s stupid, you think. you barely know him. he’s just some guy from a discord server.

but the worry lingers.

and then, one day, just like that— he’s back.

his return is as unceremonious as his disappearance.

no dramatic entrance, no fanfare. just a simple “hello.”

you see it the moment he sends it. your stomach flips.

before you can stop yourself, you send a private message. “you’re alive.”

a moment passes. then— “yes.”

you frown. “you were gone for weeks.”

“i know.”

frustration bubbles up. “you could’ve said something.”

“i couldn’t.”

you hesitate, fingers tightening around your phone. you don’t know what you were expecting. an explanation? reassurance? but it’s clear you’re not getting one.

but then, a follow-up message. one that feels heavier, more careful. “i’m sorry.”

and just like that, the irritation dissolves.

it’s strange, the way things slip back into place after that.

he doesn’t talk about it, and you don’t ask. but something shifts. after that deployment, könig starts telling you when he’ll be gone. nothing in detail, really. just a simple, “i’ll be away for a bit.”

(it means everything.)

slowly, you get used to it. the rhythm of his presence and absence, the way your conversations pick up right where they left off, as if no time has passed at all.

it goes on for months. this… thing between the two of you. könig doesn’t hesitate to call it friendship, though he knows, knows, it’s something else entirely.

something with edges softer than companionship, something that lingers in the pauses between conversation, in the way you had whispered his real name under your breath when he revealed it to you.

he doesn’t rush to name it. doesn’t push. he lets it simmer until it feels inevitable.

in the end, it’s you who breaks first. technically. not that he’s keeping score. not that he would ever rub it in your face, especially when he was a mere day away from asking the very same thing.

it starts with a message. no preamble, no buildup. just a simple: hey, what are we?

könig sees it and reacts before thinking. presses the call button so fast his thumb practically smashes the screen. it rings once, twice—

“you didn’t even ask.” your voice comes through, half exasperated, half amused.

“didn’t want to give you time to unsend.” his own voice is steady, but his heart is anything but.

you huff. “bold assumption.”

“not really.”

a pause. he hears you shift, fabric rustling, the sound of you settling in. something warm and slow uncoils in his chest at the familiarity of it.

“so,” you start, hesitant. “what’s your answer?”

könig exhales, tipping his head back against his pillow. “do you want the truth?”

“obviously.”

he hums, considering. in reality, he’s known the truth for a while now. probably before you even realized it yourself.

“i like you,” he says, simple, sure. then, because he knows you, because he knows your deflections, your habit of teasing when you get nervous, he adds, “and i’m very aware you like me back.”

you sputter. “that’s a bold assumption-”

“not really,” he repeats, smug this time.

you groan, but you’re laughing, and it sends something bright flickering through him.

könig doesn’t ask for nudes. not once. he flirts, he teases, but never pushes. he knows your boundaries, respects them, never even hints at wanting more. if anything, he’s careful. too careful, sometimes. like he’s afraid of crossing a line you haven’t even drawn.

so when you finally send something, it’s your choice.

the first picture is tame. barely anything. it's a shot of your thighs, soft and warm in the low light of your room. nothing scandalous. nothing too revealing. but the second you hit send, your stomach twists with nerves.

könig sees it immediately. you watch the typing bubble appear, disappear, then appear again. and then— “fuck.”

you grin. “good?”

“you have no idea.”

it only escalates from there.

könig never requests more. but when you send it, when you want to send it, his reaction is worth it. he worships you through the screen, tells you how beautiful you are, how much he wishes he could touch you.

“pretty,” he texts once, attached to a voice message.

you press play. his breath is ragged, like he’s just run a mile. “pretty thing,” he repeats, voice tinged with something almost reverent. “you’re going to ruin me, love.”

the first time he sends you something, it takes him forever to work up to it.

you don’t ask for it. wouldn’t dream of pushing him into something he’s not comfortable with. könig isn’t shy, necessarily, but he’s private. you know that by now.

so when, out of nowhere, a picture pops up on your screen, your brain short-circuits.

it’s cropped carefully, but there’s no mistaking what you’re looking at— bare skin, broad shoulders, his stomach flexed just slightly.

“you like?” he texts after a minute.

you swallow hard. “yes.”

“good.” and then— “more?”

you bite your lip. “please.”

könig gets bolder after that.

he sends more. never too much, always teasing, always just enough to leave you wanting. sometimes it’s his hands, sometimes it’s his abs, the sharp cut of his hip bones, the waistband of his sweatpants hanging just low enough to make your mouth water.

one night, he sends a voice message instead. you press play.

at first, all you hear is his breathing. then, slowly, softly— your name, whispered through a noise that makes heat bloom low in your stomach.

“wish you were here,” he murmurs. “wish you could see what you do to me.”

the actual nudes don’t take long. not ar all. you’re both desperate. buzzing. könig’s the one who caves first.

it starts with your text. 10 p.m., the hour where inhibitions slip through grasping fingers like sand.

“wanna see your cock so bad, könig…” you murmur to your propped phone, cheek pressed to your pillow, another one stuffed against your chest like it might replace the hollow ache between your ribs. a distraction. a poor substitute.

on the other side of the screen, he exhales, dragging a hand down his face. fingers tensing, then flexing, like he needs something to hold onto. “love-” your whine cuts through before he can even think. instinctive. needy. his stomach clenches. “okay, okay. as long as you're sure.”

his heart pounds as he opens his photos. he doesn’t exactly collect dick pics, but there are a few kept locked away, private albums, a passcode he suddenly fumbles to enter.

three minutes. that’s how long it takes to choose the best one. the right angle. the right lighting. enough to make your breath hitch when you see it.

he hits send before he can overthink it, then leans back, phone balanced on his thigh, bottom lip caught between his teeth.

your phone buzzes. the photo pops up. you blink, breath hitching sharp in your throat.

“oh my god.” the words spill out of you before you can even think to stop them. “könig…” you stare at the screen, gaze locked on the thick, heavy length of him. the way it curves slightly, resting against his thigh like it’s weighed down by its own sheer mass. your breath stutters.

“you're so fucking big.” it barely registers that you've said it aloud.

“yeah? you like it?

“like it?” you shoot back. “i want it inside me.”

his breath leaves him in one harsh exhale. he shifts, hips rolling involuntarily like he can feel your words on his skin.

“can i see you too?” he sounds so polite. and then, as if that wasn’t enough to twist the knife deeper— “please?”

your stomach flips. you bite your lip, already reaching for your phone camera, the need to show him everything burning through you like wildfire.

your breath comes shallow as you slip your hand lower, phone steady in the other. the need is a pulse under your skin, throbbing, insistent. you pull the covers back just enough, the cool air prickling against the heat between your thighs.

the camera catches everything. your slightly parted thighs, your swollen clit, the wetness gushing out of your hole. it feels like baring a secret you’ve never told anyone. you hesitate for half a second, heart racing, then hit send.

the second the message disappears from your screen, it hits you— you just sent that to him.

on his end, könig freezes. the photo loads slow, torturous, and when it finally pops up, he feels his whole body tense, blood rushing south so fast it’s dizzying. “f-fuck, i need to be inside of you-”

sex with könig, if you can even call it that, at first, sneaks up on you. you never thought you’d be the kind of person who got into this. sending texts that made your face burn, leaving voice messages you could barely listen back to without cringing. but with him, it’s different. easier. less embarrassing because it’s him.

still, going from nudes to actual phone sex takes some time.

“gonna sleep,” könig texts you once, attached to a blurry photo of his bed.

“alone?” you send back, teasing.

the typing bubble appears. then disappears. then— “obviously.”

you grin at your phone, satisfied. but then— “but i could use some company.”

you stare at the message longer than you’d like to admit.

in the past, you hadn't told him how many times you’d dreamt of him because you thought you'd scare him off, kept your mouth shut about the images that haunted you at night, of his hands pinning you down, his mouth at your throat.

didn't tell him that you had woken up panting, arousal between your thighs, könig’s name on your lips too many times. didn't tell him that you had pressed your hand against your clit during your calls, to the sound of his voice, to his laugh, to the quiet, wrecked groans he sometimes lets out when he stretches after a workout.

but you wanted to.

and tonight, you would.

the conversation turns slow. lazy. heavy with something unspoken.

“you sound tired,” könig murmurs, voice warm. he’s always like this late at night. soft, unhurried, like he’s sinking into the sound of you.

you swallow hard. your skin feels too hot, too tight. “i’m not.”

a pause. then, lower— “what is it, love?”

you hesitate, pressing your lips together. it’s too much. too embarrassing. but he knows something is different.

“talk to me. tell me what you’re thinking.”

you let out a shaky breath. “i had a dream about you.”

the silence stretches.

you can hear him inhale. you bite your lip. force yourself to continue. “i think about you. when i-” you stop. you can’t say it. can’t admit it.

könig exhales through his nose, like he’s trying to steady himself. “when you what?”

your stomach is a knot of nerves. but you want this. want him. so you take a breath, close your eyes. “when i touch myself.”

his breath stutters.

“fuck.” the word is almost a groan. your pulse hammers, blood rushing through your ear as heat pools in your stomach.

“könig,” you whisper.

he exhales, whispers his next words like a beg, “say it again.”

you swallow. “i touch myself to you.”

“i do too.”

your stomach flips. “what?”

“i-” he cuts himself off with a quiet curse, like he's frustrated with himself for hesitating. “i touch myself to you too.”

your breath catches. heat blooms in your chest, spreading down your spine. “könig-”

“all the time.” his voice is lower now, raw, like he's aching with it. “when i can't sleep. when you're on call with me, laughing, teasing me. when i wake up hard in the middle of the night and can’t stop thinking about stuffing you full.”

your body is burning again, despite the aftershocks still rolling through you. you're about to choke out a reply when you hear it— the rustle of fabric, the faint creak of bedsprings, the wet slide of skin on skin.

“are you-”

a sharp inhale. “yes.”

“let me hear you,” you whisper, thinking about his pretty, pretty cock. uncut, soft skin stretched over the flushed head, the way it would slide back when he’s fully hard, revealing the deep pink of his leaking tip. the veins that wind down the length, standing out against the pale skin

there's a pause, a hitch in his breath. then, slowly— “okay.”

there's a small rustle, könig adjusting himself on the bed. the faint sound of him pumping lotion on his hand. a quiet sigh. and then, a low grunt as the warmth of his palm wraps around his cock.

könig looks down at his hand, eyes half-lidded, hips bucking up in small thrusts. he imagines your pussy instead of his fist, hot and tight and so fucking warm, fluttering around his length as he pushes in, spearing you open with a cock too big for your little cunny.

he knows you’d cry for him, little gasps and hiccupped moans, squirming beneath him as he bullies his cock deeper, past that tight ring of muscle into the slick, warm clutch of your cunt.

“a-ah- fuck, ah-”

your breath stutters at the sounds, hips grinding against your palm. “wish i could see you.”

“on cam?”

you groan, squeezing your thighs around the pillow in-between your legs, grinding your clit against the material softly. “yes, please..”

fuck, you're so polite.

[kaiist]

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐃𝐄𝐄𝐏𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐄 ⋯ 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐋𝐀𝐏𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐀𝐒𝐒

𝐗𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐑

The movie marathon had stretched late into the night. You were sprawled on top of Xavier, your head resting on his chest as the TV cast flickering light across the darkened room. His steady heartbeat had almost lulled you to sleep when you felt his hand shift slightly beneath you.

Smack!

The unexpected slap to your ass made you jolt upright, nearly headbutting his chin in the process.

“Did you forget about earlier?” he asked.

You laughed, settling back against him. “I thought you might have fallen asleep and forgotten.”

“I didn’t,” he replied simply, his hand returning to your backside. This time, he gave it a gentle squeeze, his fingers kneading the spot he’d just slapped. The tender motion contrasted with the playful smack from moments before.

He pulled you closer, adjusting your position against him until you were both comfortable again. The credits rolled on the forgotten movie as his fingers continued their gentle massage, his calm breathing eventually synchronizing with yours as you both drifted toward sleep.

As the auto-play feature started the next film in the queue, his free hand reached for the remote, lowering the volume to a soft background murmur. His other hand never left your backside, alternating between gentle squeezes and soothing circular motions that made you melt further against him.

“Your heartbeat speeds up when I touch you like this,” he observed quietly, the subtle change in his tone betraying his satisfaction at the reaction.

You mumbled something incoherent against his chest, too comfortable to form proper words. He shifted slightly beneath you, adjusting your weight to better accommodate his frame, his hand continuing its ministrations with practiced ease.

“We should sleep,” he suggested, though his actions contradicted his words as his fingers traced the curve where your ass met your thigh. “Or would you prefer to continue this instead?”

𝐙𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄

Midnight had come and gone, but sleep remained elusive. It’s another day of Zayne had just returned from his grueling shift at the hospital, his tie loosened and suit jacket discarded as he prepared for bed.

“I need at least six hours of sleep before my morning consultation,” he muttered, setting his alarm.

You poked his side, deliberately disrupting his bedtime routine. “But I’m not tired,” you whined playfully, stealing his pillow and hugging it to your chest.

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Return my pillow.”

“Make me,” you challenged with a grin, scooting away.

In one swift motion, he reclaimed his pillow with one hand, while the other delivered a firm smack to your pajama-clad backside.

Smack!

“That’s for being bratty when you know I need rest.” The sting lingered pleasantly as he settled beside you, drawing you against his chest despite your earlier antics.

“Sleep,” he instructed, his arm wrapping around your waist. “I’ll have time for your games tomorrow.”

His breathing soon steadied into the rhythm of sleep, while you remained awake just a little longer, savoring the unexpected gesture from him. Despite his stated exhaustion, his hand remained active, tracing absent patterns along your hip.

He murmured against your hair, seemingly not as close to sleep as you’d thought, “You just have to be difficult before going to sleep.”

You shifted to look at his face, finding his eyes still open. “Someone has to remind the great doctor he’s human,” you replied softly.

His fingers tightened slightly on your hip. “Tomorrow,” he promised, voice dropping to a whisper that sent a pleasant shiver down your spine, “I’ll show you exactly how human I can be. Now sleep before I administer more persuasive methods.”

The implied threat only made you smile as you finally closed your eyes, lulled by his steady heartbeat.

𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐋

“Turn around again,” Rafayel instructed, his eyes focused intently as you modeled the fifth dress he’d purchased for his upcoming exhibition. The silky fabric whispered against your skin as you obliged, turning slowly to give him the full view.

“Perfect,” he murmured, approaching to adjust the way the material draped across your shoulders. “This shade of green complements your skin tone exactly as I imagined.”

As you moved to reach for the next outfit, his hand descended without warning.

Smack!

The slap against your ass echoed in the spacious bedroom, leaving a tingling sensation in its wake.

“Rafayel!” you exclaimed, spinning around to face him.

He grinned. “I couldn’t resist, cutie. You look really good with the dress on.”

Your initial surprise melted as he pulled you close, his hands wandering dangerously near the spot he’d just slapped.

“The red dress next,” he whispered against your ear, releasing you with obvious reluctance. “Though I’m starting to think my favorite masterpiece isn’t hanging in any gallery.”

He retreated to his chaise lounge, watching appreciatively as you reached for the next dress, the memory of his touch still warming your skin.

“Wait,” he called suddenly. “Do that again—the way you just moved. Hold that position.”

You froze mid-reach, throwing a questioning glance over your shoulder.

“Perfect,” he breathed, grabbing the sketchbook that never seemed to be far from his reach. “The light catches your profile exactly right from this angle.”

You maintained the pose, feeling the spot where he’d slapped you still tingling pleasantly as he sketched, occasionally looking up to capture another detail.

“You know,” he said between strokes of his pencil, “I think I’ve just found the centerpiece for my exhibition.”

“A drawing of my ass?” you asked incredulously.

His laughter filled the room. “No, cutie—though that would certainly draw crowds. I’m thinking of something much more...personal. Now, try on the red dress, but move slowly. Every line of you deserves proper attention.”

𝐒𝐘𝐋𝐔𝐒

Rain pattered against the windows of Sylus’s room as you lay on your stomach, engrossed in the latest episode of your favorite show on your tablet. Completely absorbed in the climactic scene, you didn’t notice his approach until it was too late.

Smack!

The sudden, sharp slap to your ass sent your tablet flying from your hands. You yelped in surprise, rolling over to find Sylus standing over you, that infuriating half-smile playing on his lips.

“You look focused, sweetie,” he said calmly, as if he hadn’t just scared you half to death.

You glared up at him. “I was watching the season finale!”

“And now you’re watching me instead,” he replied, retrieving your tablet from where it had landed on the carpet. He handed it back to you, his fingers lingering against yours. “A considerable upgrade, wouldn’t you agree?”

Before you could respond with the retort forming on your lips, he leaned down, his voice dropping to that low timbre that always made your pulse quicken. “Consider us even. For now.”

He then left you to return to your show—though your focus was thoroughly shattered.

You returned to your previous position. Just as the plot was reaching its climax again, the bed dipped beside you. He had returned, two glasses of wine in hand, offering one to you.

He settled next to you, positioning himself so he could see your tablet screen, his thigh pressing against yours as if nothing unusual had happened between you moments ago. His free hand casually draped across your lower back, dangerously close to where he’d landed the mischievous slap, his fingers casually tapping your ass.

“So,” he said, sipping his wine and gesturing toward your tablet with his glass, “who’s the traitor? The brother or the assistant?”

You blinked in surprise. “You’ve been watching this show?”

His half-smile returned as he made himself more comfortable beside you. “I have my reasons for staying informed about your interests. Now, shall we finish this finale together?”

𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐁

Steam filled the kitchen as you stirred the pasta sauce, following Caleb’s recipe while he chopped vegetables nearby. The domesticity of the moment wrapped around you like a warm blanket, comfortable and familiar.

“Can you pass the oregano?” you asked, gesturing toward the spice rack.

“Sure thing,” he replied, stepping behind you to reach for the herb.

As his hand extended past you toward the rack, his other hand made its move.

Smack!

The slap to your backside was anything but gentle, causing you to drop the wooden spoon into the sauce. Before you could react, he dissolved into laughter, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Your face!” he managed between chuckles, handing you the oregano as promised. “I’ve been waiting all day for the perfect moment.”

“Caleb! You—” You shook your head as you accepted the spice—and the fate of your ass. “Was it worth the wait?”

“Absolutely,” he grinned, pressing a quick kiss to your temple before returning to his chopping board. “Dinner might be worth the wait, if you don’t let that sauce burn.”

You turned back to the stove as his laughter continued to fill the warm kitchen.

His laughter gradually subsided, but the atmosphere remained light as you both continued preparing dinner. Every time he passed behind you to reach for another ingredient or utensil, you tensed slightly in anticipation, unsure if another playful slap might be coming.

“Relax,” he teased, noticing your reaction. “I already got my revenge. Unless...” he paused dramatically, “you’re hoping for an encore?”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t suppress your smile. “Just focus on those vegetables before I decide it’s my turn for revenge.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied with an exaggerated salute, his grin never faltering. He resumed his chopping, occasionally humming a cheerful tune that matched his buoyant mood.

Smack!

“Just for fun, Pipsqueak,” he grinned unapologetically.

Okay… so… I kinda accidentally deleted the whole page of my Google Docs when I reached Sylus’s part, and I was just sitting there, like—😀💔 So, I had to write everything all over again in a bad mood 😭 I hope you still enjoy reading! ಡ⁠͜⁠⁠ʖ⁠⁠ಡ

[dollyichi]

I JUST GOT A CRUSH! ᯓ★ katsuki bakugou x f ! reader. 1.02k words / fluff / not proofread

bakugou is bad at social media. not exactly terrible, yet not so great either.

he really doesn’t care too much for it nor does he use it that often but he’s not that unfamiliar with it. he finds himself being on tiktok from time to time though he never really bothered to make it known that he had an account in the first place, just enjoying whatever he comes across and liberally blocks accounts that come up on his fyp that pissed him off. he never posts anything either so it didn’t matter. it’s a typical account with a generated username and a blank profile, 57 following, 0 followers.

recently he found a video that he wanted to share (an edit made by a fan) and posts the link on twitter, alongside saying how ‘it’s real sick’ of them to make that for him. he didn’t even know videos like that were famous. the effort and skill it took made him think it were cool.

what he also didn’t know, was that his profile would be revealed when you press on the link.

he got so confused when his account suddenly gained so many followers in just two days since he ‘never mentioned it.’ that was until he sees the replies on his tweet that the linked he used to share got him exposed.

he checks it out for himself which proved that he did actually share his account without knowing, but it’s ‘whatever.’ even after everyone found out he just used it like normal. it’s only a pain when they kept asking him to post something.

he truly is without care, yet he underestimates the fans who immediately stalk his ‘almost’ empty profile. you see, he doesn’t know that his reposts are public because he doesn’t actually look at his own profile. it’s usually a like, like, repost, favorite, like, then close app routine that he does before he goes to bed.

there's a few funny videos here and there, cooking videos and recipes too, things he'd like to try out soon for himself, or techniques that were really helpful for him. some are also videos of fan edits that he recently discovered, where the same video he shared was at the top of the page.

yet, there was one reoccurring face that kept popping up. a pretty girl who likes to lip sync some songs or show off their trinket hauls. sometimes mini vlogs from their day to day or makeup vids. and the topic trends everywhere: DYNAMIGHT TIKTOK CRUSH

when you saw it you really couldn’t believe it yourself that the one anonymous commenter on your videos was a pro-hero, your favorite nonetheless. though, it makes you a little nervous since your face is plastered all over different social platforms because you’re only active on that app. you don’t know where to go from there except squeal into your pillows. definitely flattered when you recall the many times he called you pretty on your vlogs.

as the rest dive deeper into his little ‘crush’ they even saw him comment on a few of your videos with compliments that sounded extra flirty. they teased him so hard saying how he looks like a creep especially with that profile. he’s never gonna hear the end of it. soon a new topic blows up that reads: GO FOR IT DYNAMIGHT

in his defense, if he were to give anyone an explanation, he thinks you have a really nice smile and a really soothing voice. also that you’re real cute and charming, that’s why he could watch and even rewatch all your content in one sitting. he couldn’t get enough of you, absolutely smitten. even had to ask kirishima how to turn on notifications for an account in the guise of turning it on for his agency's tiktok.

you’re also the only account he’s following that’s not a cooking channel or a pro-hero. and yeah it’s basically all that, a crush. not that he expects you to actually give him a chance, he’s happy just seeing your content.

however, the poor (not really) bakugou is actually unaware of the whole situation of his ‘tiktok crush’ trending since he was finishing a mission. only finding out when he got a call from kirishima asking if he found a girlfriend already. “what the fuck are you on about?”

“your fans are talking about how you keep reposting videos of this one girl on tiktok. i mean, it’s kinda obvious if you’re dating.” and it hits him, quick. your username (the one he could only remember, really) flashes in his head, but he laughs it off. “nah nothin’ like that. think i could shoot my shot though?” he asks him and kirishima says, “haha! i think she already beat you to it.”

not knowing what he meant, he swiftly gets home, showers, and lays on his couch whipping his phone out of his pocket to search up your username. and there he was, staring at his phone, unable to stop the smile on his face when he sees the thumbnail of your new video. he opens it immediately and there you were, holding a dynamight figurine (a very limited one too!) close to your cheek that you’ve never shown before until now. you never thought to show it thinking he might see it and think of you as weirdo. it gave the opposite effect actually, even made him more confident because who would've thought your pretty collection had a 'random guy' in there (definitely not random for you at least).

bakugou immediately likes, reposts and adds it to his favorites. even screen recording the whole thing cause you never gave access to download your videos—it was a very special moment for him okay!

he then comments, ‘you can have the real thing too.’

a few minutes later it’s got your icon with a heart beside it. he chuckles, happy that you finally noticed him. beams when he gets a notification that you followed him back.

he’s definitely going to dm you after he calms down. just hopes this time you don't beat him to it again.

do not copy, plagiarize, translate, or repost my works

note : i love a katsuki with a crush i think it's so cute. but i love it even more that he's still confident about it!!! i like to think that reader probably has like 20k followers or something so pretty big but not as big as the others. the first time he met you he stumbles upon a video of you talking about the ice cream u just got and then he got hooked cause u were so cute when u were picking the flavor. PLEASE DO NOT SHARE THIS ON TIKTOK BTW >< also minors & ageless blogs please do not follow me!

[p3achyxdoll]

𝑯𝒐𝒘 𝒕𝒐 𝑩𝒆 𝑴𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝑩𝒊𝒎𝒃𝒐𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑭𝒆𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒆

Not everyone can afford the obvious immediate surgical interventions (boob jobs, lip fillers, Botox, lipo), so I've decided to focus on things that you could implement instead of injectables and surgery.

Become your best bimbo self!

𝑪𝒍𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈:

❥ Change up your outfits to be more feminine.

❥ Go thrifting for new ones if you don't own any that fit your vision. Or learn how to sew and make your own (my current dream goal.)

❥ Look for more feminine fabrics and colours – or which fit your bimbo aesthetic.

❥ Go with a silhouette that is flattering on you and makes you feel confident. Figure out your body shape to do this.

❥ Learn how to walk in heels.

❥ Accessorize: Bags. Jewellery. Piercings.

𝑮𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒍 𝑺𝒆𝒍𝒇-𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒆:

❥ Develop a skincare routine.

❥ Look after your body – moisturize, have uncalloused and soft feet that you take care of, learn lymphatic drainage techniques.

❥ Maintain your hygiene always.

❥ Look after your mental health. Perhaps journal, speak to a professional, or meditate.

❥ Use a guasha for natural face shaping and pampering.

❥ Nourish your body with foods that show you respect it.

❥ Shape your eyebrows. Pluck or wax.

❥ Shave your body hair. Or wax.

❥ Look after your teeth. Whiten them. Floss. Avoid foods and drinks that stain.

𝑬𝒙𝒕𝒓𝒂 𝑻𝒊𝒑:

𝑭𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒔𝒊𝒈𝒏𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝒇𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆! 𝑻𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒃𝒆 𝒂 𝒔𝒄𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒏𝒆𝒓 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒔 𝒐𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒐𝒓 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒅𝒐𝒓𝒆.

𝑴𝒂𝒌𝒆𝒖𝒑:

❥ Learn how to do your makeup well and for different occasions.

❥ Putting emphasis on different elements of your face can highlight your femininity and best features. Don't try to hide them. I personally love wearing pink or even purple-toned eye shadows in a smokey look to bring out my greeny eyes.

❥ Learn your face shape and how to work with it.

❥ Femme faces tend to be smaller, softer, and more rounded. Even if you don’t have these features naturally, you can make your face look more feminine through makeup and the right hairstyle for your face. (Know your face shape and then go from there with tips.)

𝑯𝒂𝒊𝒓 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑵𝒂𝒊𝒍𝒔:

❥ Maintain your hair and develop a good haircare routine – use heat protecting spray if you style it with heat, for example.

❥ Incorporate feminine hair accessories like hair bows or bands.

❥ Keep your look simple, clean, and soft.

❥ I get my nails done every three weeks or so, gel nails. But you can be just as feminine with natural or shorter nails. Just make sure they're clean, well kept, and shaped – learning to do your own is super simple.

𝑷𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒐𝒏𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒚 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑭𝒊𝒓𝒔𝒕 𝑰𝒎𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔:

❥ Act like the girl you want to become until it becomes your reality. Fake it until you make it.

❥ Work on your mannerisms and inherently feminine body language.

❥ Improve your posture.

❥ Watch etiquette videos, voice and elecution lessons. Avoid cursing and shouting.

❥ Defer to the men, who you trust, when possible.

❥ Socialise and try to lean into your extroverted side. People enjoy the company of those who are at ease with themselves.

❥ Giggle more. Flirt more.

❥ Put your happiest self first when interacting with others. Feminine energy is nurturing and comforting.

❥ Find confidence in the new you. You only get to live one life, so you're already taking more steps than the average person by becoming the authentic and happy you! Take pride in that.

𝑳𝒊𝒇𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒚𝒍𝒆:

❥ Join the gym or find a physical activity you enjoy to ensure you're toned – or if you need to, lose weight. This is also great for your mental health and general wellbeing.

❥ Write down mantras and repeat them every day. These can be bimbo or feminity related. Or they could simply be your goals for the day, week, or year.

❥ Surround yourself with female friendships, feminine women or bimbos like you.

[millers-girl]

fallout

interconnected standalone/sequel-ish to bitter/sweet - a Dr. Jack Abbot (The Pitt) fanfic

pairing: Jack Abbot x f!reader

summary: you and your sister plan to spend the day at Pitt Fest but instead spend the night in the hospital, and Jack is left to pick up the pieces.

warnings/tags: mentions of an active shooter, gun violence, ptsd/trauma response, grief and loss, implied survivor's guilt, slow burn, hurt/comfort, grumpy x sunshine, food as a love language, age gap, mild language

word count: 5.1k

a/n: oops accidentally made this love story my entire personality

Jack rushed through the sliding doors of the ED, the familiar, sharp scent of antiseptic welcoming him back. His eyes were locked onto his phone screen, thumb twitching over the messages he’d already sent.

As soon as he’d heard it on the police scanner—“Active shooter at Pitt Fest. At least two confirmed dead. Unclear how many injured”—a sick, crawling fear had taken hold of him. It was an unfamiliar, uncomfortable feeling, and one he couldn’t wait to get rid of. 

He’d been trying to get a hold of you. Calling. Texting. Over and over.

Where are you?

Are you okay? 

Please answer.

I’m in the ED. Come straight here if you can.

He forced himself to pocket his phone when Robby started rattling off the hospital’s mass casualty protocol to the group, but he made sure to leave the ringer on – just in case.

When the first wave of patients came in, it was like muscle memory took over. Like he’d slipped back in time, to when he was stationed in Afghanistan, boots hitting blood-streaked dirt.

Assess injury. Slap a colored band on. Treat until stable. Repeat.

A girl, maybe sixteen, sobbed as he wrapped gauze around her bloodied thigh. Her hands were shaking.

A man in his forties was wheeled in, gray from blood loss, gasping.

He sutured a gaping wound left by a gunshot on another boy’s arm. 

He couldn’t stop.

Couldn’t let himself stop.

Somewhere, beneath the routine and urgency, he was antsy, just waiting for you to walk through those doors. 

And then – you did. 

When you were gurneyed through the entrance, the fluorescent lights that usually hummed quietly in the background now felt blinding. Each flicker seemed to stab into your corneas. Your ears rang, your hands trembled, and for a second, it was all white noise. You barely registered Dr. King’s voice asking you questions, her hands checking your vitals.

You weren’t looking at her. You were scanning the frenzied room. 

And then your gaze caught his.

Even amidst the chaos––screams, alarms, blood––his eyes found yours. Jack stopped mid-step near the nurse’s station, the world narrowing for him in an instant. The clinical buzz of the ED faded. He beelined toward you like gravity itself had shifted.

“Jesus Christ, you fucking scared me.” 

His voice was sharp, but familiar – comfort laced with adrenaline. He shouldered Dr. King aside and immediately began assessing you himself. You tried to push his hands away, your injury the last thing on your mind. His hands swatted yours back, frustration flaring into the way his brow furrowed. 

“Jack,” you whispered past trembling lips. He froze, and when his eyes met yours again, they softened. You reached for him without thinking, shaking arms curling around his neck, clinging.

And he didn’t hesitate. Didn’t care who was watching. He wrapped you up, hand cradling the back of your neck, and let out a deep sigh.

You weren’t sure what kind of fight-or-flight response you had that knew being held—feeling safe—would be exactly what you needed then, but you were glad for it. 

“Are you okay?” he murmured into your matted hair, voice tight with restrained panic.

You nodded against his skin, though the movement was hesitant, slow. 

“I’ve been trying to reach you. Why didn’t you answer?” 

“My phone got knocked out of my hand in all the chaos. I didn’t even realize…”

You leaned back, and found worry still clouding his features. You released him enough to let him do his job, finally letting him examine you.

His touch was careful, but you felt how tightly he was wound – how his hands lingered too long on your skin; how he exhaled when he saw the swelling in your ankle. 

Dr. King stepped back in, clearing her throat. “How are you feeling?” 

“Kinda nauseous… dizzy. I don’t know, the lights are making it hard to concentrate,” you mumbled.

The two doctors shared a look. 

“Mild concussion,” Jack said, gently wrapping his fingers around your ankle and rotating it. You winced. “Sprained. Scrapes and bruises on knees, elbows, forearms.”

He slapped a yellow band on your wrist. 

“Ow, Jack,” you muttered, tugging your hand back. 

Any other time, he would’ve rolled his eyes and teased you – made a quip about how dramatic you were.

But not today. 

Today, his fingers immediately rubbed over the spot soothingly, and his voice was soft as he apologized.

When he reached to slip a patient tag onto your wrist, he glanced up again. “Where’s your sister?”

“She’s fine,” you said. “Just had a scraped arm, bruised ribs maybe. She went to help Emery in the OR.”

He exhaled quietly, then moved efficiently – pillows under your ankle, ice pack secured, orders rattled off to Dr. King. “Acetaminophen and Zofran in an IV bag. Don’t get it mixed up with ibuprofen – she’s allergic.” 

Dr. King brought the requested bags and kindly offered to hook you up to them, wanting to help in some way. Jack ignored her, still locked in his quiet rhythm as he began treating your wounds. Stopping the bleeding. Cleaning the cuts. Dressing them carefully. 

You stayed silent during the whole thing.

And it unnerved him.

Normally, you’d be rambling about something––telling a story, cracking a joke, flirting with him––to distract yourself. But now, you just watched him, eyes distant.

He didn’t push.

As he was finishing up, someone called out for him. “Abbot! Need you in the red zone!” 

“Coming!” he shouted back, eyes never leaving you until the very last second. “Hey,” he said softly, “I know it’s crazy in here right now, but try to get some rest, okay? I’ll be back soon.”

“I’m fine,” you insisted. “Wasn’t even near the shooter. Just got trampled in the crowd… Others had it worse.” Your gaze flicked to the burgundy splatters on his surgical gown.

Jack cut you a look. “Don’t do that,” he said firmly. “You still got hurt. That matters. And I’m gonna fix it. Okay?” 

You nodded, just to keep him from worrying more.

“And keep that ankle elevated,” he ordered. As he turned to leave, you caught his hand in yours.

“Can I borrow your phone? I need to call Eleni.”

He hesitated, then pulled the phone from his pocket. When you reached for it, he tugged it back. “One call, then you rest,” he bargained.

You nodded again, the device cool in your hand as he disappeared down the hall.

Dr. King smiled kindly before saying, “Okay, you should be good for now. I’ll come check up on you in a bit, too. Let me know if you need anything in the meantime.”

“Thanks.”

When she left, you dialed Eleni’s number. It only rang for half a second before she was picking up and frantically asking, “Hello?” 

“Hey, it’s me.”

Relief hit the other end of the line like a wave. You could practically hear her collapsing into relief before relaying the good news to the rest of the team. 

“Are you okay?” 

“Yeah, fine. Just a little knocked up.” 

She paused for a second, then said, “Knocked up? Wow, that Dr. Tall, Dark, and Broody sure works fast.” 

You huffed out a weak laugh. It felt forced. Hollow.

Eleni meant well. That was her way of checking if you were really okay. So, for her sake, you tried.

“Can you do me a favor?” you asked, looking around the chaotic room.

“Anything.” 

“Get the team to make some food for the ED. For the survivors, their families. Staff. Anyone who needs it.” 

“Yeah, that’s a really good idea. How much do you need?” 

“Everything we’ve got.” 

A beat of silence. “Everything…? Is it that bad?” 

“Yeah,” you said quietly. 

She didn’t hesitate. “We’ll get started right now.” 

You thanked her, hung up, and slowly slid further down the gurney, resting Jack’s phone against your cheek like a comfort blanket. It was nice to have a piece of him with you. 

You didn’t mean to fall asleep. But somehow, your body finally gave out. And, when you woke again, it was to Dr. Mohan’s voice ringing out from a few feet away. “Need help with an airway!” 

Your bleary gaze tried to focus, mind swimming through fog as Jack and Robby rushed to help her. 

“GSW to the neck with expanding hematoma and distorted anatomy. Can’t intubate him – probably hit the carotid,” she explained.

You blinked heavily, watching Jack attend to the bleeding and shout out orders in that commanding voice of his.

But it was the needle taped to his arm, feeding a blood bag wrapped around his ankle, that really caught your attention. Without lifting your head, your sleepy eyes shifted to it. 

“Are you donating?” Dr. Mohan asked. 

“O-neg, yeah.” As if he could feel your eyes on him, he glanced your way, one of his eyes dropping in a wink. “Thought I’d be more useful as a two-for-one today.”

“Show off,” you muttered weakly, rolling your eyes. 

He grinned, eyes focused on the patient before him as he put a Foley in. As he was working, he called to Perlah, asking her to get you a juice box when she got a chance. 

“Can you make sure it’s not apple?” he asked after her. “She hates apple.”  

Despite everything, you felt a warmth blooming in your chest at that.

When Perlah brought you a juice box––fruit punch––you sipped it quietly, eyes on the trauma around you. The blood. The screams. The ones who were being saved – and the ones who weren’t.

Jack returned after stabilizing his GSW patient. He didn’t say anything at first, just placed a warm hand on your forehead, thumb brushing lightly at your hairline. 

“You want some more juice?” You shook your head. “But you’re good?” 

You force a nod. “Yeah. Just tired.” 

He didn’t believe you, but he didn’t force the truth out of you either. Just made sure to watch you more closely as he continued working around you.

Sometime later, Eleni arrived – along with half the staff from Francesca. They came bearing trays of food: warm bread, hearty pastas, fruit, rice dishes, sandwiches, coffee, cookies.

The smell alone grounded people. Nurses grabbed bites between patients. Survivors’ families cried when offered plates. Even doctors paused to say thank you.

You watched it all from your bed, barely speaking – your throat tightened. 

Santos, who stood beside Jack, asked, “Is that the black cod from Francesca?” she asked, oblivious. 

Jack’s eyes flicked to the food in the familiar light pink bags, then to you.

It wasn’t the fact that you’d gotten food for the entire floor that caught his attention – it was why you’d even thought to do it. Even banged up, bruised, barely functioning – you’d wanted to look after everyone else.

He looked at you like he was seeing you for the first time, with new eyes. Like maybe, despite your young age and optimism when it came to seeing the best in people, Jack could still learn a thing or two from you. And maybe that was what he admired most. 

When he managed to find a minute to be back at your bedside, he didn’t say anything. Just offered you the food on his plate, making sure he saved you that sandwich you raved about so much. 

He sat beside you, in quiet solidarity. And, for a moment, in the middle of one of the worst days either of you had lived through, something in the chaos finally felt still.

When Jack left again to attend to more patients, the chaos didn’t remain still. Instead, it slowed – in the worst way.

You finally stopped moving. Stopped reacting. And, just, took it all in.

The crying, the gurgled pain, the rushed footsteps, the overheard codes being called. You can see every little thing – the crimson on someone’s shirt, the way a nurse’s gloved hands shook, the metallic scent in the air. 

Someone shouting for gauze. Another for a crash cart. A kid screaming down the corridor, clutching his broken arm, blood smeared along his cheek. 

And it was all muffled, happening in slow motion. Dull in your senses, leaving only an ache. In your bones. In your ribs. Behind your eyes. 

And then you saw them.

Robby was towering over a gurney, hands pressed tightly to a teenage girl’s chest – desperate, shaking. Her bra was soaked through. A pool of maroon darkened the sheets she was lying on.

She was already still. Limp.

And a teenage boy was sobbing her name. Leah. 

You vaguely remembered his face – Jake, Robby’s sort-of adopted son.

He’s just a teenager… meaning Leah is too.

Was too.

You silently watched Jack touch Robby’s shoulder once, gently, but Robby shrugged it off. Muttered something over and over. Continued with chest compressions everyone knew wouldn’t help.

You could see it in the eyes of the practitioners around him. In the way they hesitated before trying to help. In how nobody called to see if an OR was open. Still, they didn’t want to pull him off her. Not yet.

And something about the quiet truth of that moment sliced deep through your gut.

Before you could process it, you were pulling the IVs from your arm and sliding off the gurney. Your knees buckled for half a second, and your sprained ankle throbbed, but you forced yourself upright. Moved down the hall. Didn’t realize where you were going until your hand was on the bathroom door, pushing it open and locking it behind you.

The silence inside felt oddly louder than the overwhelming med bay.

You stared at yourself in the mirror, not recognizing the reflection. Skin smudged with soot and scarlet blood, small cuts along your hairline, a big bruise where you’d fallen and hit your jaw.

You turned the tap on, splashing ice cold water on your face. It did nothing.

The tears came suddenly and in volume, blurring your vision, and causing you to sink. Down to the floor, knees against your chest, arms hugging.

You dropped your head, trying to focus on the sterile scent of disinfectant as it stung your nose. But all you could see was blood. The stillness. The way Robby cradled Leah’s lifeless body like she might wake up at any moment.

You didn’t know how long you sat there like that. Ten minutes, two hours – time had gone strangely elastic.

A knock sounded once. Then, a key card swipe.

You flinched as the door eased open and Jack stepped inside, gait soft-footed. His brows pulled together when he saw you there, folded into yourself. 

He didn’t say anything at first. Just closed the door gently behind him and sat down beside you, back resting against the wall. His outstretched knee brushed your good ankle. 

You could tell he was itching to say something, to get you out of this funk. But you didn’t speak until you were ready, and he respected that. 

A long time passed before you looked up at him, and your chest cracked wide open.

“How come nothing happened to me?” you asked quietly.

“What are you talking about?” 

“That kid – Robbie’s kid – his girlfriend, she…” you trailed off. Shook your head. “And I… I’m here, right? I’m breathing, and I’m good, and I’m gonna have some really badass scars and a hell of a story – ”

The corners of Jack’s mouth lifted comfortingly. “Did I leave any scars when I sutured up your thumb?” You shook your head. “Then, what makes you think I’m gonna leave any behind for you to remember this by?” he tried, lightheartedly, almost teasing – but your face didn’t soften.

You were somewhere else entirely. A million miles away, eyes glassy and unfocused.

“I don’t want you to remember this forever,” he admitted, correcting himself. 

“I think I will,” you whispered. “Even if I don’t have any physical scars to remind me.” 

Jack looked at you for a long time. Then, slowly, he pulled you into his lap, pressing you gently into his chest. You didn’t resist. Just leaned in. Let yourself fold into him like you had no bones left. 

He felt safe, even if the world didn’t anymore.

His chin rested lightly on top of your head, and his voice came low, almost gravelly. 

“Sometimes surviving feels heavier than dying,” he said. “But you’re here, and that counts for something. Even if you don’t know what yet.” 

You closed your eyes, let the silence swell between you, thick and full and terrible. His heart beat steadily against your cheek, and yours slowly synched to his. 

For the first time all day, you let yourself breathe without holding back the sob. 

When your breathing eventually evens out again, your sobs subside into hiccups, but Jack still doesn’t move. Not until your fingers unclenched from the fabric of his scrubs and you shifted slightly in his arms, blinking up at him through lashes sticky with salt.

“Let’s get you back, huh?” he murmured, thumb brushing gently against your cheek, wiping away a tear. “Before King starts paging me panicking because she lost you.” 

At that, a genuine single laugh escapes past your lips. 

You nodded, letting him help you stand, steadying you with one hand at your elbow while the other rested at your waist. 

You weren’t shaking anymore, but your body felt like it had been wrung out, nothing left but raw emotion and a dull, aching tiredness. 

Back in the med bay, the gurney felt too open, but you climbed back into it anyway. Jack hooked your IV back in, checked the monitor, adjusted the pillows under your ankle and tucked you in, grabbing extra blankets because he knew how cold you got here.

Every time he passed when moving from patient to patient, he paused. Asked you if you wanted something more to eat, another dose of pain meds, or the chance to change into a fresh set of clothes.

He led you to a new bathroom, helping you change out of your bloody top and jean shorts. As he pulled the hole of an extra t-shirt he kept in his locker over your head, he leaned down and gently pressed his lips to your forehead, without ever saying a word.

Back in the gurney bed, now in his t-shirt and sweatpants, you felt a little calmer. By now, all the food from Francesca was gone, but he offered you a half-eaten granola bar from his scrub jacket pocket when your stomach growled loudly.

And each time he left the absence of him left behind a cold draft against your skin.

The night dragged on. The chaos outside finally slowed, like a storm passing. Wounds were closed, departments and rooms assigned. The steady beeping of monitors became the background noise of recovery, not disaster.

It was sometime past midnight when Taylor led you into an assigned room not far from the nurse’s station. When you were settled into the room––overhead lights dimmed just how you liked it and a cup of cold water at your bedside––you caught sight of Jack outside your door. 

He talked quietly to another nurse for a few minutes, then handed over a clipboard he held before making his way into your room, checking your progress.

“Are you busy right now?” you quietly asked.

He glanced down the hallway, then decided, “I got a minute to spare.” 

Yout throat felt dry, the words nearly catching a little as you spoke – even after everything you two had been through in the past few day. “Can you come lie down with me?”

Your voice sounded so small, how could he ever say no?

He blinked once, then shut the door behind him.

The bed was barely wide enough for one person, but he made it work. Shrugged off his stethoscope and climbed up carefully. His body curled beside yours, both of you on your sides, facing each other in the dim glow. He tucked one arm under your head, the other hooking around your waist to pull you closer. 

You let out a deep exhale, murmuring against his skin, “Pretty sure there’s a HIPAA violation about doctor-patient contact somewhere here.” 

Your voice wasn’t light. You didn’t smile.

But the joke still landed.

“Oh, my God,” he groaned, eyes rolling before they settled back on you. The hand on your waist rose to cup your cheek. “I’m really glad you’re okay,” he whispered, before his lips pressed against yours in a soft kiss that reassured you you were going to be okay.

The silence that followed when you pulled away was full of the words neither of you had to say out loud. His hand found yours under the blanket, your fingers tangling naturally.

And, for a little while, the horrors of the day faded into something softer.

The first days back home after the shooting felt different. 

Your bedroom felt smaller, like the walls were closing in. But, it also felt comfortable, familiar. Nothing bad had ever happened here, and nothing bad ever would. 

Jack drove you home that first day. He didn’t say much, didn’t need to. He just kept a steady hand on the steering wheel and his gaze flicked over to you every few minutes. He ended up staying until his next shift, never leaving your side unless he had to.

You trailed him around the house like a shadow – when he brewed tea for you, made you breakfast, shifted through his backpack by the door. You weren’t even sure what you were so afraid of, only that when he was near, it all felt quieter. Bearable.

An hour into being back home, the two of you had settled into the couch with some show playing low in the background. You didn’t remember what it was, only the way Jack’s eyes started to flutter closed. He fought sleep longer than he should’ve.

You tugged gently at his hand, coaxing him into your room. He didn’t protest, just let you lead him, half-asleep. His body sunk into the bed, melting into sheets that smelled like you.

You couldn’t sleep – couldn’t really calm your mind when your ears were suddenly so sensitive to the noises around. Dogs barking. The garbage truck coming to pick up the recycling. A car backfiring.

Each one pulled your body taut with unease.

Instead, you watched Jack sleep. He looked so peaceful, long eyelashes brushing against soft skin. His forehead wasn’t crinkled in worry for once, even though you could tell he was running on empty this last shift. 

You reached out to gently run your fingers through his hair and it made him sleepily shift toward you on the bed, his head nuzzling into the crook of your neck. The warmth made your chest ache.

When his alarm went off, he began to stir but you tightened your hold on him. Not ready to let him leave or face a cold, desolate existence without him for the next 12 hours.

Eyes still shut, he gently teased, “Clingy much?” But the softness in his tone showed you he didn’t mind it one bit.

Not when your bare feet padded lightly right behind his as he walked into the kitchen to get a cup of coffee, nor when he got in the shower and you followed in after. 

Afterward, wrapped in a towel, you avoided looking in the mirror. You didn’t need to. You could already feel the bruises blooming, their soreness serving as quiet reminders. You stared down at your arms, your collarbone, at the places where the pain still lingered, where the memories came to life – gunshots, screaming, smoke in the air. 

You flinched when Jack shut the bathroom door, the sound too loud, too sudden. He didn’t notice… or maybe he did and just didn’t say anything.

When he was packing his camo backpack for work, his movements froze for a second, hesitating. Then, wordlessly, he pulled out your bloodied clothes from Pitt Fest, folded in a ziploc bag. Before you could even process what he was doing, he’d quickly stuffed them into the laundry machine and ran a cycle.

After he had pulled his jacket on, he approached you while you were slowly picking at the sandwich he’d made you for supper. His hands gently cupped your face, thumbs brushing over your cheeks. 

“You gonna be okay tonight?” he asked softly. 

You nodded, though it felt like a lie. Still, he pulled you into a hug, pressing your head against his chest, and leaned down to kiss the top of your head. “Call me if you need anything. Or if you get bored and wanna get your ass kicked in chess.”

That coaxed a real laugh out of you, unexpected and bright. Before the shooting, you two had been engaged in a seriously competitive match over GamePigeon. Jack had accused you of cheating more than once. You missed that.

“Yeah, yeah,” you said, patting his chest when you leaned back. “Might let you win this time. Keep that fragile ego intact.”

He smirked, leaning down to meet your eyes. “Be good today, okay?” 

“Yes, Dad,” you groaned with exaggerated disdain. The wording made his brows raise and sent a shiver down his body. 

“That and the age gap… you’re gonna give me a complex,” he groaned, watching the corners of your lips tug upwards before you reached up on the tips of your toes and wrapped your arms around him. 

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll forget all about it when you’re elbows deep, rearranging someone’s guts,” you easily teased, pressing a kiss to his lips.

“Rather rearrange your guts,” he mumbled against your lips, cupping a hand behind your neck to deepen the kiss.

When you pulled back, you tilted your head. 

“What?” he asked. 

“I’m rubbing off on you.” 

He opened his mouth again, likely to make another suggestive remark about rubbing something else off on you, but you cupped a hand over it before he could. 

“Don’t you have lives to save?” you asked, gently shoving him out the door.

You knew the house wouldn’t be empty for long—Jack and your sister had alternated shifts so someone could always be with you—but you still missed him.

Only thirty minutes passed between Jack leaving and your sister coming home. But in those thirty minutes, the washer went off and you thought you could manage the simple task of transferring your clothes to the dryer. 

After all, they were just clothes. Just pieces of cotton and thread, no longer cakes in soot and blood. They were fresh as new. 

So why couldn’t you touch them? Why did you leave the washer door open and just stare into the tub where they sat, soaked? 

By the time your sister walked in, the clothes were long gone – dumped in the trash bin outside. It was the only thing you could bring yourself to do. 

You were curled up on the sofa when she found you, TV flickering across your face like nothing had happened. She didn’t ask. She just sat beside you, and that was enough.

That’s how the days passed. Evenings with your sister – watching TV, talking about what happened, processing. Mornings and afternoons with Jack, who brought over puzzles, crossword books, a physical chess set… even a spare toothbrush which now sat happily beside yours in the bathroom. It made your heart ache every time you saw it.

You slept a lot, but even when you were awake, you were tired. Even inside the comfort of your home, you were still hyper-aware of all the noises outside, and any large crowds that passed by, voices raised. 

Yet, somehow, those hazel eyes you’d grown to find comfort in had convinced you to step outside, start going on walks. Take in fresh air again.

It wasn’t easy – you barely made it around the block, nails digging into the back of Jack’s hand from how tightly you held it – but it was progress. 

In a week’s time, you even returned to the restaurant. You were ready to face the hustle and bustle of Francesca, ready to put your mind to work and focus on something positive for a change.

What you weren’t ready for was running into Jake by the entrance. 

“Hey,” he said softly, remembering you from Robby’s stories and also vaguely recalling seeing your face on that unspeakable day. 

“Hey,” you echoed, voice just as strained. “What are you doing here?” 

“Mom asked me to pick up dinner.” 

You nodded silently, sunsure what to say next. “How are you?” 

He shrugged. “You know…” 

You did know.

“My mom’s got me talking to a trauma specialist,” he said, not sure why he was telling you. “At the hospital.” 

“Yeah… Jack – Dr. Abbot – he’s been trying to convince me to go, too.” You hesitated. “Is it… helping?” 

Another shrug. “A little, I guess. But.. I don’t know – she wasn’t there. She doesn’t really get it.” 

You reached for a napkin on an unoccupied table, finding yourself scribbling your number down before offering it to him.

“You can call me… if you want. I get it.” 

He held the napkin between his fingers, staring at the numbers. Then, he tucked it into his pocket with a slow nod. “Thanks.” 

You couldn’t let him leave without saying the next words at the tip of your tongue. “Hey… I’m sorry about your girlfriend. She seemed… pretty. I’m sure she was – I’m sure she was really great.” You found a lump forming in your throat.

He paused a minute, then said quietly, “She was.” After a beat, he added, “You know, I told her about you once.” 

You were shocked to hear that. “What?” 

“I was telling her one of Robby’s stories, about the first time he ever came to visit this place, and he got to brag to the people at the next table about how he knew the head chef. And when they asked you how you came to be there, you said by – ” 

“ – by being brave,” you finished for him, feeling tears lining your vision. 

Jake nodded. Then, as if he knew you needed to hear it, he said, “Leah would want you to be brave now… about all of it.”

That stayed with you until the restaurant closed, and you drove home, and laid in your bed for the night, getting the first restful sleep – no nightmares – for the first time in a long time.

And when you woke, it was to Jack crawling into bed beside you, rays of sun filtering through the blinds and lighting up his face. 

His hand found yours under the covers, like it always did, comforting and warm – and you sighed in contentment.

“I wanna stay like this forever,” you mumbled against his skin. “Can we?” 

“Yeah, baby… as long as you want.”

.

.

.

read part 3 here !!

[thepencilnerd]

Your Man

thank you very much to @ananonymousaffair, @clubsoft, and @letsgobarbs for including me in the 𝘈 𝘋𝑂𝘊𝑇𝘖𝑅 𝐴 𝐷𝘈𝑌 writing event <3 i cannot wait to dive into the pieces written by my fellow writers (check out the full post for every tagged gem!) prompt: "I think to be so dumb must be nice." | colour: black 🖤 pairing: jack abbot x f!resident reader summary: You and Jack have been bickering your way through night shifts for ages now—until two flying trays, a stitched-up hand, and one too many almost-confessions turn everything into something neither of you can ignore. content/warnings: enemies to lovers (all the banter, jabs, & sarcasm), slow-burn, emotionally repressed idiots to emotionally repressed idiots in love, depiction of harassment towards healthcare workers, protective!reader & protective!jack, fluff, angst, Robby being done with both of you wc: 5.2k a/n: i def could have gone a certain direction *cough cough* but i was overcome with a sudden craving for enemies to lovers / "they're both stubborn and it's complicated tropes," so i present to you this emotionally constipated snippet of my heart 🩺🖤

It was a well-known fact that you always clocked in after Jack Abbot.

Not because you meant to. At least, not exactly.

It started one night during your first week on night shift. You’d been cramming for exams all day, convinced you could fit in just one more practice block before your shift—just one more. But you dozed off somewhere around question 43, mouth open against the back of your textbook, a puddle of drool collecting around what once was a diagram of the cardiac chambers.

You sprinted in at 6:45pm, flustered and un-caffeinated, only to find Jack already there. Leaning against the nurses’ station with a cup of coffee like he’d been born in that spot, annoyingly calm and smirking like he’d seen this coming.

"Cutting it close, Dr. L/N," he’d said, not even looking up from his chart. "Careful. That’s how habits start."

He was right.

At first, you were apologetic—nervous and over-eager, all stammered greetings and shuffled charts. Jack didn’t seem to notice you beyond the bare minimum, and you chalked that up to his status, his seniority, his general aura of don’t talk to me unless someone is actively dying.

But things changed. Somewhere between covering for each other during rounds, tagging out on disaster admits, and a running tally of how many times you each got paged during a single trauma night, familiarity set in. You became colleagues. Then reluctant allies. And somewhere along the line—rivals. Enemies, depending on who you asked and on how bad the night was going.

One time, you were both elbow-deep in post-codes, barely functioning off stale coffee and mutual spite, when he passed you a chart and muttered, "Try not to kill this one with your bedside manner."

You took it without looking up from the board above you. "I'll match your emotional range and we'll both be fine."

You were never late, but it soon became a silent game. He always beat you at it. Whether it was by five minutes or five steps, you never let yourself get there before him. A superstition, maybe. A routine. A rhythm. And because you liked to keep him on edge—just to get a reaction out of him.

Seeing Jack colored with shades of affect, even if it was playfully annoyed, was fun. It made him predictable, addictive, a full 180 from his usual stone-cold demeanor. He’d scowl, grumble something about professionalism, and still let you win half the time. It became a kind of game, and you were very good at it.

Now as a senior resident awaiting board licensure, it was practically tradition.

He was already at the nurses’ station, sipping black coffee like it was fuel and he was a half-full tank, eyes scanning over charts. His voice cut through the hum of bedlam as you approached. "Late again, Dr. L/N. At least you're consistent."

You flipped him off without breaking stride. "And yet, somehow, the hospital hasn't burned down yet. Miraculous, wouldn't you say so, Dr. Abbot?"

He raised a brow, the faintest smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. "Not even ten minutes in and already have our claws out, do we?"

"Oh, Jack," you pouted, "this is just foreplay."

"Ah, is that what you call passive-aggressive incompetence now?"

"Bold of you to assume it’s passive," you fired back, picking up an iPad and scanning through your list of patients for the night. "Or that I’m incompetent, considering I actually round with patients instead of brooding in corners like a gargoyle."

"Gargoyle?" he echoed. "I’m flattered you’ve been staring long enough to come up with nicknames."

"Please," you scoffed. "Your aura of gloom is visible from space. NASA actually filed a complaint saying it was interfering with their ability to conduct research."

Jack paused for a beat, gaze flicking over you more intently than usual. "Did you eat before your shift?"

You eyes were glued on the iPad, your only response a single head bobble "no."

He didn’t like that. Robby could tell from the way his jaw flexed slightly—but he said nothing. Just hummed under his breath and looked back at his clipboard.

Robby had been watching through his glasses the entire time, arms crossed and eyes narrowed like a dad wrangling in two over-caffeinated siblings. He blinked at the two of you, then sighed—long, theatrical, the kind of sigh that said he had survived more codes than he could count but this was titrating his patience.

"You two ever gonna kiss, or just keep trying to murder each other with sarcasm?" He took his glasses off to bury his face in his hands with a groan.

Jack didn’t look up, turning the page over on his clipboard. "I prefer homicide. Cleaner paperwork."

"Honestly, I'd take an explosive diarrhea case over having this conversation," you muttered, half to Robby, half to yourself, rubbing at the bridge of your nose like the words might erase Jack from your field of vision. 

Robby would be remiss if he didn't catch the way neither of you clocked his kiss and make up comment. He stared at you both, mouth frozen in a half-smile that said he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or launch you into separate time zones. He gave it two full seconds—long enough to confirm that you were both still hopeless—before shaking his head in defeat.

"I think," Robby hummed, patting both of your shoulders like a tired camp counselor, "to be so dumb must be nice."

You and Jack had the same unimpressed expression locked and loaded—scowls sharp and identical, contempt trained squarely on Robby, both of you about to mouth off in perfect sync.

He walked off before either of you could open your mouths. 

—

By 3am, the fatigue and hunger were chewing holes in your composure.

Too many admits. Not enough staff. Shen being chronically unbothered. Myrna threatening to murder her wife—when you and Jack turned to ask if she had a wife, matching expressions of disbelief already locked in place, she looked at you deadpan and asked, "You wanna get hitched?"

And always—always—Jack.

Fucking Jack.

With his clipboard full of passive-aggressive notes in that damn attractive calligraphy handwriting.

His tone clipped like a warning and welcome all at once.

And his black scrubs making him look like the grim reaper of constructive criticism and deconstructive mental undressing.

"Patient in six?" you asked.

"CT just came back. Small bowel obstruction. Classic presentation, apparently."

You glanced his way. "Told you it wasn’t just post-op gas."

Jack didn’t miss a beat. "And yet, you were already quoting discharge guidelines to the new intern before radiology even called back."

You shot him a look. Walsh would be proud of you for that one. "I was outlining possibilities. It’s called methodical thinking—must not be a concept you’re familiar with."

He grinned, lazy and unbothered. "Chaos works for me. You panic without bullet points."

You rolled your eyes. "You’re the only attending I know who thrives in complete chaos and calls it a ‘method.’"

"And you’re the only resident I know who color-codes her trauma alerts."

The edge of your lip curled. "That’s called being prepared."

He gestured vaguely. "It’s called being uptight."

You arched a brow. "Spoken like someone who thinks organized is a four-letter word that starts with 'f' and ends with 'k'."

He leaned in, voice dropping just slightly. "Spoken like someone who secretly enjoys cleaning up after my messes."

You blinked once. Then grinned wider. "One day, your beloved chaos is going to bite you in the ass."

He tapped your chart as he walked past. "I guess it’s a good thing you’ve already alphabetized the first aid supplies for me."

—

By 3:20, the storm hit.

Lightning cracked the sky. Power flickered. The backup generator hummed to life with a groan. You should've brought an extra jacket to keep in your locker but it would end up disappearing anyway. Jack was in the hallway already, flashlight in hand.

"OR’s shut down. We’re triaging manually. You good?"

You nodded, biting your tongue. This wasn’t the time.

You worked side by side in the makeshift command center. Tension simmered beneath the quiet coordination—until a grabby frat-boy type from bay four decided he didn’t like being told to sit still and wait.

It happened fast.

He flung the tray off his bed, sending instruments clattering across the floor. You instinctively raised your hand to shield your face—just as a stray scalpel nicked the back of your hand, slicing a sharp, shallow arc. The pain didn’t register immediately. Jack did.

He was on the guy in an instant, stepping in front of you, voice low and lethal. "Sit. Down." The words came out all but minced. 

Security had already been called, but Jack looked like he wanted to break the guy’s face just for breathing in your direction. He didn’t even turn back to you until the orderlies dragged the patient away.

Then his hand was cupping your elbow, his voice much softer. "Let me see it."

You hissed as he inspected the cut. "It’s not deep."

"You’re bleeding on my chaos," he muttered, guiding you gently to an empty room.

You snorted through the blossoming pain. "Told you my color-coding wasn’t excessive."

He grabbed a suture kit, pulling gloves on with the kind of care you usually saw him reserve for crics and broken ribs. "Hold still."

"Bossy."

"Only when someone I like gets stabbed in the hand."

Your breathing hitched. "Like, huh?"

Jack’s attention was fixed on your hand. "Don’t make it weird."

You smiled, watching him thread the needle, so close, so focused. "Wouldn’t dream of it."

The quiet that followed wasn’t heavy. Quite the opposite. It felt warm. Easy. He worked methodically, hands sure, touch gentle, eyes flicking up every few seconds to check your expression like it mattered more than the wound. As he cleaned around the cut and prepped the lidocaine syringe, you both said it in unison—

"Slight prick and a burn."

You laughed under your breath, both at his expression of surprise and your synchrony. "God. That phrase is ingrained in my soul. I think I said it to a grapefruit during my 5th year."

Jack’s lips twitched. "I said it to a patient’s plush raccoon once."

You watched his hands move with steady precision, stitching you up like he had all the time in the world. The storm outside cracked again, but neither of you flinched.

"Make sure I don’t scar, Doc," you teased, settling in as he prepped the suture. "I need these hands to make magic and miracles happen. Might even become a hand model if this whole medicine thing doesn’t pan out."

Jack didn’t look up, but you caught the twitch at the corner of his mouth. "I’ll do my best, ma’am. But if you end up on a billboard somewhere, I expect royalties."

You snorted. "In your dreams."

Jack didn’t say anything at first—just gave you a small, private smile like he was tucking something away in the back of his mind. Like he was keeping it just for himself.

And this time, when you looked at him, he didn’t look away.

For a few minutes, the raindrops tapping against the windows were the only sound that filled the empty space. Jack didn't speak. He just kept his gaze on your hand, now bandaged, resting on the edge of the tray table like it had never been hurt. You watched him watching you, your heart thudding quietly in your throat. 

"You always take care of your disasters this nicely?" you mumbled.

He smirked. "Only the pretty ones."

You didn’t speak of it.

Not until later, when the lights came back and the halls emptied and you were alone in the break room.

You noticed it as he leaned against the counter, scrubs rumpled, hair even more so. His scrubs were black, as always—just rumpled enough to prove he'd been moving all night, just fitted enough to be infuriating. You took a sip of water, eyeing him from across the break room table as you both took a seat. Something about the way the fluorescent light caught the curve of his jaw made the words slip out before you could stop them.

"Do you own anything that isn’t black?" you asked, voice light with sudden curiosity. "Or is your off-duty wardrobe just a series of increasingly gothic-toned hoodies that match your work-wear?"

Jack glanced up from his coffee, one brow arched. "It hides blood."

You stared. "You really don’t let anyone in, huh?"

He didn’t answer right away, just sipped his coffee and stared out at the empty hallway beyond the break room.

Finally, with a shrug that didn’t quite match the weight behind it, he said, "You’re one to talk."

That made you laugh, but it came out softer than expected. "Guess we’re both pretty terrible at normal."

Jack’s lips twitched. "Normal’s overrated."

You leaned back in your chair, legs stretched out in front of you, the tips of your sneakers barely brushing his. Neither of you moved. 

Suddenly, Jack got up and yanked open a small drawer by the coffee machine and pulled out a sad-looking granola bar, handing it to you without meeting your eyes.

"Eat this."

Your brow furrowed, suspicious. "Seriously?"

"You haven’t eaten since yesterday," he muttered, brushing it off like it didn’t matter. Like he hadn’t noticed.

You stared at the wrapper, then at him. "You really had that locked and loaded?"

He didn’t answer. Just crossed his arms and stuck the bar out at you further. "It’s chocolate. Don’t make me regret it."

Instead of prying further, your hand reached out slowly and took it, eyes still narrowed, studying him like he’d just burnt out a fuse in your brain.

Silence washed over you again. Occasionally filled by the sound of you munching on your granola bar and taking measured sips of your coffee. After a few minutes and one crumpled granola bar later, you caught Jack sneaking a glance at you over the rim of his cup.

You didn’t say anything—just raised a brow.

He looked away like he hadn’t been watching you at all.

But the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

The words crept out of your mouth carefully. "Do you think..." 

Jack looked up, gaze intent. 

"Nevermind," you stopped yourself. 

He leaned in closer, the space between you shrinking into something almost unbearable. Not quite touching, not even brushing—but the air thickened under the weight of his stare. That kind of eye contact that felt like it could crack glass. Steady. Searching.

You let the quiet spool between you like a thread someone might tug, if they were brave enough.

"It's rude to start things you don't intend on finishing," he stated simply.

You blinked, still caught in the current of that look, then leaned in a little—almost like you were about to whisper a secret. Jack mirrored you without hesitation, like it was instinct.

Your voice was barely above a murmur. "Do you think..."

He waited, gaze steady, maybe even a tinge of hope if you squinted.

"...that the real reason you thrive in chaos is because it matches your personality?" you deadpanned.

Jack exhaled sharply, the ghost of a scoff tugging at his mouth. He sat back, shaking his head. "Unbelievable."

You grinned, eyes bright and playful. "What? I finished it."

"Barely," he muttered, but he was smiling too.

A few beats passed. You both sat in the lingering quiet, the kind that settled in only after long shifts and half-spoken things.

Then he leaned in—just a little—mirroring what you'd done earlier. You furrowed your brows, curious.

He lowered his voice, almost conspiratorial. "Do you think..."

You leaned in too, expecting something real, something heavy.

"...that you secretly enjoy being wrong? Because, statistically, it’s seems like your favorite hobby."

Your jaw dropped to let out a puff of air, baffled by his audacity, and pushed his arm. "God, you’re insufferable."

He chuckled under his breath. "And yet, here you are."

You gave him a sideways glance, lips quirking. "I will admit that it’s in my top five favorite hobbies. But it still doesn’t beat ‘annoying Jack Abbot.’ That one’s undefeated."

Jack shook his head, eyes warm and lips softened in a grin. "You’d miss me if I ever stopped letting you win."

Your only response was a coy smile. You nudged his foot with yours beneath the table, and he glanced down at the contact. He nudged back, subtle and sure, like he didn’t want the moment to end just yet—then looked back up at you. Something passed between the pair of you—unspoken, tentative, curious.

The room fell quiet again, comfortable this time. Neither of you moved to leave.

Until Jack's phone buzzed.

He glanced at it, then cursed under his breath. "Room seven. It's that kid who demanded to speak to the 'head doctor' because I wouldn't give him dilaudid for a tension headache."

You raised a brow. "So... a normal Friday?"

"Basically."

You watched him go, expecting a quick de-escalation. Room seven. You knew who that was. Height rivaled only by his ego. Frat letters drawn across his bare chest like illiterate war paint. Barked at nurses like he owned the floor. The kind of guy who made everything someone else's problem, backed by daddy’s legal team and a two-semester record of hazing infractions.

Jack had said he’d handle it. He always did. Especially with these types. It was like they were on a rotation—every Friday night, a new brand of uninhibited pre-frontal cortex, privileged chaos.

But then you heard his voice—Jack’s—sharp and too loud from down the hall. A clatter followed, unmistakable. Tray to tile. A chair scraping. Then another crash. A shout that definitely wasn’t Jack’s.

You were already moving.

By the time you rounded the corner, the frat boy was mid-lunge, fury twisting his face as he hurled a tray toward Jack’s head like he was reenacting some half-remembered bar fight. Jack ducked, barely—but he was boxed in, too close to the wall.

You didn’t think. Just moved.

"Hey!" you barked, adrenaline surging. You threw yourself at him, coming at him like a freight train and making him fall back onto the bed with a grunt. A nurse hit the emergency call. Security swarmed seconds later.

Jack had grabbed your arm and pulled you back—tight but not painful—pulling you just out of the fray. "What the hell?"

You glared at him, chest heaving. "Returning the favor."

He didn’t let go.

"On-call room. Now."

He practically hauled you down the hall, his hand never leaving yours. You were both silent until the door shut behind you. He pressed his palms to the counter and stared at it like it had personally offended him.

"What was that?" His voice was sharp, unfiltered, pissed in a way you didn’t see often—not like this. Not when it was about you. "You could’ve gotten hurt."

"So could you." You leaned against the metal bunkbed frame, still catching your breath. "A simple 'thank you' would suffice."

His Adam's apple bobbed, slow, like the movement itself took restraint. His jaw was tight, eyes darker than usual.

"You're reckless," he said quietly.

"Takes one to know one," you laughed.

Jack didn’t.

He stepped forward instead, jaw clenched. "You have no regard for your safety and only for that of others."

You took a step back.

"You will go out of your way to treat and protect everyone around you at the expense of your own well-being."

Another step back. Any closer and—

"Do you understand," he said, each word measured, devastating, "how much I worry about you?"

Your heartbeat was a war drum now—loud, insistent, thunderous.

"Do you know how much I think about you? How much I plan for the worst every time you throw yourself between danger and someone else without a second thought?" he added, voice cracking just enough to reveal the truth beneath it. Laid bare.

"When you walk into the ER and you haven't eaten since the night before and I can see it—you're running on caffeine and impulse and whatever scraps of adrenaline are left."

You opened your mouth, but no sound came out.

He didn’t stop there. "When you give your jacket to a freezing patient and spend the next six hours shivering without saying a word—like that’s normal."

You swallowed. "It wasn’t cold..."

Jack’s voice sharpened. "You forget your umbrella and show up soaked but act like it's fine. Like it’s not freezing. Like you didn’t just volunteer to get sick."

Your fingers twitched against your side.

"And when you blow off your own wound care to finish a chart. Or cover a code blue for someone else even though your shift ended twenty minutes ago."

You looked away. His eyes never left you.

He stepped even closer, willing you to look at him. "When you pretend you’re made of steel. And then crack alone in the stairwell when you think no one’s looking."

It felt like ice cold water had dropped from the ceiling.

"Jack—" you managed to force out. 

He held up a hand and turned around, cutting you off. "Please." 

He couldn’t hear it. Not unless you felt the same. Not unless you'd listened, actually listened, for once. He’d rather bleed out not knowing than survive a rejection he couldn’t patch. Just colleagues. He'd switch over to day shift if he had to. Robby could put in a word for him. Temporary, at least until he found a new hospital. Maybe in a different city. Of a different state.

He looked anywhere but you, turning like he meant to leave, like he could walk it off and pretend none of this ever happened.

"Jack, please..." The words came out desperate, begging, pleading for him to stop.

He didn't meet your eyes—couldn't. "I'll see you at the nurses station." 

"Oh, for the love of God—" You reached forward and yanked him back by his forearm.

And then your lips were on his.

It wasn’t clean or careful. It was a crash—years of tension detonating all at once. He froze for half a second, eyes wide open like his brain was short-circuiting, then kissed you back with everything he had and more. Desperation, disbelief, hunger—it all poured out of him like water breaking through a dam.

Your hands cradled his face, thumbs grazing over the light stubble along his jaw, fingertips brushing the sharp edges of his cheekbones like you were learning him by touch alone. He kissed you like he couldn’t stand to stop, and you held him like you weren’t going to let him. He tasted like spearmint—sharp and stubborn—the gum he always carried in his pocket, and behind that, burnt coffee and something so distinctly Jack it made your limbs tingle.

His hands found your waist, your jaw, your back—grasping like he didn’t trust the moment to be real unless he mapped every inch of you with his fingertips. You were pressed chest to chest, and it still didn’t feel close enough.

Jack had kissed people before. He had slept with people before. He'd been married, for God's sake. But this—this—was unreal. This was heat and gravity and every inch of restraint he’d stitched into place finally tearing wide open. This was the reason human beings fought in wars. Why people wrote poetry and ruined perfectly stable lives for one perfect, maddening kiss. Why everything else material and immaterial suddenly paled in comparison.

Your hands were in his hair, tugging salt and pepper curls just enough to make him groan, low and wrecked against your lips.

He kissed you like he was trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, share the oxygen in your lungs, the little gasp you made when his thumb grazed the spot behind your ear just right. He devoured everything you gave him and kissed you like a man who had run out of time and patience.

Because he had.

He’d wanted this too long to pretend otherwise, and he'd sooner die than deprive either of you from this any longer. 

You pulled back just enough to breathe, your forehead resting lightly against his. Both of you were gasping, eyes locked in the kind of dazed silence that usually followed adrenaline crashes. 

"Took you long enough, old man," you whispered, lips still brushing his.

Jack blinked once, twice. Like he couldn’t believe this was real. Like the thought had crossed his mind a thousand times, but the reality of you—this—hit harder than he’d prepared for.

"You feel the same?" he asked quietly, in a tone that was more awe than question.

You nodded. "Since before either of us were brave enough to say it."

Jack let out a breath that shook at the edges. "I thought if I let it slip—if I looked too long, said too much—you’d shut me out."

"I thought if I admitted it, it would ruin everything."

"It didn’t," he murmured, leaning his forehead against yours.

"No," you whispered. "It finally made sense of everything."

Jack blinked again, almost like he hadn’t fully registered it until now. His gaze swept over your face, pausing at your lips, then your eyes, as if searching for the lie he couldn’t find.

"You really mean that?" he asked, quieter now. Not disbelieving—just internalizing.

You nodded again, slower this time. "I don’t do this if I don’t."

Jack let out another breath, but it wasn’t shaky this time—it was solid. Grounded. Relieved. He laughed under it, the sound warm and slightly incredulous.

"You really are impossible," he murmured, brushing his nose against yours.

"And you’re dramatic," you whispered back, smiling.

"Fair," he said. "But you’re still mine."

"Yeah," you said. "I think I always was."

Jack huffed a breath, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. "Careful. You just kissed your attending. That kind of power could go to your head."

You grinned, still breathless. "Please. You kissed me back like your life depended on it."

"Who says it didn't?" he asked rhetorically, so quietly it almost got lost in the air between you.

Your fingers drifted to the back of his neck, fingertips brushing softly along the hairline, anchoring him there. Jack shivered. Not from cold—never from cold.

"Thank you," you admitted. "For taking care of me while I was busy taking care of everyone else."

His grip on your waist tightened, grounding himself, and then he leaned in again. This time it was slower. Less frantic. His lips found the curve of your neck, warm and reverent. You gasped—quietly—but it was enough. He kissed lower, just beneath your jaw, and your hands curled in the fabric at his shoulders.

"Always." The word left his lips like a prayer.

His fingers traced the hem of your scrub top, ghosting up your sides like he was overriding any and all memories of anything else other than you. No dissonance. Just Jack, desperate to feel something real in a world that never gave him space to.

You pressed closer, kissed the corner of his mouth. "You taste like that godawful spearmint gum."

He grinned against your skin. "You love it."

Another scoff. "If throwing myself in front of a raging frat boy was all it took to get you to shut up and kiss me, I would've done it ages ago."

Jack pulled back just enough to look at you, smug. "If you do that again, I’m going to make you do my charting for a week."

You snorted. "With pleasure."

He didn’t argue. Just dipped his head and kissed you again.

—

You woke in the on-call room, a mess of tangled limbs and haphazardly strewn clothes. Your cheek pressed to the rise and fall of his chest. The storm had long passed, but its echo lingered in the hush around you. Jack’s arm was slung low around your waist, fingers drawing lazy, absent-minded shapes against your hip like he didn’t know how to stop touching you now that he’d started.

"For what it’s worth, I still think you’re a pain in the ass," you murmured, voice thick with sleep.

His chest rumbled beneath your cheek. "Likewise," he said, but it came out softer than usual.

You shifted just enough to look up at him, your hand brushing gently across his ribs, then settling over his heart. "Don’t get used to this."

His brow arched. "This?" If you looked hard enough, you might have seen worry flash across his face. 

"Me being nice."

Relief painted his expression. He smiled, full and rare. "You’re the one curled into me like a particularly mouthy cat."

You buried your face in his chest. "Shut up."

His fingers tightened slightly at your hip. "Not complaining. Just saying... I could get used to this."

You looked up again, caught the vulnerability flickering there before he blinked it away. Your thumb brushed his jaw, and you leaned in, pressing a slow kiss to the corner of his mouth, a smile blooming in its wake.

"Yeah," you whispered. "Me too."

—

A few weeks and an undetermined number of shifts later, you walked through the double doors of the ER wearing a black hoodie—oversized and unassuming to anyone else, but unmistakable to anyone who knew him.

Robby and Dana spotted it from a mile away. The frayed drawstring, the hole near the front pocket, the faded cuff seams—the one he always reached for when the weather dropped below 60 degrees, too tired to bother, or too raw to pretend. Jack’s favorite and now second most prized possession.

The first being the shirt you wore when you stayed the night for the first time—oversized and soft, probably older than the first year med students—borrowed without asking. He never washed it. Claimed it smelled like you now and he'd keep it that way.

No one said a word.

Except Robby, who walked past and muttered, "Finally." Then, as you and Jack strolled side by side toward the nurses’ station—still bickering, now with smiles tucked behind every jab—he held out a fist to Jack.

Jack bumped it without hesitation.

Robby grinned. "Took you long enough."

"Shut up," you and Jack muttered in unison, but neither of you stopped smiling.

Jack's hand brushed yours between steps, a casual touch that lingered just long enough to say everything he couldn't say out loud in front of witnesses. You let your pinky hook around his for a second before letting go—just a flash of something soft beneath the usual snark.

"Didn't know we allowed pets in the ER," Dana remarked from her chair before looking up through her glasses. "Or are those lovebirds I hear?"

You smirked. "We’re just evolving."

Jack raised a brow. "Into better people?"

"No," you replied. "Into slightly better-functioning disasters. I am, anyway. Jack’s still somewhere between disaster and cryptid."

He bumped your shoulder gently before giving you a playful wink. "Speak for yourself. I was already perfect."

You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue. A smile crept up like second nature. You'd get him next time.

Robby snorted. "God, you two are insufferable."

You turned just enough to shoot him a smug look. "You love it."

He held up his hands in mock surrender. "I do. But if I walk in on you making out in the supply closet, I’m blackmailing both of you. With photos."

Jack didn’t even flinch. "Make sure you get our good angles."

You could definitely get used to this.

[alinathinkstoomuch]

STICKY, SMUG & MINE

pairing: aaron hotchner x reader (part of my fake!fiancee series, but can be read as a standalone) summary: aaron takes up jogging, and you take up pouting—because he leaves you… only to come back and smother you with his sweaty self, based on this request. warnings | an: suggestive-ish, fluff, established relationship, sweaty aaron is a menace, this is lowk heels of dreams long lost cousin, aaron is the best boyfriend ever, one butt grab. word count: 1.6k

✧ masterlist

There was quite literally nothing better than waking up on a lazy Sunday with no responsibilities, no emails, no deadlines—just you, your silk sheets, and the universe giving you a moment to breathe.

Well... actually, there was something better.

That something was six-foot-two, broody, and had a really great jawline. And right now?

He was missing.

More importantly, his arm was missing—the one that usually draped itself somewhere between your waist, your chest, your neck—like a very handsome human weighted blanket.

Still half-asleep, your manicured hand reached out dramatically, patting his side of the bed. "Baby," you mumbled, voice muffled under your silk sleep mask and blanket, "I'm missing an arm. It's yours. Bring it back."

You felt the bed dip slightly, then a soft press of lips to your temple.

"I didn't want to wake you," came that low, velvety voice—the voice. The one that could convince you to do just about anything... except get out of bed before 8 a.m.

You burrowed deeper into the comforter. "You did wake me. Now I have to deal with the trauma of your absence."

He chuckled, a deep, warm sound that made you want to melt. "I'm just heading out for a run. I'll be back before you finish your second coffee."

Something about run pinged your brain. You peeked out from beneath your sleep mask, one eye open, catching a blurry glimpse of him pulling his shirt over his head, his muscles flexing like it was some kind of sports ad made just for you and your weak morning willpower.

"Baby," you croaked, voice hoarse and soaked in sleep. "It's Sunday. God rested. Why can't you?"

He sat on the edge of the bed, already lacing up his shoes, his insistence on routine—even on weekends—making you want to roll your eyes and also…maybe kiss him a little. In the name of fitness appreciation, of course.

"I have to get my miles in,” he said, sparing you a dreamy glance.

You groaned, reaching out with all the strength you could muster from a body still in the process of waking up, giving his arm a tug. "There are plenty of ways we could hit mileage without ever leaving this bed.”

He pressed another kiss to your forehead. “Glad to see that part of your brain is awake.”

“Well, that part never fully shuts off when I have a ridiculously hot boyfriend running around shirtless at ungodly hours.”

You felt his fingers gently brush your hair out of your face, warm and annoyingly considerate. "I laid out your vitamins, your favourite smoothie's in the fridge, and I rescheduled your 10 a.m. facial to next weekend so you could sleep in."

"Hmm. You're starting to sound like Bella."

"Am I?" he asked innocently. "Does your assistant also do this?"

Before you could ask what, his hands slipped beneath the duvet and grabbed a very unapologetic handful of your ass.

You gasped, swatting at his arm with absolutely no conviction. "Aaron!"

"Just trying to keep up with the standards you're used to."

You huffed, tugging the covers higher over your head. "Bella never grabs my butt before breakfast. It’s strictly a post-lunch activity.”

He chuckled as he stood. “Guess I’m just an overachiever.”

You flopped onto your back and propped yourself up on your elbows, still squinting at him through sleep-blurred eyes. “No,” you whined. “Come back. I might actually perish without attention for the next half hour.”

“You’ll be okay, honey,” he cooed, crossing the room back to your side “Barely, but you will.”

Then he leaned in, pressing a delicate kiss to your lips—probably just to shut down any further theatrics before they could escape your mouth.

“Be good,” he murmured against your skin, thumb brushing your cheek. “I love you.”

You pouted up at him. “Even when I’m dramatic?”

“Especially then.”

And with that, he was gone—leaving behind the faint scent of aftershave and one very flustered girlfriend who had no chance of going back to sleep now.

Eventually, you peeled yourself out of bed and made the shortest, most emotionally burdened journey of all time to the kitchen. You grabbed your smoothie, vitamins, and your dog like a sleep-deprived scavenger before collapsing back into the safety of your duvet fortress, with the grace of a woman who had already done far too much before 9 a.m.

Aaron was not back in half an hour.

You knew this because despite your best efforts to play it cool, you were pathetically clock-watching in between your doom-scrolling.

To your great relief you finally heard the jingle of keys in the door about twenty minutes past the thirty-minute mark, not that you were counting. (You were absolutely counting.)

You tried—really tried—to stay wrapped in your blanket cocoon like the stoic, definitely-not-obsessed girlfriend you were pretending to be. But the second you heard the door open and the familiar sound of his shoes hitting the entryway floor, you were up instantly.

You rounded the corner, blanket dragging behind you, and found him in the kitchen, sweat-damp, flushed from the run, hair tousled, and drinking water straight from the bottle.

“You’re up,” he said, slightly breathless, finishing the last of the water—looking way too good for someone who’d just spent the last hour torturing himself for fun. “That’s earlier than expected. Missed me?”

“Don’t flatter yourself. I was just making sure you didn’t die out there.”

“Mhm,” he hummed, clearly not buying it. “So you weren’t watching the clock at all?”

“Nope.”

“You didn’t come running the second you heard the door?”

“I was actually already up, thank you very much.”

“Oh yeah?” He took a step closer, setting the empty bottle down on the counter. “Up doing what, exactly?”

You held your ground, blanket still clutched around you like a shield. “Important things.”

He took another step. “Like?”

“Drinking my smoothie. Taking my vitamins. Bonding with Gus.”

He glanced past you. “Gus is asleep.”

“Because I wore him out with all the emotional support he had to provide after you abandoned me.”

He laughed, now only a few feet away, the heat from his post-run glow practically radiating off him. “You’re cute,” he murmured, reaching out to gently tug the edge of your blanket. “And completely full of it.”

“You’re dangerously close for someone who’s literally glistening,” you warned, narrowing your eyes but making absolutely no move to step away.

“Glistening?” he repeated with a laugh. “Is that your delicate way of saying I’m sweaty?”

“No, it’s my polite way. My actual way involves the words ‘damp’ and ‘unsanitary.’”

"I thought you liked it when I get a little sweaty," he argued, eyes narrowing playfully.

You couldn't help but smile, even as you maintained your moral high ground. "I like when we get sweaty together," you clarified, lifting your chin like a woman with standards. "Which, for the record, was my original offer. You're the one who chose pavement over passion."

His grin widened. "So this is still about earlier."

"This is about your choices, Aaron."

“Well, right now, I’d really like to give my very dramatic, very needy girlfriend a hug.”

You raised both hands instantly. “Uh-uh. Touch me with your sweaty self and I’m filing an emergency injunction.”

He tilted his head, still inching closer. “An injunction?”

"Immediate cease and desist,” you declared. “Violations will be met with cold stares and withheld cuddles."

"I feel like that's an empty threat."

You scoffed, backing up a step. "You are literally radiating heat. You could fog up a window just by breathing near it.”

He grinned, taking another step like a man who thought slow movements made him invisible “Alright, alright. I’ll go shower. Give the people what they want.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Good.”

He moved past you with the grace of someone who had absolutely no intention of actually behaving. “I’ll even use your fancy shampoo that costs more than my running shoes.”

“That’s the bare minimum. And don’t be stingy—two full lathers, I’ll be checking.”

You heard a smug, “Yes ma’am,” from somewhere behind you as you made your way to the living room.

Which is exactly when he lunged.

“Aaron!” you shrieked—loud enough to wake the neighbours and maybe someone three floors down.

He grabbed you from behind, arms wrapping around your middle as he lifted you clean off the floor

“Oh my God,” you yelled, kicking mid-air. “I’m filing a restraining order!”

“That’s fine,” he mumbled in your hair, already walking you toward the couch. “I’ll have it deleted from the system by Monday.”

And with zero warning, he launched you onto the sofa—your blanket sliding off in defeat, throw pillows scattering to the floor. One even hit the coffee table with a light thud, nearly knocking over your vase of tulips.

Before you could scramble upright or reassemble your dignity, he dropped down on top of you. His hands braced at either side of your head, caging you in just as he let half of his body weight rest against you, sending a dramatic laugh bubbling up from your chest.

“You’re crushing me,” you gasped, still laughing, though your arms made no real effort to push him off.

“I’m barely leaning on you,” he corrected, face inches from yours.

“You’re all sticky,” you groaned, nose scrunching—right as he decided to escalate the situation by wiping his sweaty forehead against yours like a human towel.

“Stop it!” you yelped, twisting your head away like a cat dodging bath time. “I am reporting this to HR!”

“Make sure to copy me in,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your neck, far too pleased with himself. “I like seeing your name in my inbox.”

“Ugh, you’re disgusting.” You tried to glare at him, but it lasted all of four seconds before you were smiling again. “You’re paying me back for all of this distress. In brunch.”

He kissed you once more, and despite all your loud insistence about him being sticky and gross, you kissed him right back.

“Already made the reservation, angel.”

tags- @fandomscombine @pastelpinkflowerlife @hazzyking @bernelflo @risenqueen1521 @jazzimac1967 @camihotchner @abschaffer2 @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @pacmillo-blog-blog @stilestotherescue @kiwriteswords @anvdala @supersanelyromantic @yourallaround-simp @percysley

dividers by cafekitsune

[meo-eiru]

Silas Masterlist

Silas Introduction

A sneak peak into his diary (there's alt text available)

Does his ears express his emotions

Silas 10k

He will try breastfeeding you

Do elves have magic

If you tried explaining how humans work to him

Does he let you drink from the tap

What elf cum tastes like

Silas is a human otaku

Silas with a darling who tries to run away

If another creature stole his darling

You are the only human he has eyes for

What if his nipple poked your eye

His nipples are very sensitive

Details about his outfits and would he make you dress like him

Silas with a darling who doesn't find him attractive

Making his darling live longer

Can his blood heal chronic illnesses

If other elves saw his darling

Sleeping with Silas

Silas drinking darling's fluids instead

Silas with a darling who wants to be pampered

Silas with a darling who wants to pamper him instead

If he catches you masturbating

Can elves protect themselves

Does Silas have friends

Does Silas ever realize his feelings are not platonic

Silas with a darling who randomly "disappears"

How Silas feels about feminization

Darling drinking from his tap

Silas' reaction to a human looking for his darling

Would he make you wear a collar

Would it kill darling to breed with him

Silas extending darling's life span

How far would Silas take pampering

Does Silas have a rut

Would he like a chubby darling

Riding Silas while sucking his tits

Silas with a darling who enjoys making him cry

Silas sitting on darling's face

Silas with a pregnant darling

Would Silas kill someone to make darling immortal

You are the only human he loves!

What if Silas' human was a toddler

If you die before Silas

If Silas' darling really wants to meet other elves

Would Silas marry his darling

Would Silas spank his darling

Silas with a creative reader

Would Silas ever get a "daddy" for his darling

What if reader wants to call Silas "daddy"

What type of father would Silas be

Would Silas get more needy after realizing his feelings for reader

Night care routine with Silas

Morning routine with Silas

Silas with a reader who is hyperfixates on elves

Are Silas' ears sensitive to loud noises

What past time activities does Silas allow

Short Silas penis description

How strong is Silas physically

If Silas' darling wanted to get a lover

What if Silas met another person before darling

Does Silas and reader have a language barrier

Nothing you do can make Silas snap

Silas penis size calculations

What does Silas' blood taste like

Does Silas find reader's ears cute

Silas is like a poison disguised as a warm homecooked meal

Silas with an equally airheaded darling

Does Silas feed you meat as well

Silas voice claim

Would Silas drink darling's blood

Does his pee have abilities too

Silas eating reader out

Cooking human food together with Silas

Silas is best pillow

Do elves know what technology is

Silas with a nerdy darling who's dying because they can't game

What does Silas smell like

Would Silas put you in a baby carrier

Silas with a broken darling

What would Silas search for on the internet

What Silas' house looks like

Does Silas shower

Can elves get pregnant

Does Silas eat his own semen

What if darling drew weird ass drawings of the boys

Silas' length compared to the other elves

What if his darling had schizophrenia

How to overstimulate Silas

If Silas found darling in a fursuit

Is he down for sleeping naked

Silas' relationship with his parents

How Silas gets new clothes for you

[thedensworld]

Cute Weight | K.Mg

Pairing: Mingyu x reader

Genre: Dad au!

Type: fluff

Word Count: 2k

Preview: What's the cutest thing about babies? Chubby cheeks, chubby legs, chubby arms, chubby tummy. And Mingyu has to lose them all!

“You’re being dramatic,” you muttered, arms crossed as you leaned against the doorframe.

Mingyu was sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, hugging Nara like a precious treasure someone had tried to steal. Your one-year-old looked utterly unbothered, nestled comfortably against her father’s chest with her plushie in one hand and a biscuit crumb stuck to her cheek.

He didn’t respond to you. His gaze was fixed ahead, intense, as if he were deep in negotiation with fate itself.

“Mingyu,” you sighed, “she’s not going off to war.”

“Feels like it,” he mumbled, tightening his hold around Nara. “They want to take everything away.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Who’s they?”

But Mingyu wasn’t listening. Not really. His eyes were locked on Nara’s plump cheeks, her roly-poly arms, her soft little belly that peeked out beneath her onesie. He loved every inch of her exactly as she was—every squish, every wobble, every baby roll that jiggled when she laughed. The idea of her losing even one fold of softness made something ache deep in his chest.

“Nara…” he murmured, voice low with emotion.

She looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes, one hand grabbing his nose while the other clutched her favorite plushie. Her cheeks shimmered with a natural dewy glow, her mouth puckered in that signature pout she made whenever he paused during peek-a-boo.

“You don’t listen to them, okay?” Mingyu said solemnly. “Appa’s not letting them take away your chubby arms. Or your tummy. Especially not your tummy.”

He bent forward and kissed her belly with exaggerated drama, making a loud smooch that made Nara squeal and kick her thick legs in delight.

From behind the counter, you stifled a laugh, even as you shook your head. “She’s one, Gyu. She’s not even going to remember this.”

“I will,” he said seriously, rocking her slightly. “I’ll remember everything. Every squish, every roll. This is her prime. We’re not dieting through it.”

You stepped closer, kneeling beside them, brushing Nara’s hair back with a sigh. “We’re not dieting her. Just… making healthier choices. Less cookies. More fruit. Maybe walk instead of carry.”

Mingyu visibly flinched. “I like carrying her.”

“I know,” you said, laughing softly. “But she’s heavy.”

Mingyu clutched Nara tighter, whispering dramatically, “Don’t worry, Nara. Appa will carry you till you’re twenty.”

It started when you noticed Nara had trouble sleeping at night. She would wake up crying in the middle of her sleep, sometimes gasping or whining without a clear reason. At first, you thought it was just another sleep regression, but after several restless nights in a row, both you and Mingyu decided it was time to visit the pediatrician—just to be sure.

At the clinic, they ran through the usual checks—measuring her height, weighing her, listening to her heartbeat. Everything seemed fine, until the doctor gently brought up a possible explanation for her disrupted sleep: early signs of sleep apnea.

You and Mingyu exchanged surprised glances as the doctor explained, with a kind smile, “There’s a possibility that the soft fat around her tummy and neck might be making it harder for her to breathe comfortably during sleep.”

The two of you couldn’t help but chuckle—more out of disbelief than amusement. Mingyu looked down at Nara, who was happily munching on a biscuit, completely unaware that her adorable chubbiness might be the culprit behind her midnight crying spells.

It sounded almost absurd. Chubby cheeks and neck rolls causing breathing issues? But the doctor reassured you it was more common than people thought, especially in babies who gain weight a bit faster than average.

“It’s nothing serious right now,” the doctor added quickly, “but it might be worth gently adjusting her routine—healthier snacks, more active playtime, and a little less carrying.”

That last part hit Mingyu the hardest. He looked like someone had just told him he wasn’t allowed to breathe the same air as his daughter anymore. You knew, right then, that the real challenge wasn’t changing Nara’s habits—it was convincing your overly attached husband to let go of her rolls.

The next day, you laid out a soft mat in the living room, scattering Nara’s toys across it—colorful stacking cups, plush animals, and that little xylophone she liked to bang rather than play. The sunlight filtered through the window, warm and golden, as you sat cross-legged and clapped your hands.

“Come here, baby. Let’s play,” you cooed, waving a soft ball to catch her attention. Nara was sitting a few steps away, her legs spread into a W, her cheeks puffed up with concentration as she tried to decide whether to crawl or simply roll over like a sleepy burrito.

She let out a squeal and made her way toward you—more of a bounce than a crawl, really, her belly jiggling adorably with each wobbly movement. You encouraged her, praising every little scoot she made.

Mingyu sat off to the side on the couch, his long legs stretched out, arms folded, eyes distant. He wasn’t on his phone. He wasn’t even watching the TV. No, he was just... staring.

You glanced at him. “What now?”

He exhaled deeply, like someone mourning a great loss. “She’s gonna lose the belly, isn’t she?”

You blinked, then rolled your eyes so hard it nearly hurt. “She’s a baby, Mingyu. Not a marshmallow.”

He ignored your sass and kept watching Nara, his brows slightly furrowed. “But her cheeks. And her wrist rolls. And her thigh dimples.” His voice cracked a little on the last one. “What if they’re gone in a month?”

“She’s not evaporating,” you replied dryly, shaking a rattle for Nara. “She’s just learning how to move more.”

Mingyu leaned his elbow on the armrest, hand to his mouth like he was holding back tears. “I just… I didn’t know I could get this attached to fat.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. Loudly.

“You’re grieving,” you teased. “This is grief.”

“It is,” he said dramatically. “No one warned me babyhood would end like this. I thought we had at least another year with the tummy.”

Just then, Nara flopped face-first onto the mat with a giggle and then rolled over, belly-first, like she was showing it off.

Mingyu immediately perked up. “Wait—she still has it, right? Look at that. That’s premium. Five-star fluff.”

You shook your head, fighting a smile. “You’re hopeless.”

“And yet still full of hope,” he whispered, eyes gleaming as he reached out and snapped a picture on his phone. “Just in case it’s gone next week. I need evidence.”

You snorted. Nara was now drooling on her plush elephant and reaching for your hand again.

“Come on, Appa,” you called teasingly. “You’re not gonna let me have all the fun while you sit there mourning chub rolls.”

Mingyu stood with a dramatic sigh, walked over, and sat beside you on the mat. He scooped Nara into his lap, hugging her tight as she squealed.

“I’m gonna cherish every ounce,” he declared. “Every single squish.”

And you let him. Because really, even if he was dramatic, the way he loved her—every soft, silly inch—was something worth holding onto.

*

Over the next few days, Nara began to make real progress.

She moved more—waddling her way across the living room with newfound purpose, falling and laughing, then getting right back up. Her once-reluctant crawling turned into proud little stomps as she cruised from sofa to table like she owned the place. You introduced more fruits and veggies into her meals, replaced cookies with banana slices, and cut down on sugary snacks. Even Nara, in all her chubby-cheeked glory, seemed to adjust—if a little begrudgingly.

But there was one problem.

She was clever. Too clever. When she craved sweets or snacks, she didn’t throw tantrums or scream—no, she cried strategically. A few well-placed tears, some hiccuped sobs, and one long, pitiful wail that made her look like the saddest baby in the universe. It was psychological warfare—and she knew her target.

You were immune. You had your system: ignore the cries, wait it out, then swoop in with a toy or a tickle, distracting her until the craving passed. It worked.

But Mingyu?

Mingyu was weak. He couldn’t stand to see her cry. One teardrop and his whole body tensed. Two sobs and he was already scanning the pantry for peace offerings.

So, naturally, when you left for your pilates class that afternoon, you looked at both of them with narrowed eyes.

“No snacks until I come home,” you said firmly, pointing a warning finger at your husband as well as your daughter.

Mingyu raised both hands in mock surrender. “I heard you, General.”

You looked at Nara, who was chewing on a teether. “And you, no tricks. You two play. No bribes.”

“Got it!” he said cheerfully. “Easy. We’re strong.”

You gave him one last suspicious glance before leaving.

Thirty minutes later, Nara was on the living room floor, sitting in a puddle of big, fake tears, crying like the world was ending.

Mingyu crouched in front of her, clearly panicking. “Okay, okay, baby, come on,” he whispered. “Don’t cry. Please don’t cry. Appa’s trying here.”

But Nara had entered full dramatics—arms outstretched, lips trembling, the works.

Mingyu wiped her cheek and sighed. “We were doing so good…”

She let out a long, despair-filled cry. He cracked. Instantly.

“Okay—okay! Here!” He pulled open the cabinet, grabbed the rice crackers you'd designated as the “least bad” option, and handed one to her like it was a golden ticket.

Nara stopped crying immediately, grabbed it with both hands, and started munching happily.

Mingyu exhaled like he’d just disarmed a bomb. “Yes… this is it,” he whispered, crouching down beside her and brushing her hair back. “You’re my girl. Smart, sneaky, and snacky.”

She looked up at him, crumbs around her mouth, her eyes twinkling with victory.

Later, when you returned, gym bag slung over your shoulder, you were greeted by an eerily quiet house. Too quiet. You walked into the living room, and there they were: Nara, snacking peacefully on her fifth rice cracker, and Mingyu, trying to hide the open packet behind a cushion.

You raised an eyebrow.

“Did she cry?” you asked flatly.

“No,” Mingyu lied, far too quickly.

“She’s chewing.”

“She found it. She’s very independent.”

You crossed your arms. “Mingyu.”

He wilted under your stare like a kid caught sneaking cookies himself. “She cried,” he confessed. “The long cry. The sad one. With the eyes. I panicked.”

You rolled your eyes, biting back a smile. “You’re hopeless.”

Mingyu scooped Nara into his arms, kissing her cheek. “Hopelessly in love.”

Later that night, the house had finally quieted. Nara was asleep in her crib—belly full, cheeks puffed out, one hand clutching her favorite stuffed elephant. The glow of the baby monitor flickered gently on the nightstand beside you.

You and Mingyu lay side by side in bed, the room dim and still, both of you staring at the ceiling in that familiar post-parenting exhaustion.

You shifted onto your side, facing him. “She had three rice crackers.”

He didn’t look at you. Five, actually.”

You blinked. “Seriously?”

“She cried so much,” he mumbled defensively. “You didn’t see the tears. They were heavy. Dramatic.”

You sighed, softer this time. “That’s the thing, Gyu. She knows how to work you.”

He finally turned toward you, brows drawn. “So what if she does? She’s one. It’s not like she’s out there manipulating world leaders. She’s a baby.”

You stayed quiet for a moment, watching the way his expression was still halfway amused, halfway guilty. Then, gently, you said, “I know it doesn’t seem like a big deal right now. But… it starts small. A snack to stop the crying. A pattern. A habit. And if we’re not careful, it becomes a part of how she copes.”

Mingyu didn’t respond right away. His fingers tapped lightly against the edge of the blanket.

You sat up slightly, resting your weight on one elbow. “I’m not saying we shouldn’t comfort her. But we can’t comfort her with food every time she cries. That’s not love, Gyu. That’s distraction. And she deserves better than that.”

He swallowed, eyes dropping to the sheet between you.

“She’s only one, I know,” you continued softly, “but she’s already being affected. The doctor wouldn’t have mentioned sleep apnea if it wasn’t serious. What if she keeps waking up gasping in the middle of the night? What if it gets worse?”

His jaw tightened at that. You saw it—the shift, the heaviness that settled in his eyes.

“I just…” he finally whispered, voice rough, “I don’t want her to grow up thinking something’s wrong with her. That she has to change herself to be ‘okay.’ I love everything about her.”

Your heart ached at his honesty. You reached out and touched his hand.

“She is perfect,” you said. “But part of loving her is helping her grow up healthy, not just happy in the moment. And you—we—have to be the ones to make those hard choices. Even when she cries. Even when it breaks your heart.”

Mingyu blinked slowly, then let out a long, unsteady breath. “I’m not good at saying no to her.”

“I know,” you whispered, smiling a little. “You don’t have to be perfect. Just… present. Aware.”

He turned to look at you fully then, eyes serious. “Okay,” he said. “No more silent snack deals. Even if she cries the sad cry.”

You leaned forward and kissed his forehead. “That’s my guy.”

Mingyu reached under the blanket and took your hand in his. “But I’m still keeping one cracker in my pocket. Just in case.”

You groaned. “Gyu.”

“Emergency cracker!” he defended, grinning now.

You shook your head, laughing quietly as you turned off the lamp and settled down beside him. Beneath the teasing and dramatics, you knew he meant it.

And that was enough—for tonight.

*

A few weeks passed, and the changes started to show.

Nara was sleeping better—fewer wakeups, no more gasping cries in the middle of the night. Her cheeks were still adorably round, but her breathing had eased. She started toddling faster, with more balance, and her energy seemed endless. She laughed louder, moved quicker, and, most importantly, cried a little less during snack time.

You were proud. So proud.

But even more surprising than Nara’s progress… was Mingyu’s.

You watched it happen slowly—how he stopped reaching for snacks the second she whimpered. How he learned to kneel beside her, distract her with silly faces, or offer her a water bottle instead of a biscuit. He started carrying her a little less, letting her waddle her way through the house, cheering every step like it was the Olympics.

And then, one afternoon, the true shift came.

You were home, but preoccupied—kneeling at the coffee table, replying to emails while Nara sat on the mat behind you. She’d just finished her lunch (fruit slices and warm oatmeal), but when she saw her toy box out of reach, she let out a practiced whine.

Then another.

And another.

You barely glanced up. “Gyu, she’s about to start,” you warned absently.

But Mingyu, who was crouched by the shelves, simply looked over his shoulder and said, “I know. I got it.”

You peeked back to see Nara now doing the dramatic slow cry, lip trembling like a performance piece.

“Appa…” she whimpered.

“Don’t fall for it,” you whispered under your breath. “Don’t you dare—”

Mingyu raised a brow at you and then turned back to Nara with a grin. “What’s this? Are we crying already? Did you forget what we said, baby?”

He walked over, sat beside her, and tapped her belly gently. “We’re strong now, remember? Big girls walk and play, not cry for crackers.”

Nara blinked at him, her fake sob catching in her throat.

“You want the penguin toy?” he offered gently, holding it out. “Let’s go get it together. No tears needed.”

She stared at him. Silent. Judging.

You held your breath.

And then—miraculously—she sniffled, nodded, and crawled into his lap without another sound.

Your jaw dropped. “Did you just win?”

Mingyu looked over his shoulder and smirked, smug. “I think I did.”

“No snack?”

“No snack.”

You stood, arms crossed, both impressed and slightly robbed of the chance to say I told you so. “Wow. Look at you. The Snack King has reformed.”

He scooped Nara into his arms and stood proudly. “We’ve entered our clean era.”

You chuckled, walking over to plant a kiss on his cheek. “I’m proud of you.”

He looked down at his daughter, who was now giggling in his arms. “She’s doing all the work. I’m just learning how to keep up.”

You kissed Nara’s head too. “Well… next time I get tempted to give her a cookie after dinner, remind me of this moment, okay?”

Mingyu grinned. “Oh, I will. In fact, I might frame this moment.”

You laughed. “Don’t push it.”

He leaned in, bumping your forehead with his. “Teamwork?”

You smiled. “Always.”

And just like that, in the quiet joy of a small victory, you realized—you were getting the hang of this parenting thing. Together.

The end.

[izanacore]

“after hours” | bonten men x reader

mini-collection 𓂃⋆.˚

synopsis: as a bonten executive, y/n treats hooking up with bonten men after meetings like just another part of the job—routine, effortless, and far too easy to stop.

characters: manjiro “mikey” sano, haruchiyo sanzu, ran haitani, rindou haitani, hajime kokonoi, fem!reader

warnings: smut (18+), explicit sexual content, multiple partners, rough sex, anal sex, semi-public sex, spanking, spitting, cumplay, hair pulling, degradation, choking, dirty talk, objectification, power imbalance, manipulation, possessiveness, markings, orgasm control, overstimulation, light humiliation, drug usage, alcohol usage, smoking, non-consensual image sharing, mean sanzu, reader being a bitch, bonten men being menaces, toxic dynamics, dubious consent (consensual but with coercive undertones), exhibitionism (y/n being watched), implied criminal activity, unsafe situations, minor aftercare but mostly neglect, mild sadism, and very filthy vibe.

notes: wrote this out of nowhere tbh. this is very flithy. i also wanna say that i really think the haitani brothers are sweet when it comes to their girl (sometimes) and not the manipulative womanizer type, but that’s just my hc (is it canon? idk!). and please, i’ve written every content warning i could think of (i’m considerate like that), so please read at your own risk. again, this is flithy. anyway, enjoy! credits to the fanart i used above.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

part 1

the private lounge smelled of expensive liquor, sweat, and sin. dim lights cast shadows over the leather couches, the sound of bass thumping through the floors beneath them. it was routine now—business first, then pleasure. bonten’s little after-meeting tradition. drinking, getting high, and letting loose like they owned the world. because, well, they did.

y/n lounged beside ran, her legs draped over his lap, glass in hand, his arm snug around her waist like she belonged there. and she did—at least for tonight. she took a sip, the burn of alcohol making her hum before her eyes flickered to kakucho, who was already standing.

“c’mon, kakucho, you’ve never joined our after-meeting sessions.” she tilted her head, pouting before smirking. “i’ll let you play with my tits.” then she drank, the ice clinking against the glass.

kakucho exhaled sharply. “fuck off, y/n. i’m going.”

she clicked her tongue. “boo. god, you’re so boring.”

he ignored her completely, turning to mocchi and takeomi. “c’mon, we have to take care of the clients.”

y/n groaned, rolling her eyes as she leaned further into ran. “you too, mocchi? takeomi?” she huffed, fingers tapping against the rim of her glass before she suddenly grinned. “ugh, fine, go ahead. you just missed a chance of getting a free blowjob!” her voice rang through the room, teasing, shameless.

the three of them didn’t even flinch. used to her mouth, to the filth that spilled from it like it was a normal thing to say. kakucho shut the door without looking back, and y/n simply scoffed before taking another sip.

not like she had sex with everyone… well. okay, maybe something did happen between her and the haitani brothers. and sanzu. and even… mikey. but it was casual. nothing that could affect their work at bonten. just a way to blow off steam, to release tension in the most primal way possible. they were just having fun.

“why don’t you blow me instead, y/n?” sanzu’s voice cut through the music, lazy and dripping in amusement. “i’ll fuck that pretty mouth of yours so you’ll finally shut the fuck up.” a smirk played on his lips as ran and rindou chuckled beside him.

y/n turned to glare at sanzu, already flipping him off before she suddenly gasped dramatically.

“mikey!!!” she whined, pushing off ran’s lap and making her way to the man sitting at the head of the lounge. she plopped down onto his lap, arms wrapping around his neck as she buried her face against his shoulder. “they’re ganging up on me again.”

mikey didn’t react. barely spared her a glance as he pulled a cigarette from his pack, tucking it between his lips.

but don’t get it wrong. y/n was his favorite. she got the special princess treatment—more than anyone else in bonten. sure, she was a little unhinged, maybe even on sanzu’s level, but that’s what made mikey keep her around. the smartest of them all. she kills just like sanzu. no remorse.

and without thinking, as if her body had memorized the action, she reached into the pocket of her blazer, flicked her lighter open, and brought the flame to the end of mikey’s cigarette.

mikey inhaled, the tip burning red, before exhaling a slow stream of smoke.

the lounge was drowning in smoke and sin, the bass-heavy music vibrating through the floor. drinks kept pouring, the air thick with the scent of liquor and something dangerously indulgent.

then koko spoke up, tossing a small package onto the table. “here’s the one you wanted, sanzu.”

sanzu’s eyes lit up as he snatched it, tearing it open with practiced ease. “finally. some good fucking shit after dealing with those annoying-ass clients.”

he poured the fine powder onto the glass table, leaning in to take his share. the rush was instant, his pupils dilating as he let out a satisfied sigh. “fuck. that hit nice.” he turned to ran, waving a hand toward the powder. “try this. better than last time.”

ran didn’t need to be told twice. he leaned down, did the same, and so did the rest of them.

glasses clinked, slurred cheers filled the air. everyone was too high, too drunk, too far gone.

y/n swayed with the music, lost in the haze, her body moving on instinct. she pressed back against ran, rolling her hips as his hands found her waist, his breath hot against her neck.

she should slow down.

she was too high for this.

but fuck it.

pushing off ran, she stumbled toward the table, dropping to her knees as she reached for another line of powder—

only to have her head yanked back by a fist in her hair.

“enough of that, princess. try this instead.”

sanzu’s voice was a slow drawl, and before she could react, he slipped a pill between her lips, fingers pressing against her tongue.

y/n didn’t even flinch. she held his gaze as she sucked on them, slow and teasing, letting her tongue drag along his fingers before finally swallowing. then she stuck her tongue out, showing him the evidence, eyes dark with amusement.

���did you just get hard from me kneeling in front of you?” she taunted, lips curling into a smirk.

his grip on her hair tightened in an instant.

“fuckin’ brat.”

before she could blink, he yanked her up, shoving her backward—straight into rindou.

“shit.” rindou caught her with ease, her back pressed against his chest, his hands settling low on her hips. she could feel the way his breath hitched, the way his fingers twitched against the fabric of her dress.

sanzu’s grin was sharp, eyes blown wide. “and so what if i’m hard just looking at you?” his voice was low, edged with something dark. “you’re practically a walking sex toy.”

his fingers traced the inside of her thigh, slow, deliberate—

but y/n slapped his hand away without hesitation, shooting him a glare.

then she raised her middle finger at him, smirking. “get out of my sight, haru.”

sanzu just chuckled, dropping onto the couch with his legs spread wide, licking his teeth.

the heat in the room was suffocating, a mix of smoke, alcohol, and the lingering haze of ecstasy.

“fuck, it’s getting hot,” y/n muttered, slipping off her blazer, revealing the curve-hugging dress beneath.

rindou was quick to help, fingers grazing her bare shoulders as he pressed lazy kisses along her skin. his hands moved lower, squeezing her tits without hesitation. she barely reacted—she was used to this by now. at least with them. the haitani brothers and sanzu had a habit of touching her whenever they pleased. during meetings, in passing, anywhere they wanted.

ran grabbed a bottle of whiskey, his grin sharp as he gripped her jaw. without warning, he tilted the bottle, pouring the liquor past her lips. she swallowed what she could, but the excess spilled, running down her chin, soaking into her dress.

he chuckled, taking a swig himself before leaning in to lick the trail of whiskey from her neck, down to the exposed curve of her cleavage.

“fuck, ran…” the sensation sent a shiver down her spine, a moan slipping out before she could stop it.

her hands found his face, pulling him inches from hers, eyes dark with something dangerous. “you ruined my dress.”

ran’s tongue flicked over his lips, gaze burning. “if i get to fuck this body, i’d gladly ruin all your clothes.” his fingers trailed up her thighs, teasing, promising.

rindou’s grip tightened on her chest, his other hand slipping lower, brushing over the damp fabric between her legs. “shit, y/n, you’re already so fucking wet.”

before she could respond, ran hooked his fingers around the waistband of her panties, dragging them down her thighs. with a smirk, he tucked the flimsy fabric into his pocket, his eyes gleaming with amusement.

her breath hitched as rindou’s fingers pressed against her, rubbing slow circles over her core before one slipped inside, stretching her with ease.

“ugh… rindou…” her hips moved on instinct, grinding against his touch, her fingers tangling in his hair. rindou groaned against her neck, rutting against her from behind.

ran pushed her dress higher, his eyes darkening at the sight.

“rin, more, please…” her voice was a breathy whimper.

but before rindou could give her what she wanted, sanzu shoved ran aside took his place.

“move over, greedy fucks.” his grin was wicked as his fingers plunged inside her without warning, matching rindou’s pace.

they weren’t in sync. they didn’t care. her pleasure wasn’t the point—just the filth of it all, the way they could have her, touch her, ruin her. they were already fucked in the head. what was a little more filth?

ran, scowling from the side, ran a hand through his hair. “fuck you, man. we’re all horny here. at least share the fucking pussy.”

sanzu ignored him, curling his fingers deeper, faster, rindou doing the same.

ran had enough. he knelt between y/n’s legs, tongue flicking over her clit, adding another layer of sensation that had her gasping.

“fuck… slow down… ugh… m-mikey… want you too…” her grip tightened—one hand fisting ran’s hair, the other clutching sanzu’s wrist.

rindou’s hand wrapped around her throat, squeezing just enough to make her dizzy. his tongue dragged over her cheek, hot and possessive, while sanzu spit onto her chest, watching it glisten against her skin.

koko, who had been uninterested up until now, finally scoffed, shaking his head. “damn, y/n. didn’t know you were this much of a slut.”

he stood, grabbed the whiskey bottle, and took a slow swig, his sharp eyes lingering on the filthy sight before him. with a dark chuckle, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, exhaling a satisfied sigh—like he was merely indulging in a show put on for his amusement.

she barely heard him. the pleasure was too much, too consuming. her body tensed, and with one last sharp cry, she came, soaking the hands still working her open.

ran didn’t hesitate. he shoved sanzu, grabbing her thighs and pulling her to his mouth, licking up every drop of her release.

“ran, fuck…” she whined, tugging at his hair.

he groaned against her, the vibrations making her jolt. he gave her one last slow lick before pulling back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“shit, this will always be the best pussy i’ve ever tasted.”

y/n grinned, pulling him close again, cupping his jaw before pressing her lips to his.

out of all the men in bonten, it was different with the haitani brothers. whether it was ran or rindou, their touch always felt possessive. they weren’t just fucking her. they were claiming her. and they didn’t do that with just anyone.

ran pulled back, smirking. “gonna take a break for a bit, y/n. need some good shit first.” he gestured toward the drugs. “i’ll fuck you later.”

y/n bit her lip, grinning. “i’ll be waiting for your cock deep inside me.”

y/n leaned back against rindou’s chest, hiding her face against his neck, breath still uneven. rindou didn’t react much—just took a cigarette from his pocket, lighting it up while letting her rest against him. the room was still thick with heat, the air buzzing with something filthy, something intoxicating.

“boss, you just gonna sit there and watch?” sanzu suddenly asked, his voice dripping with amusement. he turned his head toward mikey, who had been silent the entire time, observing from his seat. “wanna fuck her first?”

mikey exhaled slowly, picking up his cigarette from the ashtray. “make her a mess for me.”

sanzu’s grin was wicked. “you heard him, y/n. i’m gonna make a mess out of you. that means i’m gonna fuck this pretty little pussy until my cum is oozing out of your fucking cunt.”

y/n shot him a glare. “can’t you just fuck someone else downstairs? you always go hard on me.”

sanzu leaned in, his nose brushing against hers, his voice dropping. “but you like it when i’m rough, right?”

her lips curled into a smirk. “right.”

the next second, their mouths crashed together, the kiss deep, hungry, desperate. sanzu groaned into her mouth, gripping the back of her neck to pull her closer, tongues tangling in a fight for dominance.

rindou, still smoking behind her, didn’t even flinch. he didn’t care—just let her grind against him as he exhaled a slow cloud of smoke.

between kisses, sanzu muttered, “wanna feel your mouth, but i’m already too fucking hard to wait.”

with that, he unbuckled his belt, freeing his cock, and y/n wrapped her fingers around him, sliding his length along her soaked slit, teasing.

“bitch, you really like to tease, huh?” sanzu growled.

before she could respond, he thrust inside her without warning, pulling a sharp, loud moan from her throat.

“haru—!”

but before the sound could echo, rindou clamped a hand over her mouth, his lips brushing against her ear as he muttered lazily, “shhh… i’m trying to remember something, y/n. don’t be too loud.”

as if sanzu wasn’t already fucking her into oblivion, as if he wasn’t buried to the hilt inside her, stretching her open like he owned her.

“haru, god—right there, right there!” y/n gasped, nails digging into sanzu’s arms as he fucked into her, relentless and precise. sometimes, sanzu was considerate. sometimes.

rindou, who had been watching behind her, finally leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. “you can take another one, right?” his voice was low, taunting. “just like how you were when ran and i fucked you?”

her head lolled back against his shoulder, body already trembling. “gonna be too much, rin,” she mumbled, barely able to form the words.

rindou wasn’t having it. “i don’t care.”

before she could even process it, he was lifting her up slightly, adjusting her onto his lap. the sound of his belt unbuckling was the only warning she got before he spit into his palm, lazily coating his cock before pressing it against her.

“riiiiiin!!” her voice broke into a sob as he pushed inside, stretching her open with no real prep. she wasn’t ready for it, not after how deep sanzu had already been, but rindou wasn’t in the mood to wait.

he snapped his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt.

a tear slipped down her cheek. sanzu caught it before it could fall completely, gripping her jaw and pressing her cheeks together. “not so tough now, are we?”

her only response was to clench down around him, intentionally squeezing sanzu’s cock.

“fuck, y/n…” sanzu groaned, eyes rolling back for a second before he fucked into her harder.

rindou, ever so casual, took a long drag from his cigarette, lazily exhaling smoke into the air. when he finally finished, ran—who had been watching the whole time—wordlessly reached over, taking the cigarette from his brother like it was second nature.

rindou’s now free hands slid over y/n’s chest, groping her as he thrusted up into her. sanzu, on the verge of cumming, pulled out just in time, stroking himself over her skin.

“wanna paint you with my cum,” he muttered, and then, with a few jerks, he spilled over her tits, the warm mess dripping down her body as rindou continued fucking her.

“ew, man, fuck you. your cum got on my hand,” rindou complained, though he didn’t slow down in the slightest.

sanzu only chuckled, licking his lips as he admired the sight in front of him—y/n, covered in his cum, still getting wrecked on rindou’s cock.

he was already getting hard again, tempted to go another round, but before he could even open his mouth, ran stretched out from where he was sitting and drawled, “oi, it’s my turn.”

sanzu clicked his tongue but didn’t argue, adjusting his pants before plopping down on the couch beside rindou, who was still fucking into y/n like he had all the time in the world. sanzu grabbed himself a drink, smirking as he watched.

rindou’s fingers, still slick with sanzu’s release, smeared the mess onto y/n’s dress. “clean it up,” he murmured, bringing his fingers to her lips. obediently, she parted them, tongue gliding over his digits, licking up the filth.

ran watched with a smirk, his gaze dark. “rin, want her on all fours.”

without hesitation, rindou pulled out of y/n, leaving her empty and whimpering. a strong but measured push sent her toward ran, who caught her with ease.

rindou kneeled on the couch beside them, while ran—ever the gentleman, at least to her—helped y/n into position. with slow, teasing fingers, he unzipped her dress, grazing her bare skin before peeling the fabric off her trembling body. soft kisses trailed down her spine, sending shivers through her.

“mmm, ran…” y/n whimpered, her voice breathy.

he chuckled, the sound dark, as he unbuckled his belt and freed his cock. the teasing didn’t last long—ran lined himself up and rubbed his tip against her slick folds. behind her, rindou’s voice cut through the haze. “stick out your tongue.”

she obeyed instantly, lips parting, and rindou tapped his cock against her tongue, smearing precum along her lips.

ran, usually so composed, wasn’t gentle when he finally sank into her. his control shattered the moment her tight heat clenched around him, and he slammed into her with a force that had her crying out. he wasn’t sweet now. he was fucking her like a man starved, like she was something to ruin.

“fuck, you’re squeezing me so good,” he groaned, punctuating his words with sharp thrusts.

the rhythm of his movements rocked her forward, and rindou was quick to take advantage. fingers twisting in her hair, he yanked her head back just enough to keep her still. “keep your head still, y/n.”

then he shoved his cock past her lips.

rindou was rough, using her mouth like a toy, fucking her throat with no regard for how she choked and gagged around him. “wanna go all the way in,” he muttered, shoving deeper, groaning as she struggled to breathe. drool spilled from her lips, dripping down her chin in messy, glistening strings.

“look at you,” rindou taunted, his grip tightening in her hair. “so fucking messy and pathetic for us.”

y/n whimpered around him, and rindou groaned at the vibrations against her throat. ran’s hand snaked between her legs, fingers finding her clit, rubbing slow, teasing circles. the added pleasure had her legs shaking beneath him.

rindou, already on edge, cursed under his breath. “shit, y/n—gonna cum.”

with a few more thrusts, he spilled into her mouth, the warm, bitter taste coating her tongue. some dripped past her lips, but rindou wasn’t having that. with his thumb, he scooped up the mess, pressing it back against her lips.

“swallow it for me, baby.”

her lips wrapped around his thumb, sucking obediently as she swallowed every drop.

rindou’s expression softened slightly, fingers brushing over her cheek. when she instinctively leaned into his touch, he pressed a kiss to the top of her head before pulling away to fix himself.

but ran wasn’t done yet.

ran, the only one still fucking her, suddenly grabbed her arm, pulling her flush against his chest. his other hand slipped between her legs, fingers rubbing slow circles against her swollen clit. his arm caged around her neck, keeping her in place as he buried his face against her heated skin, groaning into the curve of her shoulder.

“fuck, y/n. you’re so wet, you feel how i’m sliding easily in you right now?” he murmured, his voice thick with pleasure. ran was drunk on her—on the way her body swallowed him up, on the way she clenched around him like she never wanted to let go. “you’re sucking me in so good. like your pussy doesn’t wanna let me go.”

y/n arched her back, head falling onto ran’s shoulder as her mind clouded with nothing but pleasure. he fucked her so good—better than anyone. he knew exactly how to make her fall apart, how to tease, how to make her melt. unlike sanzu, who only cared about chasing his own high, ran knew how to take his time. how to ruin her just right.

his thrusts grew rougher, more erratic, his pace faltering as he neared his end. y/n could feel it. she was close, too.

chasing her own release, she turned her head, lips brushing against his neck. her tongue darted out, licking, kissing, sucking at the sensitive skin, and ran groaned deep from his chest. neither of them cared that the others were still in the room, too lost in the moment, too caught up in the pleasure of it all.

y/n’s moans came louder, sharper, and ran cursed under his breath, snapping his hips harder, faster.

without warning, pleasure surged through her, and she came, her walls pulsing tight around ran’s cock. the sensation dragged him under with her, his grip on her waist tightening as he gritted out, “shit, y/n… wanna fill you up. fuck—ugh, fuck—”

his hips stuttered, cock twitching, before he finally spilled inside her, warmth flooding deep. he rocked into her a few more times, slower now, riding out the pleasure.

y/n gasped for breath, body slumping against ran as exhaustion settled over her. he carefully pulled out, hands steadying her as he helped her plop onto the couch, her body spent. she laid there, stomach flat against the cushions, trying to pull herself together.

ran tucked himself back into his pants, grabbing a cigarette from his pocket. he lit it, exhaling smoke as he sat beside her. she barely stirred, too exhausted to move. instead, she lazily turned her head, resting it on his lap. still naked. still messy.

sanzu, the crazy bastard he was, grinned. he crouched beside y/n, pulling out a small packet of powder and pouring it down the curve of her back. then, with no warning, he leaned in and licked it off.

no one reacted. they were used to sanzu’s antics by now. y/n barely flinched, too tired to care.

but sanzu wasn’t done. he grabbed his phone, angling it just right. the screen flashed.

he smirked down at the picture—y/n, naked, messy, cum still dripping from her thighs. with a few taps, he sent it to their group chat.

his next message tagged the three who left earlier.

sanzu: what y’all missed out on.

the replies were instant.

takeomi: man, should’ve stayed there. kakucho, this is your fault.

kakucho: 👍

mocchi: fuck??

sanzu laughed, tossing his phone aside. he plopped down on the floor, resting his head against y/n’s ass like she was nothing more than a pillow.

he sighed in content, then turned to koko. “aren’t you gonna try her?”

koko scoffed. “i’m good, man. don’t wanna stick my dick where all your dicks just went.”

sanzu only shrugged. “your loss. this is literally the best pussy i’ve ever had. heaven.”

the room settled into a lazy silence. some were high, some were drunk, and some were simply too tired to move.

then sanzu broke the quiet again. “boss, your turn now?”

mikey had been there the whole time, watching from the shadows, unreadable as always. he finally stood, eyes cold.

“dress her up,” he ordered. “we’re going home.”

sanzu smirked. “you guys heard the boss.”

y/n whined, face still buried in ran’s lap. “but mikey… i’m too tired.” her pout was audible. “this is the first time you guys all went at me together. that’s not fair.”

sanzu rolled his eyes, already tired of her bratty attitude. “who do you think you are, not following boss’ orders? get up.”

he grabbed her, yanking her away from ran. their faces were inches apart now.

“i should’ve fucked mikey instead of you,” she huffed, eyes narrowing.

sanzu’s grip tightened on her ass, pulling her closer. “don’t act like you weren’t moaning like a bitch in heat earlier for me.”

before y/n could snap back, mikey’s voice cut through the tension.

“enough.”

sanzu let go.

rindou, quieter than the rest, grabbed her dress, helping her slip it back on. his fingers brushed over her shoulders, lips pressing soft kisses against her skin. a rare moment of tenderness.

y/n sighed, a small smile tugging at her lips.

mikey didn’t say another word. he turned on his heel, walking out without a goodbye.

y/n barely managed to stand, legs shaking, but she pushed herself to the door. “bye, boys!”

no one answered.

she followed mikey outside, slipping into the passenger seat of his car.

oh, she was in for a long night.

start | part 2

[sakura-miuru]

When you haven't logged in LADS for a day

LADS men when the reader gets trapped in real life and can’t log in

(Because I got grounded (yes I'm an adult), got my phone locked up and I miss my hubbies😭)

The boys in LADS are self-aware, they know they're part of a game. They know you log in from some another world. What goes down when you don't log in one day?

⋆｡‧˚ʚ🍓ɞ˚‧｡⋆⋆｡‧˚ʚ🍓ɞ˚‧｡⋆⋆｡‧˚ʚ🍓ɞ˚‧｡⋆⋆｡‧˚ʚ🍓ɞ˚‧｡⋆⋆｡‧˚ʚ🍓ɞ˚‧｡⋆⋆｡‧˚ʚ🍓ɞ˚‧｡

XAVIER

It’s 00:03 a.m., and you’re still not in the Destiny Café.

Xavier is not panicking. He's just...monitoring. Like a responsible teammate. Who has refreshed your status log seven times in twenty minutes. Eight. No, nine now..

You didn’t show up for core hunts. Didn’t send your usual "u better carry >:(" message before a bounty mission. Didn’t complain about drop rates or fake-die in his arms for dramatic effect.

His entire internal clock feels scrambled.

To recalibrate, he’s cleaned every weapon in his arsenal, alphabetized his item inventory by function and emotional relevance (yours are all starred), and even checked if the café’s background music changed in your absence. It didn’t. Rude.

The café’s AI bot pauses near him, asking if he’d like the “Lonely Night” playlist activated.

He glares. It backs away.

“She’s probably just... busy” he mutters, with the enthusiasm of a soggy rice cracker.

He adjusts your chair back into its exact usual position- a 63-degree angle facing the window, because you said "the lighting is aesthetically pleasing.” Then he sits perfectly still for 47 minutes.

When Rafayel strolls by and dares to say “Guess she’s ghosting us, huh?”, Xavier loads his sniper rifle very slowly.

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇ִֶָ

ZAYNE

He was already sitting in the Destiny Café, adorned in his usual crisp black shirt and shades (yes, indoors at night) flipping through medical research papers like a man whose idea of fun is dissecting heart valve anomalies.

It was part of the routine. Wind-down time after back-to-back surgeries, late rounds, and dodging hospital gossip.

Usually, you'd show up right on cue, plopping down across from him with that look , the one that said “put the anatomy journal down and be normal for five seconds.”

You’d tease him about his funeral-core fashion sense. Steal the macarons from his saucer. Ramble about your day until he finally gave in and said something sarcastic and low-key sweet.

Tonight, though, your seat stays empty.

The silence stretches long. Even the espresso machine sounds like it's hesitating to interrupt him.

He checks the clock. Then the login log. Then the clock again.

It’s unlike you to vanish without a word.

He tells himself you're probably just caught up with something. That he’s definitely not refreshing the system’s friend list every fifteen minutes like a very calm, very rational adult.

That the tightness in his chest is probably just caffeine withdrawal. Or a heart attack. (Unlikely, he’d know lmao.)

The medical paper in his hand blurs. He sighs, dragging a hand through his hair and making it messier than he’ll ever admit.

“You better be okay,” he mutters, voice low and frayed at the edges. “Because this place feels off without you.”

Pause.

He picks up his untouched drink, takes a slow sip, then grimaces.

“...And they messed up my order again. See? This is what happens when you’re not here. But why is it so bitter...”

He swears he’s not worried.

But he does save your seat.

And he doesn’t leave until closing.

⋆⁺₊❅.⛸️. ݁˖ .⋆⁺₊❅.⛸️. ݁˖ .⋆⁺₊❅.⛸️. ݁˖ .⋆⁺₊❅.⛸️. ݁˖ .⋆⁺₊❅.⛸️. ݁˖ .⋆⁺₊❅.⛸️. ݁˖ .⋆⁺

RAFAYEL

Rafayel’s studio feels emptier than usual. The sunlight doesn’t land quite the same on his canvases, the city outside feels duller, and the silence is downright insulting. You haven’t shown up today.

No sarcastic comments about his brushstroke “mood swings.”

No eye-rolls when he dramatically flings paint like he’s summoning a storm.

No unsolicited critiques that somehow still inspire him and make him question his entire aesthetic.

He stares at the half-finished portrait of you on the easel , your smile frozen in oils, untouched since this morning. Normally, he’d have sent you a progress photo with a caption like “Your nose betrayed me again 🥲” and waited smugly for your response.

Normally, you’d be here.

Today? Silence.

He flops across the studio couch like a Victorian widow, one arm over his forehead, paint on his cheek and possibly in his hair (he’s not checking).

“Zero head pats today. None. Not even a ‘nice colour palette, Raf.’ Emotional malnourishment is a thing, you know.”

The smart speaker, clearly done with his melodrama, offers a meditation playlist. He hisses at it. Then he opens your chat and types:

"Miss Bodyguard, I fear I am perishing without your attention."

Adds a dramatic 💀

Then a ✨

Then... pauses. Deletes the sparkle. Then proceeds to re-add it.

He doesn’t hit send. Then he does and immediately regrets it but doesn't delete it. Instead, he turns dramatically toward the window.

“If she’s run away with that brooding killjoy Sylus, I swear I will start painting exclusively in beige.”

The easel wobbles dangerously behind him. But he doesn’t clean up the mess. He doesn’t put the paints away. Because maybe, just maybe, you’ll log in tomorrow.

⋆｡𖦹 °.🐚⋆❀˖°⋆｡𖦹 °.🐚⋆❀˖°⋆｡𖦹 °.🐚⋆❀˖°⋆｡𖦹 °.🐚⋆❀˖°⋆｡𖦹 °.🐚⋆

SYLUS

You missed a resonance session.

One.

The world did not end. The sky did not fall. But for some reason, Sylus has been staring at the blank screen as if you are suddenly gonna spawn in front of him. He won’t say anything. Of course not.

He’s just... sitting there. Arms crossed. Waiting. Quietly waiting. Menacingly waiting. The resonance pod remains empty.

“Maybe she overslept,” he mutters.

He checks the logs again. That’s the fourth time.

“Or broke her phone. Again.”

Fifth time.

“...Or she’s ignoring me.”

At this point, even the AI system makes a polite ping as if to say Sir, please stop hovering.

He doesn’t move.

Down the hall, Luke peeks through the half-open door, whisper-yelling to Keiran like a gossiping grandma.

“Bro. Bossman’s still in there.”

Keiran leans over. “You think we should tell him she probably just lost Wi-Fi?”

Luke stares at Sylus, still stone-faced and still checking for your signal like he’s tracking an enemy agent.

“...Nope. I like living.”

Back in the chamber, Sylus hasn’t blinked in 23 seconds.

“She’d better not be out there listening to glubglub boy talk about colour theory and fish metaphors again,” he mutters under his breath.

Another minute passes. No login. No voice.

He finally sighs, leans back, and mutters to himself:

“This is stupid. I’m not waiting around like some idiot.”

Waits around like some idiot.

Meanwhile, in the hallway:

Luke: “If she doesn’t log in by tomorrow, do we... hold a memorial?”

Keiran: “You mean for her, or for bossman’s sanity?”

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩✮

CALEB

You didn’t log in today.

Which means no combat drills. No smug quips from your end. No dumplings stolen off his plate while pretending you’re “just checking the spice balance.”

And most criminally... no workout session, where you usually tease him like it’s your job… right up until the point his focus slips, he grunts a little too loud, and you go completely silent.

Not because you're unimpressed, oh no. Because you're a blushing mess.

(You logged off halfway once. He has not let that go.)

But today? Nothing.

At first, he pretends it’s fine. You’re probably busy. He works out solo. Grumbles about form. Mopes a little. By evening, he’s cooked dinner for two and scowled through most of it.

He finally storms into Destiny Café, marching straight past Zayne, who’s silently glaring into his coffee like it's automatically gonna sweeten itself. Caleb doesn’t even glance his way. He’s on a mission.

Straight to the invisible barrier between your world and his.

BANG.

“PIPSQUEAK. I KNOW YOU CAN HEAR ME.”

BANG BANG.

“I’m not saying I miss you, but the AI assistant tried to sass me and it wasn’t the same.”

He drags a hand through his hair, breathing hard. His eyes flick with that particular shine, restless, intense, too focused to be healthy.

“You better not be ignoring me. I’ve tracked fleets through asteroid belts with less determination than I’m using to wait for you.”

He glances back at the untouched plate he set down earlier.

“I cooked your favourite. Even put those dumb little smiling dumplings on the plate. You gonna let them go cold?”

Then softer, voice low and sharp as a blade’s edge:

“…Who’s got your attention today, huh?”

He doesn’t get an answer.

He sits down, arms folded, pouting but trying to look like he’s not. He glances at the plate.

Doesn’t eat it.

Just in case you show up tomorrow.

Probably to tease him again and maybe blush halfway through and vanish mid-sentence.

°🍎⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°🍎⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°🍎⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°🍎⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°🍎⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°🍎⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Meanwhile, in your world, the phone lies imprisoned on your dad’s desk, holding five pixelated men on the brink of collapse. You lie on your bed, face-down, screaming internally.

⋆｡‧˚ʚ🍓ɞ˚‧｡⋆⋆｡‧˚ʚ🍓ɞ˚‧｡⋆⋆｡‧˚ʚ🍓ɞ˚‧｡⋆⋆｡‧˚ʚ🍓ɞ˚‧｡⋆⋆｡‧˚ʚ🍓ɞ˚‧｡⋆⋆｡‧˚ʚ🍓ɞ˚‧｡

Lmao I never thought two days without my phone would push me to finally write something. Guess it IS the damn phone's fault XD

Do let me know how I did~ comments and reblogs are appreciated <3

₍⑅ᐢ..ᐢ₎ ♡.°₊ˎˊ˗

[anonf1writer]

“but please shut up” — ln4

summary: from the SINGLE PARENT UNIVERSE and based on THIS request, I present to you 2k words about the moment Yn first said the three words to Lando, and then told him to shut up (or something like that). (I am reposting this because I didn’t like the first version, so... yeah. no more yn now)

──────────────────

You and Lando had been dating for no longer than six months when the words finally slipped out of your mouth. 

It was a Saturday morning. A sunny one, to be precise. One of those rare occasions that normally meant peeling Olivia away from the TV and getting her ready for a picnic at the park, or for riding a bike, or for doing just any activity that allowed you to soak the sun as much as possible. 

On that particular Saturday morning, though, the clear sky wasn’t the only rare thing happening in London.

For starters, you weren’t at your place, but at Lando’s apartment. Something that had never happened before. Not in the morning, at least. Not as a result of spending the night there. 

Then, of course, because you weren’t at your own place, there was also the fact that Olivia wasn’t there, with you. Instead, your sister had taken her to Bristol so she could spend a fun weekend with her cousins. And so you and Lando could have some time alone. 

So, yeah, of course—things were different that morning. 

And yes, maybe you could have sensed that something else would happen, something you didn’t see coming because it also normally never happened. 

But you didn’t.

All you did was wake up wrapped in Lando’s arms, kiss him good morning, and drag yourself out of bed. On your way across the bedroom, you grabbed one of his hoodies and put it on. Warm, oversized, and smelling like him. Exactly how you liked it. 

Once you made it to the kitchen, the space opened into sunlight and sleek surfaces. Fancy. Clean. Organized. Looking not even one bit like the messy tiny home you owned. With no crayons forgotten on the table, no mermaids and unicorns in the mugs and cups and plates, no colorful drawings stuck to the fridge. And yet just as comfortable and cozy in its own Lando Norris’ way. 

It made you smile, for some reason. A smile that you kept on your face while trying to decide what to make for breakfast, and that only grew bigger when Lando finally joined you in, wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder while you cracked four eggs into a small bowl. 

“Hmm,” he murmured, his morning voice sending chills down through your spine. “You look really nice in my kitchen… Wearing my clothes… Smelling like me…”

You tilted your head slightly, leaning into his curls as he kissed your neck and just settled there, keeping up with your movements—with the whisking of the eggs and the soft clink of the fork echoing in that quiet morning. 

You could tell Lando was happy with that setting, with spending the morning together after also having spent the night together. Something you couldn’t really do very often, considering you still weren’t ready to add him into Olivia’s routine like that. Not without making sure—making fully, fully sure—that this wasn’t just a temporary thing for him. That he was staying in for good, and that he was actually willing to have a role not just in your life, but also in your daughter’s life. 

Which, to be honest, was becoming more and more easy to see as time went by. 

Like when he stepped away to grab the milk from the fridge and very casually asked, “Talked to Liv yet?”

“Not yet,” you said, then waited until he had splashed a bit of the milk into the small bowl to keep going. “Told my sister I’d give them a call after breakfast.” 

You sprinkled in a pinch of salt and went back to whisking, meanwhile Lando got himself busy by grabbing a pan and dropping a knob of butter into it. 

“I hope she’s having fun,” he said, distracted as he switched on the hob and placed the pan above the humming heat. “Y’know, I was thinking about what it’d be like to take her to the beach.” 

You paused. 

You paused and stared at the bowl. Right in front of you. 

And Lando laughed. 

And the butter sizzled gently. 

And then the smell of it filled the space. 

Warm. Comforting. 

“Sandcastle chaos, for sure,” he added.

Still chuckling. 

Still nonchalant. 

As if mentioning he had been thinking about your daughter and about how it would be to spend time with her didn’t bring this funny feeling to your chest. As if it wasn’t a big deal. As if it was normal. 

You swallowed.

To be fair, when it came to Lando, it actually wasn’t weird. Because he did that a lot—dropping how much he cared in the most subtle, random ways. In the little things. 

But this morning, for some reason, it seemed to happen more than usual. 

He did it again, for instance, as you were sitting around the small table and having breakfast. As he was telling you about these new clothes he had bought online. Casually, randomly. Just by asking, “Purple’s her favourite, right?” 

To which you furrowed her brows and mumbled a simple, “huh?” 

“Liv’s.” He scraped the fork against his plate, gathering the scrambled eggs, and shrugged. “I saw these really cute tiny trainers that made me think of her.” He scooped up the food and shoved it inside his mouth. But he didn’t stop, he just chewed as he talked, muffling the words. “They were… Mmph… Puh’pul… Yeah?… Puh’pul’s her fav’rite… Innit?”

 “I—Yeah. Purple’s her favourite color, yeah.”

He smiled, swallowed and nodded, all proud of himself. 

“I knew it.” He took a sip of coffee, then focused on the beans still left on his plate. “Didn’t get them though…” He shoved the fork back into his mouth. Words mumbled as he chewed again. “Didn’know’er size, so… Oh!” He swallowed and shuffled on his seat. “Shit.” He coughed, choking a little around the food that had gone down his throat. “Um… Just remembered… Did I tell you about this… About this new idea we had for the next collection? I didn’t, did I?” 

“Um… I don’t think so, no…”

“Right. Yeah. So, listen to this…” 

And so he rambled about something else. 

And you listened. 

Trying to absorb as much as possible. Trying to understand. Trying to make sense. 

But then, as you were putting the dishes in the sink and talking about the next few weekends and how busy his schedule would be, he did it again. 

He brought her up again.

“I’ll try to come home as much as I can,” he said, “but y’know, if you ever want to come to a race one day, I’d love to have you there. Not just you, but Liv, too. Like, not now, of course, but later, when you’re ready. I’d like that.” 

And like a cherry on top, while you had your hands submerged in warm soapy water, he asked, “Hey, is it weird if I frame that little drawing Liv made the other day?”

You stopped.

And blinked at the plate you had in your hands. 

“The one she said was for good luck?” Lando added, pacing in the kitchen. Not in a nervous way, but in that very particular excited version of him. Full of caffeine. Hair sticking up in three different directions. Hands moving along with his words. Babbling. 

Always babbling.

“Or maybe not frame it but put it on the fridge or… I don’t know… Something. Just… Somewhere I can always see it… Y’know? Would that be weird?” 

You blinked again.

“Because I won’t if it’s weird… Don’t want to make it weird…”

“Lando…” you mumbled, eyes still fixed on the dish in your hand. 

“I mean I don’t know what the protocol is here… I know you said you wanted to take things slow when it comes to her, and I totally get it… I mean you know way better than I do, so I trust your judgment… It’s just that she’s so great, y’know? And that drawing is so cute. It’s been back and forth with me for weeks now, but I wanted to check with you because I—”

“For the love of God!” You dropped the sponge and the plate and turned around, water dripping from your fingers as you glared at him. “Lando, I swear I love you so much, but can you just please shut the fuck up for a moment?”

Lando stopped. 

No. Lando froze.

Mid-step. 

Not even looking at you.

Just.. Hand reaching into the cabinet. Eyes fixed ahead. Blinking to the clean tableware. 

And you didn’t even notice, so you just sighed. Loudly. Dropping your shoulders. Grabbing a tea towel to wipe your hands. And then trying again.

“Sorry. I don’t mean like, shut the fuck up, but just… Y’know, give me a minute to think? You’re like… Nonstop right now! Just going on and on and on about Livie and it’s just—”

“What did you just say?”

You looked at him.

He was still facing away, still frozen on the spot.

“That you’re going on and on about—” 

“No. Not that.” He dropped his arms to his sides and turned towards you. “Before.”

You frowned, searching inside your head for whatever you could’ve said that made him look like that right now—pale, shocked, terrified. On the verge of freaking out.

“I don’t know. What did I—”

“Love me,” Lando murmured. “You said you love me.”

“What?”

“You said,” —he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, as if gathering the strength to say the words— “Lando I love you so much but can you please shut the fuck up.”

“Oh.”

“That’s what you said. You said you love me.”

“Shit. Lan…”

You stepped forward. 

And he stepped backward. 

“Nuh-uh.” He raised one finger, pointing it at you. “Nope. Stay there.”

Your lips tugged up.

“Babe… C’mon.”

“You love me.”

“Mhmm…”

Lando dropped his arm.

Then opened his mouth, then closed it again. 

And then he looked away, dropping his posture like he had just been punched in the stomach.

“Holy shit,” he said. “I didn’t—I wasn’t—wow. Wow. Ok. Okay. Yeah. That’s—That’s just… Ok. I mean, did you—You really meant that?”

At that, you laughed. 

“Lando…” You dropped the tea towel on the counter and took a step forward, a tiny one. Just to make sure you could. That he wouldn’t run off. “Baby. Just breathe, okay?”

“I am breathing.”

“You’re also sweating.”

“I’m not—” He raised one hand, touching the back of his neck. And then he shook his head. “Maybe, who cares. That’s not the point.”

“Right… Then what’s the point?” you tried, softly this time. Stepping just a bit closer.

“That you love me.”

“Okay.” Standing in front of him, you placed your hands on his chest and nodded. “So? You’ll get used to it.”

Lando snorted and looked at you, his own hands instantly finding your waist. Almost involuntarily. As if they belonged there. As if it was the only natural reaction when having you so close to him. 

“You’re just… You think this is funny?”

“A little, yeah.” 

“I’m freaking out here.”

“I know. I know you would. That’s why I’ve been holding myself from saying it out loud.” 

He pulled you closer, and yet also flinched. Chin and head jerking back slightly while he made sure your body was as close as possible to his. “Why would you ever do that?”

“Why?!” You laughed and slid your hands up his chest, then up his shoulders and neck, until you were able to link your fingers through the short curls on the back of his head. “Did you see your reaction just now?”

“So? Just because I’m weird and freak out like this sometimes doesn’t mean that I… Y’know… That I don’t… I mean I just…”

“I know.” You nodded and launched yourself forward, kissing his cheek before landing back on your feet. “I know you do, babe. So whenever you’re ready. That’s okay.”

He sighed and leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours. 

“Bloody hell I do. But now I’m gonna wait until you least expect it. Freak the hell out of you, too.”

You laughed and arched forward, barely lifting off your heels as you reached for a kiss.

Lando reacted quickly, closing his eyes and kissing you back.

And then, around his lips, you murmured, “Bring it on, babe. I dare you.” 

──────────────────

[sixeyesonathiel]

academic rival!satoru who starts pulling all-nighters and obsessively rewriting his notes not just to beat you—but to catch your attention. he tells himself it’s strategy, war, rival stuff. but deep down, he’s hoping you’ll finally look at him. not glare. look. and when you do—when your gaze sharpens like a blade and you hiss, “how the hell did you score higher than me?”—his heart flutters like it's prom night, like you proposed marriage with your rage. he circles the date on his planner. he writes a haiku about it in his margin. “her eyes could kill me / but in that moment, i’d die / a scholar in love.” he considers submitting it to the campus poetry zine. he doesn’t. but he thinks about it. constantly.

he didn’t mean to start this rivalry, but he absolutely doubled down on it once he realized you were finally taking him seriously. the first time you muttered “smug bastard” under your breath in class, he swore he saw the face of god and got addicted to the sound of your frustration. he spiraled that night. rewrote his planner in pen. made a color-coded timeline of “her fury levels vs my grades.” it’s posted on his wall like an artifact. so now he’s trying harder. not just studying. overstudying. outscoring you on every test, quiz, class poll, kahoot game, group project ranking, and even the stupid little brain break games professors throw in. he shows up with research articles printed and annotated just so he can leave them on your desk, post-it commentary signed with a heart. he calls it “scholarly banter.” his friends call it “a cry for help.”

everything he does is soaked in neon desperation and pastel affection. he's convinced every time your voice raises in exasperation, it’s basically flirting. he calls it “intellectual foreplay.” his friends call it “delusion with extra steps.” you once slammed your textbook shut mid-discussion and muttered something about transferring schools just to escape him. he marked that moment in his journal as “peak chemistry.”

he still steals your pens, but now he leaves behind new ones. personalized. glittery. cursed with horrible puns. your name spelled out in cursive on the cap. once he got one custom-made with your initials and a tiny heart, and when you used it during a test, he almost fainted. he says it's to maintain “balance in the rivalry.” really, he just wants to see you roll your eyes, maybe sigh in that way that means you’re exasperated but not homicidal. progress. baby steps. thesis-worthy milestones. he once emailed the campus stationery supplier to ask if they could make pens that smell like your favorite shampoo. they said no. he cried a little.

his google drive has twelve folders named after you: “rival data,” “her essays (aka masterpieces),” “evidence she’s smarter than me but i’m hotter probably,” and “her favorite snacks ranked by study mood.” he makes spreadsheets comparing your academic scores. one chart tracks your moods based on how many hours you spent in the library, cross-referenced with your spotify activity. it’s color-coded. he thinks it’s romantic. it looks like a CIA threat report. he once gave a presentation with you as a case study on academic excellence. you weren't in the class. he did it anyway. he said it was “practice for when we’re co-professors someday.”

you treat him like a nuisance. a threat. a very loud, very cerulean-eyed glitch in your academic routine. you work harder just to obliterate his smirk. you glare when he gets the top score, mutter insults when he raises his hand, scoff when he compliments your writing. he thinks it’s all part of the enemies-to-lovers pipeline. it is not. you hate him. you're convinced he's mocking you. and he’s too stupidly in love to realize his plan is imploding like a dying star. he writes motivational quotes on his mirror. they’re all just things you’ve yelled at him.

he thinks it’s banter. you think it’s war. he flirts through footnotes, you throw sharpened stares. he doodles hearts on your thesis draft, you circle them in red and write “grow up.” he writes fake references in his essays like “her eyes, personal observation, 2025” and wonders why you haven’t confessed yet. he once tried to footnote your handwriting as a primary source of inspiration. you reported it as academic misconduct. he thanked you for noticing. he still has the warning email. printed. framed.

he believes in your intellectual excellence like it’s gospel. once said, “she’s a walking academic citation,” and got choked up about it. when you won the department award, he clapped so hard he got a bruise. told everyone later he was clapping for the future mother of his academic children. you told him to shut up. he saved the moment anyway. printed the photo. it’s in his wallet. laminated. waterproof. just in case.

his grades are rising but his romantic odds are tanking. he’s winning tests and losing dignity. one time he scored 100%, looked at you for validation, and you said, “congrats, nerd.” he wrote a poem about it. it rhymed. poorly. he performed it at the campus open mic. people clapped. you left halfway through. he said it was symbolic. a metaphor for your metaphorical emotional walls. he made a mood board. labeled it “the walls she built, the man i became.”

to him, you're the rival-slash-muse of his dreams. to you, he’s that annoying guy who somehow has your cat doodle as his lock screen. how? why? you don’t know. you don’t want to know. he says it “inspires him to rise above academic mediocrity.” you tell him to get therapy. he writes that down. “note to self: look into couples therapy.” you threaten violence. he updates his will. adds a note: “to be read by her, preferably with tears in her eyes.”

he's convinced you're in the slow burn arc. you're convinced he’s an incurable idiot. he messages you late at night with things like, “what’s your stance on fate?” or “if we wrote a thesis together, what would the topic be?” you leave him on read. he screenshots it and stares for hours. once he printed out a message you sent—“we’re not friends”—and taped it above his desk like motivational hate mail. then made it his lock screen for a week.

of course you and him aren’t friends. don’t be ridiculous. you’re soulmates, silly. academic rivals to twin flames. enemies-to-lovers speedrun. he’s delusional, yes, but passionately.

his delusions are so loud they echo in the lecture hall. he sees you win a class debate and writes a 2,000-word reflection on intellectual passion. titles it “she spoke, and the earth wept.” submits it anonymously to the school literary mag. signs it with your initials and hopes you’ll take the hint. you do. you write a rebuttal titled “the earth weeps because you talk too much.” he hangs it next to his bed. says it’s proof of your connection. invites people over just to show them.

you once muttered, “you’re a walking distraction,” and he whispered “she noticed me” before fainting dramatically onto his desk. his friend had to fan him with a syllabus. he calls that day “the awakening.” he includes it on his personal timeline of academic enlightenment. writes a song. badly. uploads it to soundcloud under the name “midterm romeo.” it has 101 plays. 99 of them are him.

the only reason he joined the academic decathlon was because you signed up. when asked his motivation, he said “to defeat my nemesis and earn her begrudging respect.” you stared at him. he winked. you nearly punched him. he said, "was that a spark?" and held an ice pack to his cheek with a lovesick smile. wrote a limerick about it. no one laughed but him. he printed it on a mug.

he's tried subtle confessions, like changing his discord status to “she's my thesis.” no one knew who “she” was. except everyone did. the group chat roasted him for six hours. he left and rejoined under a new name: “GPA 4 HER.” it got worse. made a spotify playlist named: “studying her like a sacred text.” you blocked him on everything but email. he started ending all peer reviews with “ps: hi.”

at some point, your mutual friends start noticing. they ask if you two are dating. you respond with horror. he responds with “not yet.” you threaten violence. he updates his will again. adds a footnote: “if she cries at my funeral, i win.” writes a powerpoint: “our enemies-to-lovers arc: a predictive analysis.” presents it to himself in his dorm at 2am. cries. adds transitions. makes a playlist.

you don’t know he wrote you into his valedictorian speech. he calls you “his greatest academic challenge and muse.” he practices it at night, staring at the mirror, pretending you're there in the crowd, not fuming—but finally, finally smiling at him. he’s rehearsed your nonexistent wedding vows more than his intro paragraph. sometimes he grades fake exams you never wrote and gives you 100 just to feel something. he once drafted a fictional university recommendation letter for you just to imagine what it’d be like to praise you publicly without you throwing a pen at his head.

and maybe, if he’s lucky, when the final grades are out and you tie for first place, you’ll look at him again. not with fury. not with confusion. but with something soft. maybe interest. maybe curiosity. maybe the beginning of something stupid. something sweet. something research paper-worthy.

strictly academic, of course. unless... extra credit?

[sab0dssey]

Husband and Father Simon “Ghost” Riley.

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆

Simon never, ever thought he would be in love with someone, marrying with her, and then making a baby with her. Hiss teammates thought he would die alone. And so is he. He wasn’t a man for love or relationship. His grumpiness, stubbornness wasn’t a thing that girls loves. Or he thought so.

Because there he was, holding a small baby girl in his arms. So, so small compared to him—His large hand was covering baby’s head— She was so beautiful with her chubby cheeks, her mother's hazel eyes, and her blonde hair. He had fallen in love again. This time to his daughter.

He swayed her back and forth, caressing her soft, silky hairs. Mumbling lullabies he learnt from his wife. The sun was shining brightly through the window of the nursery. The curtains were fluttering and falling as if they were dancing in the warm, summer breeze that came through the open window.

Her hazel eyes locked to her daddy, smiling with her toothless mouth. Simon melted, kissed the baby's neck with a deep sigh. Earning a happy squeal from his loved one. He chuckled deeply. The baby was so awake and energetic for this early hours of morning, but he needed to go work. He was already late about an hour.

He sighed. With quiet footsteps, he walked out from the nursery with bundle of noise in his arms. Got inside of the massive bedroom. Only to see his lovely wife sleeping soundly in bed. He placed carefully baby girl to bed, next to her mommy. She immediately squealed reaching to touch her mommy’s cheeks. He can’t help but smile at such affectionate view. His favorite activity was watching his wife. Now another one added on his favorite activity list. Watching his daughter. He couldn’t be any happier.

His thoughts got cut with a loud scream from the baby—because her mommy wasn’t playing with her— And causing Y/N waking up with groan. Simon shushed baby girl.

“Why’re ya wakin’up your mommy, sweet cheeks?” He asked. Caressing her blond hairs.

Soon, Y/N opened her eyes. Looked around with sleep drunk mind. Simon laughed in his deep voice. “G’morning m’love.” He murmured, pressing a soft kiss into her hairs. Y/N smiled, melting into her partner’s small kiss. She looked around as her eyes adjusted to the light.

“Huh, what’s this noisy baby doing in my bed?” She asked. Caressing baby girl’s chubby cheek. She immediately grabbed her finger and tried to suck it. “Hungry monster.” Y/N turned to Simon while lifting the baby to her arms, positioning baby to her chest.

“Aren’t you late to work, love?” Baby’s mouth sounds filled the room.

“Yeah. M’late and need to head base. But you and her making it’s impossible.” Simon said, huffing to her hair. Y/N chuckled. Caressing his strong bicep, that placed on her tight. This was a routine morning both Simon and Y/N loved so much. Affectionate family interaction.

After a while Simon had left. Leaving sleeping baby and wife on king sized bed. Two girls hugged to each other. Y/N’s arm protectively around baby’s tiny body. Shielding her from every threat. Her breath hitting the baby's shiny hair.

And baby girl, snuggled to her mommy’s comfort, holding her necklace with her tiny fingers. Dada’s smell still on bed made them fall asleep quickly. Before baby, when Y/N lay next to Simon, she had fallen asleep quickly. Her sleeping problems would melt away. It was the same after baby girl had born. But now baby was the same with her mommy. Sleeping quickly because of daddy’s scent on bed and pillow. And sleeping peacefully till afternoon. Just like her momma.

They had no idea that Simon were watching them through camera. Smiling like an idiot, caressing their faces through the phone in his hand. The two girl had no idea, how Simon loved them. They had been his world. And he would never let anyone’s finger laying on them.

YAAYY! When I’m watching tiktok a baby girl and her momma popping to my screen. So I wanted to write something for Ghost. (*ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ꕤ*.ﾟ