#and knows how to ask for things without asking for them directly.

[vitalverstappen]

Almost Ready - O. Piastri

summary: everyone sees it but them. one final summer left to admit the truth

pairing: camp counselor au Oscar Piastri x reader

warnings: swearing, use of y/n

word count: 8.6k

a/n: this fic was heavily inspired by @piastriprincess 's fic under pink light in june and you all should definitely go check it out! i've honestly started writing a few more camp related fics so look out for them!

You were eight years old when you first met Oscar. 

The first thing you noticed about him was that he didn’t talk much. Not in the shy way some kids did, looking down at their shoes and whispering hellos. No, this was different. He looked like someone who had decided, deliberately, that silence was better than saying something dumb. Like words were coins and he only wanted to spend them if it was absolutely necessary. 

The second thing you noticed was that he had the best snack. 

You were sitting on a patchy, sun-warmed picnic blanket near the lake with your cabin group, poking at a sad sandwich someone’s mom had labeled in Sharpie. It was leaking something suspicious onto the paper towel underneath, and honestly, you were already regretting not just asking for a second granola bar instead.

Camp was still new. The sky was bright and buzzing with dragonflies, and everything smelled like a weird mix of bug spray, pine needles, and that sunscreen that made your arms feel sticky no matter how long it had been since it dried. Somewhere behind you, a counselor was trying to convince a kid that late water “technically counted” as a bath. 

Your socks were already damp from stepping on the wrong part of the dock. Your knees itched from the grass. You felt out of place and overly noticeable and kind of homesick in a way you didn’t want to say out loud. 

And then you saw him.

Across the grass, maybe a few blankets over, a boy with sandy-blond hair and knees covered in bandaids sat alone, munching on what looked like… chocolate covered pretzels.

Your mouth kind of watered. 

You didn’t know his name yet. You didn’t know what cabin he was in, or if he was the kind of kid who got into trouble or got ignored. But he had that serious, quiet-kid look. The kind of kid that noticed things. His baseball hat was too big for his head and slipped low over his eyebrows. His socks were pulled up to his calves in a way that would’ve gotten him laughed at anywhere else, but there, it just made him look prepared. Like he got camp in a way you didn’t yet. 

So you scooted closer. 

Just a little. Not directly toward him - more like a slow diagonal shuffle, careful and half-hearted, like if you got caught, you could pretend you weren’t doing it on purpose.

But he noticed. Of course he did. 

His eyes flicked toward you - quick and sharp, the same way a bird looks up from a feeder when it senses movement. He didn’t say anything right away. Just watched.

Then, finally, in a voice not much louder than a whisper:

“What,” he asked, without looking away, “are you doing?”

You froze mid-scoot.

“...Sitting.”

“Okay,” he said, and popped another pretzel in his mouth like that was the end of the conversation. 

You watched him crunch. He chewed like someone with opinions.

After a second: “That looks really good.”

“It is.”

You waited. He didn’t offer you one. 

“Are you gonna share?” 

Oscar looked at you like that was a very big ask. Like you’d just requested access to his medical records or the secret formula to chocolate milk.

Then, with the world’s tiniest sigh, he plucked a single chocolate pretzel from the bag - slowly, precisely - and held it out toward you like it was an ancient treasure he wasn’t sure you’d earned.

“You can have this one,” he said, “but not if you’re gross about it.”

You blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Like… if your hands are sticky. Or if you eat weird.”

You inspected your palms. “They’re clean. I think.”

He handed it over like he was passing along a relic.

You popped it in your mouth and immediately lit up. The chocolate was a little melty from teh sun, and the pretzel was perfectly salty and sweet and crunchy. “That’s so good.”

“I know. That’s why I said don’t be gross.”

You stared at him, unimpressed. “You’re kind of bossy.”

He shrugged like he got that a lot and didn’t care.

You sat beside him in silence for a while, both of you watching a pair of counselors try to stop a goose from stealing someone’s apple slices. The goose was winning. 

The sun warmed your back, and the sugar settled on your tongue like something safe. He didn’t talk. You didn’t either. But the quiet didn’t feel weird anymore.

Then, very softly, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to say it out loud:

“I’m Oscar.”

You glanced sideways. “I’m Y/N.”

There was a pause. You could hear kids laughing by the docks. Someone was singing off-key in the mess hall.

“... Wanna split the rest of the bag?” 

You didn’t answer right away. Just nodded and scooted a little closer, careful not to touch his arm. But he didn’t move away when you did. 

And in the weird,unspoken, quietly magical way that kids sometimes become friends, that was it. 

From then on, when the counselors asked where you were, the answer was usually the same:

“With Oscar.”

And that’s how it would be for the rest of that summer. 

And the next one. 

And the one after that. 

Each June, you’d find him on the first day - same too big hat, same socks pulled up too high, same quiet smile he only ever gave you. It was like pressing play on something that had just been paused, like time didn’t really move during the months you spent apart. You’d pick up right where you left off: racing canoes, swapping dessert at lunch, inventing stories about the birds that nested in the rafters of the arts & crafts shed. 

He never said much. But you always knew where to find him. 

But in between the summers, during the long, boring school years, you lost touch. 

You’d think about him sometimes. Usually when something small reminded you - chocolate-covered pretzels in a vending machine, someone with a funny accent in a classroom, the way a friend sat in the grass like he used to. Those memories would pop up, sudden and specific, like sunlight through the clouds on a gray day. 

You’d wonder what his life looked like the other ten months of the year. What city he lived in. What subjects he liked. If he thought of you too. 

But mostly, you waited. 

And when summer came around again, you’d arrive at camp with that quiet, nervous feeling tucked in your chest - is he coming back? 

And every year, the answer was yes. 

======

At sixteen, the cabin looked a lot smaller. 

Not in a disappointing way - just in the way everything from childhood eventually does. As if your eyes had grown up faster than the space around you. You stood just outside the doorway, a clipboard tucked under your arm and a box of name tags dangling from your wrist, staring at the same crooked window you used to press your face up against when it rained. The glass was still cloudy in the corners. You remembered tracing little hearts in the fog of it with your fingertip.

The bunk beds looked the same - scuffed and creaky and slightly too close together. The bottom bunk on the far left still had a carved smiley face near the headboard, and someone wrapped friendship bracelets around one of the support poles, faded and fraying from summers long gone. The wooden beams still had those pencil markings from campers long gone: height measurements, initials, hearts carved around other initials. You spotted your own name faintly scratched near the window frame. 

And even though your shirt said Junior Counselor, it didn’t quite feel real yet. You felt like a kid playing dress-up in someone else’s summer. 

Then you heard him. That unmistakable soft shuffle of sneakers on gravel, the quiet sound of someone who didn’t stomp or run, who simply arrived. 

You turned, and there he was. 

Taller now, his frame stretched out like it had only just started figuring itself out. His shoulders broader. Hair longer, a little messier, sun touched at the tips.His navy camp baseball cap now fit perfectly, this time flipped backwards. His name badge was clipped neatly to his collar: Oscar P. 

Still the same no-nonsense stance, still the same calm in his eyes. Like the whole world could be buzzing and Oscar would just watch.

And when he saw you, his whole face shifted - just slightly. A soft half-smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. The same one he used to give you back when you were eight and dripping wet from falling in the lake, cold and embarrassed, and he’d handed you his towel without saying anything.

“I was hoping they’d put us on the same rotation,” he said. His voice had dropped since last summer. Not deep exactly, but lower, steadier. Still distinctly him. 

You grinned before you could stop yourself. “They said I’d have a co-counselor who ‘didn’t talk much but knew how to fold blankets.’ I figured it was you.”

He rolled his eyes. “I said that once.”

“Yeah. And then folded mine for the rest of the summer.”

He didn’t deny it. Just stepped forward and leaned casually against the porch railing beside you. The wood creaked under his weight, the way it always did. The breeze rustled through the trees, bringing with it the familiar smell of pine needles, sunscreen, and something vaguely burnt from the mess hall kitchen.

For a moment, neither of you said anything. 

It was like being ten again, sitting shoulder to shoulder on a sun-warmed rock near the dock, passing pretzels back and forth and pretending you weren’t thinking about the end of summer. Pretending nothing would ever change. 

“I didn’t know if you’d come back,” you admitted, the words slipping out before you could think too hard.

Oscar didn’t answer right away. His head tilted slightly. “Did you want me to?” 

You didn’t look at him, just shrugged, suddenly fascinated with the dirt curled in the grooves of the wooden floorboards. 

He stepped a little closer. 

Not close close. But close enough that his arms almost brushed yours. Enough that you could smell him - clean cotton and sun-warmed skin, with something faintly citrusy beneath it. Laundry detergent, maybe. Or shampoo. It made your head feel fizzy in the way feelings sometimes did before you had the words to name them. 

“I kept checking the cabin list,” he admitted quietly. “Thought maybe you’d decided not to come.”

“I always come back,” you said

“So do I.”

The words hung in the space between you - quiet, but not empty. It didn’t need to be said out loud. You both knew what it meant.  

Silence again. But not awkward, simply full. 

Then, he reached into his bag and pulled something out.

You blinked. “Is that-”

“Chocolate-covered pretzels,” he said, “First day tradition.”

You let out a laugh without meaning to. It came out too loud, and it echoed off the walls like a secret being let loose. 

“I can’t believe you remembered.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t bring any,” he teased and handed you the bag. 

The rest of the summer passed the way it always did - fast in the moment, slow in the memory. Sunburned days and firefly nights. You and Oscar fell back into your old rhythm so easily it scared you a little. It was like muscle memory, like a song you hadn’t heard in a year but still somehow knew all the words to. 

You still split snacks. Still walked side by side to the mess hall. Still found each other during free swim like gravity had its own opinion on where you belonged. 

But it was different now, too. 

You laughed longer when he said something dry and unexpected. He looked at you a beat too long when you weren’t watching. You noticed the shape of his hands - how they’d grown, how steady they looked. He stopped correcting you when you folded the life jackets wrong, even though he clearly noticed. 

Sometimes your shoulders touched when you walked, and neither of you moved away. 

There were moments- soft ones, barely there ones - when it felt like something might happen. A shared glance in the fading dusk, a lingering pause when he handed you your water bottle, the near-miss of a hug that didn’t quite happen at the end of a long day. All those almosts that buzzed under your skin long after you went to bed.

But nothing ever came of it. 

Not because you didn’t want to. 

Just… not yet. 

You hugged goodbye the way people do when they think they’ll see each other soon. It was quick, almost casual, your arms over his shoulders, his hands at your waist. Too short and too long at the same time. 

You didn’t make promises. 

He didn’t ask for your number. 

You didn’t ask for his. 

But you came back next summer.

And so did he. 

======

Over the years, your friendship became something quieter, deeper. 

Less about snacks and shared sunscreen and more about who you were turning into when no one was watching.

You stopped spending every second side by side, but somehow became even more important to each other. It wasn’t about lake games or flashlight tag anymore. It was midnight walks when you couldn’t sleep. Conversations on the mess hall roof during counselor curfew. The way his voice lowered when he asked “Are you okay?” and actually meant it.

You talked about the futures you were trying to figure out - half made plans and backup dreams. College majors. Cities that scared you. Jobs that didn’t exist yet but sounded good in theory. He told you how he didn’t like talking about feelings, but with you, it was easier. You told him how you worried about disappointing people. He told you he worried about never doing enough. 

You talked about your families. Your parents. What home felt like. What it didn’t.

The people you thought you were falling for - and the ones you knew you weren’t. About kisses that didn’t feel like anything, and moments that almost did.

You both dated other people. Sometimes briefly, sometimes not.

Camp flings. School-year maybes. People who made you laugh, people who looked good in photos. 

But not him. 

You didn’t talk about it much, not in detail. Neither of you ever asked for names, never wanted them. But sometimes he’d go quiet when you mentioned someone. His jaw would shift, eyes focused on something just past your shoulder. And sometimes, when the cabin was too quiet and the air was too warm, you’d lie awake wondering if he was thinking about someone else. If another girl had sat beside him in a different kind of silence. If she knew about the way he chewed on the inside of his cheek when he was nervous. If she ever made him laugh that quiet, breathless laugh he only let out when he really meant it.

Still, every summer, you found each other. 

In the clearing behind the mess hall. In the pause before dinner. On the corner of the dock where the sun hit just right and no one else ever sat. You’d pick up like nothing had changed, even if everything had. You knew his favorite hoodie. He knew when you needed space. You could read his moods from across the firepit, and he could find your laugh in a crowd of twenty voices.

And every summer, you left without saying the one thing that had begun to burn quietly in both of you: It’s always been you. 

The words waited at the back of your throat like a secret. Like a truth too delicate to say out loud. Like something sacred you weren’t ready to ruin. 

So you’d hug goodbye, tight but brief. You’d tell yourselves there would be time. 

Next year. Next summer. When you were older. When you felt safer. When maybe, just maybe, he’d say it first. 

But he never did. 

And neither did you. 

======

You didn’t mean for it to be your last. But you knew it was. 

At twenty three, real life had gotten louder - jobs with titles you didn’t quite understand yet, cities with rent you couldn’t quite afford, commutes and deadlines and alarm clocks that didn’t smell like pine or damp earth. The world outside of camp had started calling you by your full name. Expecting things from you. Urging you to move forward.

You’d aged out of counselor cabins and color wars and group chants screamed across the lake. Your bunk had been replaced by a full-sized mattress in a sublet apartment with too thin walls. You drank coffee now. You packed Advil in your bag. The idea of chasing fifteen eight-year-olds through the woods made your back hurt a little just thinking about it. 

You were only back this year because the camp director had begged. One more summer she’d said over the phone. Help train the new kids. Make it special. 

You said yes. You weren’t even sure why.

Until you got there. 

Until you heard a voice behind you say, soft and familiar: 

“Same shoes.”

You stopped mid-step, duffel swinging lightly against your hip. The sky above the staff cabins was clear, hot, a shade of blue that only existed in June. You turned.

And there he was.

Oscar.

He looked different, but only slightly. Like someone who’d just finished becoming whoever he was always meant to be. His features were more defined now, jaw a little sharper, stubble ghosting his chin just slightly. His camp t-shirt clung to a frame that had filled out over the years - subtly, quietly, like everything else about him. His hat was still backwards. His hands were still in his pockets. 

He was older. Sharper. And still, unmistakably him. 

That same quiet certainty behind his eyes. The same stillness in the way he stood. That same crooked half-smile pulling at his mouth, only for you. 

And just like that, your lungs gave in. You exhaled like you’d been holding your breath for months. 

He didn’t move. Neither did you. 

“Hi,” you managed, voice already softer than it had been all morning.

“Hi,” he said back, like no time had passed. Like this was normal.

And somehow, it was. 

You stepped toward each other. He held out his hand - not for a handshake, but to take your bag. You let him, even though you didn’t need the help. He slung it over his shoulder like it weighed nothing. Like you did when you were sixteen and he carried your art supplies up the cabin steps without asking.

“I didn’t know if you’d be back,” he said, watching you from the side. 

“I didn’t know if you would,”  you said. “Figured maybe you finally aged out of camp traditions.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You mean like bringing pretzels on the first day?”

You laughed - quiet and surprised and involuntary. It spilled out of you like something you hadn’t let yourself feel in a long time. The sound of it made his smile deepen. 

You looked at him. Really looked. 

Maybe this was the summer you were going to say it. 

======

The mess hall was already too hot by 9 a.m.

A box fan rattled in the corner, groaning against its own effort, blowing warm air over a pile of unclaimed name tags. The smell of instant coffee and last night’s spaghetti lingered in the wood-paneled walls. Outside, the sky was an uninterrupted blue, the kind that promised bug bites and sunburns. 

Inside, ten brand-new junior counselors sat on mismatched benches, all elbows and nerves, sipping lukewarm iced coffee out of paper cups and pretending not to be intimidated. Most were fresh out of high school or in that dazed post-first-year-of-university fog. A few had already started sweating through their t-shirts.

You stood at the front of the room, clipboard in one hand, camp whistle looped around your wrist like a bracelet. Your name tag - handwritten, glitter-stickered, slightly peeling - clung to your shirt with the stubborn pride of someone who had absolutely seen things.

Oscar stood beside you. 

He hadn’t said much yet - he never did, not unless it mattered - but he was flipping through a laminated emergency protocol packet like it personally offended him. His name tag read:

Oscar - Senior Staff. 

All block caps. Clean, precise. No stickers. 

The difference between the two of you was… obvious to say the least. But no one could ever argue you didn’t work well together. 

“Okay,” you said brightly, clapping your hands together once. The sound echoed across the exposed raptors. “Let’s talk about cabin dynamics.”

A few groans rumbled through the group, low and reluctant. One girl tilted her head back and dramatically whispered, “Help me.” 

Oscar didn’t even look up from the protocol guide. “If you complain now,” he said, flat and dry, “you won’t survive the third graders’ tie-dye day.”

A couple of them laughed - nervous, uncertain, the kind of laugh that asked was that a joke? You glanced sideways at him and raised an eyebrow.

“Starting with a threat?” you murmured under your breath.

“Setting expectations,” he replied, not bothering to whisper. 

You bit back a smile.

You turned toward the whiteboard and uncapped a marker. “You’re going to live with these kids for ten weeks. They will cry. They will spill applesauce on your bed. One of them will probably try to smuggle a frog into the mess hall. The good news is: you get used to it.”

“The bad news is,” Oscar added, flipping a page with a snap, “you still have to clean up the applesauce.”

More laughter now. Slightly easier. You caught a few of them exchanging relieved looks.

You turned toward the whiteboard and started scribbling down a few bullet points: Routine. Respect. Rain plans. Each in big, bold letters.

Behind you, Oscar began handing out the cabin charts - color-coded, organized, and predictably immaculate His handwriting was still all-caps, neat to the point of intimidation. You wondered - not for the first time - if he’d ever been the kind of kid who used a ruler to underline things in notebooks.  

“Uh, question?” a voice piped up near the back. 

You turned. 

A new counselor - Jaden, you thought, skinny and sunburnt already - raised a hand tentatively.

“What if the campers don’t like us?” he asked, genuine concern in his eyes. “Like, what if they think we’re… lame?”

Oscar didn’t flinch. “They will.”

You turned to stare at him. “Oscar.”

He shrugged, facing the kid. “At first. They always think you’re lame. Then one of them cries during lights-out, you sing them off-key lullabies, and suddenly you’re their hero.”

You shot him a side-glance. “You sing lullabies?”

He didn’t look away from the chart. “Once. By accident.”

You snorted and turned back to the group. “What Oscar’s trying to say is: they come around. Just be patient. Be present. And don’t lie to them - kids can smell fake nice like it’s blood in the water.”

They laughed again - louder this time. You could see them loosening up, tension slipping off their shoulders as the room warmed in the right way. 

A girl with pink sunglasses pushed up on her head - Ava, - raised her hand next. “How do you guys, like… know all of this? You seem really calm.”

Oscar leaned back against the table beside you, arms crossed, letting the question hand for a second.

You answered first. “We’ve been here since we were kids. Climbed the ranks. Went from campers, to junior counselors terrified of canoe duty, to now senior campers.”

Oscar added, “And we’ve made every mistake you’re about to make. Twice.”

That got a solid laugh, and someone clapped, ironically. The energy shifted. Less formal now, more like a team starting to take shape

You turned toward Oscar and caught it - just for a second - his eyes already on you, like he was waiting to see if you’d say more. You didn’t. Not yet. 

But your smile softened. And his did too.

You nudged him lightly with your elbow. “You’re being nice.”

“I’m being honest.”

“Same thing, sometimes.”

He shook his head, but didn’t deny it. 

You turned back to the group and clapped again. “Alright. Time for a trust walk. Pair up, someone gets blindfolded, and no, we’re not liable if you fall in a ditch.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “Is there a ditch?”

“There might be,” you said cheerfully, tossing him a bandana.

He caught it one handed. “Rock paper scissors to see who leads?”

You grinned. “You’re not blindfolding me, Piastri.”

“Then I guess I’m trusting you to not walk me into a tree.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

You walked out together, side by side, just like you used to.

And the new counselors followed. Not because you told them to. But because together, without ever trying, everyone thought you were the people who knew that you were doing.

Even if you were still just figuring it out. Even if neither of you had said what you really wanted to. 

The lake shimmered under the afternoon sun, soft waves lapping at the wooden dock like it was exhaling. Dragonflies flitted lazily across the surface, occasionally dipping low enough to skin the water, then zipping up again. Somewhere behind you, cicadas buzzed in the trees, a low electric hum that filled the stillness.

You sat in the tall white lifeguard chair, sunglasses perched on your head, whistle resting between your lips, and a bottle of blue Gatorade sweating by your ankle. Your feet were bare, propped on the lowest rung, toes already dusty with sand. 

It was midweek, and the swim zone was empty - for now. Just you, the heat, and the occasional creak of the dock shifting under the sun. 

Your clipboard was balanced on one of the arms of the chair, weighted down by a clothespin and a crumpled receipt being used as a bookmark. It was filled with cabin swim rosters, band color notes (a very serious system of shallow, middle, deep end), and a scribbled reminder to find someone to patch the kickboards before the next round of kids turned them into medieval weapons again. 

You exhaled slowly, closed your eyes, and tilted your head back. The sun warmed your shoulders, your collarbones, the bridge of your nose. This was the best part of the day: the quiet before the cannonballs.

Then - 

“Please walk.”

The voice was familiar. Steady. Slightly annoyed.

Your eyes opened. There he was, half chasing his cabin group down the hill toward the lake like a reluctant sheepdog. Oscar had one hand wrapped around a stray pool noodle and the other gripping the back of a camper’s shirt who was dangerously close to face planting. 

You watched them make their way towards the changing stalls, the kids shouting over each other about who could swim faster, who was gonna do a triple flip off the dock (they weren’t_, and who saw a fish the size of a shark yesterday (they didn’t).

“And here comes the chaos,” you muttered to yourself.

He heard it anyway. “This is the refined version of chaos,” he said, releasing the kid and sending him toward the changing stalls. “You should’ve seen snack time.”

You leaned an elbow on the side of your chair and smirked down at him. “Someone cried again?”

“Two of them,” he said, flipping off his sneakers and kicking them towards the bench. “One over a broken granola bar. The other because his was too perfect, and he didn’t wanna ruin it by eating it.”

You snorted. “That’s camp philosophy right there.”

Oscar shaded his eyes with one hand and looked up at you. “You’ve got sunscreen on your nose.”

You rubbed it instinctively. 

“No,” he added, and you caught the edge of a smile, “I mean you did a good job. Usually you forget it.”

You rolled your eyes but your lips tugged upward anyway. “You gonna swim or just pace dramatically on the shore?”

“I’m supervising,” he said, pulling off his shirt and tossing it over the bench. You’ve seen him a thousand times before, but your eyes couldn’t help but linger. “But if someone starts fake drowning again, I’m going in.”

You raised your eyebrows. “That one kid yesterday deserved an Oscar.”

Oscar deadpanned, “He had my name.”

“Don’t hold it against him.”

The campers began trickling into the water, a few of them shrieking at the initial cold before dunking under, splashing one with another with wide, clumsy arcs. You counted heads out of habit, tracking colored wristbands, mentally noting who needed to be watched near the ropes and who’d already made a beeline for the floating platform. 

Oscar sat on the bottom step of your lifeguard stand, forearms resting on his knees, his bare feet digging into the warm, grainy sand. He didn’t speak right away, just watched his cabin with a kind of focus that had always made him a good counselor - steady, patient, present. 

“You’re good at this,” you said softly, not even sure if you meant for him to hear it.

“I’m tired,” he replied, glancing up. “Is that the same thing?”

You shrugged. “Sometimes.”

A pause. Then:

“You’ve always been good at this,” he said. “The way you just… know what they need before they even do. It’s like magic or something.”

You looked down at him, caught off guard. The way he said it wasn’t teasing - it was earnest. Quiet. 

“It’s not magic,” you said, your voice a little hoarse. “I’ve just been here a long time.”

He was quiet for a second. Then, without looking at you: “Yeah. But you care. That’s the difference.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. So you didn’t.

You just watched a camper try to climb onto the floating dock, fall off twice, and then get boosted by two friends, triumphant like he’d summited Everest. 

“Thanks,” you said, finally. 

Oscar nodded. “Anytime.”

The sun glinted off the lake like shattered glass. Your knee, bent against the frame of the stand, brushed gently against his shoulder. He didn’t move. Neither did you.

The whistle stayed silent. No one was drowning. No one was crying. 

But somehow, it still felt like your heart was treading water - just waiting, waiting, waiting to touch solid ground.

It wasn’t camp unless there was a critter found somewhere. 

Sometimes it was a raccoon in the dumpster. Once it was a squirrel in the arts & crafts cabin. And one year, someone swore a possum had tried to climb into their sleeping bag. 

And like most times, it started with a scream. 

A sharp, glass-shattering one that cut across the quiet of the evening like a knife through marshmallow fluff. You were halfway through brushing your teeth at the outdoor sink when it happened - spit and mint foam still in your mouth - when the sound rippled across camp. Your toothbrush froze mid-brush.

Then came a second scream. Louder. Somehow wetter. You didn’t know how a scream could be wet, but it was.

You spat, jammed your toothbrush back in its case, and turned just in time to see the bathroom door slam open. Two campers bolted out like they were being chased by a ghost. 

“THERE’S A BAT!” one of them cried, arms flailing. “IT’S IN THE SHOWER STALL. IT’S LOOKING AT ME.”

You blinked. 

Before you could ask anything else, Oscar was suddenly at your side like he’d teleported there. Hoodie half-zipped, hair a mess, and holding a half-eaten granola bar like it might help.

“What’s going on?” he asked, voice calm but alert.

You pointed at the door. “Apparently, Dracula’s moved in.”

Another scream echoed inside - this one more dramatic, echoing off tile.

Oscar sighed, already rolling up the sleeves of his crewneck. “Okay. I’ll handle it.”

You grabbed his arm. “Oh no you don’t. You’re not going in there alone.”

“I’ve got a towel,”

“That’s not a shield.”

“It is if you believe in it.”

“You’re going to get rabies.”

He looked at you, deadpan. “Not if I duck.”

Despite yourself, you almost laughed. Still, when he stepped forward, you followed him. Of course you did.

The air inside was warm and damp, thick with that distinctive camp-bathroom mix of humidity, faint mildew, and watermelon shampoo. The lights flickered like they were trying to create mood lighting for a horror film. The scent of fear - kid shampoo, wet flip-flops, and adrenaline - clung to the walls. 

Near the showers, someone had knocked over an entire shelf of toiletries. Conditioner bottles were strewn like casualties across the floor. A towel was draped dramatically across the floor like someone had used it to defend themselves and failed. 

Silence loomed over, tension thick in the air. 

And then - fluttering. 

You both froze. 

It came from above. From somewhere behind a warped ceiling tile near the corner light fixture, something small and winged squeaked once, then again. 

“There it is,” you whispered, squinting upward. 

Oscar tilted his head. “It’s kind of cute.”

“Don’t you dare.”

He raised the towel like a net. “Alright. We’ll trap it. Then we let it go. No panic.”

“No panic,” you repeated, heartbeat clearly disagreeing.

Another flutter. It was getting ready. 

“Okay,” he said, positioning himself below the ceiling corner. “On three. One. Two…”

He didn’t get to three. 

What followed was nothing short of a disaster film in fast-forward: wings flapping in manic loops, the bat doing aerial acrobatics, your scream bouncing off the tile, Oscar swearing, the towel flying, you flying (backwards into a sink), and the bat careening once, twice, before shooting out through the cracked window with one final screech like it was late for a party. 

Silence.

You and Oscar stood panting, eyes wide, surrounded by fallen toiletries and questionable dignity. Your shoulder was pressed tight to his arm. His hoodie had slipped halfway off. You were both breathing like you’d just run a mile. 

“I think,” you said between gulps of air, “I just saw my life flash before my eyes.”

Oscar ran a hand through his hair. “Mine said, you’re gonna die in a camp bathroom.”

You started laughing, real laughing. Bent slightly at the waist, catching your breath, shoulders shaking. He looked over, eyes crinkling at the corners. And for a second, it was quiet again. 

“Thanks,” you said finally. “For not letting me get attacked alone.”

He shrugged, but softer this time. “Always.”

Then, from the hallway:

“DID YOU KILL IT?!”

“CAN WE NAME IT?!”

“CAN WE KEEP IT AS A MASCOT?!”

You both groaned at the same time. 

Oscar gave you a side-glance. “If you tell them it laid eggs in the shampoo bottles, they’ll never step in here again.”

You smirked “You’re a menace.”

“But a helpful one.”

You shook your head, smiling in spite of yourself. “That was worse than the squirrel-in-the-arts-cabin year.”

“Still not as bad as glitter day,” he muttered

The bat was gone. 

But for the rest of the summer, that night was ingrained in your campers heads. Legendary. Mythical. Immortalized in popsicle stick retellings and glitter-glued reenactments. 

It started innocently during arts and crafts. 

The sky outside was a heavy, pewter gray, thick with the kind of rain that hadn’t fallen yet, but was waiting, smug, somewhere above the pine trees. Camp was on rain schedule, which meant a hundred damp-footed, sugar-laced children were now crammed into the rec hall for the past hour and a half making lopsided friendship bracelets and glitter-glued name signs that would absolutely not survive the summer. 

Oscar sat at one of the long tables, hunched over a piece of cardboard and a pile of googly eyes. He wasn’t crafting so much as supervising, but someone had handed him a glue bottle and now he was very seriously assembling a bat out of pipe cleaners, complete with glitter fangs.

You were perched on the opposite edge of the table across from him, one knee tucked under you, snipping pieces of yarn for a friendship bracelet for a camper. 

A lull settled across the room, punctuated only by the sound of scissors and low-level supply disputes. 

Then, from the far side of the table, came a voice.

“Miss Y/N,” a voice piped up beside you. It was Sophie, one of the louder, bolder girls from your lake group. Her pigtails were lopsided and her arms were glittery. “Are you and Oscar in love?”

You choked on air. “What?”

Across the room, someone dropped a popsicle stick. Chairs squeaked. Heads turned like it was a courtroom drama. 

Sophie didn’t back down. “You always sit next to each other.”

“That doesn’t mean we’re in love,” you said, trying for neutral, cool. The effect was… questionable.

“But you laugh at his jokes even when they’re not funny,” a boy chimed in from the next table over. 

“And he gave you his last Cheez-It yesterday,” another added solemnly, like that was definitive proof of eternal devotion. 

You shot a glance at Oscar. He hadn’t looked up from his craft yet.

“Technically,” he began, holding up the bat to inspect it, “it was my second to last Cheez-It.”

That. Did. Not. Help. 

“SEE?” Sophie crowed, practically leaping onto her bench. “He remembers! That means he cares! He’s in looooveeee” 

Oscar finally looked at you. Raised one eyebrow, lips twitching like he was seconds from breaking.

You, however, were going down swinging. “You guys are wild. People can care about each other and not be in love, you know.”

One of the ten year olds across the room cupped her hands around her mouth like a megaphone: “YOU GUYS TOTALLY LIKE EACH OTHER.”

Oscar leaned back on his bench and sighed dramatically. “This is what I get for participating in bat-themed crafts.”

“Miss Y/N!” Sophie tugged your sleeve, starry eyed. “If you do get married, can I be a flower girl? I have a sparkly dress already.”

You shook your head “We are not getting married.”

“But if you did!” She insisted, now practically vibrating with excitement, “would there be cupcakes? And a petting zoo?”

Oscar set his glue bottle down and said, deadpan, “Only if I get to ride into the ceremony on a canoe.”

That broke the dam. The entire table burst into delighted chaos.

You narrowed your eyes at him. “You’re enjoying this.”

“I’m deeply uncomfortable,” he replied dryly. “But the image of a wedding canoe has potential.”

The kids started chiming in again, overlapping:

“Can we decorate it with streamers?”

“You have to have s’mores at the reception!”

“What if the bat comes back and officiates the wedding!?”

You buried your face with your hands. 

Oscar nudged your knee under the table. 

When you peeked through your fingers, he was looking at you with that same soft expression he always wore when he thought no one else was watching. His voice, when he spoke, was quiet. Just for you. 

“You know,” he said, “I would trust you to pick the playlist.”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m going to drown you in the lake.”

He grinned. “How romantic.”

And then - “SEE?! FLIRTING!” came the high pitched wail of confirmation from behind a mountain of yarn.

You groaned, but despite that, you were smiling. 

The rain began to fall soon after. Soft at first, drumming on the tin roof like applause from the universe itself. The kids went back to their crafts, now glancing between the two of you with renewed suspicion and barely contained glee. 

Oscar reached over and placed his completed bat in front of you. It had a lopsided smile and crooked wings. One googly eye was already sliding off. 

“For you,” he said, mock-serious.

You stared at it. “This is hideous.”

“It’s symbolic,” he replied, straight faced.

You snorted. “Of what?”

He tilted his head slightly. “Emotional dysfunction.”

And from across the table, a chorus of giggles rose up again. 

They didn’t need to know the truth. That your hands brushed under the table. That you hadn’t stopped thinking about the way he looked at you during free swim. That maybe they were more right than you were willing to admit. 

You tapped the bat’s head, glanced at him sideways, and said, “Fine. But if we get married, we’re not naming our first kid ‘Cheez-It.’”

Oscar didn’t even blink. “Middle name. Compromise.”

And somewhere behind you, another kid whispered. “This is better than a soap opera” 

You should’ve known something was up the moment your campers offered - completely unprompted - to “take over swim check in,” armed with clipboards, dramatic salutes, and suspiciously wide eyes.

“Go take a break, Miss Y/N,” Sophie said, blinking innocently, standing a little too perfectly between you and the path up to the cabins. “You’ve done so much. We’ve got this.”

That alone was suspicious. Sophie once fake-cried for ten minutes to get out of rest hour. And now she was volunteering for extra responsibility?

But before you could question it, she was already corralling the younger kids, her voice unusually commanding. “Line up alphabetically by how cool your swim bands are!” she declared.

Your eyebrows furrowed. “That’s not how alphabet-” 

Too late. A distraction had been launched. 

Five minutes later, Sophie came bounding back, glitter streaked across her cheek like war paint and a folded piece of paper clutched in her hand like it was a top-secret message. 

“For you,” she said, trying (and failing) to keep a straight face. “Step one.”

You raised an eyebrow but unfolded it anyway.

CLUE #1:

Where the bat once flew and shampoo bottles died,

A clue awaits, if you dare go inside 

(P.S. It’s not back…probably)

You stared. “Is this a scavenger hunt?” 

From halfway up the hill, Sophie turned and cupped her hands around her mouth. “OPERATION CANOE WEDDING IS A GO.”

“Operation what?!”

But she was already gone

You looked at the paper again, then sighed. Of course they started with the bat bathroom.

Inside the girls’ showers, the light flickered in that same ominous way it always did, like the building was haunted by the ghost of shaving cream past. The tiles were still chipped from that one epic prank war, and a suspiciously large spider occupied the upper corner like it paid rent. But there, taped to the mirror with a concerning amount of glitter glue, was the next note. 

CLUE #2:

You watch the waves, you guard the shore

But maybe love has something more?

Go where you sit to count the heads,

And maybe think about what’s left unsaid.

(Omg that was deep)

You snorted and muttered, “You dramatic little gremlins.”

It kept going. Notes slipped under doors. Hints chalked in bubble letters along the path. A lopsided origami heart wedged between canoe paddles. One kid handed you a paper flower and said, “For your emotional growth,” before vanishing behind the gear shed

You found Oscar sitting beneath the tree by the firepit, a clue resting in his lap like it had personally offended him. 

He looked up when you approached, brows raised. “ Let me guess. You got roped into this too?”

You held up your own collection of glittery rhymes. “Apparently we’re soulmates and they’ve decided to force fate’s hand.”

He made a noise halfway between a laugh and a sigh. “They made me solve a riddle in order to unlock the ‘next phase of my heart journey.’”

“They made me dig under the paddleboards. I got a splinter”

You both stood there for a second, then fell into step without thinking, like always. Same path. Same rhythm. Comfortable silence broken only by the chirp of cicadas and the occasional far-off shriek from what was probably a pillow fight going rogue.  

The final note had been taped to the dock’s railing, sealed with an alarming amount of heart-shaped stickers. 

FINAL CLUE: 

You’ve reached the end. Now take a seat,

He’s waiting for you (and your heart’s skipped a beat).

No pressure or anything. 

(P.S. WE KNOW!!)

You sat beside him, legs swinging over the water, shoes kicked off. The sun had started its descent, casting long golden streaks across the lake. The world narrowed down to the creak of the dock and the way his pinky nearly brushed yours.

“They’re really committed,” you said after a while. 

“Too committed,” Oscar replied, exhaling slowly. “I think Sophie threatened someone into drawing a map.”

You laughed softly. “I feel like I’m on some weird rom-com TV show and the campers are the writers.”

“Terrifying thought.”

Then, quieter: “Do you think they actually believe it?”

Oscar didn’t answer right away. He leaned back on his hands, watching the sun dip behind the tree line. 

“I think…” he said eventually, “kids see things we’re too scared to say.”

It landed between you like a stone in still water. 

You turned your head. His profile was golden with the last of the light, his jaw tight like he was trying to keep something in. 

“But it’s just a joke. Right?” He asked, not quite looking at you.

You nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Obviously. It’s… camp drama. They’re bored.”

“Right.” His voice was soft. Neutral. Careful. “It’s nothing.”

“Exactly.”

You both stared out at the water. 

The moment stretched. The lake lapped gently below. Your foot dipped in, just barely, and set soft ripples outward. But neither of you moved. Not really.

Because it wasn’t nothing. 

Not even close.

You cleared your throat. “I should… probably get back. Before they start assigning roles in the fake wedding.”

Oscar stood first, brushing his hands off on his shorts. “For the record, I’m not wearing a flower crown.”

“You’d look good in one.”

He paused, looked down at you, that unreadable half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

“So would you.”

And maybe that was it. Maybe that was the closet either of you could get.

You stood and walked back beside him. Not touching. Not talking. But the space between your shoulders hummed with everything that hadn’t been said. 

And behind you, in the shadows of the trees, you knew your cabins were watching - waiting, whispering.

But you didn’t turn around. 

You weren’t ready. 

Not yet. 

The fire cracked and popped like it had secrets to tell.

It was the last night of camp. The kind that didn’ feel real until you were already halfway through it - the air heavy with smoke and memory, the faint echo of a summer’s worth of inside jokes still lingering between the trees. The kids were finally asleep - tired from crying during cabin goodbyes, from trading lanyards like currency, from trying to memorize phone numbers they’d never actually call. 

The counselors lingered in the firelight, a scattered collection of silhouettes and worn sweatshirts, clutching mismatched mugs filled with lukewarm cocoa and the ache of endings. Someone strummed a familiar song on the guitar, the chords slightly off, but no one cared. Someone else lit a sparkler and traced a heart in the air. And someone retold the story about the raccoon that once stole an entire box of graham crackers and disappeared like a ghost into the woods.

You sat on a fallen log, knees pulled up to your chest, hoodie still warm from a last-minute run to the laundry cabin. Your eyes tracked the sparks curling toward the stars, but your focus wasn’t really on the fire. 

Oscar was on the log across from you, legs stretched long and a twig spinning absently between his fingers. The light from the flames caught in his hair and painted gold at the edges of his face. He hadn’t said much all night - not because he was distant, but because he was watching it all like he was trying to memorize it.

Every summer ended. You both knew that. But this one was the last chapter of something sacred. Twenty-three didn’t leave much space for cabins and campfires and inside jokes about bats. Not when real life was baning on the door. 

As the fire burned lower and the group around it slowly thinned - some peeling off toward cabins, some lying back in the grass - you caught him watching you. Finally, really watching. 

“You okay?” you asked, voice low.

He nodded once. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

He huffed out a soft laugh. “Not this time.”

You waited.

He looked down at his hands. “Just that this is the last one,” he said, his voice barely above the fire’s whisper.

It didn’t need explanation. You both knew what he meant. 

Camp had always been the place you came back to. The reset button. The middle ground.

There was a long stretch of silence, broken only by the occasional pop from the logs and the far-off whoop of someone cannonballing into the lake, last-minute swim rules be damned. Then-

“I’ve been thinking about that too,” you said. 

Oscar glanced up. 

You shifted on the log, suddenly aware of every inch of space between you. “And I keep wondering if I’ll regret not saying something.”

That got his attention. The twig stilled in his hand. His brow furrowed. 

“But maybe you don’t feel the same,” you added quickly. “And that’s okay. I just didn’t want to leave this place without-”

“Wait,” he said suddenly, standing like the ground had given him a jolt. “Come here.”

Your heart tripped. 

He stepped away from the fire, toward the edge of the woods where the tree line opened up just enough for the stars to peek through like secrets. He didn’t turn to check if you were following. 

But you were.

The noise of the fire and the others faded into the background. The pine needles cushioned your steps. The scent of smoke clung to everything. When you reached him, Oscar turned, hands shoved in his pockets.  

“I do,” he said 

Your brows knit. “Do what?”

“I do feel the same way.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, a little out of breath. He looked nervous, but not unsure. Like he was done pretending. 

“I’ve felt that way for a long time,” he said. “Years. But everytime I thought about saying something, I talked myself out of it. I didn’t want to ruin what we had. You’re my best friend.”

“You’re mine too.”

His voice dropped. “And I almost kissed you on the dock.”

“I know,” you whispered, a small and sad smile formed on your lips.

“I wanted to. I was going to. But then I thought… if I do this, and it’s not what you want, it’ll change everything.”

“I was scared too,” you admitted. “But Oscar -” You took a breath. “You were never going to lose me.”

He looked at you then. Really looked. Like he was taking in every inch of your face, memorizing it like the way he watched the fire earlier. Slowly, deliberately, he reached for your hand. His fingers bruised yours, tentative.

You didn’t pull away.

And when he laced your fingers together, something in your chest settled. 

When he leaned in, it wasn’t rushed. It was a quiet question. And your kiss was the answer. 

Soft. Steady. Years in the making. 

The kind of kiss that felt like it had always been waiting there - between games of capture the flag, behind whispered goodnight jokes in the staff lodge, just under the surface of every late-night swim. 

When you pulled back, the air felt clearer. The stars looked closer. His forehead rested against yours. 

“So,” he murmured, voice brushing your skin. “What happens next?”

You smiled, thumb grazing his knuckles. “We figure it out.”

“Together?”

“Always.”

And in the hush of the last night of summer, beneath the stars and pine trees and the weight of something finally said, you knew - 

You were ready. 

So was he. 

[makingfanfictionstosleep]

the dragon's bride

smut || sylus x reader || alternate au || sylus and his dragon form during the medieval times || could be triggering for others so read at your own risk || story masterlist : love and deepspace

previous next

CHAPTER 4 : THE FIRST TASTE

Sylus led you to another room, a dining hall as grand as the chambers you had already witnessed. As you entered, you noticed humans waiting, their heads bowed in deference.

Sylus introduced them as attendants, revealing they were descendants of dragons who had intermarried with humans, creating a lineage of individuals with dragon instincts and strength, though without the ability to transform. The attendants bowed even deeper, humble voices expressing their long wait for their master and their gratitude that he had finally found his mate.

You wondered how they reached this deep, subterranean place. As if reading your thoughts, Sylus murmured, "There is another entrance, accessible only to our kind. No human would ever reach it, not unless they desire their demise."

He led you to an elegant seat, pulling the chair out for you before gently pushing it forward as you sat. He then moved to the head of the table, directly beside you, and took his place. Attendants began serving hot meals, the rich aromas making your mouth water.

"We should eat, kitten," Sylus said, then instructed the attendants to prepare a bath for him and his bride.

A faint blush touched your cheeks at his possessive endearment, but you continued to eat slowly. Sylus began his meal, his gaze never leaving you, a mix of curiosity and possessiveness in his crimson eyes.

He asked about your childhood, your preferences, and you answered, describing your upbringing as a destined sacrifice, confined to your family home, never truly venturing out. Sylus listened intently, humming occasionally, his deep interest in you palpable. Then, your own curiosity piqued, you asked about his kind, his race.

"I am the last of my kind," Sylus revealed softly. "The others have found their mates and settled in quiet corners of the world, or have long since turned to dust. I alone remained, mateless, for far too long." He then added, his voice gentle, "There is no need to rush, kitten. We will have all the time in the world to know each other." You nodded, taking your last bite.

A comfortable silence settled between you. Sylus took your hand in his, a gentle tug, and led you to another hallway where his attendants awaited. They guided you both towards the bath.

You lost count of how many times you had gasped in wonder in his domain, but this bath was truly ethereal.

It was at the very edge of his lair, framed by floor-to-ceiling glass windows that offered a breathtaking view of the sky and, far below, the glittering lights of the kingdom.

The bath pools themselves were adorned with gold and set against marbled floors. Fountains on either side trickled water into the pristine pools, accessed by a series of short steps. The lighting was dim, yet bright enough to illuminate the entire room, making it both beautiful and profoundly intimate.

The attendants discreetly left, leaving fresh clothing and towels, ensuring your privacy. Sylus took your hand, leading you deeper into the room, observing your honest reactions.

He understood the awe in your eyes – confined for so long, this world was a revelation. A powerful, protective feeling swelled in Sylus’s chest.

Fate had gifted him an untouched, untainted, innocent creature. A dark, primal possessiveness rose within him. He would be the one to show you everything, to make you experience every sensation.

He would be your first in all things.

You stopped at a plush bench where towels and robes were neatly folded. It suddenly dawned on you. You weren’t just here for sightseeing.

You were here to bathe – Together.

A wave of self-consciousness washed over you, hotter than any bathwater. No man had ever seen your body, not even truly your face or a strand of your unbound hair. Your family had kept you hidden, pure, untouched for this very day, for this man – your dragon, your destined lover, your fated mate.

Your hands began to sweat, a slight tremor running through them. Sylus, ever perceptive, noticed your nervousness, an amused brow raising, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. He knew just how inexperienced you were.

And you, in turn, had never truly seen a man’s body, let alone a dragon’s in human form.

Sylus cupped your cheek, his touch a silent reassurance, a comfort that spoke of his desire. Then, slowly, his eyes never leaving yours, he began to undress. Each piece of clothing fell away, revealing a body far more intimate, more potent than the chiseled stone you had first touched. He stood there, in all his beautiful, masculine glory, radiating an unapologetic boldness and confidence.

"There is no need for shame before me, little kitten," Sylus murmured, his voice a smooth, low command, yet utterly gentle. "You are my mate, and you are mine, just as I am yours – body, soul, spirit, and eventually, our hearts."

You swallowed nervously, your trembling fingers reaching for the knot of your intricately woven robe. Sylus’s hand, warm and firm, joined yours, gently pushing the garment off your shoulders. It landed with a soft thud, pooling around your feet. Your inner clothing, sheer satin, clung to your curves, hiding nothing beneath.

Sylus’s gaze devoured you, a low growl rumbling from his chest.

You looked away, overwhelmed by shyness, by the fear that he might not be satisfied. But a firm finger lifted your chin, forcing your gaze back to his intense, hungry eyes.

"You shouldn't hide from me, my beautiful bride," he said, his voice laced with conviction. "You are perfect."

His fingers slowly descended, tracing your neck, your collarbones, then the mark he had left earlier, his eyes darkening further at the sight. His touch continued to brush your bare arms, your trembling fingers. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he pulled the string that held your sheer dress together, finally baring yourself completely before him.

Sylus’s mouth went dry at the sight of your flushed, naked body. His cock twitched, a primal need to be inside you so strong it was almost unbearable. He fought the urge, knowing you were his first, knowing he had to prepare you, first in his human form, before your body could accept him in his true form.

You felt Sylus’s gaze on your body, so intense it felt like a physical touch. An unfamiliar dampness bloomed between your legs, and you instinctively clenched your thighs together.

Sylus could smell your arousal, and it was almost too much for him. His finger traced the swell of your breasts. You gasped as he gave your nipples a gentle, firm pinch, then cupped both in his large hands, a hum of satisfaction escaping him. They were perfect, soft and delicate beneath his touch.

You couldn't move, every sensation new, overwhelming. Your eyes, driven by a raw curiosity, began to wander. You noted the sheer strength of his muscles, every flex, every movement, so enticing it beckoned your hands to touch. As if they had a mind of their own, your fingers reached out, pressing against his hard, sculpted form.

Sylus gasped at the contact, reveling in the unexpected softness of your touch against his hardened body.

He waited, wanting to see how far your curiosity would lead you, noting the wide-eyed wonder on your face as you explored a man's body for the very first time. Your gaze trailed from his powerful chest, down to his well-defined abs... and there, your eyes widened, startled and shocked, at the sheer size of him.

Sylus couldn't help but smirk proudly at the crimson flush that bloomed across your face.

You stuttered, the only intimacy you’d ever learned came from your mother's hushed lessons, "Is… is it supposed to be that big? How... how will it fit?" you asked, a terrified tremor in your voice.

Sylus chuckled, a low, reassuring sound, as he soothed your cheek. "I will be very gentle with you, little kitten," he promised, then pulled you towards the bath pool.

You descended the steps carefully and settled onto a shallow ledge. He pulled you onto his lap, facing him, then claimed your lips in a mind-numbing kiss. He taught you how he liked it, how to move with him, praising your quick learning.

He took your hand and guided it down his chest, over his abs, until he molded your small, dainty fingers around his hard length. A low growl rumbled from him the moment you touched his most intimate part.

He taught you what to do, how to move your hand in the way that pleased him most. You followed his instructions, watching the dance of hunger, desire, and lust across his face, captivated by the beautiful sounds he made.

You wanted to do more.

"Faster, kitten," he ordered, and you obeyed. Soon, a warm release washed over your hand. He told you what it was, catching his breath, praising you for the pleasure you had given him.

He pulled you in for another kiss, this one more urgent, more hungry, more intense. His hands roamed your body, squeezing your rear and thighs, pulling you flush against his hot, muscular form.

With an easy adjustment, Sylus shifted your position so your back rested against his chest, then continued to pepper your neck and shoulders with heated kisses and small, possessive bites. You felt his hand nudge your thighs open, and you flinched, too flustered, too shy at the vulnerability of the position.

But as he whispered against your ear, urging you to trust him, you slowly allowed him.

His hands roamed over your breasts, your stomach, the sensitive insides of your thighs, until his fingers brushed against the most delicate, most intimate part of your body.

Sylus groaned, a sound of profound restraint, of almost pain. You felt him nudge your entrance carefully, and you gasped, clutching his arm tightly as he slowly, smoothly, sank one finger inside.

"So tight, kitten," he murmured, his voice strained. "I have to stretch you, prepare you to take me, properly, so it won't hurt."

But nothing registered in your mind save the foreign, spiraling sensation of pleasure.

As he added another digit, your mind went blank. He found that spot, rubbing it with a deliberate rhythm, and your toes curled. Your breaths grew shorter, his name a desperate prayer on your lips. An unknown tightness coiled in your belly, threatening to snap.

"Sy-Sylus!" you desperately called his name, terrified at the overwhelming sensation.

"Let go, kitten," he whispered, urging you. You didn't understand, but he simply encouraged you to embrace the feeling, to just let go.

And you did. With a cry of his name, your body trembling from a new wave of ecstasy, your hands clinging to his arms, your head trying to bury itself against his chest.

Sylus growled, a deep, satisfied sound, watching you unravel in his embrace, memorizing every expression, every gesture, every movement until you reached your peak.

He withdrew his fingers, then gently licked your remaining essence clean, a satisfied hum rumbling in his chest. "You taste so sweet, so delicious, my kitten."

You remained limp in his arms, your mind blissfully fried, basking in the wonderful aftermath of your first orgasm.

Sylus bathed you carefully after that, and then himself.

He realized then that he wouldn't be able to take you tonight; you were too overwhelmed by your first taste of pleasure with just his fingers.

And he decided he was more than fine with that.

He would savor every single one of your firsts.

[housemdork]

so. i know that fighting on the wilson defense squad is a little taboo around here...but i still want to share the germ of a thought that i've had, which i'll definitely expand on in the future.

does anyone hear me when i say that so much of wilson's work is silent and unseen?

i mean this, first, quite literally regarding his practice. it's a rarity, seeing wilson interact directly with his cancer patients without being called in for a consult. we hear about his patients all the time, just not often by name. but whether because we're in house's POV, or because the show aligns with house's belief that "cancer is boring," we don't see wilson practicing oncology that much in the grand scheme of things, even compared to the snippets of ER and surgery life that cameron and chase move on to, respectively.

house pokes fun at wilson's oncology all the time, and pretty definitively in 2x04 when he makes fun of medical specialists. to house, things are simpler for them; house views them as existing in a box, much smaller than his grand purview over things. wilson's work is relegated away from the main text of the show; he operates in isolation, which hurts in the long run.

wilson's own cancer experience is profoundly impacted by the pain of loss he's endured over the years, watching his patients die. he rattles off their names, their cancers, their ages, and the dates they died to house from memory. we never saw these patients. house probably never did, either, so we can only learn of this pain afterwards. we re-contextualize wilson's emotions and behavior after the fact.

finally, the work wilson puts into his friendship with house is often invisible. i won't ever paint wilson as the ideal friend - that would completely ruin any interpretation of his character - but i find it disingenuous to ignore the strain house puts on him, however self-inflicted. what starts out as trickles of jokes and subtle hints (the loans), evolves into the season 3 medical license debacle, which evolves into wilson's repeated responsibility for house's mental health (which isn't even mandated by house, but by those around wilson and house), which finally evolves into house attempting to control wilson's last wishes. repeatedly, wilson is nominated, especially by dr. nolan in season 6 and foreman in season 8, to be house's steward, and who else would do it, but him?

big example: we never see the decision for house to move into wilson's place, but all the energy in the world is put into wilson asking house to leave. it's first presented as a natural assumption, then a mortal sin.

unlike the other characters surrounding house, the origins of wilson and house are usually only hinted at. their history unfolds across the entire show, and that includes the good and the bad parts that are only heard about in passing and in retrospect. at the start of season 5, wilson, at his most honest, breaks the hardest news to house yet - that he's leaving PPTH because of him.

"i've enabled it for years. the games, the binges, the middle-of-the-night phone calls...if i've learned anything from amber, it's that i need to take care of myself."

again, we learn of this long-term pain afterwards, once house takes a beat to digest it. we re-contextualize wilson's emotions and behavior after the fact.

say what you like about what wilson asked house to do in 4x16 (it kills me, personally). i cannot completely fault wilson for telling house this ^. as much as house needs to change, wilson does, too. amber was right about that. we can gauge the strain that house has in his relationships based on how many work out long-term: one.

and later, funny as it is in the moment, wilson is the one to go to physically check in on house in 7x01 when it was VERY apparent that he should not have gone home alone (not to dismiss foreman's attempt in 6x22 to be there for him, though). house's fake voicemail message attests to this: "if this is wilson, i'm fine, not suicidal, not on drugs, coping very well with the loss of my last patient, so feel free to go about your day without worry."

i understand why he crawled through that window! after six seasons of this, i would have done the same!

i argue the same about house that i do about wilson - these 2, despite how messed up they are when it comes to human goodness and love - could not do what they do if they did not have the capacity to love. they're both rewarded in their own, twisted ways; house is gratified that, if nothing else, his brain sets him apart and preserves his sense of self, while wilson gets to feel loved in the way he can never quite fulfill elsewhere. does that cancel out the lives they save and soothe along the way?

all of this is to say that it's easy to brand wilson with a red "morally corrupt guy who pretends otherwise" stamp across his forehead because i think that's what house md tempts us to do by mandating how, when, and what we see of wilson's life. trust me - i'm trudging through season 2 right now and fast approaching his rendezvous with grace. but over time, i think the show invites us to treat him with sympathy and nuance in the same way it does house. if we penalize wilson too much for returning to house, and for needing his neediness, that may just imply that house doesn't deserve that sort of love. and we know that isn't the case.

isn't there more poetic irony than the oncologist getting cancer at hand? what about cancer as the silent-killer? what about cancer eating at every part of the body, slowly, over time? unseen and unheard?

[fear-is-truth]

hi Jackie!! I was wondering, if you're not that busy, another headcanon for the evans about what they would be like if they were jealous and how they would let reader know.

(a lil note just for say that I love so much all the things you write, you're fuckin amazing girl😩🫶💞)

𝝑𝝔 ── jealousy, jealousy ┊ THE EVANS

ft. tate langdon ‧ kit walker ‧ frat!/franken kyle spencer ‧ james march ‧ kai anderson ‧rory monahan ‧ austin sommers

꣑ৎ ‎ :‎ masterlist ﹒꒱ note. tysm , this actually made my day !

TATE LANGDON

jealousy hits him like vertigo. it comes out in sideways remarks or forced vulnerability: you’ll find him curled up on your bed, asking timidly whether you still like him. crybaby tate tears up easily, but…. it’s mostly a guilt tactic. that, or he shuts down and sulks. refuses to talk about his feelings. tate wants you to notice and come ask. if you don’t, he’ll get all passive-aggressive and sarcastic. “they’re really funny, huh?” or “you like them better, i get it.” if you still don’t take the bait, tate will do something evil reckless just to pull focus back to him.

KIT WALKER

kit doesn’t want to say something he’ll regret. so, he internalises it. try to rationalise it away, place the blame on himself, maybe even take a walk to cool off. when it finally comes out, it’s of the protective variety instead of possessiveness. he doesn’t want to control you, but he wants to feel chosen.

FRAT!KYLE SPENCER

he gets territorial in subtle, almost playful ways. friendly aggression: a casual shoulder-check that lands a bit too hard. roughhousing the guy he’s jealous of under the guise of a joke. anything to wedge some space between them and you. at parties, he might yank you into his lap without warning, kiss you harder than usual—just enough to make a point without saying a word.

FRANKEN!KYLE

kyle can’t remember the exact word—not precisely—but he knows the feeling of jealousy well enough to resent it. he moves closer without thinking. fingers brush yours, then wrap around your hand like it’s always been his. he doesn’t let go. if you step away, he trails after you, unwilling to be left behind. if someone else touches you, even lightly, kyle flinches. the look in his eyes changes—sharp, then suddenly plaintive. wounded. like a dog who’s been scolded but doesn’t understand why.

JAMES PATRICK MARCH

jealousy registers as a personal insult. he sees it as a violation of loyalty, whether or not you meant it that way. if another man so much as holds your gaze too long, james goes completely cold. he won’t accuse you directly, but he’ll punish you in tiny gestures. lock you out of the bedroom. call you by your full name like you’re in trouble (you are.) later, he’ll sit beside you in silence and say something along the lines of, “i do hope your little performance was worth the price.”

RORY MONAHAN

he’ll play it off at first. big grin, casual jokes. “should i be worried about that guy or…?” but there’s a slight pause after he laughs, as if he’s clocking your answer. if it keeps bothering him, he still won’t outright call it jealousy, but he’ll start doing things just to earn your gaze back. “babe, remember who you came with,” he’ll say, all smiles but the minute you’re alone, he’ll nuzzle into your neck and mumble something insecure, like, “you’d tell me if you thought he was hotter, right?”

KAI ANDERSON

jealousy flips a switch in him. he gets obsessive—asks invasive questions under the guise of caring. “how long have you known them?” “you like being looked at like that?” he wants control back. that often means lovebombing, pinky-power interrogation, and sex that feels more like reclamation. he doesn’t like the feeling of being replaceable, and he hates that it shows. he’ll rather DIE before admitting he’s hurt.

AUSTIN SOMMERS

he gets snippy and passive-aggressive. “wow, your little friend has… confidence. it’s brave.” outright rude, if he’s drinking—talks over you, interrupts your story, maybe even start flirting with someone else in front of you.

[mylovewasbulletproof]

Catalyst pt 1

Jack Abbot x female amputee R4 reader (can post a gn version if wanted!)

based off these thoughts here, part 2 will be focused on Pittfest & those after shocks

for the sake of the plot we’re pretending that this incident did not happen the same day as Pittfest, that it’s Jack in the room instead of Robby, and that the newbies started prior to Pittfest

I have some more thoughts on this pairing. I also have ideas for a Robby x amputee reader so let me know if you want more!

warnings: canon-typical violence/injuries, mentions of a different shooting incident, mention of explosions, death of a loved one, PTSD, hinting at depression, pining idiots, age gap (in my head but not specified so you do you), everyone else can see the mutual feelings except y’all, a little bit of hurt/comfort but more to come in the next part,

*let me know if I missed any warnings*

**not sure how I feel about this so if I delete it don’t be surprised. I haven’t decided if I want to rewrite it or not.**

——————————————————————

Present Day

When Jack had heard the mass casualty event being declared on the scanner, his thoughts jumped to you. It was only a couple of weeks ago that you had shared the story of how you lost your leg. His hand twitched over your contact in his phone as he got into his car. He eventually decided against it, vowing to check in with you at the hospital before things ramped up. That didn’t stop his thoughts from wandering on the drive over

——————————————————————

Night Shift - 3 weeks prior to Pittfest

“This is Silas Dunn, 45 years old, fell off an 8 foot ladder. No LOC, right chest hit the carpeted floor” the EMTs rattled off as they pushed in your next patient

“Hi Mr Dunn. My name is Dr. L/N, how are you doing?” You asked as you fell into step next to the gurney

“Fine. My wife called 911” he replied

“Well you’re here now so let’s get you checked out. Just to be safe”

You and Dr. Santos did your initial evaluations and continued working on other patients while waiting on lab work and imaging. You had just stopped Dr. Abbot to consult on a different patient when the alarms in Silas’ room started going off. You and Jack rush over, finding Santos already in the room.

“Thready carotid. His BP'S crashing.

I think he might need a chest tube.” You call out, studying the monitor

“Check another hemocue” Jack instructed, standing back to observe

“He just dropped his stats. Put him on 100% non-rebreather. Normal head CT” You glanced again at the scans

“Small hemothorax on the right” Jack leaned over, pointing to the lung CT

“So chest tube it is” you confirm before asking Santos to prep for the chest tube

“I would love to do a chest tube” Santos remarks

“You got it. I’ll guide you” you encourage

You’re in the process of walking Santos through the steps when she drops the scalpel. You, Jack and Trinity watch as the scalpel lands right in the center of your sneaker

“Fuck. Oh my god are you okay?” Santos is panicking. She doesn’t even notice the expression you share with Jack

“Santos, I’m fine. Go take a breather. I’ll find you later” you speak calmly, already in the process of finishing the incision into the chest wall.

“But-“ Santos stopped herself short with the look you sent her. She darts out of the room without looking back

“That has got to hurt” Jack hums, acting oblivious

“Oh will you stop that. She’s halfway to the locker room by now. Just pull it out. I’m not even sure it pierced the prosthetic. It might just be in my sneaker” You send him a look, before grabbing the tubing and inserting it into the patient’s chest

“Are you going to tell her or just let her think she maimed you for the rest of her life” Jack asks as he leans down to pull the scalpel out

“For the rest of her life? No! That’s mean. But she can think that until at least the end of shift or until one of them gets the balls to ask me directly” you chuckle, nudging Jack with your elbow.

The rest of your shift had gone by without incident. You might’ve heard the interns gossiping about how badass you were for finishing the chest tube with a scalpel in your shoe. You’re headed to the park after shift change with Jack when you finally stop and address the gaggle

“Guys — she dropped it on my prosthetic” you suppress a laugh before lifting up your pant leg

You and Jack laugh about it until you’re settled on the park bench. It just so happened to only be the two of you tonight but neither of you seemed to mind. It wasn’t out of the ordinary for you and Jack to be spending time together. You’d become fast friends after he watched you convince a 5 year old that being an amputee made him a superhero. It was at that point when Jack realized you were going to make an incredible doctor. It also might’ve been when he realized he’d developed feelings for the first girl since his wife had died.

To his defense he had tried to create distance or at the very least stuff down his feelings. He knew how wildly inappropriate it would be to get involved with a resident, let alone one he was supposed to be mentoring.

What he didn’t realize was you had developed similar feelings after he had helped you through a panic attack after losing your first patient. Similarly to Jack, you pretended you were okay with being friends and that you felt nothing more than that. Everyone could see right through the both of you — well everyone except the two of you. Princess and Perlah have been betting on it for months. Half the Pitt staff was involved at this point.

Jack was broken out of his thoughts as you sighed, sliding off your prosthetic and sleeve.

“Sore?” He asks watching you rub what’s left of your leg

“Mm, a bit. I think Santos might’ve triggered a bit of phantom limb” you comment

Jack’s face deepens into a frown. He knows that pain all too well. It’s not something that you forget. It typically happens in the early stages after amputation. The brain doesn’t fully process that you’ve lost that part of your limb and it sends signals. It goes away for most amputees after rehabilitation. But it makes sense that watching the scalpel pierce your prosthesis triggered that same feeling.

“You’ve never asked how I lost it” you remark, thinking back to the few conversations you’ve had revolving your respective prostheses

Jack lets out a scoff before replying, “I think that’s frowned upon in most circumstances. Plus you’ve never asked me how I lost mine”

“True. But I know the gist. We’ve talked about your service before” you respond

You and Jack sit in the comfortable silence of the early morning dawn for a while before you start shuffling in an attempt to slide your prosthetic back

“It’s getting late. If I sit here any longer I might fall asleep on this bench” you explain as Jack watches with an unreadable expression

“Can you walk, let alone drive on that right now?” He asks, gesturing to your leg

“Walk, yes. Drivings more variable but my car is here. I have to drive home” you finish securing your prosthetic back on trying to ignore the way it burned

“Let’s go. I’ll drop you at home and pick you up later for shift change around 6:30” he states matter of factly before standing

“Jack-“ you try and refuse

“I’m either driving you home or you’re staying here. I already have your keys” he says holding up your key chain

You look down into your purse as if you don’t already know for a fact he is indeed holding them “that was not nice” you fake pout following his lead to his truck

“I’d argue it’s actually very nice. I’m trying to get you to take care of yourself” Jack shoots back, sliding your bag off your shoulder. You just sigh earning a slight smile from Jack knowing that he’s won this battle

On the ride towards your house, you doze off slightly, leaning against the window. The radio hums quietly in the background and for once his ride home doesn’t feel daunting. It’s peaceful. At least until you start to let out small whimpers.

He probably wouldn’t have even heard it but the song on the radio ended at exactly the right moment. Jack’s stomach twists. He knows almost immediately that you’re having a nightmare but he also knows it’s not good to jolt someone awake especially someone with PTSD.

Thankfully, you stir as he slows to a stop just outside of your house. You run your hands over your face before fully straightening up. You turn towards Jack with a smile that certainly doesn’t meet your eyes “Thank you for the ride. I’ll see you in a bit”

“Y/N” he calls, just as you reach for the handle. You turn back around trying not to look directly at him

“You’re not the only one that still dreams about what happened to you” he speaks softly, as if he’ll scare you away

He watches as you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to stop any tears from falling. “I haven’t had one in months. I’ve been doing so good” you sound frustrated, like you’re angry at yourself for having lived through trauma

“If you want to tell me about it you can. But we can also talk about it later if you’re too tired” he sighs, hoping you’ll decide to confide in him

“It’s so stupid. I didn’t even want to go to the fair.” you sniffle “my parents asked me to take my younger brother because they were going to be working. It was actually a pretty nice day. We argued a lot but we were getting along that day. It was almost sunset but he wanted to get in one more ride on the Ferris wheel. We were waiting in line and these pops started going off. I thought it was fireworks”

Jack brushes his hand against yours, offering you a tether to your current world. He could tell you were watching it replay in your head. You let your fingers slot into his without even fully realizing it.

“Um. Well it wasn’t fireworks. When I realized that I pushed him behind me as we dropped towards the ground. It happened so fast. One of the bullets hit the motor for the Ferris wheel and it exploded. The rest of that day comes in pieces. The screaming. The smell. My little brother’s eyes staring right through me. He was gone before he even hit the ground. It felt like I laid there next to him for hours. Someone must’ve realized I was still alive because they picked me up and the next thing I knew I was waking up in a hospital bed without 75% of my leg”

At this point you were fully sobbing, he had never seen you break like this. He squeezed your hand trying to remind you that he was right there

“It’s my fault. I pushed him closer to the explosion. It should’ve been me. Why wasn’t it me Jack?”

“Hey, hey look at me” Jack grabbed both sides of your face, forcing you to look at him, “that was not your fault. You were protecting him. I don’t know why it wasn’t you. But you deserve to be here just as much as anyone else. You survived and fought for it”

Your sobs slowly faded into hiccups. That’s when you both became acutely aware of just how close you were to each other. You straightened your spine and wiped at your face “I am so sorry. I don’t know what just happened. You didn’t need that after a long shift”

“Stop that. I’ve told you before that whenever you need me, I’ll be there”

You offered him one final squeeze on his hand, “Good night Jack. Thank you”

——————————————————————

Present Day

Things had shifted since that night. You seemed to pull back from him. It wasn’t that you were avoiding him but your personal conversations with Jack had become minimal, you didn’t come out often for drinks after your shifts.

Jack had thought a lot about that night since it happened. His heart broke watching you break down. It was getting harder to lie to himself about his feelings for you. His paranoia began to creep in as you pulled back. He was afraid he had crossed a line and ruined your friendship. Robby tried to comfort him, explaining that he had noticed you seemed off with everyone, not just Jack. That didn’t make him feel better because now it seemed like you were struggling.

To put it simply, you were struggling. But you worried that you had trauma dumped on your poor attending so you were determined to step back and remain as professional as possible. So you suffered in silence, alone, inside the comfort of your home away from prying eyes.

Which is where you were when you got the text from Dana: MCI: Shooting Pittfest All hands on deck

So you pulled yourself together. Promising to make it through this without absolutely losing your shit.

——————————————————————

Feedback welcome but please be nice it’s been years since I’ve written a fic

[bintheredreamedthat]

i got a bad case of yeonjunism

based off this clip. OH.MY.DAYS

You were just doing your job.

Camera in hand, moving between stylists and open wardrobe racks, getting the usual pre-show coverage for the behind-the-scenes reel. It’s a routine at this point—capture the candid stuff, keep it natural, nothing too staged. Fans like the chaos, the energy. The closer to real, the better.

Soobin was laughing at something Beomgyu did. Taehyun was adjusting his mic pack. You zoomed in a little, catching the curve of a grin as he mocks his older members about something they had said.

Then you felt someone watching you.

It wasn’t unusual. The guys were hyper-aware of the camera, especially when it was this close to showtime. Still, something about it made you pause. You turned the camera just slightly. Slow and casual, just enough to glance over your shoulder—and that’s when you saw him. 

Yeonjun. 

His expression was unreadable. No smile. No wink for the camera. Just... looking. For a second, you assumed he was doing a bit. You knew how he was—dramatic, always camera-aware. He knew how to get good footage, ones that get clipped and reposted a lot. Maybe he wanted to be mysterious today. 

However, this felt different. He kept walking, not daring to break eye contact. Not once had he glanced at the lens the way he usually does when he knows he’s being filmed.

He just looked. First through the camera, then past it.

At you.

You told yourself it was nothing. Probably just a moment you’d trim out in post. Still, you stepped back—reflex, mostly—to avoid bumping into him with the rig. You didn’t expect the table behind you, and you certainly didn’t expect him to close the space anyway.

He stopped just before the lens could brush his face. No words. No real expression. Finally, he looked into the camera, then quickly flashed a tiny smirk, as if he knew exactly what he was doing.

Without uttering a single word, he walked off. 

He had left you there, your camera still rolling, wondering whether that footage was ever meant to be captured at all. 

—

The show ends in chaos.

Loud laughter, members bouncing off each other, shouting over one another as they flood into the dressing room. You trail behind them with the camera, catching wide grins, breathless comments, and confetti stuck in hair. Beomgyu flashes a peace sign. Hueningkai yells something incoherent whilst you pan around the room like a pro.

You’re filming Taehyun once again. He’s talking about his favorite moment from the set list, looking directly at the lens, when a shadow passes behind you. 

The air shifts. You don’t even have to look.

A second later, you get a tap on your elbow, light, casual. You lower the camera just a bit and glance to your side.

Yeonjun tilts his head, still in full stage makeup, hair pushed off his forehead now and sticking slightly from sweat. He doesn’t smile.

"You always get that close with the lens?" he asks, tone light, but there’s an edge buried somewhere underneath.

You blink. “What?”

He lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Don’t play dumb. You know you’re playing favorites."

“Oh my god,” you groan. “Yeonjun—”

“No, seriously,” he says, stepping in a little. “You're on him for like, minutes at a time. Do I need to start acting cute when you walk in just to get your attention now?”

“You were literally across the room,” you argue, trying not to laugh. “You think I ignored you on purpose?”

He tilts his head. "Did you?" You don’t answer.

The silence stretches, thick and humiliating. Someone coughs. Hueningkai whispers “wait, what is happening right now?” like it’s an episode of some drama and he missed the first ten minutes.

Yeonjun doesn’t look away. Doesn’t break.

“You’re lucky I didn’t say something on camera earlier,” he adds, voice low. “You would've had to cut the whole thing.”

“Right. Because your little ‘I’m-suddenly-jealous-and-mysterious’ bit wasn’t dramatic enough?” you snap before you can stop yourself. You felt instant regret as you crossed the line. You’re were staff. He was the talent.

A few people glance at each other. Taehyun raises an eyebrow. Beomgyu is already mouthing “dramaaa” across the room.

But Yeonjun?

He doesn’t even flinch.

“That wasn’t a bit,” he says, causing the whole room to go silent.

Your smile falters. Your camera dips in your hand. Every part of you is begging for the earth to swallow you whole. Yeonjun just stared, serious yet still so sure of himself.

Then, mercifully, he turns. Walks off with that same cool indifference he always pulls on post-stage, like he didn’t just cause an entire scene in front of everyone. Someone breathes out a loud, shocked “bro??”

You can’t even respond. You just lift the camera, hands shaky, and the red light is still blinking.

You're going to have to edit all of this out.

[englandsgirl18181234]

More facts about this AU!

Apollo is the Fate's Chosen, they send him visions and Prophecy's because they like him.

They also occasionally possess him, as a way to directly influence their weavings in a way they wouldn't normally be able to.

Lachesis uses his voice to speak for them. Atropos uses his body as their conduit to the world. And Clotho carefully wraps herself around his soul to keep it from burning away under the stress of their power. Like Luke's would have if Kronos has succeeded, but entirely on accident.

Hades is the first, besides Athena, to learn this. It happens after Apollo passes out in the infirmary after healing Percy and Annabeth when they arrived on Olympus.

Athena uses the opportunity to tell Hades about how badly his curse on the Oracle affected Apollo.

Hades was going to try and remove the curse, because he didn't intend for it to affect Apollo, only the Oracle.

The Fates stop him using Apollo's body because Rachel won't be ready to take over as the Oracle for several years.

The possession, particularly after the curse, knocks Apollo on his ass for days every time.

He vomits up burnt ichor for the first day or two. After that he's basically bed bound for a couple days with vision migraines because alternate timelines are visible out of the corner of his eye. He can almost hear them too, like whispers that are just barely too quiet. He can make out a word here and there, but that's about it.

The Fates possessing him basically overloads all of his prophecy related powers and it really takes it out of him when it happens.

Athena still has brain damage in this AU!

Annabeth notices very quickly that something is different about her mother once she and Percy are medically cleared to leave the infirmary.

Athena stares at her with a longing in her eyes that Annabeth had never noticed before, the kind she was used to seeing in Percy when he wanted to hug and comfort her and couldn't for whatever reason.

She's also much closer to Apollo than Annabeth had previously thought, which no one else seems to notice.

Percy's the one that points out how she seems to get tired more quickly than the other gods, and how Apollo is basically glued to her hip when the other gods aren't around, constantly checking on her. Like he was afraid something was going to happen.

The two eventually decide to ask him about it, but they do it in front of the other gods so he denies everything.

Everyone on Olympus, other than Athena, thinks Apollo is a shitty liar because he's the God of Truth, so when he says he doesn't know what they're talking about with a completely straight face and none of the usual theatrics, they assume he's telling the truth and that Percy and Annabeth are wrong.

Apollo later, like the next day so none of the others get suspicious, takes them aside and lightly threatens them into never doing that again.

He's not mean about it, but he does make very clear that they almost blew a secret he and Athena had been keeping from the other gods for millennia and that if they try again he will not only lie and tell everyone they're wrong but he will also ensure they cannot speak of it to anyone.

Apollo is absolutely willing to do so too. He won't like it, because he likes these kids and knows they've been through things no one else has, but if he has to choose between Percy and Annabeth liking him and Athena's life? He'll choose Athena every time without hesitation.

He'd choose Athena over the rest of Olympus if he had to after everything he's been through, Artemis included.

As far as Apollo is concerned, Athena is the only person on the planet he can truly trust. Everyone else on Olympus made it clear that they didn't believe him when it counted after he warned them about Gaia's return, no matter how desperate he got.

I've got more, but I'm tired so I'll end it here for now.

That last PJO/Epic au you mentioned, about Percy and Annabeth crashing a meeting at Olympus. What’s that one about?

So this one actually started as a reading the books fic idea, because I like those, and then took on a life of its own. It's basically a post-apocalypse AU Apollo meeting a time travel AU Percy and Annabeth from much earlier in the same timeline, all taking place on Olympus only a few months after the Lightning Thief

What happens in this one is that, in a universe that branches off from my Chthonic Athena AU a few decades early and quickly grows out of control, as Percy and Annabeth are in the doors of death leaving Tartarus, the Fates decide they need to Rapidly change where the timeline/universe is heading

Gaia waking fully, as they could see would take place in Percy and Annabeth's near future, wasn't supposed to happen. She was intended to be soothed back to sleep before that

But because she was fully woken, and because the interest of Tartarus had been caught by Percy and Annabeth on their way out, the world basically ended only a few millennia later

The sleep Gaia was lulled back into in that future was fitful and light, not the deep sleep it should have been, essentially giving them a few centuries before they're right back where they started. And Zeus does the exact same thing he did the first time, closes off Olympus and sticks his head in the sand.

That gives Gaia a lot of time to undermine all of Olympus's defenses and slowly pick off the demi-gods she knows will be a problem, eventually managing to wake fully before anyone but Apollo realizes what's going on

Apollo had told them all what was happening, the Fates sending him vision after vision to try and change the outcome that they could see coming, but Zeus wouldn't hear anything of it and even struck him with his lightning when he refused to back down

Athena fades before Gaia even stirs again, her soul disintegrating when the damage got to be too much, and leaving Apollo without anyone he can trust to back him up

Zeus and Apollo are eventually the last ones left alive. Zeus as a twisted 'thank you' for letting their plans get so far before doing anything, and Apollo because Gaia and Tartarus think his suffering is funny

From there everything just goes from bad to worse, with Gaia and Tartarus teaming up to pick off the Olympians one by one

So the Fates basically yank Percy and Annabeth from what would have become that timeline and send them to back to Olympus six months post Lightning Thief

But that isn't the only thing they do. The Fates also bring Apollo to them on the summer solstice, only a few hours after Percy returns the Master Bolt

They then 'show' Apollo what happened in that other timeline, so he knows what he has to do when Percy and Annabeth show up

But the Fates don't experience time the same way other beings do, so instead of it being like the visions they send him, like they intended, he essentially lives through that entire timeline

So basically, Percy and Annabeth are traumatized, Apollo is Traumatized™️ at the hands of both Zeus and Tartarus and Gaia, nobody else has any idea what the hell is going on, and they're not sure they Want to know anymore

Apollo isn't giving them that choice this time

I think I'm gonna call this one the Fates Last Chance AU

[madnglorp]

starts thinking about the kun>movie>san jyushi progression and vomits.

Like yes it makes literally no sense for him to go from "the brother everyone forgets and who hardly speaks, whose character bio says he's afraid of being insignificant, likes to sing, and is quiet" to "is the first matsu to notice their classmates fucking hate them, awakens to being a sillyboy, but a year later becomes a delinquent roleplayer" to "sillyboy" pipeline., but if you imagine hard enough things start to make so much sense. So much sense. And then i start gnashing my teeth and rolling on the floor out of sadness.

(i feel Iike my concept of him as a character is at this point so overpollinated by kun and Headcanons and Theories and s3 that it's a wholly new invention. not ooc but, uh... A big extrapolation.)

To me it's a pipeline that goes "comfortable within his unit where he can just repeat the same behaviours as everyone else to Seem Normal, but also is a bit unhappy because there's nothing special about him and he is painfully aware that, compared to his brothers, he is meek" to "briefly starts to go crazy with happiness as a teen because the burden of collective identity has been lifted off him, but quickly sees that literally all of his brothers except for him are now going through depression AND he can't mask without them AND he's still weird, and everyone can see that, and they mean that in a negative way. Which makes him act agressive (ironically attracting more attention)" to "still feels embarrassed and judged by other people, but chills out significantly not having to interact with other people daily (it's canon that he's as introverted as ichi. They both fucking hate crowds and this joke gets made like twice in the show). Also decides to stop masking, for the most part... Except for masking as more "airheaded" than he actually is and playing into stereotypes so that his brothers never pay attention to his evil schemes (manipulating kara into giving him candy + stealing choromatsu's food + running a bank account that gets taken out for fraudulent accounting + not having to refill gasoline)."

[voidedtea]

[ID in alt]

my pieces for @strawberrij's thespius fashion zine!! quite the endeavour and adventure that turned out pretty neat i think :]

special thanks go to @ratchetclankarecute for posing/cloth references + the bulk of the image descriptions! that first image would Not have happened without them <3

[iwritenarrativesandstuff]

really wish my one friend would quit flirting with me. and trying to goad me into hanging out more. and assigning us fictional characters that are oh-so-coincidently either couples or with romantic tension. and then interrupting our gameplay to ask me repeatedly if I think they’re “like us” (which they rarely are…). and matching my icon on discord without asking (again, usually by insinuating a couple connection). and giving me random things I do not want and did not ask to receive (and then forcing me to take them???).

[thefirstknife]

Apparently there was a roundtable with a senior narrative head at bungie about destiny

where he stated "don't expect to be allies with the hive. or even Savathun"

which to me seems like a weird choice to say right after deeps ending?

That's interesting. Honestly, valid comment to me. Here's the link to the article itself! The dev that made the comments is Robert Brookes. One extra quote that isn't in the tweet (goes in between the two in the tweet):

“It’s gonna be really hard to walk that back from anyone’s perspective. Even if that ever became a possibility, there’s a lot of ground to cover to make amends for that.”

We often forget about that, because obviously everyone deserves a second chance, especially in a situation where the Hive were literally manipulated into becoming what they did, but at the end of the day, their gruesome conquests that wiped out thousands of civilisations is not something that everyone can or has to forgive.

People are really eager to forgive Savathun, completely, which was always weird to me in a fandom that has gone ballistic over infinitely smaller crimes. And I get it, Savathun is an incredibly compelling character, fantastically written, absolute banger of VA work. She's such a crucial element in the whole setting of Destiny and is fascinating to read about her. 100% one of the best characters in the entire franchise, intriguing and complex beyond pretty much anyone else.

But the characters within the story itself can't view her in this way or it would be immersion breaking. To them, Savathun isn't a character that's well written, she's a monster who is responsible for some of the most horrific things across time and space. I can definitely see any alliance with her to be temporary, out of necessity and not exactly on good terms. I would love for us to eventually get together with the Hive and join forces against those that are responsible for their course in life, but I think it's definitely something that, within the universe in-character, is not something entirely realistic and would be difficult to justify.

Definitely an odd thing to say now though. Maybe it's telling us to temper our expectations next season? We need Savathun's knowledge, but I don't see us being besties with her in any capacity. I'm not sure what people expect from a season where we rez Savathun; there's probably a lot of people who expect a Caiatl situation.

Realistically, it might be an uneasy cooperation that will be very limited and possibly exploited by Savathun to get out at the end. Right now she's dead and she can't do anything and for as long as we keep her, we're safe. But now that we need her... We have no choice. We have to get her out and once she's out, she will not be bound by anything to obey us. It's a very risky move, one that we're looking at out of desperation, and the risks were nicely laid out by Saladin, Saint and Zavala in their conversation. That bit is definitely priming us to expect some heavy resistance to help from Savathun from various characters and this comment might be as well.

I can't wait for the next season's story though! Savathun talking to us again, in any capacity, is something I've been waiting for eagerly since the end of WQ. I don't doubt for a second that the conversations she'll have will be full of some heavy stuff and that she will not play nice with us and that she (and Immaru) will make most of the situation where we're desperate for her help. She will probably also genuinely want to get her revenge to the Witness, but not necessarily as our sidekick. I think that continuing with the animosity between her and us adds an extra layer of depth to the whole story with her and the Hive.

[immortalsins]

i cope great as the only woman in combat sports classes and there are never any problems

[yellowsubiesdance]

i wish i could fully trust myself and say it was a good interview, but i legitimately have no idea

[gremlinhourz]

me and my brother arguing over who talks to people less like its something to be proud of

[tonycries]

FIVE! - C.K.

Synopsis. Five hours - it’s all it takes for Choso’s baby fever to take over. After all, you’d look so pretty with his kid - five of them, in fact.

Pairing. Choso Kamo x Reader 

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, established relationship, unprotected, bréeding, Choso with rings + a tongue piercing, creampíe, mentioned kids, cúmplay, he goes feraI, oraI (fem receiving), Itadori family shenanigans (mild spoilers for unc-kuna), overstím, fíngering, pet names, swearing.

Word count. 5.9k

A/N. Will I ever write a Choso fic without the Itadori family? No absolutely not.

4:37PM.

“Ooo, Cho can we check that place out?”

And, listen, just because Choso would give you the moon right along with his heart doesn’t exactly mean he’s jumping with joy when he follows your gaze to that gaudy little shop tucked away in a corner of the mall. Flashing a loud, glittering sign reading, “FORTUNES: FIND YOUR FUTURE!”

Traitorous memories flash through his mind with each step you drag him closer. Of all those fortune shops he’d frequented years ago, trying to figure out whether you’d say yes to a date - before even thinking of actually asking you. 

He won’t ask anything, Choso reassures, stepping through the heady, curtained doorway. Probably not anything, he’s musing, pulling out his wallet to pay for your session. Well, maybe some things, he concludes, eyeing the sprightly old woman that takes a seat opposite you two, peering down at her dramatically large glass ball on the table. 

But that doesn’t mean he’ll-

“Babies.”

“Huh?”

“Yes.” the woman gives a solemn nod. “Five of them.”

Both of you let out a squawk of surprise, much to the amusement of the fortune teller. And Choso can feel his palms getting sweaty against your own as he manages to croak out a low, disbelieving, “Five?”

All but toppling out of his seat in suspense as she takes a moment to scrutinize her orb once more. And, surely glass balls can glitch, right? Mix up fortunes or something? Because while he knows you’ll be by his side in this life and every other one after - kids were a whole other responsibility that neither of you had talked about, yet.

At least, that’s what Choso was trying to convince himself right before the woman lets out a thoughtful hum, “Well, you-” pointing a wisened, accusing finger right in his flushed face. “-want more - about eight - but, of course, your future wife says no.” Gesturing to your giggling figure, “Honestly, young man, learn to keep it in your pants, the poor dear!”

Shit, he was going to run away, do something to end up on the national news - and judging by the way you squeeze his hand, you could tell, too. 

Subconsciously, Choso’s eyes scan the wall for any hidden cameras, wondering what type of strange prank this was. It had happened once four years ago - and just-so-happened to be what made him give up and finally ask you out - but, hey, it made for a pretty great first date story, right?

Finding none, he sighs, barely opening his mouth to ask before she plows on, “And of course there’s only so many your uncle can piggyback at once, right? No matter how much that grump says he doesn’t like it.”

Right.

Of course.

Oh god, he thinks he could faint. 

Choso doesn’t dare say anything for the rest of the session, nor does he look directly in your eyes. Save for that one time to admire your delighted laugh when the fortune teller prattles on about how your kids will “fight his needy self for your attention.”

Not until the two of you are stepping back out into the too-bright mall, your fingers intertwined with his, voice sweet in his ear as you continue with your forgotten mission to find the good brownie mix for the family dinner tonight. 

“Eyes like yours and hair like mine.” You sigh, repeating what you’d heard mere minutes ago. Hooking a finger subtly into his belt loop, smirking, “Sooo, five, huh? You’re this worked up over that?”

“N-no.” Choso replies hastily, but the heavy gulp he takes is a dead giveaway he can’t stop thinking about tiny combinations of the two of you running around. Face too-hot, hands jittery, brows furrowed as he decides for the second time in his life that, yeah he’s never stepping foot inside a fortune shop again. 

You notice - of course, you do. 

Especially when he pulls you into the nearest changing stall, knuckle-deep inside your drenched panties, rings cool against your cunt, lips kissing at your throat. Ignoring your teasing complaints about “getting late”, despite how you’re letting him have his way. 

He feels the vibration of your voice under his hot tongue, laughing - even when he gives your pretty clit a little pinch. “Five.”

And through it all, he can’t help but think - hypothetically, of course, that he hopes they all have your laugh.

---

7:16PM.

Honestly, the one thing that made the Itadori residence more of a home to Choso was having you there. Even when you’re standing with him outside the front door, letting out a sigh as you glare at your sad excuse for brownies.

“Ugh, Cho, we totally burnt them.” you grumble up at your boyfriend. “Your dad is gonna hate it and Sukuna’s gonna make fun of me and-”

“Sukuna can try.” Choso hits the doorbell once more, sure that the ruckus inside was too loud to even think over. “And he probably will.” Before turning back to your adorable pout, and ah he can’t stop himself from cupping your face, smoothing over that furrow in your brow. He leans in to give your lips a chaste peck, “But, he’s still gonna steal some. N’ dad’ll love it, and you already know gramps is gonna sneak in some even though his doctor told him not to.” He’s getting out through kisses, pulling your giggling face closer to his. “And we’ll be lucky to get any before Itadori inhales them.”

He ends his little speech with a slow, lingering kiss. Sliding his soft lips across your now much happier ones. Dancing a hand down to pull your hips closer, murmuring throatily, “N’ most of all, I’m gonna love ‘em, baby.”

You gasp at the feeling of his long fingers pressing just at the hem of your panties through your dress, “You’re- you’re too much.” You hiss, but it comes out more breathless than you intended. “But, the brownies really are-”

Slam!

“Yeah yeah, Jin, the brats are finally here, jus’ fucking on the porch!” 

If there’s anything Choso’s learned from all the times you’ve had dinner with his family, it’s that 1. Yes, the brownies - as burnt and questionable as they were - will always turn out to be a hit in the Itadori household. 2. You were really, really too perfect for your own good, even amidst the chaos. 

“Oh no, let me.” you flash Jin a beaming smile, taking over the well cleared-out plates to the kitchen. Only to be followed by an enthusiastic Yuji almost tripping over his own feet to help you out. 

“You got a good one there.” Choso snaps out of his soft stare to whirl around at where his grandpa was seated next to him. He tips his head over to where you were chattering animatedly with the younger boy taking your load of dishes. “Real lovely. Though, the desert I’m assuming you helped out with.”

Jin pipes up, “Bah! I thought that liquorice was great.”

“They were…brownies.” Face burning, he stammers, knowing full well that you were the one that forgot them in the oven. “And uh y-yeah, you got me…”

And, of course, because it’s a family dinner, Sukuna has to lean over to rile him up. Interjecting teasingly, “Then you best wife that cute lil’ thing up before those baking skills of yours make ‘em run off n’ find someone that can bake.” He smirks devilishly, eyes flitting to the view of the kitchen, “And…”

“And?”

“-is fuckin’ great with kids, too.”

Several things happen at once - the words are barely out of Sukuna’s mouth before he’s being swatted over the head. Hard. After all, being the nicer of the two doesn’t make Jin Itadori forget his roots as the older brother.

And Choso’s jaw is dropping into a soft oh! Not at the unusual display of strength, no, instead it was at the heavenly scene before him.

He swears, the lights grow just a bit brighter and the world becomes a little rosier at the sight of you teaching an eager Yuji the correct way to scrub strainers. Gently guiding the boy until that confused furrow between his brow disappears. “Yeah, just a bit more on the side and you’re done!”

He gives you a very soapy high-five, “You’re literally a lifesaver, Kugisaki was just making fun of me for this the other day.” Moving onto the rest of the workload, “‘Can’t do shit’ gonna show her, seriously. Thank you mom- uh-”

Yuji freezes. You freeze. And it seems that everyone in the world might’ve frozen, except for Sukuna who was still rubbing that bump on his head. 

And you, of course, promptly cutting off the flurry of apologies that looked like they were about to burst from Itadori’s lips. Smiling at the flustered boy softly, “Well…good job, Yuji.” you bump his hip. “And now onto the blender.”

“AW, MAN.”

Suddenly, everything was normal again. Except for Choso - definitely not Choso. 

Mom? 

So utterly, completely not Choso when everyone’s still talking downstairs, and he’s not. Making some cheap excuse about a ‘bathroom break’, which really didn’t explain why he covertly drags you behind him by the hand. All but shoving you into his childhood bedroom, shutting the door as quietly as he could without alerting anyone of your tryst. 

“Ch-Cho-” you squeal when he pushes you against the wall, dropping down to his knees with a fervor that makes you wince. But if it hurt, then Choso doesn’t show it - doesn’t show anything but pure need when he bunches your dress up at your waist. Soft tongue darting out to glide along your drenched slit, “What’s gotten- hngh- into you?”

The only response you get is a murmured growl of something you can’t bother deciphering. And he doesn’t give you any other, either - sluggishly nudging away your panties to admire your glistening cunt. 

So close. Just hovering over your puffy folds, smiling at the way they only get wetter at his hot breath, “Five.”

Too close. Glossy pink lips falling slack to wrap around your clit and-

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

Though, it was more of a bang. And an even louder voice from outside, “OI, you brats better be decent, gramps found some dusty old albums n’ wants you two down.”

---

9:02PM.

“Awww, this is from his first fight with Yuji- yes, Choso so what if I took a picture?” Jin excitedly points to a photo on the page, “Yuji was the one with a bruise, but Choso was the one bawling.”

You titter at the glossy picture, a confused-looking Yuji as a toddler, being smothered by his older brother in a hug - big, fat tears running down his pouty cheeks. Adorable. And somehow that encounter with the fortune teller today rings in your mind - wonder if your kids would have those same eyes?

“As cute as ever, huh?” your gaze dances across all the gems of childhood on the page. 

“Disagreed.” Sukuna leans over, no matter how much he’d like to pretend he wasn’t interested in these albums. “Look how attached the lil’ anklebiter used to be.” A painted nail pokes at one of Choso on his uncle’s shoulders, tiny fists happily gripping onto pink hair - much to his disgruntlement. “And then I look over at him now and-” He glances over at the man in question, very much unamused. “Well. That’s disappointing.”

Choso rolls his eyes, “What’s disappointing is how you’re this old but still can’t find a-” 

“Ooo look this is from when he’d run away during bath time!”

That album is snatched so fast out of Jin’s hands that you wonder whether it might just be your imagination. But you look over at a red-faced Choso, seeing him hold it way above your heads. Muttering out a hasty, “I think that’s enough photo time.”

Amidst the collective groans of disappointment - even Sukuna lets out a low huff, you hadn’t gotten to those ugly matching Halloween costume pictures yet - only Yuji speaks up, “Do you think I’d be like that, too?”

Sukuna scoffs, “What? An emo bastard? Might just work out for ya, kid, the dumbass look isn’t doing you any favors.”

Yuji juts his chin in indignance, “No- we already have Fushiguro for that.” Tilting his head over to the album still tight in Choso’s clutches. “Do you think your kids would like me? Would I be that cool favorite family member?”

“No way, brat. It’ll be me.”

Choso’s grandpa also chimes in as well, “Huh? No, I’d be the favorite.”

“Gramps-”

“Says who?”

“DISRESPECT TO YOUR ELDERS!”

“Hey!” Everything turns to Choso, startled at his sudden outburst. Tension crackling as he pokes a thumb at his chest, “I’d be their favorite. For all five of them.”

And you knew a fist or two to be thrown, hell, you half-expected the album to be used as some type of weapon. Because before you knew it, Sukuna was on Yuji, and both Yuji and Choso were on Sukuna. Falling to the floor in a tangled pile while his grandpa sat on the sidelines, chanting an elated, “Fight! Fight! Fight!”

Ah, it’s times like this that you wonder how Jin Itadori really had the patience. Because with all the grace that was lacking in the current scuffle on the living room floor, he claps his hands loudly. “Alright. Perhaps Choso’s right, that’s enough photo time for tonight.” He plucks the album out of a dazed Choso still gripping onto it, before moving to walk out. “And for the record-” Flashing you all a devious smile which suddenly had you remember that shit, him and Sukuna were twins, after all. “-I’d be the favorite.”

The arguments that followed were ones you had to record on your phone to giggle at later. And, yet, through it all, the only thing you could truly focus on were Choso’s words - all five of them.

Fuck. You were truly, irrevocably so fucked, and one sideglance at the pretty pink blush burning at the tips of Choso’s ears told you he wasn’t faring any better. 

You jolt when his hand wraps around your waist - nothing out of the ordinary - but what was was the way he strayed past their usual perch at your hip, trailing slightly above to just caress your stomach. Something so electric in those eyes when they catch yours briefly. 

All five of them, huh?

---

9:37PM. 

SLAM!

“Cho, why’d you-”

“Shut up.”

You don’t know what’s hitting you first - his lips crashing against yours, or the realization that this was Choso. Dark eyes half-lidded, skin burning, breaths heaving with the fervor he was drinking you in with. 

“What-” you yelp when he pulls away lazily to suck on your lower lip. “What got-” Only to come clashing back down again, drawing out all the air in your lungs as he blindly shoves the two of you against the nearest wall. “What got into you this- mmpf-” And again it’s like Choso didn’t want you to talk - could bare another word in your sweet voice for fear of poking some deep, visceral part of himself awake. 

This time, not even daring to break the kiss, he pants into your open mouth, “Shut up.” So bruisingly sloppy, “Please.”

And oh he was so very determined to have it that way, because all you can do is let out breathless gasps when his hands dance down your body. Handling you so rough with the way he snaps the neckline of your cute lil’ dress, kneading your breasts, your hips. Everywhere and anywhere he could reach until he makes his way down to cup your already-damp cunt through your panties. “-because tonight m’gonna have her talking.”

Choso pushes his hips against yours with a strained grunt. Lips curling into a sinful leer when all you can do is gasp at the outline of his thick erection through his pants. Grinding down onto his palm subconsciously, dragging your sloppy pussy. 

“Shit.” Choso immediately brings his hand up to admire - now all glistening with a sheen of your syrupy slick. Looking you right in your glassy eyes as he pops a wet finger into his mouth. His own rolling to the back of his head, “Oh shit.”

Oh, he was going to enjoy this. So very, very much.

“Turns out…” he trails off, cutting himself off by dropping to his knees. Hard. Large hands groping your ass closer to his greedy mouth, “-she says we got some unfinished business.”

You whine when Choso hooks an index underneath the mound of your drenched panties sliding it along your puffy folds. All the way up until he was nudging at your pretty clit, then down, down, down until you were just coating his fingers. 

“Ngh- Cho-” your knees weaken, when his hot breath hits your pussy. And he notices - of course he does. Circling his muscled arms around your legs to hold you up, “Oh my god s’too much.”

Too much? He’s barely even getting started. And he tells you that - slurs it between his sharp canines biting down on the thin fabric of your panties. He tugs with his teeth, “M’gonna- fuck you smell so heavenly- m’gonna ruin you.” 

You whimper in disbelief. Knowing he was too entranced with your cunt to tease you again, you mewl, “Wh-what’s got you this- fuck- worked up, Cho?”

The only response you get is a throaty growl - like the mere idea of the answer to that has Choso losing his sanity. 

And, honestly he feels like he’s lost it already. Instead, taking his time to watch the way your slick beads through the see-through fabric with each passing second. Breaths coming out in little puffs as he pulls your panties back every-so-slightly and-

“Fuck!”

And then he’s pulling - ripping your poor panties to shreds. Cock twitching wildly at the strings of slick connecting your pussy to the fabric. Mouthwatering. 

Your panties lay in tatters on the floor. The cold air hitting you right along with his steady stream of saliva. Once. Twice. Smearing it across your folds with his thumbs as Choso repeats a single, jagged whisper, “Five.”

But you barely even have the time to register his response before he’s diving nose-deep into your dripping cunt. You don’t even know if he took the time to breathe - hell, he was kissing your puffy folds like he didn’t need to breathe. 

“Shouldn’t have taken me to ngh- that fortune shop.” his lips mesh sloppily with yours. “Shouldn’t have gone to dinner, too.” Licking down your folds, the cold metal of his piercing making your head spin. “Fuckkk we shouldn’t have. Ohhh we shouldn’t have- ”

He can’t help but let out a guttural, fucked-out little grunt at the sight. Looking right up into your glassy eyes as the tip of his nose bumps against your throbbing clit. On purpose. 

You buck your hips deeper into his pretty face, mewling. “O-oh. Fuck- fuck fuck fuck-” Letting him lick so filthily all over your clit - your folds - just barely dipping into your hole like he couldn’t decide. And it finally sets in that just maybe you weren’t getting off easy this time. “Five?”

And fuck you can feel the way Choso grins against your pussy, wrapping his now-glossy lips around your clit to suck so harshly.

“Mhmmm.” he moans, cheeks hollowing as he tugs on your poor, ravaged clit. Rolling his tongue - the ball of his piercing - right across the sensitive bud in just the way he knew you liked. “Shouldn’t have put those thoughts in my head, baby.”

Oh.

Oh, shit. Five. 

You definitely weren’t making it out alive today.

The same sentiment seems to ring in Choso’s pussydrunk head as he pulls away with a lewd squelch to grin up at you. So fucking pretty with his eyes miles away, hair messily framing his smudged eyeliner. Lips all puffy and glistening, your slick covering the lower half of his face, his chin - some even on his jaw like Choso was trying to get messy on purpose. “Ya finally got it, baby? I could feel her gettin’ wetter.”

You did. How could you not?

You jump when Choso reattaches his lips, this time bullying his tongue past your folds, into that first, feeble ring of resistance. Stretching out your sopping entrance on his tongue in persistent, rough pushes. “Seems she hngh- really likes the idea, hm? Of me breeding this lil’ cunt?” he moans, muffled with the way he was thrusting his tongue deeper and deeper with each second. Roaming for those cute sensitive spots he knew so well, “N’ who am I to say no to the fuck- mother of my kids?”

“There! Oh my god there-” you cry when his piercing just hits at your g-spot. “I-I thought you ngh- didn’t want kids, Cho–”

As if to prove you wrong, Choso’s only curling his tongue deeper into your walls. Squeezing past your walls to fuck you exactly the way he wanted to with his aching cock right now. Hitting that magic spot again and again and-

“Oh yeah? Seems-” Like he was fucking addicted, Choso surges forward again. And again. And again and again so deep that you could feel the curve of his chin, each and every movement of his jaw. “Seems the last five hours were a bit- eye-opening. Fuck- you’re squeezin’ me s’fucking- mmf- tight”

And it was true - your walls were milking Choso’s tongue so hard you half-lucidly wondered whether it didn’t hurt. Whether his tongue wasn’t cramping up at this point, lips aching. 

But if they did, then Choso acted the exact opposite. Nails leaving neat little patterns on the plush of your hips as he makes you ride his face harder. 

“Cho!” you buck your hips wildly when that wasn’t enough for your needy boyfriend either. Big, fat tears of overstimulation rising up to your eyes when he swipes his thumb across your pulsing clit. Rings cold against your cunt when he starts to draw urgent, messy little circles in time with his tongue.“Oh fuck-” 

“Five.” he’s spitting into your cunt when your thighs start trembling beside his head. Jaw sagging open so lewdly as he gets faster - sloppier. Fuck any rhythm or reason. “Five.” he moans, sounding as strained as you felt - as taut as a tightrope right now with each drag of your sloppy cunt over Choso’s ravenous mouth. Greedier - letting your slick run all the way down his wrist now with how messy he was getting. “Five.” he whispers, when you finally cum. 

And shit, you’re such a vision when you do. Tears springing to your eyes, fingers tightening on Choso’s hair. Letting out such cute sobs of his name, hips moving out of control all over his mouth while he still pulls and pushes his tongue into your gummy walls. Fucking you so obscenely through your high. 

“Yeah? You all done with the first one, baby?” he rasps, giving your sensitive cunt one, last peck at your delirious nod - and another extra, just to watch you squirm. “Then-” Choso does the same up your body, pressing his lips to your stomach, “-you can-” the valley of your breasts. “-take responsibility.”

That’s all it takes for Choso to easily throw you onto his sculpted shoulders like some ragdoll. Taking long, urgent steps towards the nearest flat surface - that just so happened to be your couch. 

“Cho- slow-” you squeal when he throws you onto the cushions. “-down.”

And he does anything but. Barely paying attention to your zipper when he pulls off whatever’s left of your dress, throwing it god-knows-where behind him. “I’ll buy you a new one when we go pregnancy shopping.”

Choso lets out a long, strained groan when he unbuckles your bra. “Gonna be so pretty as a mama.” Large, soft hands coming to knead and guide your pretty nipples into his mouth, “Gonna be- fuck- so pretty with these all full.” 

And you can only watch, jaw-dropped, as Choso sucks on your tits. Eyes rolling to the back of his head with how harsh he was - as if he was trying to get out milk. Needing to feel it - to taste it on his tongue. 

“And this- oh this-” A hand sneaks its way down to splay out over your stomach. Pressing down, hard. “So round and full with my kid.” He manages to grit out over the metal clinking of his belt, “They’ll look at you and all they’ll see is me.” He pauses, feeling something crinkle in his pocket - a shiny condom. One that Choso chucks along with your dress, “Fuck, they’ll see me. Know how I ruined you. Me me me me-”

Fuck- 

You’re so caught up in Choso’s sinful little mutters that you barely even noticed he’d pull down his pants - just enough for his rock-hard erection to spring free. And he looked so painfully hard, such an angry red at his weeping tip, leaking all the way down, down, down those prominent veins. 

Twitching upwards at the mere sound of your voice, “Why don’t you p-prove it then, Cho?”

You broke him. You were sure you broke him. 

The words have barely left your lips before Choso’s fist is squeezing at the drenched base of his cock. Angry. Desperate. 

All but cumming on the spot when he glides his fat head along your slit - letting your cunt drool all over him before-

“F-fuck-”

“Shhh baby, I know I know.” his mouth crashes against yours in a messy, open-mouthed kiss. Sucking on your tongue while he bullies his massive cock into your snug cunt. Inch by fucking inch. And whatever’s remaining of Choso’s sanity knows he should slow down, let you breathe, maybe stretch you out more - but how could he when he physically can’t. “Fuck- too- too good. God, I have t-to do this more often.”

Your raw cunt too heavenly that he genuinely can’t stop his hips from splitting you apart deeper, from spreading your thrashing legs so far apart it burned.

From feeling the way you’re torn between taking more and flattening your feet to push away- Letting out a strangled groan, “No no no no no- don’t you take this pussy away. How else will I breed her?” He runs his delirious mouth, strong arms just dragging you across the couch back onto his mean cock. “Need this- need this so bad. Fuck-” Choso throws his head back as your cunt sucks up his leaky tip. “-oh god think m’gonna die if I don’t get to breed this pretty pussy. To give her my kid.”

Pushing in small, sharp jabs to bully himself inside, having your puffy folds bulge so obscenely around his cock. Quivering and struggling to take him all. Not even a quarter of the way in yet he was pushing in and out in and out in and-

“Oh- please-” you claw down his toned back, his waist, onto the biceps that were pushing your knees up for easier access, all the way until they were at your tits. Folding you into a tight mating press, “Cho–”

Ah, that little nickname always did things to him. And Choso nuzzles the crook of your neck gently - the exact opposite of his hips, leaving faint, dark streaks of eyeliner on your skin. “What is it? What do you hngh- want, baby? I’ll give ya anything.”

And maybe you were a mastermind. Maybe you were an idiot. Because you hum into his ear, sending goosebumps rising down your boyfriend’s spine, “Wan’ five of them.”

If you thought you broke him before then you fucking ruined him now.

Because in one, harsh thrust he’s bottoming out - feeling like he was pushing all the way into your lungs, your hazy brain. And the stretch - fuck. You could feel each and every dip and curve of Choso’s girth, thrumming against your plushy walls. Still pushing inside you despite bottoming out, stretching you out like such a slut. 

It was all Choso could do to echo, over and over like some type of mantra. “Finally- Five, huh? Five- Fuck!” Leaving little bruises on your thighs from spreading them apart so hard. “Gonna give you five- fuck- five.”

Each word was punctuated by a long, mean thrust, not daring to reel back until Choso could feel his fat head kiss your poor cervix, and his heavy balls smack against your ass. 

It was starting to take a toll on your ability to speak in coherent sentences - as expected, of course. 

“Oh- ngh- Cho, s’too deep. Too- ah-” you blubber tearily, heels digging into his shoulders. And he only fucks you harder into the couch. Bouncing you so rough on his swollen cock. 

“Too deep?” Choso mutters, sounding genuinely surprised. As if to confirm for himself, he trails up a hand to feel for where he knew he was leaving loving little marks on your cervix. Pressing down. “How are ya- hah- how are ya gonna let me breed this cute cunt if even this is too deep, huh?”

You don’t have the ability to answer even if you wanted to - because Choso starts to toy with your still-sensitive clit. Sending flashes of white-hot pleasure with each roll of his ringed thumb over it. Tiny, incessant circles.

He coos over your lewd ah! ah! ah! “Awww. My baby can’t s-speak anymore?”. The curve of his dick fucking you so dumb, massaging your tight walls, hitting sweet spots you didn’t even know you had. “S’alright, jus’ let me hah- take care of it, okay? Jus’ let me paint this oh- heavenly pussy white.” Choso’s knees dig into the cushion as he angles his hips ever-so-slightly to hit that one-

“Fuck! Oh fuck- Cho–”

Found it.

“C’mon, baby.” Choso moans into the valley of your breasts, hips out of control now. Free hand coming up to squish your cheeks together, forcing you to peer into his dark gaze. “L-look at me. Fuck- look at the future father to your kids.”

All while his thick tip hit your g-spot over and over and- 

And oh how he loved how fucked-out you looked already. Capable of only giving him bleary, cockdrunk heart-eyes as he milks himself on your sloppy cunt. He couldn’t think straight - doesn’t think he’s been able to since five hours ago. 

Since he’s been wrecked with thoughts of how he’d do their hair and you’d pick them up from school. And how Yuji would be the best uncle and- Fuck, how he wanted those five kids with you - maybe even more- 

“More?” you gasp. And Choso lets out a guttural groan when you clench so sinfully around him in surprise. Fucking you so filthy, “M-more kids?”

Choso only drawls out a low, “Mhmmmm.” Pinching your clit faster between two fingers to shut up those cute whines because shit- he could cum from just how tight you were squeezing him. But refuses to before the mother of his kids. “Ya don’ ngh- wan’ me to? Don’ want me to fuck a baby into you?” 

You’re crying out harder when he speeds up. Rocking your sloppy cunt so harshly, making sure your poor pussy will remember him for a long, long time. Just trying - needing - to make himself cum. To fill you up with his seed till you can’t take it anymore. “I- ngh- do!”

And it takes everything in Choso to pull away from your ravaged tits, connecting his sweaty forehead with yours. Whispering, “How many?”

“As- fuck-”

“Mhm?”

“As many as you want- hngh-”

That’s all it takes for Choso’s body to bow, teeth digging in right above that rapid pulse on your neck so hard you wondered whether it drew blood. Hips stuttering, giving your sensitive spot one last, harsh kiss.

This time, when you cum you see white flashes behind your eyes - or maybe that was just Choso. Because the sight of you falling apart on his dick was all it takes for him to as well. Hard. Almost painfully so. 

Eyeliner running down his cheeks now with each thick, hot rope of seed he was filling your snug cunt up with. Those cushions below the two of you the last thing on his mind right now as he holds your trembling hips still, fucking his cum deeper and deeper.

The hand on your stomach pushes down, watching awe-struck at how your bloated cunt just coats him in cum. Dribbling down the side of your puffy folds, forming a creamy ring at his base.

“Oh!“ your jaw falls slack at how animalistic it felt. At how slutty your overfilled pussy felt, drooling all down your legs - and his. Onto Choso’s painfully squeezing balls as he fucks you like an animal. Again. And again and-

Again. He was speeding his hips up again. 

Then it’s like something snaps - Choso’s restraint, your sanity, and the couch. Fuck, his hips were so harsh that the couch was sagging entirely too much on your end.

This time, wrangling your legs around Choso’s waist, lifting your limp body up into Choso’s arms before you can react - squirming at the way he still doesn’t bother to pull out. Letting your cum gush all the way down his still-hard dick. 

Hands spreading your puffy folds apart, making such a mess of cum down below as he drags himself across your walls. Like he was marking you from the inside out - and he was.

“Didn’t think we were ngh- done, did you?” Choso’s lips graze your swollen ones. “After all, I did promise five.” Softly pooling a stray tear onto his tongue, piercing burning into your heated skin. “N’ we gotta practice for that, too, right?”

---

“The photo albums, really? Honestly, dad, you might as well have just gone and just outright told them.”

The older man only waves a hand dismissively, turning back to his favorite late-night show, “I’m not getting any younger here. N’ I’d like to see some grandkids before I see the pearly gates.”

Jin only sighs, but doesn’t disagree - after all, he couldn’t deny his father what he himself has been dreaming about ever since Choso finally plucked up the courage to actually ask you out. Yet he persists, “But honestly, Sukuna - you were teasing him a bit too much.”

Sukuna grunts, “Teasing? What teasing?” Crossing two big arms across his chest, “From the way they ran outta here, I suspect he should be thanking me.”

“Well, the true MVP - as the kids say - is this one-” Grandpa Itadori points at a rather oblivious Yuji. ‘Real nice improv to the plan, kid.“

Who only shakes his head before looking around the room for any answers, “Huh, wait. What plan? Did I miss some plan?”

“Ahem- no. Nothing.” Jin coughs, swiftly moving along the conversation above Yuji’s confused protests about what secret plan there was and why. “But, really, it should be that fortune teller you hired, Sukuna. Bit over-the-top honestly, but Choso was telling me all about her and you must’ve gotten a real convincing actress.”

Rolling his eyes, “Huh, I didn’t hire her, I thought that was the ol’ man’s work?”

“Now why would I go looking for actresses, my wife would just haunt me from the grave.”

The silence that follows is a heavy one as it slowly dawns upon everyone in the room - except for a still-floundering Yuji - that this was in no way a creative improvisation to the aforementioned plan. Not at all, really.

Oh. 

Wow. Five…really?!

“GUYS WHAT WAS THE PLAN?”

A/N. This got wayyyyyy longer than I expected lmao.

Plagiarism not authorized.

[blank-potato]

Something Special

Pairing: Bob Reynolds x Reader

Summary:

This time, in a sudden pfft, it sprays something directly into both of your faces—a cloud of shimmering mist exploding into the air. It smells sweet... too sweet. Like overripe fruit or syrup, or cotton candy left in the sun. Almost sickly. Bob coughs, waving his hand in front of his face. “What was that?” “A defence mechanism, perhaps—” you begin, but your voice trails off as something shifts. The stem starts to grow, elongating right before your eyes, inch by inch. Then, like something out of a sci-fi movie, thin tendrils begin sprouting from the base, curling and stretching like green tentacles. “Okay, what kind of flower shop did you go to?” you ask, backing up a step. Bob’s eyes are locked on it in horror. “I don’t know! I swear it looked normal! The lady had an apron!” Or You’ve been the live-in doctor at Avengers Tower for a year, and Bob wants to get you something special to celebrate. Unbeknownst to him, that something special turns out to be a sex plant. 

Tags/Warnings: 18+ Explicit content, sex plant, sex pollen, p in v, cowgirl/reverse cowgirl, crazy thoughts from horny!reader, Bob's good intentions backfiring

WC: 6.9k

A/N: I saw Thunderbolts earlier this week, and I felt compelled to write something! My Marvel obsession is so back, and I’m so in love with Bob, and consuming so much Thunderbolts fanfiction, I think I’m genuinely going crazy.

Part 2

⋆˙⟡⋆˙⟡⋆˙⟡⋆˙⟡

Bob teeters on his heels as he looks around the flower shop. He was here to get a gift for you, but he had no idea what you would like. Then, while browsing the camellias, a woman appears, half scaring the life out of him, asking him what he’s looking for, and he tells her as best he knows how.

“I’m looking for something special for someone special.”

“Special, huh?” She replies with a mischievous smile, “I have just the flower for you.”

He watches as she disappears into the recesses of the shop and wonders if he’s making the right decision. 

You were important to him, but maybe flowers were too much; perhaps you would see right through it and see the feelings he was trying (and failing) to hide. The whole team could see it. Alexei kept giving him unsolicited —and mostly unhelpful— advice about it, while John and Ava never missed a chance to tease him whenever they caught him gawking at you. And Yelena and Bucky tried their best to nudge him forward in their own ways; Yelena with blunt encouragement, Bucky with quieter, knowing looks and the occasional grunt that somehow conveyed volumes.

But Bob remained resolute, content with just admiring you from afar.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

Ever since you were introduced to the team as their live-in doctor, he knew he didn’t stand a chance. You were a ray of sunshine. Exceptional at your job and had this strange but beautiful quality where you could make anyone feel at ease within seconds of meeting them. 

He felt it firsthand when he walked into the med bay in the Tower. You were sitting there, clipboard in hand, and welcomed him in with a warm smile, motioning for him to sit. He obeyed without a word, nerves already prickling beneath his skin.

“I’m just going to take some blood samples, okay?” you said gently.

His eyes darted around the room—white, sterile walls, the faint smell of antiseptic in the air. Tests didn’t often lead to good things in his experience, and he felt that this one would be no different. His posture stiffened, and his breath was shallow. But as if sensing his unease, you placed a hand on his arm, steady, reassuring.

“If you’re feeling uncomfortable, I’m right here. And if you want me to stop, you just go right ahead and tell me.”

Bob nodded slowly, looking into your eyes—your beautiful, beautiful eyes that somehow made the rest of the world fade to background noise.

“I just need you to take some deep breaths for me, can you do that?”

You looked at him with such gentle care, and for a moment, he felt like he’d known you longer than just a minute. It felt crazy how fast he was falling for you, but it was happening all the same.

“Yeah… I can do that,” he replied, voice low.

And he had never been the same.

From that moment on, he’d been falling for you—hard. Making lovey-dovey eyes at you over morning coffee in the communal kitchen, pretending not to watch you when you laughed at someone’s joke, finding excuses to linger a little longer in any room you were in. 

He toys with his watch, waiting for the florist to come back and flinches as he hears crashes and curses. He has half a mind to go and check on her when she suddenly pops out with a crooked smile and her hair askew, presenting the flower to him. 

“Trust me, your girlfriend is going to love this one. Rarest thing in here.”

“She’s…” He stops, watching as the worker flits around the shop, putting the finishing touches on the arrangement. What use was it explaining anyway? How could he put you into words?

It was a strange flower, one he didn’t recognise. Its petals folded into each other. It was unlike any flower he’d ever seen, almost alien. But it was also beautiful, rare and special. Just like you. He buys it in a heartbeat, but the anxiety that follows is sickening. As he goes back to the tower, he thinks about turning around, getting something safer—chocolates, maybe. A coffee voucher. Literally anything else.

‘Maybe it’s not good enough, or what if she hates it?’

He plays with the loose yarn on his sweater as he nervously looks down at the plant. 

‘What if she pretends to like it but actually hates it and, in turn, hates me?’

He overthinks all the way down the street, onto the subway, up the Avengers Tower elevator, until he eventually reaches the door to your office.

Then—three knocks. His heart sinks into his stomach the second his knuckles leave the wood.

The door swings open, with you on the other side of it, a smile blooming on your face as soon as you see him.

“Bob!” You say excitedly. 

You’re clearly happy to see him and hurriedly usher him inside. The rest of the Avengers had been on a mission for the past two days and counting, so it was just you and Bob. It had been quite nice to spend time with him one-on-one. You even had a movie night the night prior, which ended with Bob falling asleep on your shoulder.

“What do you have there?” you ask, tilting your head slightly, catching sight of something he's hiding behind his back.

He hesitates for a beat, then slowly brings it forward, revealing a single, delicate flower—its petals a rich, otherworldly shade of purple, like something from a dream. It’s almost enchanting. You stare at it in awe, momentarily speechless.

“It’s a gift,” he says, placing it on your desk, voice shy but steady. “To celebrate you being here for a year. I… we really appreciate you.”

Your eyes soften at his words. You can see he’s nervous, waiting for your reaction like it might determine the course of his entire week.

But all you feel is warmth. You thought it was so sweet of him to do this for you; it was so thoughtful, so Bob. You’d felt a connection with him from the moment you met, something quiet but persistent that never quite went away.

“Thank you,” you say, genuinely. “I love it. Truly.”

You’re probably smiling too much, but when it comes to Bob, you can’t help yourself. You snap out of your loving stare as something flickers in your peripheral vision.

“Is it supposed to glow?” you ask, your eyes narrowing slightly as the petals shimmer faintly, a soft pulse of light running through them like a heartbeat.

“I, uh… I don’t think so?” Bob replies, frowning.

He leans in, squinting at the flower. The glow pulses again. Cautiously, he pokes it with one finger.

The flower twitches.

“It moved,” he says, eyes wide with a mix of fascination and fear.

“What? No way.” You step closer, trying to get a better look, equal parts sceptical and intrigued.

But then it twitches again, its petals bristling at the touch, and both of you freeze.

“…Did you buy this from a normal flower shop?” you ask slowly, eyeing him.

“I thought I did!” Bob says, his voice pitching just a little higher than usual.

You poke it again.

This time, in a sudden pfft, it sprays something directly into both of your faces—a cloud of shimmering mist exploding into the air. It smells sweet... too sweet. Like overripe fruit or syrup, or cotton candy left in the sun. Almost sickly.

Bob coughs, waving his hand in front of his face. “What was that?”

“A defence mechanism, perhaps—” you begin, but your voice trails off as something shifts.

The stem starts to grow, elongating right before your eyes, inch by inch. Then, like something out of a sci-fi movie, thin tendrils begin sprouting from the base, curling and stretching like green tentacles.

“Okay, what kind of flower shop did you go to?” you ask, backing up a step.

Bob’s eyes are locked on it in horror. “I don’t know! I swear it looked normal! The lady had an apron!”

In hindsight, the florist did seem a bit sketchy. The shop was tucked away in a dark, back alley, its dim interior lit flickering by lamps that looked like they hadn’t been updated since the ’70s. The air was thick with a faint smoke that he had to try not to choke on, but in his defence, Bob had just assumed it was part of the shop’s "vintage" aesthetic. 

The flower twitches again, and one of the tendrils gently brushes your desk lamp, knocking it askew.

“We should probably contain that,” you say.

“Or burn it,” Bob offers weakly.

You don’t have enough time to deliberate before they’re coming straight for you. They coordinate a joint attack and grab hold of your shirt. It has a relentless grip on it and tears it apart without a care. In the back of your mind, you have to take a second to mourn one of your favourite work shirts.

The plant, however, is far from done with you. Before you can react, one of its slippery, vine-like tendrils reaches for your wrist, its texture cold and unnervingly smooth. It’s trying to pin you down, the tendril wrapping around your forearm like a slippery snake.

“Bob!” you yell, panic rising in your voice.

Bob springs into action without hesitation. He grabs your arm, pulling you back just in time. But in the chaos, both of you tumble backwards, your feet tangling in each other’s as you fall to the floor.

You land… on top of him.

For a moment, everything stops. Your breath catches, his heart races beneath you, and there’s a stillness, an accidental closeness that makes everything feel like it’s happening in slow motion.

“Well, that was eventful,” you comment, breathless, glancing back over your shoulder at the plant—still twitching, preparing for its next move. The tendrils are growing faster now, more aggressive, and it’s only a matter of time before it tries to grab you again.

“Watch out,” he warns, voice sharp, as he pushes you aside with surprising strength. The moment you’re clear, he rolls to his feet, eyes fixed on the plant.

It lashes out, one of its tendrils reaching for your throat, but Bob is faster, shoving you out of harm’s way just in time.

In the seconds it took you to escape from it, the plant had doubled in size, its tentacles now oozing with a thick, viscous substance. It seemed to pulse, almost alive with an aggressive energy, like it was anticipating its next strike.

The plant gives you no time to catch your breath. Before you can react, it swipes again, this time reaching for Bob’s jeans. With surprising strength, one of the tendrils successfully yanks him to the ground, dragging him closer to its growing mass. The little tendrils begin climbing up the inside of his trousers, slithering toward his legs like they have a mind of their own.

“Holy shit,” you exclaim, adrenaline flooding your veins as you rush to grab his hands, pulling with all your strength in a futile attempt to free him. Where are the Avengers when you need them?

Unfortunately, you have no super strength or any useful abilities. Bob’s still being dragged closer, inch by inch. 

But what you do have, is a pretty damn good throwing arm.

You glance around the room, your mind racing for anything you can use. Your eyes land on the lamp on your desk, your favourite one. Bob had always joked about how you wouldn’t let anyone touch it. Without a second thought, you sprint across the room, grab it in one smooth motion, and hurl it toward the plant’s centre of mass.

The lamp flies through the air, and you’re about ready to start celebrating, but just as it’s about to make contact with the plant, the tendrils shift, dodging the attack like it’s alive and aware of what’s coming.

“Crap,” you mutter. "It dodged."

This had to be one of the worst moments of your life. 

Bob tries to crawl away, his muscles screaming in protest as he drags himself across the floor. His mind is a chaotic mess, every thought running a mile a minute. This day wasn’t supposed to go like this. He was supposed to give you the gift and see that smile of yours light up your face, not get fondled by a plant monster.

The tendrils continue their relentless pursuit, now reaching the edge of his boxers, squirming and twisting, as if looking for any way to get inside. 

“Hold on, just a second!”

“Please hurry, it’s kind of ticklish,” He blurts out as he writhes on the ground, “And wet.”

They find their way inside his boxers, reaching his dick and starting to wrap their way around it, making him tremble. 

The tentacles continue to secrete that viscous liquid, slick and glistening as they slip up and around his cock, their movements still clumsy, but starting to adapt to what makes him react. Bob struggles beneath its weight, panic flashing in his eyes as the tendrils flick over his sensitive tip, starting to pulse around him.

You’re frozen for a moment, heart racing, watching him fight against the plant’s hold. The air is thick with desperation, and for a split second, you wonder if you’re going to be too late. But then your mind snaps back into focus. This can’t keep going. You need a plan and fast.

You scan the room, eyes darting from the plant to Bob and back again. The papers on your desk, the fire extinguisher near the door, the window—wait. Without wasting another second, you rush over to it, pulling it down with a swift motion. You have no idea if this’ll work, but Bob’s safety is the only thing that matters, and you’d do anything to ensure it.

“Hold on!” you shout, as you aim the nozzle at the base of the plant.

You pull the trigger.

It’s temporarily thwarted, and you breathe out a sigh of relief when you see it retreat from Bob’s jeans.

“Come on!” you shout, reaching for Bob and pulling him to his feet. The moment you’ve got a solid grip on him, you both scramble toward safety, adrenaline fuelling your movements.

You rush toward the front door, but just as you reach it, the plant’s vines stretch out, blocking your escape. The thick, twisted tendrils curl around the doorframe, trapping you in. 

You turn on your heels, panic setting in as you dash to the far side of the room. There’s only one other way out, the door that leads to the lab part of your office.

You reach the door, flinging it open just in time, and drag Bob inside with you. As you slam the door shut, you quickly lock it, the sound echoing. The room is dim, but you barely notice the light as you both stand there, chest heaving, trying to catch your breath. It’s all you can both hear before you finally break the silence.

“What the fuck?” 

He’s panicking. He’s panicking hard. 

He attempted to do something nice, something to show just how much you mean to him and the rest of the team but instead he got you attacked by a plant that wanted to fuck you. 

“I screwed this up. I’m so sorry. I... I—” He stammers, his voice trembling with regret. He tries to continue, but the words seem to catch in his throat. He’s frustrated, overwhelmed by the situation and the guilt of what just happened.

You immediately notice the signs. The way he's retreating into himself, shoulders hunched, eyes avoiding yours. The guilt and panic are all over his face, and for a moment, you realise how much this is affecting him. He must think you’re mad at him, but you’re not. Not in the slightest. You weren’t even sure if you could be mad at him; he was Bob. 

You take a step forward, placing yourself in his line of sight, standing in front of him. You don’t need to say anything else. You don’t need him to apologise again.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” your voice acting as his source of stability, even though you’re both still shaking from the chaos.

But before he can respond, there’s a loud bang against the door. A deep, guttural scraping noise as the plant’s tentacles push against it, trying to force their way inside. They both jump at the sounds, and he tries to curl in on himself, his hands gripping into his hair as he shuts everything out, nothing but his own voice echoing in his head. 

‘Of course, you’d mess this up.’

“Bob, look at me, please.”

‘She probably hates you now.’

He opens his eyes slowly, and you can see it—the fear. The gold in his eyes flickers, a silent reflection of his inner turmoil. He’s been holding it all together for so long, but now, one mistake has him spiralling, and it’s all spilling out in front of you.

He hates that you can see it. The cracks in his composure, the weight of the guilt sinking into his chest. The last thing he wanted was to fall apart in front of you, to let you see just how much he’s struggling with everything.

“I put you in danger,” he mutters, his voice barely above a whisper. His gaze drops to the floor, shame and regret lacing his words.

You can’t let him carry this alone. You can’t let him drown in his own guilt when you know the truth: it wasn’t his fault. He only wanted to do something nice for you.

You step forward further into his space, cupping his face gently in your hands. His breath catches and you feel his warm skin under your palms, the tension in the air thick but not overwhelming.

“It’s okay,” you say softly, your thumb brushing against his cheek. “I’m alright, aren’t I?”

‘She doesn’t mean it.’

“I try to do one thing, and I just made things worse. I ruined everything—” 

“You didn’t ruin anything, okay? I loved the fact that you got me a gift, and we’re going to get out of this.”

You pull him close, and you both embrace each other tightly, the chaos outside fading away for a brief moment as you both seek comfort in the silence of the hug.

But suddenly, like a switch had been flipped, you become acutely aware of every touch, every shift of his body against yours. The warmth of his arms, the way his chest rises and falls with each breath, it all feels intensified. It’s like you’re hyper-aware of the sensation of him against you, and it’s overstimulating in a way you weren’t expecting.

You subconsciously nuzzle into his touch, breathing in his scent. He smells so good, you would even describe it as intoxicating. The feeling of him holding you, so close, feels delicious. The feeling of his fingers against your bare skin, mouth-watering.

You lean into him even more, a soft moan slipping out before you catch yourself. The sound barely escapes, but it’s enough to make you freeze. You jerk back from him, heart pounding in your chest.

From the look on his face, he didn’t hear it. Or if he did, he’s pretending not to, but you feel the heat rising in your cheeks, flooding your body. The flush spreads down your neck, over your skin, and you can’t stop it.

“We’ll…get through this,” Bob says, agreeing with your earlier words.

“Y-yeah,” you stutter out, still feeling the heat spreading throughout your body. 

Then, as if his panicked brain finally catches up to the situation, Bob’s eyes flick over your form, and his eyes widen just a little when he realises you’re topless, wearing nothing but your bra. His face flushed with embarrassment, and in an instant, he looks away, his cheeks turning a shade of red at the fact that he had just hugged you in this state. Like the gentleman he is, he immediately averts his gaze, trying to give you some privacy.

“Oh. I uh, you should take my sweater.”

“Oh, it’s okay, I–”

Both of you nervously bumble until Bob starts taking off his sweater. The entire thing plays in slow motion.  His hands, a little shaky, reach for the hem. The fabric bunches up in his fingers before he slowly pulls it over his head. 

Bit by bit, his chest and torso are revealed. You can’t help but notice the definition of his muscles and appreciate them greatly. Finally, he hands the sweater to you, his expression nervous but kind. “Here…” he says softly, not looking you directly in the eyes.

Damn it. 

He’s ripped. 

You didn’t know when you woke up this morning that you’d be treated to an impromptu striptease courtesy of Bob Reynolds. You can’t believe all of that was hiding under that knitted sweater. There’s a sudden wave of arousal so strong it almost knocks you clean off your feet. Your eyes wander his sculpted form, and it’s like every part of him was made to drive you crazy. You know you’re staring, but you can’t bring yourself to look away. 

“So… how are we planning on taking back my office?” Your words come out breathy, your eyes are still very much fixed on his body, but he seems oblivious to the fact.

“Maybe we can…” He trails off, distracted by the way you were starting to sway, “Hey, are you alright?”

He had now started to become clued into the way you were staring him down like he was a full-course meal. And you’re just happy he couldn’t read your mind because you were thinking the most unhinged things, like how you wanted to lick the sweat off his abs.

“Holy fuck,” You mutter tiredly, shaking the thought away. You were a doctor, damn it, not a degenerate. Or at least not both at the same time. 

“Yeah, I’m just…” You start a sentence that you can’t finish as your body continues to heat up and your desire for him starts to hurt. You just want to be closer to him, and the overwhelming need to touch his abs comes back in full force. You try to focus on something else but just land on his arms and you wondered how’d they feel wrapped around your waist when he’d fuck you. 

“Fuck!” 

You start pacing around the room, trying to get rid of this madness that seemed to be overtaking you. And by pacing it was more of an awkward stumble as bit by bit your limbs turned to rubber and your brain to mush with horny thoughts of Bob. 

You stop moving and drop to the floor, hugging your knees and squeezing your eyes shut. Maybe if you cannot see the hot man, he cannot haunt you. You decide to take deep breaths because that always helps, and try to calm yourself down. You are, however, wearing Bob’s sweater, which smells like him and therefore smells like heaven. You moan, definitely loud enough for him to hear and bury your face in it. 

“Talk to me,” Bob says as he crouches down by your side, the comforting pats on your back feeling more like kisses on the neck. You just wanted to climb him like he’s a tree and live there forever. 

“Need to take this off.” 

You start kicking off your trousers as they start to stick to you, feeling more like sandpaper on your skin. Next, you peel off his sweater and hold it in your hands, resting it against your cheek, breathing it in every so often. 

“I can’t be near you right now.”

“Why?” He asks and if you had your head on straight, you’d state the obvious. Did he not see the fact that you were seconds away from grinding on him?

But you did have to think about what caused this, and there’s only one theory that makes sense. 

“I think the plant you got is a sex plant.”

Bob blinks at you.

“A what?” 

While falling down an internet rabbit hole, you had heard about plants like these with certain properties that lent themselves quite nicely to certain activities. These properties including sex pollen that seemed to only affect you and not him. At a later date, you’d love to run some tests to see why. Maybe it was something in the serum he was given that made him immune to certain things. But all logical thought was being dropkicked out the window right about now, replaced with the need to fuck yourself silly on his dick.

You explain to him the whole sex plant thing as best as you can without going feral. The need to have his hands all over your body was becoming near next to unbearable.

“Why do you know this?”

“God forbid a woman is informed,” You sigh as you fan yourself with the sleeve of his sweater, more of his scent wafting into your face, making you more hungry for him than ever.

“So, how do we fix this?” He asks, desperate to help you out.

“I can just wait it out,” you suggest, knowing full well you couldn’t “wait it out”.  Each second that passed was a second not spent bouncing on Bob’s cock which was a second wasted in your opinion. But this was Bob, your Bob, you didn’t want sex pollen induced horniness to reduce your friendship to rubble. You could see it now. Things would never be the same. No more book chat over morning coffee or late night milkshake runs and you’d be damned if you lost them. 

“You’re burning up.” He places his hand against your forehead, and you whimper at the contact, shocking you both.

“Tell me, what will fix this?” He repeats.

It’s clear that there’s no avoiding it, so you tell him. 

“...sex.”

There’s a heavy silence in the room, only accompanied by the background noise of the plant going on a rampage in your office. It was obvious, sex plant, therefore sex will alleviate the effects of said plant but saying it out loud didn't make it any easier. 

“But I won’t ask that of you. I won’t,” You say firmly. 

Did you want him? Yes, you wanted him bad. Ever since his floppy-haired, doe-eyed, cute self came in for his first check-up. But you didn’t want it under such dire circumstances, with a sex crazed plant trying to knock the door down. You wanted it to mean something. You wanted to know that he liked you as much as you like him.

You watch as Bob’s expression shifts, his eyes narrowing slightly as if coming to a decision. There’s something in his gaze, something vulnerable but strong at the same time, like he’s finally deciding to take a step forward.

“You’re not asking, I’m offering,” he says firmly. “I don’t want to see you in pain like this.”

You shake your head, the words he says sinking in, but the effects of the sex pollen make it hard to respond.

“I can’t have sex with you like this. It’s not fair on you,” you finally manage, your voice quiet, almost defeated.

Bob’s face softens, his eyes flickering with understanding and something deeper. He steps closer, his tone gentler but unwavering. “It’s worth it if it helps you. You’re hot and shivering. What kind of friend would I be if I let you suffer?”

The sincerity in his words hits you hard. You feel your throat tighten, fighting back the wave of emotion threatening to spill over. You’ve always known Bob cared about you, but hearing that he was willing to do this for you was something else. 

“Bob…” Your voice breaks slightly, but you push through it.

He stops himself then, looking away for a moment, his own vulnerability creeping to the surface. "I care about you. I…" He trails off, a deep breath escaping him as if he's preparing himself for what’s to come. “I like you.”

You're struggling to find the words as the one thing you’ve been wanting to hear is finally said.

“You like me?”

Bob looks down, his eyes shifting nervously, afraid that he might be ruining everything.

“I like you too,” You admit. “You have no idea how much.”

Not wanting the moment to pass you by, you cup his face and kiss him like you’ve never kissed anyone before. The kiss is desperate and needy, your hands gliding over his body with such urgency. All that pent-up need and tension came out in this one kiss. You cling onto each other like kissing is the last thing you’ll ever do. 

You pull back, looking at him, his cheeks slightly flushed, his breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” You ask, your voice a mix of uncertainty and hope.

Instead of responding, he pulls you back in, his hands gentle but insistent, bringing you closer once more. Then, before you can say anything else, he lays you back down on the floor, his body hovering over yours.

“Does that answer your question?” he whispers, before leaning back in, his lips brushing against yours once more.

You smile into the kiss and wrap your legs around his waist from beneath him. 

You shiver as his hands travel up your back, his fingers finding the clasp of your bra. It’s clumsy at first, fumbling with the hooks, the fabric catching between his fingers.

“Oh yeah, this one’s a nightmare to take off,” you comment, remembering the countless times you’d try to undo the clasps before giving up and just pulling it over your head instead. You chuckle lightly at the memory, tension easing for just a second.

“I think I almost got it,” he says, determination in his voice. Finally, after a few more attempts, he gets the clasp undone, tossing it aside with a small sigh of relief.

You feel a warmth spread through you, as look up at him.

“You’re perfect,” he says softly, his lips finding their way to your neck. The way he touches you, the way his hands move, everything feels electric, like every little action is charged with more meaning than you ever expected.

His hands wander down towards your panties next, rubbing at your core through them. He can feel that you’ve already soaked through them, your desperation no laughing matter. 

He knows that because you immediately trap his hand between your thighs and start lifting your hips to rub against it.

His eyes widen as he watches you roll your hips, so completely wrecked, and you’d barely even gotten started. This was a whole new side of you that he could get used to. 

“You need to let go of my hand for me to touch you,” Bob says, and you reluctantly do, only because you know he’s gonna give you something better.

He pulls off your panties and is met with the most beautiful sight. 

“You’re so wet,” he comments spreading open your dripping pussy and flicking at your clit.

He slowly inserts his fingers and smiles at how easily they slip in. “You can take two already,” he says and almost in awe as your walls clench around him. You’re mewling and twitching with every swipe of his fingers, your wetness spilling around them. His fingers are so thick and he stretches you out so good, you wonder how your own fingers ever felt like enough. 

“So good,” You whine out, and he feels encouraged to ever stop making you feel like this. 

He curls them inside of you, brushing against your sensitive spot over and over again, making you squeal. You start to squirm, but he holds you still, his thigh and spare hand keeping you spread open for him. 

He starts reassuring you with soothing circles on your thigh, “Right there?”

You blink away the haze and nod, “Yeah, keep going.”

He repeats his actions, his fingers threatening to bring you to an orgasm so fast that you’re almost embarrassed. 

“Need you so bad,” You whisper as you thrust back against his fingers, desperate to have more of him. You’d take his whole fist if he’d give it to you. 

“I need more than just your fingers.”

He looks up at you. This was a huge step, but one you were both ready to take.

“Condom?”

“I’m on birth control,” You say, and thankfully, you were. It’s not like you had a condom on you; they were in your purse, which was in the room with the raging tentacle monster.

He pulls off his jeans and boxers and he’s left exposed in front of you. He feels vulnerable, but he knows he can trust you.

“Ready?” You ask him and he replies with a breathy, “Yeah,” before laying a sweet kiss on your forehead. 

He lines himself up with your hole, which is actively trying to suck him in as he pushes into you slowly. The relief of feeling him inside of you is so good, the sound of his moans as he bottoms out inside of you is just as good. 

He starts thrusting into you deeply, as you grip his shoulders. It felt better than anything you’ve ever done with anyone else. It was partly the sex pollen, but more than anything, it was because it was him. You were finally with him after months upon months of pining. Finally able to feel his skin beneath your fingertips, to hear his moans vibrate against your skin, to lean his forehead against yours as he ruts into you. It was slow but passionate, as you finally confirmed how you both feel about each other. 

You feel like you were on another planet, but you wanted to experience every part of this man, so you whisper in his ear, “Wanna ride you.”

You’ve never seen him move so fast, in seconds you’re sitting up right, warming his cock as his lips attacking your neck.

You’re about to start moving when he stops you. 

“Just a second.”

You sit there, desperate to feel him moving inside you, but if he says to wait, then you’ll wait. He cups one of your boobs in his hands and his tongue flicking around your areola just enough to tease you.

“Bob…” You whine out, and he smiles up at you, and it’s one of his dopey smiles that makes your heart melt. Then as if you couldn’t feel any more sensitive, he starts sucking on your nipple, his eyes closed in pure focus and concentration. You fully scream, your legs quivering and walls fluttering around his cock. His tongue was working overtime, and you felt like you could come undone with just this. 

“You’re gonna kill me,” You cry out as you pull closer by his hair.

“You’re so dramatic,” He laughs before going back to his ministrations, determined to make you lose your mind. 

“Just like that,” You cry out as you wrap your arms around his neck. You shake and tremble so much that you just have to start riding him. Your hips seem to have a mind of their own.

Bob rests his head in the crook of your neck as you work his cock up and down between your folds.  “You feel so good.” His voice is shaky and needy as he’s unable to do anything but give in to the pleasure you’re giving him. His legs were shaking with how good it felt, and it was an ego boost to say one thing. 

“Wait a second,” he says before he holds your hips up and starts thrusting up into you from below, giving you everything he’s got. 

“Oh Bob…”

The feeling is so overwhelming that you start to cry, tears flowing down your cheeks, each one showing just how good he was giving it to you. But seeing your tears, he stops immediately, wiping them from your eyes. “Are you okay? Do you want me to stop?”

His eyebrows are furrowed with a concern plastered on his face, worried that he had hurt you.

You shake your head profusely, “Keep going. I’m crying because it feels so good.”

“Yeah?”

With some renewed confidence, he continues thrusting into you, and it’s your turn to rest your head against his neck.

He whispers against your ear, “You feel so good.”

“Wanna turn around for me?”

“O-okay,” You stutter out, your mind half in the clouds as he spins you around and you land back on his dick, reverse cowgirl.

“Holy shit,” he says as he starts pounding into you again. You feel him so deep inside of you, you never want him to leave. 

You feel him gripping onto your ass so you imagine the view must be good. 

“Harder?”

“Yes, fuck please,” You reply immediately. The way he was thrusting up inside of you had you crying out for mercy, and if he wanted to go harder, you’d let him. He picks up the pace, and the sound of his skin slapping against yours is music to your ears. 

“So good, you’re such…” He stops for a moment, and you can hear him hesitate, but you suppose his internal thoughts won out as he finishes his sentence, “Such a good girl.”

And you’d be lying if those words, escaping his lips, in his voice, didn’t make you want to explode.

Then he slows down before pulling out of you, you’re about to whine and complain, but he intercepts that. 

“Can you hold onto me?” He asks, and you do it immediately, desperate to feel him on you again. You suddenly feel yourself being lifted into the air, and you wrap your legs around his waist. He effortlessly lifts you over and lays you down on an examination table.

He lines himself up with your hole again and thrusts right into it, not holding back one bit. Your body is shaking and trembling with each thrust, and you’re screaming his name with each one.

“So good, so good,” he repeats like a mantra, like he can’t think of anything else but you.

He lifts your hips, tilting your pelvis and hitting your G-spot dead on, and you almost choke on your spit.  You’re not even sure what comes out of your mouth; you just know it’s not of this world. You head lolls to the side as you drool for his cock to be fed deeper into you. 

“Right there, right there, right…”, You bluster out before being cut off by your own scream. 

You weren’t going to last much longer; in fact, you’re surprised you lasted this long. You just needed one final thing to put you over the edge. 

“B-bob. Put…put your hand here,” You say guiding his hand above your stomach and bite your lip as he presses down feeling his cock inside of you.

“I’m gonna—” You sob before you’re cumming harder than you ever have, calling out for Bob all the while. Bob holds onto your bucking hips as he watches you squirt on his cock. The orgasm that hits you is blinding, your toes curl, your fists tighten, and tears fall from your eyes. 

You are gone. 

You’re only brought back to your senses by Bob saying your name and soft kisses on your face. When he sees you’re responsive, he smiles and starts brushing your hair off your face. But then you realise, he’s stopped moving and you absolutely can’t have that. You can still feel him pulsing inside of you and you needed him to cum.

“Keep going,” you mumble.

“Hm?”

You sit up closer to you, your fingers gripping his back. 

“Keep going until you’re done with me.”

You needed this, you needed him. You wanted him to fuck you so hard that your pussy remembered him, you wanted him to fill you up so much that just the smell of him would bring you to your knees and that wasn’t just the sex pollen talking. 

“I think I can do this day,” Bob says and that he does. He fucks you against the wall, the window, on the floor, if he had control of his Sentry powers he probably would’ve fucked you in the air too. By the time you’re done, the sex pollen has been well and truly pounded out of your system. 

But your troubles aren’t over. 

The plant knocks down the door with an ominous thud. Menacingly slithering over to the two of you, now triple in size, each tentacle bigger that the last, and you’re ready to accept your fate. This is how you would go out. Fucked to death by a plant.

The plant starts prodding at you both a tiny bit before pulling back away from you, much to your surprise. Obviously sensing its job was done, it reverts back to its original form in a matter of seconds and sits innocently in its pot. 

You guess your troubles are over. 

“So…can I be your boyfriend?” He asks and you laugh, “What do you think?”

Bob’s face lights up with a grin, and he kisses your cheek, “I think there’s a mess waiting for us in your office.”

“Well, couples that clean together stay together.”

Snuggling into his embrace, you let out a sigh of contentment. Nothing could ruin this day, not when you’d finally made Bob your man.

But, in the distance, you hear the shuffling of footsteps as the team has arrived back from their mission. You hear a faint, “What the fuck?” seemingly from Walker seeing the havoc the plant made but you’re too content in Bob’s arms to care. You’re exactly where you want to be.

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