#anyway been meaning to read it without the pressure :) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

thesewordsareallihavetogive · 2 months ago

Text

Flesh Wound - Dr. Jack Abbot x chef!reader

Summary: 2.5k words. Dr. Abbot's wife's cancels date night after suffering a kitchen mishap. In an effort to avoid adding to his stress, she takes herself--and her bloody hand--to the Pitt without telling him.

Warnings: canon-typical gore, blood, graphic descriptions of wounds, & knives. Colorful language, per usual. Implied age gap. breaking select grammar rules because I can. not beta read.

a/n: This got away from me and is longer than necessary lmao. I’m not in love with it, but I need to get it out of my brain and drafts so it stops plaguing me. Enjoy my first Pitt fic! Divider credit!

“Fuck!” you hissed. The kitchen came to a standstill around you; your cooks, dishwashers, and wait staff suddenly focused on the angry gash on your hand.

Abby’s was your pride and joy. Back in the day, culinary school felt like a gamble and then some. Today, you thank your lucky stars that it panned out well. The restaurant you’d built from the ground up was often featured in local publications and had grown into a neighborhood hub—it was a success from the day you first opened the doors to the public.

On days you didn’t stay at work for the full evening rush—like tonight, when you had your silver fox of a husband waiting at home with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s and the full Netflix catalogue at your fingertips—you at least made sure to come in for a couple hours in the afternoon to help set up and ensure your staff had all the support they needed for a successful night.

Amid prep work for a new dish you were piloting, you looked away at just the wrong moment when your name was called, resulting in the unmistakable piercing feeling shooting through your hand. You’d nicked yourself. Well, more than nicked yourself, because you were now bleeding at a rate that would have Javadi passed out cold on the floor.

This certainly wasn’t your first knife injury and probably wouldn’t be your last. You haphazardly cleaned up your station as best you could while holding pressure to the wound with a towel. Accidents happen to everyone, no matter how long they’ve been in the industry. That didn’t mean it wasn’t embarrassing to slice your palm open in front of the staff who were supposed to look up to you.

You bit your lip and willed the tears to stay at bay after closing your office door. You tried taking deep breaths as you sat on the edge of your desk. In for 4, out for 8. In for 5, out for 10.

It didn’t help much.

This hurts like a bitch, you cursed through the unrelenting stinging. It was worse than any other kitchen injuries you’d had in recent memory. You remembered your husband rambling about how the hands were one of the most highly vascularized parts of the body. When it bleeds, it bleeds, he said to you. You were acutely aware of that now.

The bleeding wasn’t showing signs of stopping anytime soon, even after you’d soaked through two hand towels. Jack had taught you quite a bit of first aid and then some over the years, but even you recognized that you couldn’t patch yourself up. When a little fuzzy feeling began to sink in, you knew it was time to seek medical attention from a professional who wouldn’t spiral at the mere notion of you being harmed.

Sure, you could’ve called your trauma doctor husband, who seldom went anywhere without his ‘go bag’, but that would make too much sense. You didn’t want Jack to worry about you. He did anyway, but you didn’t want to add to his stress. The salt and pepper hair suited him well–you frequently reminded him when you carded your fingers through his curls–but if he went full-on gray, you might be accused of grave robbing.

“Doctor Abbot speaking,” the man grunted in greeting. The trauma doc hadn’t looked at the caller ID before answering. Or maybe his mind was still filled with the post-night shift sleep haze.

“Hey, honey,” you smiled through the phone despite your barely contained anxiety. The fresh towel you left the restaurant with was quickly turning crimson. The walk to Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center was 15 minutes, and you prayed that you’d make it there before the towel was soaked through or before you passed out—whichever would come first.

Your voice washed over Jack like warm honey. His shoulders relaxed and he sighed deeply. Per usual, he hadn’t realized how tense he was until you dissolved his stress.

“Hello, my beautiful wife,” he flirted through the phone, the corners of his lips ticking up into a smile. Several years into your relationship, he could still make you blush.

“I know we planned to stay in tonight and watch a movie, but I’m gonna have to stay at the restaurant late. We got slammed, and I need to make sure the team has everything they need.” That counted as a white lie, right? Jack and his wife didn’t keep secrets. But this time, what he didn’t know couldn’t hurt him, you rationalized. You would tell him once you were all stitched up, snuggling at home with him, and not pale as a ghost. You would tell him when you could laugh about it, at how silly the oopsie you made in the kitchen was. Right now you were not laughing.

Abbot nodded, though you couldn’t see it. Your dedication to making sure your staff were taken care of was admirable; you were always so attentive, caring, and considerate. But selfishly, Jack would’ve given his other leg to spend a night with his wife.

It wasn’t like you both weren’t used to taking rainchecks. Sometimes chefs called out sick and you had to step up, or put out metaphorical and literal fires. Other times, Jack’s pager seemed to be determined to set a record for most received messages.

“That’s okay, sweetheart. We can do something tomorrow.” It was a promise they’d hold each other to.

Years in service to the military and working in healthcare–emergency medicine, no less–meant he was used to change and could be flexible, to say the least. Nevertheless, that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to be miserable to everyone around him until he saw his wife again.

Keeping a low profile at the Pitt was damn near impossible given your reputation.

The ER staff were well acquainted with Dr. Abbot’s wife, the pretty lady who brought them food. It started when you brought Jack dinner, and then Dana too. Sometimes Robby if you caught him at the right time. Eventually, you’d occasionally drop off catering-sized orders from Abby’s to be shared amongst the Pitt staff, just because.

A concerning majority of the providers, nurses, techs, RTs, and radiology staff survived 13-hour shifts on protein bars and far more milligrams of caffeine than was considered safe for human consumption. (It was a good thing they had plenty of 12 leads and crash carts full of pharm goodies for when a staff member inevitably developed a caffeine-induced dysrhythmia.) When the smell of Dr. Abbot’s wife’s food filled the Pitt, they knew they were in for a treat.

“You got any food for us, Mrs. Abbot?” Lupe asked as you approached the thick registration desk glass, before her eyes fell to your hand cradled against your chest. Definitely not catering.

Unfortunately for you, the third towel was fully saturated by the time you made it through the lobby’s double doors. The fuzzy feeling from earlier was quickly advancing to woozy.

Lupe and Dana brought you straight back from triage, effectively bumping you to the top of the queue. Maybe it wasn’t entirely according to hospital policy, but they’d never hear the end of it from Abbot if he found out his wife was stuck in a waiting room while she bled out.

“Everything is still attached, but the cut’s deep,” you relayed to Dana, who hummed as she peeled back the towel to assess the damage.

“Your husband know you’re here?” Dana asked, raising an eyebrow at you expectantly. She knew the answer based on the fact that Abbot hadn’t tore through the damn building to get to you. Yet, anyway. She more so asked to give you a chance to reflect on your dumb decision to not inform your husband.

“I don’t want to stress him out. Please don’t tell him?” You pleaded.

“I won’t say anything, but I can’t control what happens when he sees his last name on the wrong part of the status board.” Her emphasis on when made it clear that it was only a matter of time, not if.

Of course he would pick up a shift once his evening freed up. He was a workaholic, but so were you. Birds of a feather.

When Doctor Robinavitch and Javadi pulled back the room’s curtain, Dana did the talking–nausea was setting in along with a wicked headache. You refused to look at the laceration at this point, eyes trained on the ceiling tiles above you.

“BP is soft,” Robby observed. Dana nodded while holding pressure to the wound with gauze. “Let’s start some IV fluids to get it back up; you definitely had some blood loss today.” Not helping, you thought as another wave of nausea rolled through you.

“She said she doesn’t want Dr. Abbot to know, and I’m not about to get in the middle of that. Plus, provider-patient confidentiality,” Robby finished with a shrug to Dana at the nurse’s station.

“Who doesn’t want me to know what?” Abbot asked, cosmic timing seemingly on his side. He was here far earlier than he needed to be for his shift, but he had nothing better to do Better than sulking at home, missing his wife. He’d still miss her while he was working, but at least he’d have an active distraction. His grip was firm on the strap of his camo backpack slung over his shoulder.

Robby groaned and his eyes scrunched shut as he slowly turned to face the night shift attending. Dana answered the nurse’s station phone within a nanosecond of the first shrill ring, leaving Robby to fend for himself.

Abbot looked at him expectantly, his patience quickly waning. Robby shook his head and vaguely nodded his head backwards, simply sighing “room 4” before getting back to work. Jack didn’t press for more info, just crossed the Pitt with long, purposeful strides. His heart dropped and the world around him slowed when he saw his wife laying back on a gurney, hooked up to IV fluids with gauze around her hand.

He didn’t bother to knock before entering, yanking the curtain open with an abrasive tug. He immediately started scanning you head to toe and noted the color drained from your face, a bloody rag in the biohazard bin, and the remnants of a suture kit in the waste bin.

“Baby, what the hell happened?” Jack asked, wild eyes bouncing between the vitals monitor to your tired form. You squeezed her eyes shut and cursed the fact that PTMC was the closest ER to Abby’s.

“I told Robby not to call you,” you grumbled. Your husband grunted.

“He didn’t call me. I picked up a shift.” You knew Jack wasn’t upset with you directly. Seeing you in the same department where patients regularly coded and trauma alerts rolled through at light speed to the trauma bay unnerved him.

You felt a twang of guilt in your chest. Jack wouldn’t have come in on his first night off in a while if you hadn’t canceled date night. And date night wouldn’t have been canceled if you’d just been paying more attention in the kitchen. You extended your unaffected hand to your husband and he grasped it in an instant.

His tense shoulders and tight jaw gave him away. You hated to see him needlessly stressed, but it also warmed you in an odd way—how lucky you are to have someone care for you so deeply. Someone as weathered and worn as Jack, who has seen his fair share of trauma and then some, loves you to the point of worry. What a privilege that is.

Jack’s shift technically didn’t start for another 20 minutes. He had every intention of spending those minutes right by your side.

Saved by the bell a few minutes before shift change, Robby came back in for rounds, tailed by Javadi (who, to her credit, did not pass out at the sight of copious blood flowing from your hand earlier). “Hey, love birds,” Robby greeted with a grin. Abbot’s lips stayed pressed in a thin line while you smiled weakly back at the attending and the med student who followed him around like a little duckling.

Dr. Robinavitch gestured for Javadi to present the case to Dr. Abbot. The poor girl looked like a deer caught in headlights at the harsh stare Abbot pinned her with. Her gaze bounced from your joined hands back to the attending before she cleared her throat and began. Javadi described the depth of the laceration and the amount of stitches required, topical TXA, IV fluid bolus and subsequent drip for hypotension. Jack forced air from his nose before inhaling again, squeezing your hand tighter.

“Princess will be in shortly with your discharge paperwork and home care instructions,” Robby winked as he left you and Abbot by yourselves. Jack snorted. There was no way in hell you’d be caring for the wound yourself, not if he could help it.

“Why didn’t you call me?” Jack’s voice was quiet. He wasn’t mad, but rattled. You twisted your mouth to the side, feeling a bit of shame. This wasn’t how you imagined your evening going.

“Technically, I did… on my walk here…” you offered. It sounded weak even to your ears. Jack deadpanned. It didn’t land well. You sighed and rolled to face your husband fully. “I didn’t want you to worry about me,” you whispered, hoping your voice wouldn’t betray you. Jack pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead.

“I’m always going to worry about you, sweetheart. Because I love you.” His fingers traced your jawline. Jack, who woke up with night terrors well over a decade after the war-torn atrocities he’d seen, gazed at you tenderly. You had half a mind to make a ‘Tis but a scratch joke, but figured that might send him over the edge.

“I love you too.” It wasn’t a reply, it was a promise. Jack kissed the back of your hand, your fingers intertwined until he had to go.

Dr. Robinavitch hung around until he was satisfied with your blood pressure so he could drive you home. Even if you had politely declined, he would’ve stayed. Abbot certainly wouldn’t have let him hear the end of it if his wife had to take a taxi home from the ER. Robby guided you toward the exit, holding your bag and his. Gotta keep our patient satisfaction scores up.

Jack doffed his gloves while he jogged to meet you before you reached the door. He blindly tossed the blue nitrile gloves in the direction of the nearest waste bin, not bothering to check if he made it in. But they had, because of course they would. Cocky motherfucker.

Jack wordlessly pulled you to him, one arm wrapped around your waist, the other hand holding your head to his chest as he kissed the top of your head.

“Take it easy, okay?” The two of you could’ve been slow dancing in a burning room, but Jack wouldn’t have noticed. He tuned out the constant buzz of the Pitt and focused solely on you. You offered your free hand up for a pinkie promise.

If the med students and interns saw Dr. Abbot go soft—oh so whipped for his wife—and make a pinkie promise, they knew better than to say anything about it.

a/n: Reblogs & comments are much appreciated 🥰

Find more of my writing on my master list.

Turn on post notifications @thesewordsxupdates to get notified when I release new fics.

#The Pitt #Jack Abbot x Reader #dr. abbot x reader #Jack Abbot #Dr. Abbot

2K notes · View notes

cheftsunoda · 3 days ago

Text

novacane — ln4

lando norris x !model reader

smau + blurbs

in which lando and yn, worn thin by fame, pressure, and the weight of always being watched, find comfort in all the wrong places — drowning their loneliness in drugs, sex, and each other's broken promises.

fc : cindy kimberly

(a/n) : no one answered if they wanted this or not so now im forcing it on everyone. sorry if you hate it:( this is based off the song “novacane” by frank ocean so if you don’t know it— definitely recommend listening it it to understand.

❗obviously warnings of drug use, relationship toxicity, angst, minor smut and eating disorder ❗

and i gave you angels a happy ending - ywwww

—

yn_ln

liked by lando, alexandrasaintmleux, carlossainz55 & 5,515,007 others.

yn_ln : don’t let the high go to waste

—

view 225,090 other comments.

username000 : oh great she’s with lando AGAIN.

↳ username00 : what’s the problem with her?? i thought they were together

↳ username000 : no they aren’t confirmed together. THANK GOD. she is just a horrible influence for him to be around.

↳ username1 : you do realize lando is a fully grown adult and the people he chooses to be around and what he does is completely on him, right?

↳ username000 : well yeah but i do not think being around her helps his mindset any. he’s changed.

↳ username1 : maybe has had changed from the pressure and stress. maybe he is just tired. leave them both alone.

alexandrasaintmleux : so pretty angel. hope to see your face again soon!

liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername : mwah mwah

carlossainz55 : ….no comment 😳

liked by yourusername and lando

bellahadid : mother 🧎‍♀️

liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername : my poooooookie

danielricciardo : he better have that hickey covered on media day🤣

liked by yourusername and lando

↳ username7 : nooooo so it is lando again.

charles_leclerc : mon dieu.

liked by yourusername and lando

alex_albon : i am respectfully not looking. (i looked)

liked by yourusername and lando

↳ lilymhe : its okay. i did too.

username11 : lando is ruining his reputation for this woman. honestly, i kind of understand.

lando : always high on you.

liked by yourusername

—

flashback

You still remember the way the air felt that night — thick with smoke, perfume, and the kind of heat that clung to your skin long after you’d left the club. It had been Fashion Week in Milan, and you were already four shows deep into a sleepless spiral of afterparties, interviews, and eyes that didn’t see you so much as consume you. You were tired. Exhausted in the kind of way no sleep could fix. And then there he was. Lando Norris — crooked smile, familiar face, eyes like they knew you. Not knew your name. Knew you. And you hated how much that made you pause. You met him at some rooftop club that blurred together with all the rest — flashing lights, empty champagne flutes, and hands that touched too long without meaning anything. He wasn’t supposed to be there, not really. Off-season or something like that. But maybe he needed the distraction just as badly as you did.

He bought you a drink. You made a sarcastic comment about hating tequila and drank it anyway. You talked. You laughed. And then somewhere between his fourth glass and your second lie about being fine, things stopped being surface level. You caught him staring at you like he was trying to read between the cracks. So you let him see them. Or maybe you didn’t have the strength to hide them anymore.

“I don’t think I’m built for all this,” you admitted in a half whisper, legs crossed tightly in the corner of a velvet booth, mascara smudged like war paint.

He didn’t say anything. Just took a slow sip of his drink and replied, “Yeah. Me neither.”

It wasn’t flirtation after that. It was something heavier. Messier. The kind of pull that only two broken people feel when they recognize themselves in someone else’s ruin. Back at your hotel room, things unfolded like instinct. You were both too numb and too desperate to question it. The clothes came off easy. The masks came off harder.

His lips trailed your collarbone. Your hands tangled in his curls. The pressure in your stomach growing with every thrust and then after— the air changed. You were sitting on the bed, his hoodie slipping off your shoulder, and you reached for the little orange bottle you never traveled without. He watched you pop the pill with a swig of warm, flat water from the bedside table.

You caught his stare and raised an eyebrow. “Want one?”

He hesitated. Just long enough for you to know he was still trying to be the good guy, even now. Then he took it from your hand and held your gaze like a dare. You watched him swallow it dry. He turned and leaned back into you— closing the gap between the two of you again. You sat until he began to feel that warm and fuzzy feeling you had grown accustomed to but was still brand new for him.

“What even was that?” he asked, voice low and frayed at the edges. You smiled, tired and crooked. The kind of smile that says this is survival, not seduction.

“Don’t let the high go to waste,” you murmured, echoing the line like a mantra you wished wasn’t true.

He didn’t ask again. You laid back. He followed. That night wasn’t about falling in love. It wasn’t even about comfort. It was about not feeling like shit for five fucking minutes. It was about losing yourselves in each other’s broken parts and calling it relief. It was about two people too hollow to hold anything real — and still clinging to each other like it might fix something anyway. You didn’t know it then, but that would be the first of many nights like that. And the last time anything between you felt accidental.

—

present day…

f1gossipgirls

2,517,001 likes.

f1gossipgirls : F1’s wild child & fashion’s favorite disaster leaving Miami’s dirtiest rooftop club at 4:27AM. Looks like Lando Norris and YN, international model, are taking their rumored situationship coast to coast. The pair were seen stumbling out of RITUAL, the kind of place where the floors are sticky and the bathrooms are sacred. Sources claim Lando looked “glassy-eyed but smiling,” while YN was seen reapplying her lipstick in the back of a black SUV. Oh, and did we mention her heels were in his hand? Eyewitnesses say the duo ��couldn’t keep their hands off each other,” and at least one club staffer swears they both entered the same VIP room together. But who needs sleep when your only job is being young, rich, and reckless? We’re not saying they’re the new Bonnie and Clyde, but we are saying someone’s PR team is sweating.

—

view 175,002 other comments.

username00 : the fact that he is doing this when he will be racing in 36 hours is…interesting to say the least.

username0 : someone check on zak brown. mans is probably pacing.

username1 : why are we romanticizing this behavior? they both clearly have a lot of problems that need fixed.

username5 : he is supposed to be a professional athlete. not snorting something suspicious in a club at 3 am. LANDO WAKE TF UP.

username7 : never ever expected this phase in lando’s career but here we are.

username10 : y’all will continue to blame her like he isn’t grown and can’t make his own decisions. like bruh

—

You and Lando always fell into some sort of cycle. Not love. Not quite addiction either — though it came close. Something in between. Something quieter but heavier. A pattern with soft edges and sharp consequences. It started the way it always did — too loud, too fast, too much.

Miami’s air was humid with desperation that weekend — people screaming your name, cameras flashing like seizures, bodies grinding in tempo with the bass. He met your eyes from across the club and that was all it took. You didn’t even smile. Just nodded once, like yeah. it’s time again.You’d both lost something before you even walked in. The music was pounding, the drinks were bottomless, the lines were generous — and by the time he had his hand on the small of your back, you couldn’t tell if your heart was racing from the substance or from him. He leaned down to murmur something into your ear — something stupid and sweet, something that made you laugh even though nothing about the night was funny. And then you pulled out the little bag. Same one you always had. He watched. He never stopped you, not really.

“You sure?” he asked like a formality.

You nodded like muscle memory. He followed. In the bathroom of some overpriced rooftop bar, you did it off the back of your hand while he stood behind you like a shadow, warm and steady and crumbling all at once. His knuckles brushed yours when he took his turn, eyes blown wide and tired even in the mirror’s hazy glow. And somehow, not long after, you ended up tangled together in your hotel bed — hot skin, whispered curses, need disguised as recklessness. It wasn’t sweet. It never was. It was desperate. The kind of touch that only feels good because it silences the scream in your head for a moment. The kind that makes you feel something when you’re numb everywhere else.

But later — after — when your heartbeat finally slowed and your thoughts started catching up, you climbed off the bed and walked to the bathroom without saying a word. You didn’t bother turning on the light. Just stepped under the cold stream of the shower and let yourself cry. Quiet at first. Then harder. Your mascara ran down the drain like ink in water. Your shoulders shook like you were trying to hold your bones together. You didn’t expect him to follow. But he did. Lando opened the door without knocking. Stepped into the shower fully clothed. Didn’t say anything — didn’t need to. He just wrapped his arms around you from behind and held you while the water soaked through his shirt and you sobbed into his chest like a child.

He didn’t tell you to stop. He didn’t ask what was wrong. He knew. He was wrong too. You stood like that for a long time. Just water. Skin. Silence. And the ache of being seen by someone who’s just as hollow.

The morning after always hurt worse. The sunlight hit too hard. The hangover hit harder. And then the notifications. Tabloids. Photos. Headlines about the two of you looking “high and handsy” at 4:27 AM. His team texted. Yours called. And all you could do was sit at the edge of the bed in one of his T-shirts and stare at the phone while Lando paced and swore under his breath. It always happened like this. The comedown. The regret. The beginning of the withdrawal. He left around 10AM, hoodie pulled low, sunglasses on, mumbling something about sorting it with his PR team. You didn’t ask him to stay. You never did.

Because you knew how it went. He’d vanish. Ignore your texts. You’d see him on someone else’s story a few days later. Like none of it mattered. But he always came back. Usually around 2AM. Usually with a knock and no words. Usually when your mascara was already running and your hands were already shaking. It wasn’t love. It was a cycle. And God help you, but part of you needed it.

—

But he tries to stop. For real, this time. After the Miami fallout, after his PR team threatens to pull endorsement deals and Zak himself tells him to “get your shit together or get out” — Lando goes quiet. You don’t hear from him for days. No 2AM texts. No half assed apologies. No hotel room knocks. Not even a story view. Silence.

You assume he’s doing what they all do eventually — detaching. Saving himself. Finding some version of clean that doesn’t include you. You’re used to it. You pretend not to check your phone anyway.

Meanwhile, he’s trying. He really is. He wakes up early. Doesn’t drink. Doesn’t go out. He trains. Eats clean. Answers his calls. He ignores the aching pull in his chest when he sees your name light up his phone — unread messages stacked like shame. But it doesn’t help. None of it helps. Because when the world is quiet — when the race ends and the cameras go dark — he’s left alone with himself. And he can’t stand himself.

He thinks about the way your laugh sounds muffled against his chest. The way your eyeliner always smudges when you cry in the shower. The way you looked at him that night, like you were waiting for him to tell you it was okay to fall apart. And he wants it back. Not because it’s good. Not because it’s healthy. Because it’s something.

The truth is — the high didn’t just numb the pain. It muted the voice in his head that told him he wasn’t enough. That he was wasting his life. That none of it — the podiums, the parties, the press tours — felt real anymore. Being numb was awful. But being awake? That’s unbearable.

He sits in his hotel room one night, a few cities away, staring at the white walls, the untouched food, the silence thick enough to suffocate. He’s alone. And it hits him like it always does — slow at first, then all at once. The ache. The craving. The need to not feel anything. He grabs the bottle. He doesn’t even think. Washes one pill down with cold champagne. Calls your number. You answer on the first ring, like you knew this moment would come. Like you were waiting for it. No words. Just breathing.

And when he shows up at your door an hour later, eyes heavy, hands shaking, hoodie clinging to his skin like regret — you don’t ask what changed his mind. Because nothing did. The truth is, he never wanted to stop. He just wanted to believe he could. Because numbness is easier. And you… you numb the pain. I guess you’re novacane.

—

f1gossipgirls

2,709,112 likes.

f1gossipgirls : Well— it seems Lando Norris and YN LN are back at it again after weeks of distance. The two were seen coming and going from each other’s apartments more than 3 times this week.

—

It started slowly. Like most things do. First, it was just a headline. Some blurry pap photo of you walking out of a café in Milan, cropped in all the wrong ways. The caption read—

“Is YN Letting Herself Go?”

And that was all it took. It wasn’t true. You were exhausted, not careless. Bloated from the long flight, hungover from bad decisions and worse wine, caught mid-step with your shirt rumpled and sunglasses sliding down your nose. You hadn’t even known the cameras were there. But they were always there.

Then came the panel show segment. Some middle-aged man with a smug smile and zero credentials saying, “She’s still stunning, obviously, but you can tell the partying’s catching up to her.”

And it spiraled. Your agent texted you later that night — “No more pasta. Milan is watching.”

That’s when you stopped eating. At first it was a conscious decision. Strategic. If they wanted skinny, you’d give them starved. If they wanted hollow cheekbones and razorblade hip bones, you’d serve it on a silver fucking platter. You skipped meals and smiled through shoots. Faked fullness and learned which lies photographers never questioned. But it wasn’t long before you stopped choosing. The hunger became control. And then the control became a high. One you didn’t need to snort or swallow. And Lando noticed. He always did.

It hit him too, differently. Sharper. Publicly.

He couldn’t win a race without the press tearing him apart. Couldn’t crash out without being called immature. Couldn’t smile in an interview without being accused of not taking the sport seriously — and couldn’t look serious without them calling him cold.

“You’re not focused,” they’d said. “You’re wasting your seat.”

Every race weekend became a war. With his car. With the media. With himself.

And in between the races? Endless hotel rooms. Fake friends. Paparazzi flashes that made him feel like prey. Fans who loved the version of him that didn’t exist anymore. Who worshipped the myth and ignored the man.

He started sleeping in his hoodie with the hood pulled tight, even indoors. Started rubbing the back of his neck until it was red and raw. Couldn’t eat before practice. Couldn’t sleep after qualifying. Couldn’t breathe when it all got too loud.

You found each other in that silence.

It was after some gala you were both dragged to. You were wearing a backless dress that made your vision go blurry when you stood too long. He was in a tux he hadn’t wanted to wear, tie loosened, jaw clenched. You ended up in your hotel room again. Of course you did. But this time, there was no rush. No drugs. No sex. Just… collapse. You sat on the edge of the bed, toes pressing into the carpet, trying not to cry. Your stomach was eating itself, but you couldn’t remember the last time food didn’t feel like failure. He stood by the window, staring out like he was somewhere else entirely. Finally, you spoke.

“They said I looked fat in that dress,” you whispered.

He turned, slowly. Eyes dim. Like he’d been waiting for your voice to break.

“They say I don’t deserve my seat,” he answered.

You looked up at him, tears lining your lashes, voice small.

“I feel like I’m disappearing.”

And he just nodded.

“Same.”

That’s when he walked over. Sat behind you. Wrapped his arms around your waist — too gently. Like he was afraid you’d break. You leaned back into him, your spine pressing against his chest, and for a moment, you both just breathed. No masks. No captions. No noise.

You felt his lips ghost over your shoulder as he whispered, “They only want us when we’re shining. Not when we’re bleeding.”

And you replied, voice hollow but sure—

“Then let them choke.”

You stayed like that for hours. No high. No distractions. Just the quiet devastation of two people being honest. You held his hand like a lifeline. He kissed your temple like a prayer. That night, you didn’t sleep with each other. You just slept. And for the first time in weeks, that was enough.

—

f1gossipgirls

2,101,001 likes.

f1gossipgirls : YN LN in the paddock this weekend — and all eyes were on her. Rumors continue to swirl about her relationship with McLaren driver Lando Norris, and her surprise appearance in the garage only added fuel to the fire. According to insiders, YN was nothing short of lovely — chatting with fans, posing for photos, and offering a few smiles that made it hard not to root for her. As for Lando? Let’s just say the chemistry between the two didn’t go unnoticed.

—

The nights are quieter now. Not silent — you both still wake up sweating, heart racing, hands reaching for something that isn’t there anymore — but quieter. Softer. You’re trying. So is he.

After the last fallout, the withdrawal that left you shaking and sobbing in different cities, you made a pact — no pills, no blow, no hotel room disasters. Just water. Sleep. Presence. Even if presence meant staring blankly at a wall together in shared misery, at least you were there. You still have the urge sometimes. The craving. The itch in your skin when everything gets too loud, too fast. But you text him instead of reaching for a bottle. And he answers. Always.

He’s been better. Not perfect. Not by a long shot. But better. He’s eating again. Sleeping more. Actually showing up to meetings. The anger in his voice has dulled — not gone, just folded into something quieter, sadder, but realer.

When he texts you that week —

Come to the race. I need you here.

You almost cry. Because he never used to ask.

You fly in Friday, lowkey and quiet. No paparazzi. No chaos. He picks you up in a hoodie and worn out trainers, the circles under his eyes more honest than any headline.

He doesn’t say much in the car. Just rests his hand on your thigh at a red light and squeezes, like he’s checking to see if you’re real.

You’re staying with him that weekend. The bed is cold. No sex. Just tangled limbs and half whispered memories of nights you barely remember. You fall asleep to the sound of his breathing and wonder when that started being enough.

Race day comes fast. The paddock is buzzing — too bright, too loud. But he wants you there, so you come. You slip on the pass he gave you, the oversized McLaren jacket, your sunglasses. You keep your head down.

He finds you before the driver’s parade. You’re by the back of the garage, sipping water, watching the chaos unfold.

“You good?” he asks, voice low and warm.

You nod. “Are you?”

He shrugs. “Getting there.”

And then, “I’m glad you came.”

And then, “I don’t know if I would’ve made it through this week if you didn’t.”

You don’t say anything. Just slide your fingers between his and squeeze. A photographer snaps a shot you’ll both pretend not to notice.

During the race, you watch from the garage. Nails biting into your palm, eyes on every sector, every lap. You cheer when he overtakes. Your heart climbs into your throat when he locks up slightly at Turn 10. The crew gives you a nod when he comes in for a clean stop. You feel everything. And for once, you let yourself. When he crosses the line — P4 — it’s not a podium, but it’s a finish. A damn good one. You exhale like you’ve been holding your breath for years.

He finds you after media. Helmet hair, race suit half unzipped, skin flushed from adrenaline and exhaustion. And when he sees you — really sees you — his face cracks open in a way the cameras never catch. No jokes. No press smiles. Just rawness. He pulls you into a hug so tight your ribs ache.

And into your hair, he whispers,

“We did it.”

You nod against his chest, eyes stinging.

“Yeah. We did.”

—

It had been weeks since the race. Weeks since you and Lando swore you’d keep going — clean, sober, together. Weeks of morning check-ins and long, quiet nights. Weeks of avoiding temptation like it lived under your skin.

And it was working. Sort of.

You were tired, but functional. Lando was focused, if a little hollow. You were making it through each day with aching effort and brittle hope. You had even started eating small things again — a banana here, some soup there. Just enough to keep the dizziness at bay. Just enough to convince your manager you were “getting better.”

But the truth was… you weren’t.

The modeling world doesn’t care about “recovery.” It cares about bones and collarbones. It cares about angles and sample sizes. And you were trying — but your body was done trying for you. You were mid-way through a shoot in Paris when everything went sideways.

You didn’t feel the moment coming. One minute you were standing in front of the lights, makeup perfect, spine held straight by willpower and spite. The next, your vision was tunneling and the floor was rushing toward you. You hit the concrete hard.

Cameras flashed. Stylists screamed. Someone dropped their iced coffee and gasped like that was the real tragedy. The medics came. The studio was cleared. Your phone was unlocked by someone who barely knew your last name. They called Lando.

He got the call just after FP2. His race suit was still clinging to him, hair damp, body sore — but none of that registered when he saw your name flash across his screen. It wasn’t your voice. It was someone from the agency.

Words like “collapsed,” “dehydrated,” “not responsive.”

He didn’t hear the rest. He stumbled back into the McLaren motorhome like he’d been hit in the chest. Pushed past press officers. Ignored his engineer. Locked himself in the bathroom and stared at his reflection like it might offer a reason not to fall apart.

You passed out. You weren't eating. He should’ve seen it coming. He wanted to get on the next plane to Paris. But the race was in less than 48 hours. And they wouldn’t let him leave. So instead, he relapsed.

It was slow, stupid. A numbing kind of panic that led to desperate movement. He found the old bottle buried deep in his travel bag. He stared at it for almost an hour. He texted you. No answer. Called again. Straight to voicemail. And the fear twisted into something uglier than grief — helplessness. He cracked the seal. Took two.

When your eyes fluttered open hours later in a sterile white hospital room, the first thing you saw was the IV. The second was your manager pacing outside the door. The third was Lando’s name — 10 missed calls. You could barely lift your head, but you reached for your phone anyway.

And when you saw his last message, your heart cracked open.

If you die, I’ll go with you. I can’t do this without you.

And beneath it, another message, sent hours later-

“I’m sorry. I slipped. I just… I didn’t know if you’d wake up.”

You cried. Because it should’ve been you holding him through the relapse. Because he had been trying so hard. Because this wasn’t recovery, it was survival. And even survival was slipping.

Somewhere, hundreds of miles away, Lando sat on the edge of a pristine hotel bed with his head in his hands, high out of his mind and sobbing. He didn’t want the high. He just wanted the noise to stop. He just wanted you to be okay. He didn’t feel better. Not even numb. Just empty. And it was then — in the silence between his shallow breaths — that he realized…the cycle wasn’t broken. It had just gotten quieter.

—

You wake up to the sound of the door creaking open. It’s been two days since the collapse. Two days of IV drips, quiet nurses, and a blurred timeline of stern lectures and shallow breathing. You’re better, technically. Awake. Alive. But not okay.

The room is pale and too still. It smells like antiseptic and synthetic lavender. The flowers on the windowsill weren’t yours — someone dropped them off this morning, anonymous and beautiful. And then he walks in. Lando.

He’s wearing the hoodie you stole from his Monaco apartment last winter — oversized and threadbare — and he looks like shit. Eyes puffy. Lips dry. He doesn’t have the energy to pretend this isn’t the worst version of both of you. You sit up slowly, instinctively tucking your knees under the blanket like shame can be hidden that easily.

“Hi,” you manage.

He closes the door behind him but doesn’t move closer. Just stares at you like he’s trying to memorize your face in case it disappears again.

“You didn’t answer my calls.”

You swallow. “I couldn’t. I… didn’t want to say anything until I knew I was okay.”

“You weren’t okay,” he snaps. “You aren’t okay. You passed out, YN.”

The silence is brutal.

“You said you were eating again,” he adds, voice cracking halfway through. “You lied to me.”

You look away, throat tight. “You relapsed too.”

He flinches. “Because I thought you were going to die.”

“You think I didn’t want to die?” you shoot back before you can stop yourself. “You think I fucking wanted to be here?”

His jaw clenches. He walks across the room, grabs the back of the chair beside your bed, but doesn’t sit.

“You’re not allowed to say that to me,” he mutters. “Not when you knew how close I was to breaking. Not when you promised—”

“I was breaking!” you yell. “Every time I looked in the mirror, all I saw was failure. Headlines telling me I was too fat, too messy, too washed-up at twenty-four. I couldn’t eat without hearing their voices in my head, Lando. I couldn’t fucking breathe.”

Tears slip down your cheeks. You don’t wipe them. He’s quiet for a beat. And then, in the smallest voice you’ve ever heard from him-

“And I couldn’t do any of it without you.”

You blink. “What?”

He steps closer. Slowly. Like he’s afraid of what’s about to come out of his own mouth.

“I used to think you were just the person I used to forget the worst parts of myself. The drugs. The sex. The late nights.” He breathes in. “But it’s not that anymore.”

You stare at him, heart in your throat.

“You’re not something I use to numb the pain,” he whispers. “You are the pain. And the comfort. And the chaos. And the only thing that’s made me feel fucking alive in months.”

His voice breaks. “I think I love you.”

The air is still. He finally sinks into the chair beside your bed, shoulders caving in like the confession took everything out of him. You don’t speak. Because you don’t know how to respond. Because some part of you always feared this moment — feared that the mess you made together might actually be real. That love might exist inside the cycle. That someone could look at you, hollowed and hurting, and still call it love. Lando doesn’t push you. He just stares at the floor, picking at the string of his sleeve.

“Say something,” he whispers finally.

But you can’t.

So you just reach out — trembling fingers brushing over his knuckles — and hold his hand like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to the world. You don’t say I love you back. But you stay. And right now, that’s the loudest truth you have.

—

You don’t have your phone anymore.

Not really. It was taken at intake, handed over with your makeup bag and the clutch of anxiety meds you’d been hoarding in your luggage “just in case.” You gave it up with shaking hands and a hollow chest. Somewhere in the distance, your name still echoed across headlines. But in here, it didn’t matter.

This place is all beige walls and early mornings. You sleep in a twin bed with sheets that smell like lemon detergent, and you sit in group therapy circles with girls who look just like you — too perfect, too thin, too tired.

You talk. Not all the time. But enough. You talk about the emptiness. The perfectionism. The terrifying high of disappearing and the unbearable crash of still being here. You don’t say Lando’s name — not at first. But he haunts the edges of everything. His hoodie is still the only thing you wear to sleep.

Some nights, you cry. Some mornings, you scream. Some days, you just breathe. It’s more progress than you’ve made in years.

Lando’s world doesn’t stop — Formula 1 doesn’t pause for pain. So he keeps racing. But something’s changed in him too. He doesn’t go out after practice anymore. Doesn’t disappear between sessions. There are no new girls, no blurry club photos, no gossip-worthy moments. He’s… quiet. Focused. Haunted. His team notices. So does his therapist.

Yes, therapist. Zak insisted. After Miami. After the relapse. After the look in Lando’s eyes started resembling burnout instead of bravado. And, reluctantly, he agreed.

At first, he sat through the sessions in silence, arms crossed, jaw clenched. But then the woman — her name was Dana — asked him a question that made something snap.

“What would it mean to love someone who might not survive loving you back?”

He cried. For the first time in years. And then he started talking. About the pressure. The fame. The way winning felt empty now and losing felt like the end of the world. About the way you looked in the hospital bed, wrists thinner than the IV line, eyes so tired but still there — still trying.

He talks about the pills. The sex. The high that used to feel like relief and now feels like shame. And, quietly, he talks about love. Not like it’s a promise — more like a wound he can’t stop touching.

They send letters now. Not texts. Not emails. Actual pen and paper letters that get reviewed by staff and delivered like old secrets. He writes to you after every race. Sometimes just a few lines—

P6. You would’ve said the helmet looked cool today. I’m still sober. Still tired. But I’m trying. Miss you. — L

You sends him drawings, mostly. Little sketches of the view outside your window. Notes in the margins—

Today I ate an entire sandwich. It scared me. But I did it. You’d be proud.

I miss hearing your heartbeat when I couldn’t find mine. I’m not ready for “I love you,” but I’m not afraid of it anymore either.

Please keep trying. I’ll meet you there. Eventually.

We are healing. Separately. But not apart. Not really. You count the days until you can leave — not because you want to run, but because you want to live again. To feel again. To see him again, clear eyed and real and maybe finally whole. He keeps showing up to the track. To therapy. To life. And every time he gets back in the car, he whispers before lights out, like a ritual—

For her. For me. For us.

It’s not perfect. But for once — for the first time — it’s not a cycle. It’s a beginning.

—

The world looks different on the outside. Not brighter, not softer. Just… clearer. Like someone cleaned the glass between you and everything else.

You’re not fixed — everyone in treatment made sure you understood that. There’s no magic milestone, no final day that turns pain into peace. But you’ve reached a point where you’re not surviving despite the feelings anymore — you’re surviving with them. And that’s something.

You walk out of the center with a suitcase, a discharge folder, and a goodbye hug from the nurse who used to sit with you when you couldn’t sleep. You haven’t worn makeup in over a month. Your hair is tied back in a bun. You look… human. For the first time in ages. You don’t tell Lando you’re coming.

You’ve rewritten your “I love you” a hundred times in your head — not like a grand confession, but like a careful gift, one you’re not entirely sure he’s ready to open. Or if you are. But you book the flight anyway. One way. To Monaco.

He doesn’t expect the knock. It’s late — nearly midnight — and he’s in one of his hoodies, sitting on the couch, eyes half-shut from a week of racing and back to back therapy sessions. There’s a half written letter to you on the coffee table. He hasn’t mailed it yet. When he opens the door and sees you — real, standing there, smaller than he remembers but glowing in a way he’s never seen before — his breath just stops.

“Hi,” you whisper.

He blinks once, twice, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

And then he exhales. “You’re here.”

You nod. Your eyes are already glassy. “I’m okay.”

He pulls you in before he can say anything else — arms wrapping around you like instinct, like muscle memory, like home. You melt into him. You smell like clean cotton and plane air and a life that doesn’t hurt quite as much anymore.

“I missed you,” he mumbles into your hair.

“I missed you too,” you whisper. “So much.”

You sit on the couch in silence for a while. Not awkward — just sacred. You hold his hand and trace small shapes into the back of it like your fingers forgot how to stop missing him. Then you finally speak.

“I love you.”

His head snaps toward you, like he didn’t expect it.

You say it again. Slower. Truer.

“I love you, Lando.”

He doesn’t speak. His throat bobs. His grip on your hand tightens, just slightly.

“But I’m scared,” you admit. “I’m scared that if we go back to the way things were, we’ll lose ourselves again. That we’ll drag each other down. That we’ll confuse love for dependency.”

He nods slowly. His voice is low, rough- “I’m scared too.” You meet his eyes — those tired, beautiful eyes that saw you at your lowest and didn’t look away.

“But I don’t want to live in fear anymore,” you say. “And I don’t want to live without you.”

He lets out a shaky breath, like he’s been holding it for weeks.

“We don’t have to go back,” he whispers. “We build something new. Slower. Smarter. Softer. No highs, no crashes. Just… us.”

You nod. A tear slips down your cheek, and this time, you let it fall. He wipes it away with his thumb, gently.

“I don’t want you to be my escape,” he says. “I want you to be my reason.”

You close your eyes and lean into his palm.

“I want that too.”

That night, you don’t fall into old habits. You don’t numb anything. You sleep curled up next to him, fully clothed, his hand resting over your heart like he’s guarding it. And for the first time in what feels like years, your dreams are quiet.

—

months later...

It’s strange, the way peace can feel unfamiliar at first. Like wearing a dress that used to hang off your frame — now it fits. And that alone feels like rebellion. You wake up most mornings beside him, and the air is quiet. Not heavy. Not desperate. Just calm.

His hand usually finds yours under the sheets before either of you even open your eyes. It’s instinct now. Like breathing. Like choosing to stay. Lando makes coffee the way you like it. You fold his laundry while watching race replays on his laptop.

It’s normal. Uneventful. Safe. But more than anything else — it’s real.

He’s doing well. Not just on track, but off it too. Still going to therapy. Still checking in. Still sober. Some nights are harder than others — you both know that. But there are fewer secrets now. Less shame.

You write again. Sketch. Eat. Exist. You laugh more. You cry less. You look in the mirror and see a person you’re learning to love — not a ghost. Sometimes people ask if the two of you are “still together.”

As if the world only expects passion if it’s breaking things. As if surviving each other doesn’t count. You don’t give them answers. You don’t owe them that. But if they looked close enough, they’d know. The way he looks at you across the paddock — that smile, soft and full of memory. The way your hand always ends up in his before lights out. The way you whisper “I’m okay” and mean it now.

You think about the song sometimes— Novacane. Even listen to it from time to time. The pattern of destruction you used to so closely live to Hell, you used to live inside it. The numbness. The quiet kind of destruction.

You used to need the high to forget how bad everything felt. You used to use sex to convince yourself you are worthy of life— of love. To forget all the little things that built up inside of you over the course of one day. You used to use drugs— pills, cocaine— anything to calm your nerves and rid your mind of all the bad press, the horrible comments, the overall stress of being a person in fame. You and him used to use each other to make some fucked up form of ‘happiness’.

You don’t anymore. Lando said it best a few weeks ago, while you both sat on the balcony of the Monaco apartment, wrapped in one blanket, your legs tangled together as the sun sank into the sea—

“You were never the high. You were what reminded me I deserved to come down.”

You smiled at him, rested your head on his shoulder, and let that be enough. Because you’re not perfect. He isn’t either. But together? You’re present. You’re healing. You’re free. And that’s better than any high you ever chased.

585 notes · View notes

dollishmehrayan · 2 months ago

Text

𐔌 . ⋮ DAMIAN WAYNE AS A S/O .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ ── .✦ ( solo damian wayne x reader run )

𝜗𝜚 a/n: I’ve been reading damian’s run these days and aww stop he’s so adorable anyways I thought why not to write something for him to get out my writers block sooo enjoy?? anyways I was pressured by my bbg @kyriakis to post this so after this I’ll probably write genuine hcs of him only of things he probably does / used to based off canon, tags: ( damian wayne x reader ) ! Disclaimer the following tags include jason, dick, bruce, Tim even when not mentioned this allows for the fandom to equally react since most don’t follow damian tag

A BIT OF A GREAT GIFTER ── .✦

Damian’s idea of romance is... a little dramatic. You once casually mentioned how you like the color purple or any other color and the next day you received an extravagant bouquet of rare lavender flowers, LIKE THIS MAN REMEMBERS WELL.

“Purple is a necessary part of your aesthetic,” he states nonchalantly as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

But then, if you ever mention how much you love a particular type of chocolate or a specific scent, he’ll track it down and somehow acquire it without you knowing and just say it’s a ‘gift’ as if he didn’t spend hours finding it.

And if you dare to ask him about it? PFFFF

“Tt, don’t know what you’re talking about. I simply noticed the details, as any competent person would.”

DRAMATIC BUT ON LEVEL 10 ── .✦

Damian acts like you’re going on an actual mission when you leave the house. “What do you mean you’re going for a walk? You can’t just walk around Gotham. There’s danger everywhere.”, “It’s just a bodega damian.”

And even if it’s just a trip to the store, he’ll insist on accompanying you with that “I’m doing this for your own safety” tone, but the moment you come back home, he acts like he’s been out on patrol the entire time.

“I’ve successfully completed the task of ensuring no harm came to you.” HIS LOVE IS IN ACTIONS NOT WORDS OKAY?!

He says this while wearing a full suit and tie, because of course, that makes sense for a walk to the bodega ( corner shop )

Not the Best at Compliments, but...

Damian’s way of showing affection can be a little... rough. But somehow, it always gets the point across, think of like people being sarcastic as a love language but his seems to be like kinda blunt? Where at first he won’t say out loud ‘oh I love you’ no but he isn’t ignorant either, he knows he loves you and that’s validated to him.

“You’re fine. I mean, I guess I could see how someone would find you attractive. It’s not the worst thing in the world.”

And then he’ll look at you, almost daring you to call him out. But in truth, his eyes are saying, “I think you’re the most beautiful person in the world, but I’ll never admit it because I am Damian Wayne, and I am far too cool for this.”

The thing is, though, he’ll do anything to make sure you’re happy, even if it means begrudgingly going out of his way to make sure you get exactly what you want.

WILL DEFEND YOU 100% ── .✦

one of his brothers say something mildly annoying to you?

“Don’t talk to them like that.”

Damian’s got your back no matter how small the offense.

Someone’s being rude to you in public? He’s ready to pull a full I’m Damian Wayne, son of Batman, sole heir to ra’s al ghul and start a verbal altercation, followed by a very intense, “No, they didn’t just say that about you” look.

You? Trying to defuse the situation like a normal person?

Damian? “Nope, too late. I already decided it’s a fight now, this is mockery.

If you’re lucky, he’ll look at you and say, “It’s okay. I’m protecting you,” with a glint in his eye that says, “And you better be grateful.”

GENUINELY DOESNT GET PDA BUT FOR A GOOD REASON ── .✦

Damian’s not one to show affection publicly. In fact, he’ll try to avoid touching you at all if he’s around anyone. But the second he’s sure no one is looking, you’ll catch him glaring at you from across the room like, “We’re together, and everyone should know it, but I won’t say it.” BUT he isn’t embarrassed by you or isn’t hiding you relationship

It’s just private not secret.

He’ll give you the occasional side-hug or brush your hand ever so slightly, then immediately retreat like nothing happened if you don’t grab it fast enough.

But if you’re standing near him, don’t be surprised when he casually places a hand on your shoulder or rests his head on yours... only for it to turn into the most awkward five seconds ever, followed by an immediate, “What? It’s not like I wanted to do that. You were in my personal space.” HE DOESNR WANT TO ADMIT HE’S DEPENDENT 😭

So, yeah. PDA with Damian is... complicated, BUT ITS DIFFERENT

“It’s a Normal Relationship. I Don’t Know What You’re Talking About”

Damian, when you ask if he wants to do something like go for a walk, or watch a movie together:

“I don’t know what you mean. We’re not doing anything special. This is just a normal... well, normal for us. What is ‘normal,’ anyway?”

And yet, there he is, sitting with you, absolutely enjoying the time together trying to act like it's nothing special, but he’s leaning in just a little too close to you to be that casual.

Sometimes, he’ll act like he’s too cool for the typical date stuff, but in reality, he’s all in. He’s just trying to pretend he’s not, to maintain his Bat-cred.

COMPETITIVE TO A TEA ── .✦

This seems like a regular occurrence for him where, it’s not only you but anyone, he likes competition and challenges in general by classmates, friends, you, teammates, anyone. ( This also why he doesn’t do well on teams in canon but we ain’t ready for this convo )

Whenever there’s something to compete over whether it’s a simple game or a sparring match damian’s all in. He takes everything way too seriously.

“I’ll beat you at Mario Kart.”

Damian: “Tt, you think I’m going to let you win? You underestimate me immensely this is social injustice to my name.”

And the next thing you know, he’s strategizing his every move, plotting out every turn like he’s planning an actual mission. MEANWHILE ITS JUST JENGA DAMN

When he inevitably wins (because he’s Damian Wayne, and you knew he was going to), he’ll throw you the most smug smile.

“I told you. You should’ve known better.”

BUT HE LOVES YOU ── .✦

Underneath the tough exterior, Damian’s a softie who occasionally lets his guard down when you're alone together. He might not say it, but you know when he's trying to be vulnerable.

For example, one evening, after a particularly intense patrol or he says something too smart during a simple game of uno , he’ll just stare at you, quietly, in the way that only Damian can.

“You’re... okay, right? I didn’t, uh, hurt you…. I apologize for my lack of understanding if that hurt you.”

You’ll blink and be like, “You literally saved me like 10 minutes ago?”

And he’ll just look away, muttering something like, “Well, I don’t want you to get hurt. I just... don’t want to lose anyone again.” ( damian ‘I will not have anyone dying for my mistakes the way he did’ Wayne ☹️

And then he’ll change the subject super quickly, because he doesn’t want to burden you with his fears

921 notes · View notes

cayleeuhithinknott · 4 days ago

Text

✿ — borderline . . . matt sturn

in which . . . you keep pretending you don’t want matt—but you keep showing up at his door anyway.

warnings . . . making out , slight dry humping , mutual pining (but only one actually admits to it) , not proofread

𝑺𝑾𝑬𝑬𝑻𝑬𝑵𝑬𝑹 𝙒𝙍𝙄𝙏𝙄𝙉𝙂 𝙈𝘼𝙍𝘼𝙏𝙃𝙊𝙉 𝙁𝙄𝘾 #10

you show up late. not that late, but late enough that matt opens the door looking half-asleep, hair tousled, hoodie sleeves pushed past his wrists like he’s been pacing. like he knew you’d come.

you stand in the doorway, unsure. jacket sleeves fisted in your hands. eyes darting anywhere but him. your lips part like you’re about to explain yourself—why you’re here, why now—but nothing comes out.

matt leans on the doorframe, tilts his head just a little. “you lost?”

he says it casually, but his voice is lower than usual. heavier. your stomach flips.

“no,” you say softly, barely audible.

“then come in.”

you do.

the door clicks shut behind you, and it feels louder than it should. like it seals the night in place.

you don’t look at him, but you can feel his eyes on you—like he’s reading your every twitch, your hesitation, the way you cross and uncross your arms. you sit on the edge of the couch. he doesn’t sit right away. he just watches.

you’ve been doing this dance for weeks. pretending you don’t want him. brushing him off. giving him nothing but sideways glances and careful space.

he never pushed.

but he’s never walked away either.

“you gonna tell me what you’re doing here?” he asks finally.

you look down at your hands. they’re shaking. you hate that he can probably tell.

“i don’t know,” you mumble.

matt walks over, slow and quiet. he crouches in front of you, arms resting loosely on his knees. when he speaks again, his voice is softer. “you sure?”

you blink down at him, heart pounding.

“you always act like you don’t want this,” he says, and it’s not accusing. it’s not bitter. just true. “but you show up. every time.”

you swallow hard.

he’s so close now. and still not touching you.

“i’m not playing games,” he says, voice dipping lower. “i know what i want.”

you nod, barely.

his eyes flick to your mouth, then back to your eyes. “and i think you do too.”

you don’t answer. you don’t have to. the way you’re leaning into him now says everything.

his hand lifts slowly, fingers brushing your knee first—just a light touch, barely there. then up, tracing along your thigh over the fabric of your pants, pausing just before it gets bold enough to actually mean something.

he studies you carefully. no pressure. no rush. just watching the way your breath catches.

then, finally, his hand rises to your face, brushing a piece of hair behind your ear and letting his thumb rest just barely under your jaw. your eyes flutter.

“not gonna kiss you,” he murmurs. “not until you ask.”

and for a second, you want to.

you want to so badly your lips part on instinct, your eyes drop to his mouth, your whole body leans in without thinking.

but you stop.

you look down, chest rising too fast, like you need a second to hold yourself back.

matt just exhales. like he gets it. like he’s been here before—with you, exactly like this. because he has.

he stands, slow and sure, and this time when he sits next to you, his thigh presses against yours like he’s not letting you second-guess it. you don’t move away.

your eyes close for just a second—just to breathe, just to gather yourself. when they open again, he’s already watching you.

and this time…you kiss him.

no words. no hesitation. just lips pressing to his, soft and unsure at first, but real.

he doesn’t waste a second.

asshole. completely contradicting himself.

his hand slips behind your neck, pulling you in deeper. your hands curl in the front of his hoodie, gripping like you’ve wanted this longer than you’ll ever admit.

the kiss turns heavy fast—urgent, slow, open-mouthed. like he’s trying to memorize how you taste. like he’s trying to prove something.

his tongue brushes yours and you gasp against his mouth, and he groans—low and soft, like he wasn’t expecting you to give in like that.

you break away first, lips swollen, breathing shallow, forehead pressed to his.

“why haven’t you given up on me yet?” you whisper.

his voice is just as quiet. “because you always come back.”

you don’t answer. but your fingers tug at the hem of his hoodie, like you need to hold onto something before you fall apart. he kisses you again—slower this time, deeper—and shifts just enough to pull you into his lap.

you go willingly.

you straddle his thighs, settling there like you’ve done it a hundred times before. like you belong there. his hands slide up under the back of your shirt, palms warm and steady against your spine.

his hands stay respectful.

his mouth doesn’t.

he kisses you like he’s starving—lips everywhere, dragging down your jaw, then to your neck. he lingers there, right below your ear, his breath hot and uneven. he nips lightly, then soothes it with his tongue. you squirm.

he exhales, voice low and raspy against your skin. “you drive me insane.”

your fingers fist in the front of his hoodie, pulling him closer, needing something—anything—to ground you. the friction between your bodies builds with every breath, every shift of your hips against his. the fabric between you makes it worse. better.

your hips move on instinct, slow and tentative at first, and matt’s grip on your waist tightens like he’s trying not to lose it.

you bury your face in his neck. he smells like soap and weed and something warm that’s always been him. his hoodie rides up your back, and you let it. you don’t care anymore.

one of his hands slides down, gripping your thigh, then trailing back up again, fingers digging in just slightly. not too rough. not yet.

he breathes your name.

and you whisper his back, soft and desperate.

he pulls you in again, mouths meeting fast and messy, like neither of you can get enough now that it’s finally happening.

you lose track of time—minutes, maybe more—kissing like it’s all you know how to do. like if you stop, the moment will break.

and maybe it will.

but for now, it doesn’t.

you melt into him, lips parted, hearts racing, hands roaming in careful places that still feel too good.

you know you’re not ready to give him everything. not yet.

but you’re giving him something. letting him see the softest, rawest parts of you. letting him hold them without asking questions. without expectations. just need.

you’re not crossing the line tonight, but you’re not holding back either. you’re moving against him, gasping into his mouth, flushed and dizzy and weightless.

and when he kisses the corner of your lips—tender, reverent—you realize you’re not just toeing the edge anymore. you’re tangled in the tension. pressed to the heat. caught in the middle of wanting and waiting.

right at the borderline.

author’s note . . . this sucks and i’m sorry i keep being late but i didn’t prewrite these and i’ve been dealing with mental health stuff along with taking care of my beautiful awesome perfect amazing mother

🏷️ : @sturniolo04 @admeliora94 @alexturnersgooch @strnilolover @snuffbut @frattboychris @marrykisskilled @mqttittude @purpledragon222 @aubsloveschris @paisleyy22 @emely9274 @oliviasthatgirl @conspiracy-ash @matthewsroses @pasteldreams @matts-wife @courta13 @sugarraez @adorechris @elenayzxsturn @oopsiedaisydeer @bluestriips @grace-sturnz @sturnboos @owenstar @ribbonlovergirl @tweetybaird @tezzzzzzzz @vanteguccir @bernardmatthews @weirdothatwrites @thighs4evan @lm-a-mirrorball @iluvchr1s @sturnslux3 @cutseylady @iconiccolo @beardedbernard

224 notes · View notes

freeabortionslol · 7 months ago

Text

jack's kiss (a lake house series fic) ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

pairings: jack hughes x reader, mentions of quinn summary: reader and jack watch a xmas movie tg and they share a lil "no strings attached" kiss ;) warnings!! heated makeout (i think that's it) a/n: y'all i can't lie i really just wanted to write a good makeout and ive been depriving the jack girlies with all this quinn content. anyways, im currently writing a tree decorating fic!! i will also prob do baking cookies, ice skating, and secret santa :) anyways, happy reading!! wc: 2.4k lake house series masterlist

Indulging in the Christmas spirit was something you were quite known for around the lake house. It didn’t matter if it wasn’t anything big, you wanted every moment to feel like a true celebration of the holidays. That’s why after everyone went to bed, you insisted on watching a Christmas movie with Jack. He was a night owl, you knew that, and you didn’t want the day to end just yet. You had knocked on his door not long ago, finding him sitting in bed scrolling on his phone. He was more than happy to let you in, so you were quick to hop into his bed and get cozy under the covers. You let Jack pick the movie, Christmas Vacation, his favorite. You knew the other guys would be upset you were watching it without them, especially Trevor, but you didn’t care. Jack didn’t bat an eye when you shifted closer to him, resting your head on his shoulder. He let you stay there for about two minutes before mumbling, “Move up,” and lifting his arm to let you snuggle closer into his side. His hand found your back, tracing soft, comforting circles across the skin through your shirt. You rested your arm around his torso, melting closer into him. The warmth from Jack's side and the soft pressure of his hand on your back made everything feel cozy, like the world outside didn't exist. The laughter from Christmas Vacation filled the space around you, but it was almost like the movie had faded into the background. You could feel the steady rise and fall of Jack’s chest, his presence grounding you in the moment.

“You’ve kissed Quinn.” Jack said quietly, his voice abruptly cutting through the sound of the TV.

Your cheeks flushed red, turning your face slightly to look up at him. “Yeah, I have.”

“Not fair,” He said softly, though his teasing tone was prominent enough to pique your interest. You sat up, moving your arm to hold your head as you looked down at Jack.

You squinted your eyes, Jack’s hand still tracing patterns on your back. “What’s that supposed to mean?” You asked.

Jack tilted his head, sending you an expression that read ‘how could you not know what that means?’. “Quinn gets to kiss you and I don’t.”

You scoffed playfully, throwing your head back before returning your gaze to Jack. “You say that like Quinn kisses me all the time. We kissed once during a game of spin the bottle. Get over it.” Jack turned to face you, now lying on his side. You mirrored his action, watching as he looked into your eyes with a teasing smirk. “Okay, then kiss me.”

You widened your eyes immediately, your face flushing more intensely than before. “What? No!” You giggled.

“Why not?” He asked, chuckling through his sentence. “You kissed Quinn.”

Your mouth gaped open, Jack’s hand moving towards your waist. “We were forced to!”

Jack rolled his eyes, shifting closer in hopes that his charm would sway your decision. “C’mon it’s not a big deal.” Despite your better judgement, you found yourself leaning towards Jack- though you hadn’t given up quite yet.

“No, Jack.” You said with a warm smile. “Friends don’t kiss each other.”

Jack’s smile faltered just a fraction before remembering where he was. The word ‘friend’ hurt more than he cared to admit. “Friends could kiss each other.” He said quietly, a mischievous smirk wiped across his face.

You let out a long sigh, looking away from him for just a second. His grip on your waist was light, yet it burned through your skin in a way you couldn’t explain. You looked back at him, focusing on his sly smile, but noticing the gentle pleads that his eyes held. “If I kiss you will you shut up about it?”

Jack’s grin widened, his eyes lighting up with playful mischief. "If you kiss me, I'll stop talking about it forever," he promised, his voice low and teasing, but there was a trace of sincerity behind it. You hesitated, your heart pounding in your chest, but the closeness between you two, the chemistry that had always been there, felt undeniable in that moment. Jack’s fingers brushed against your waist again, a subtle, almost unconscious touch that sent a shiver through you. It was like everything around you disappeared, and the only thing that mattered was the space between you and him. With a deep breath, you leaned in just slightly, your lips hovering near his. The warmth from his breath mingled with yours, and for a split second, everything was suspended in time. Jack didn’t move, but you could see the way his eyes flicked down to your lips, the tension building in the air.

"Fine," you whispered, your voice almost a soft laugh, trying to maintain some semblance of control. "But this is a one-time thing. A quick kiss, and absolutely no tongue.”

Jack’s grin softened, his eyes glinting with both amusement and something else, something deeper. "I’ll take it."

With no hesitation, and a hunger that had been building up for the last few moments, Jack’s grip tightened around your waist as he finally closed the gap between the two of you. Your lips gently locked into a soft, gentle kiss. One that spread a warmth through your chest as Jack’s touch grazed over your side. Just one kiss- yet he held onto it for as long as he could, his teeth gently biting into your bottom lip. You pulled back only an inch, your lips ghosting his as you both sat with your eyes closed.

After sitting for barely a second, you leaned back in, crashing your lips onto Jack’s for the second time that night. Your hand found its way to the back of his neck, tangling your fingers in his hair. He pulled you closer by your waist, his lips tasting every cup of hot chocolate you’d had today. In some strange way, your mind was no longer in control as your body made all the calls. You swiped your tongue against his bottom lip, something that surprised him as he was lost in the way you felt against him. He parted his mouth slightly, allowing you to enter. Your tongues lapped each other as your other hand made its way to grip his shirt.

In that moment, Jack finally stepped out of his role as your best friend who sat back and watched, letting his hand move from your waist to your ass, pulling your leg over his hip. A soft moan escaped from the back of your throat and onto Jack’s lips as you hoisted yourself closer against him. The sounds from the TV were now completely drowned out, replaced by the sounds of lips smacking against each other. Jack’s hands found your hips, pulling your legs on either side of him to straddle. You gripped onto his shirt, having to lean down to continue placing sloppy kisses on his lips. Blood rushed through your veins, your mind still completely unaware of what you were doing. Jack ran a hand through your hair, eagerly pulling you down closer. You could feel the rise and fall of his chest, your hand finding its way underneath his shirt to run along his abs. Jack tilted his head back slightly, his tongue cutting deeper into your mouth. He gently cupped the back of your neck, his other hand pulling you closer by your waist. Your cheeks flushed at the feeling of him deepening the kiss, fully devouring into your open mouth.

You moved your hands to his shoulders, pulling yourself down and him on top of you. Jack quickly got your message, moving his hands to your back as he swiftly laid you down on the mattress. With your legs still in position to straddle, you absentmindedly wrapped them around his torso, pulling him down closer. You could feel his shaky breath against your lips as his fingers gently brushed over the bare skin under your shirt. You arched your back slightly, his hand gently caressing as he lifted you up. With each kiss, you felt yourself unravel just a little bit more. The heat of his lips, the softness of his touch, and the pressure of his body leaning closer made it feel like the world was melting away. There was a sense of belonging, of finally being in the right place, even as everything felt new and uncertain. You could feel the quiet intensity in Jack, the way he was holding on to you, but also the slight tremor in his hand that suggested he wasn’t as confident as he appeared.

Jack pulled back for only a millisecond, and you caught the sound of his heavy breath, causing the realization to hit you like a truck. You pulled back slowly, your arms still wrapped around his neck. Your foreheads rested against each other as you both caught your breath, your eyes still closed. His heavy breath against your skin sent a wave of heat through you, and as you both lingered there, foreheads pressed together, it was like everything fell silent around you. Your chest felt tight, heart racing, and yet there was an odd sense of peace in the way your breaths synchronized. His warm presence, the soft pressure of his hands, and the subtle tremor in his touch made everything feel intense but gentle, like a quiet storm just beginning to settle. When Jack leaned in again, his kisses came in soft, quick bursts. Unexpected but tender, like he was testing the waters, almost as if he couldn't stop himself, as if his heart was racing just as fast as yours. Each peck was a confirmation of what he wanted, a confirmation of something unspoken, but real. His lips were warm, urgent, but there was an underlying hesitation to them, like he wasn’t sure how to navigate this new territory between you two. And then, after the final kiss, the lingering silence between you two felt heavy, yet comforting. His breath was still uneven, matching yours, and you could feel the gentle rise and fall of his chest.

“Good enough for you?” You asked quietly, still catching your breath mid-sentence. You felt Jack nod his head slightly against yours, eyes still closed as the two of you rested in this moment. Jack’s breath was still warm against your skin, and for a moment, there was nothing but the steady rhythm of your breathing filling the space between you. His hand, which had been resting on your waist, slowly moved up to gently cup the back of your neck, as if anchoring you both in the stillness of the moment. You could feel the softness of his touch, the way his fingers barely brushed your skin, like he didn’t want to break the fragile bubble you were both in.

Jack’s voice came after a beat, low and steady, barely above a whisper. "Yeah," he said, a soft smile curling at the corners of his lips, even though his eyes remained closed. "Good enough for me." His voice held a certain warmth, a softness that made your chest tighten in ways you couldn't quite explain.

You released your legs, letting them lie down on the mattress. You let out another heavy breath, your thumb moving back and forth against the back of his neck like a windshield wiper as your words came out in whispers. “One time thing-”

“I know.” He whispered, cutting you off. His tone was laced with exhaustion, yet a hint of pain lingered in his voice. His hand on the back of your neck tightened slightly, pulling you even closer, and you could feel the subtle tremor in his fingers. It was like he was trying to hold on, to keep the fragile moment between you intact, but there was an undeniable weight now. A mix of understanding and something heavier. Something unspoken, but clearly lingering in the space between you. You could feel your heartbeat quicken as you gently ran your thumb over the back of his neck again, your touch soft but hesitant, trying to find some kind of reassurance. The simple act of it felt like a way of telling him you were still there, but the words you wanted to say seemed to lodge in your throat. Jack moved to lie down facing you, but the two of you stayed eyes closed, foreheads pressed together like a defense mechanism. You weren’t sure if it was because you wanted to stay close or if the two of you were just too scared to look at each other. Finally you pulled back, both of your hands still lingered on each other as you opened your eyes. Jack was flustered, his lips puffy as he looked at you with puppy dog eyes. You’d never seen him like this, so vulnerable.

You let out a shaky breath, gulping down your spit as the two of you stared at each other. “Sorry…” You whispered. “I-If I made it-”

“You didn’t,” He interrupted, a small smile on his face. “It’s not a big deal.” He said, quoting himself from just a few minutes ago.

You let out a soft, quiet giggle, one not filled with any humor in the slightest. You took your hand off the back of his neck, holding your pinky out in front of him. “Tell no one about the kiss?”

“What kiss?” He asked, a sly smirk on his face as he interlocked his pinky with yours. The moment felt like it was suspended in time, the weight of your words hanging in the air, unspoken but felt by both of you. Jack’s response, though lighthearted, carried a hint of truth beneath it. His attempt at playful mischief, the sly smirk that returned to his face, was a small attempt to mask the vulnerability that lingered between you two. His puppy dog eyes, still soft and wide, betrayed the calm exterior he was trying to project. For now, you’d both pretend. Pretend it was nothing, pretend it was just a fleeting moment. But deep down, something had changed. The promise between you, no matter how lighthearted, was the quiet acknowledgment of what had just passed. Maybe it wouldn’t be mentioned again. Maybe it would never be talked about. But as the two of you laid there, pinkies interlocked, neither of you could deny that things had shifted. And, for a fleeting moment, the world outside the two of you seemed distant.

#freeabortionslol #lake house groupchat #jack hughes #jack hughes x reader #jh86 #quinn hughes

450 notes · View notes

donvampiro · 23 days ago

Note

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

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

MASTERLIST - Welcome

Read it on AO3! -> here

***

'Sweet dreams'

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

“Open your mouth.”

– “Sure!! Aah~”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay Doc”, you eventually replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

– “Kind of”, you conceded thoughtfully.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This guy…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Penguin cocked an eyebrow.

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

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

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

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

“What is it, (y/n)?”

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

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

Oh.

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

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

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

#one piece #one piece x reader #one piece headcanons #one piece imagine #one piece imagines #trafalgar law #op law #one piece law x reader #trafalgar d law x reader #trafalgar d water law #trafalgar d law x you #op penguin #law x reader #donvampiro

176 notes · View notes

bunny-jpeg · 9 months ago

Text

mean!daniel & mean!max - a match made in hell

both men snickered behind your back as you poured them their drinks. it was their second of the afternoon. out on the boat. the bright sun was bugging your eyes but you had to stay focused. the tag of the collar you wore gleamed in the sunshine. 'property of max verstappen' the gold tag read against the black leather of the collar that was secured around your neck. and don't think about trying to take it off, max was currently playing with the key to the lock between his fingers. it wasn't coming off until max wanted it off. and while max marked your throat with italian leather, you knew your left ass cheek was bruised after daniel didn't want to keep his hands to himself anymore. he liked watching how the fat of your ass jiggled when he groped and slapped the skin. marking it in a dangerous purple.

"where's the drinks beautiful!" daniel barked a laugh and max nudged him in the side which resulted in them both laughing. max added, "c'mon, i'd hate to cut your allowance." you could feel their hungry gazes on your backside. hungry like animals as you tried to finish making their drinks. most women with enough self respect would've snapped back, even splashing a drink in their faces. but you continued to pour the gin into the cup with shaky hands. almost dropping the bottle on the counter when you felt the shock of pleasure race up your spine. you slammed your free hand onto the counter and tried not to moan. these sick fucks, these horrible sick fucks. you composed yourself and tried to keep on steady legs, but the heels you were forced to wear only made your steps awkward as you brought the drinks to the two men on a tray.

they watched you almost stumble over to them. your breasts bounced with each step. the bikini you wore did little to support your larger chest, but then again you used the term 'bikini' lightly. it was a pathetic excuse for swim-wear. you were certain if max kept you naked all afternoon it would constitute swim-wear better. you handed them their drinks, bent over a little to hand it to them personally. but when you tried to go back to the bar counter to put the tray back, max stuck out his foot. and without thinking you tumbled over and onto the floor.

you almost landed face first with your ass up. you braced yourself with your hands. but even that struck pain through your palms and forearms. you let out a pathetic whine and tried to get yourself up, but you were kept down by a shoe against your back. maybe it was sick revenge. you were christian horner's daughter, and both men had a bone to pick with him. max drove a shit car and daniel had been jerked around enough by the team principal over the years. didn't even give the aussie driver a proper goodbye when he was booted from formula one. it didn't help that max made it all better by slipping a healthy amount of euros into your pocket after each visit. good look telling daddy where you were tonight. you could hear the ice clanking in the cup as additional pressure was placed between your shoulders. "you have to be careful." max's words were attempting to be gentle, but you could hear the venom loud and clear. you squirmed a little under his foot but instead he leaned down to trail the glass across your heated skin, "stupid little thing." he sighed, "if you weren't a horner, you'd just be another dumb slut. you like this don't you?"

you squirmed and both men laughed. it echoed in the depths of your skull. it rattled something in you. a deep need you carried, you did like it. even when you cried, you loved it. max verstappen and daniel ricciardo had no interest in treating you with kindness. with the amount of money they had, and the amount of influence their carried. you could complain to the highest court about the bruising and intimidation and they'd simply laugh at you. even your dear father would suggest you just ignore it. he couldn't afford to lose max anyway. you tried to push yourself up, but max pressed harder, "behave." his tone was dangerous. daniel laughed, "does her old man even know where she is this afternnon?" max shrugged, "i don't know, but maybe we should send her back with a little message for dear horner." then took his foot off your back. both men grabbed you roughly and you ended up in max's lap. his cock up and against your back. "you dress like a slut, you know that right?" max said as he dragged his cold drink between the valley of your breasts, the flesh still barely hidden by the bikini top. both men saw how hard your nipples were getting, "but you like that don't you? you like when men fuck you up." he put the glass to your lips and made you take a sip while daniel quickly finished his. he was knelt between your legs, that max kept open. with a few sips of the strong gin and tonic, you were undressed.

there was a slight miracle to be had as the boat was far enough away from shore that no one could see what the two drivers were going to do to you. nude and vulnerable between two top drivers. the daughter of one of the most hated men in formula one. if anything daniel and max were doing a service to their dear fans. enacting revenge on horner by fucking his eldest daughter. bruising you so nicely. max's cock fit into you nicely and your voice grew hoarse. daniel's fingers were on your clit, teasing you until your back was arched. but, max kept you pinned to him with his strong arms around you middle, "greedy whore." he said. daniel added, "aren't you being a little mean, max?" both men looked at each other and laughed before they said, "no." max fucked you quickly. you could take him easily, he had spent months training your poor pussy to accommodate him. the stretch however burned as he fucked you with little remorse. and daniel's fingers on your clit made you whine louder. there was little time to get familiar. the men wanted it to hurt, to sting. a reminder that horner may jerk them around, but they would do it tenfold on your poor body. maybe you should've stayed the summer at the university you attended, instead of in the jaws of the two. you could feel max so deep and your noises almost became screams when daniel bit at your exposed breasts. your nipple between his teeth as he pulled a little too hard. the noises only got louder when daniel sank two fingers into your aching cunt alongside max's throbbing cock. your eyes rolled back a little and daniel laughed, the noise echoed in your fucked out brain, "eyes open, beautiful. you wanna be awake for this." you had no idea what they'd even try if you lose consciousness. both men were insatiable. the feeling of the double penetration left you hazy, unable to do much but take it. both men spoke, but the words went over your head. their paces were aggressive, especially daniel despite using his fingers to stretch you perfectly. "i see why you have to collar her, max." daniel said before he licked your clit which made you kick out your legs so hard the stupid heels you wore fell off. he looked to his friend, "it's like a dog almost, right? if she wanders a little too far, someone will always bring her home." max placed a heavy hand on your throat and replied, his lips nose up against your neck, "of course. thought about 'leaking' some photos i have of her. make it hard for her to have a job if the whole internet can see her tits." his words were dark, but there was little you could do about it. daniel laughed, "and she can't live in daddy's money forever." max held onto your throat a little tighter as he fucked you, "how does that sound? be my personal little slut forever? stuck with me." you could almost feel his teeth against your flushed skin. daniel laughed, "we don't have to be on shore till tonight, i think that's more than enough time to ruin her reputation." daniel licked your clit once more and you choked out a pathetic moan. it sounded delicious.

you looked like a whore. and whore that didn't even get to finish in the end. max fucked you to completion and when you got close to orgasm yourself, daniel pinched your clit with his other hand and said, "oh no, no, no." his move star smile blinded you, "you don't get to finish, until i do." you tried to form words, but nothing came to mind. you felt on another planet while these men devoured you. eventually they gave you the luxury of a bed below deck, but that only meant more chances for them to bruise your pretty insides. you didn't get to finish until max and daniel finished in you twice each. the cum soaked into your skin, in your hair and the taste in your mouth. your cunt raw and your skin bruised your hand prints and bite marks. by the time they were done, you were sandwiched between them in a crumbled mess on the bed. when max slapped your ass, adding to the bruises, he said, "get up. we want another drink." and when you cracked your eyes open you realized that you wouldn't be wearing a scrap of clothing when you went to the deck. except max's tag around your throat. <3

a/n: some kind of force took over me, i don't know what happened.

428 notes · View notes

cyripticchronicler · 9 months ago

Note

Hiii I have a request for Matt Murdock I was thinking him with an reader who’s job has gotten more stressful and it starts to get to them they get dizzy and lightheaded but brush it off until it happens around Matt and he can sense that it happened and he gets all protective and caring

Preferably fem reader but gn is also totally fine so everyone can enjoy it !

If this isn’t your cup of tea I totally get that !

In His Arms

Thank you for requesting, sweetie. I kind of went off track a little and I'm sorry :( (If you want me to rewrite it I happily will!) But either way, I hope you enjoy it!

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader

Summary: Overwhelmed by your growing workload and the pressure to prove yourself, you keep your struggles hidden—even from Matt. When the stress leads to a breakdown, he pulls you back, reminding you that love means sharing the load.

TW: Panic attack, mentions of anxiety, pet names (I can't help it), swearing

Masterlist

Stress was a familiar feeling to you. Its sharp claws seemed always to be gripping onto you tightly. You’ve learnt how to manage the lack of air in your lungs and the painful squeezing of your heart whenever you go through a rough patch.

That’s why the feeling of anxiety creeping up your spine was carelessly ignored. You regret that you shrugged the feeling away, too focused on your work. It’s much easier to calm your bones' nervous trembles before it worsens.

But now it’s too late.

You’ve been so distracted by your work. Your colleague had just gone on maternity leave after giving birth to twins. You weren’t sure what would happen to her workload, but you certainly didn’t think it would all be passed down to you.

Now all your brain can seem to focus on is the deadlines coming closer by the minute. They flash in your mind each time you consider taking a break. You never take a break - this is your one chance to prove to your boss that you’re ready to take on more responsibility. The rumours floating around the office of potential promotions, motivating your hard work ethic.

You’ve always been a hard worker; had always been distracted by what you consider important rather than what was essential- like eating, or sleeping. Each time you got away with it. You didn’t have anyone to look after you.

Until Matt came along.

He’s such an attentive man and would be even without his heightened senses. You knew he’d be worried about your desperation to complete your work, completely gone to the rest of the world as your stomach grumbled louder and your under eyes got darker.

He’s a natural worrier. That’s what compelled you to keep your stress a secret. It’s hard lying to a human lie detector, so you’ve taken to avoiding instead. It’s easy to avoid him when you’re so busy, anyway. A couple of messages per day seems to keep him subdued for now and you’re glad; it’s all the attention you could offer.

Your lip is pulled between your teeth, chewing hard enough to draw the taste of metallic blood. None of the words before you make sense through your blurry eyesight. As you attempt to read the same sentence for the third time, you angrily rip off your glasses and groan.

Black spots take over your vision as you rub at your eyes aggressively, hoping the sickeningly dizzy feeling that’s making your throat feel tight will go away. It’s useless, yet you only allow yourself a second break before gulping down some water and returning to work.

Your phone rings as soon as your fingertips touch the keys of your laptop and a curse slips out of your mouth before you can stop it. You hate yourself for the spark of annoyance that has your blood boiling when you read Matt’s name on your phone.

He’d already left three messages from before. As well as a voice message that you hadn’t yet listened to; you were practically forced to answer the phone so as not to draw concern. You’re determined not to burden him with your issues - he’s a vigilante for God’s sake, he doesn’t need your petty problems on top of his own.

“Hey, Sweetheart.” His deep voice crackles through your phone speaker. Instantly, your shoulders relax and your eyes flutter shut. He’s the bright sun during cold days, the flowers during winter; beautiful and everything you long to see.

“Hey, Matt.” You respond lazily, mustering up enough energy to open your eyes and read the words on your laptop screen. You use one hand to type while the other holds your phone to your ear. You can hear his smile in his voice. “I’ve barely talked to you all day. I thought you were coming to mine for dinner. Did you get my voicemail?”

Guilt nags at your stomach. “I’m so sorry, Matt,” the little sigh you can hear through the other line has your heart splintering, “I’ve just been so busy with staying on top of my work as well as Mara’s-”

“It’s okay. I know how busy you’ve been. I could come by with dinner. I can do some work while you do yours.” You hate to diminish the hope in his voice, but you know he'd be worried about your obvious stress as it shines through in your old clothing and unbrushed hair (not that he’d be able to see but feel).

“Can we do a raincheck?” You whisper, guilt nagging at your stomach. His voice is so sweet. So understanding. It makes you want to cry. “Of course, baby. Try to eat, please. And take breaks. I’ll call you tomorrow; maybe we can go out for lunch.”

“Maybe,” If I’ve got enough work done, “Love you.”

“Love you too.”

You drop your phone on your lap as soon as the call ends. For once, you’re thankful for the large amounts of work, as it distracts you from the guilt that claws and tugs at your skin.

⚝⚝⚝

The second time Matt calls, you’re nose-deep in paperwork that was slammed down on your desk. ‘More of Mara’s work,’ your boss said before leaving you with the rasing anxiety in your chest. Thoughts of taking your lunch break didn’t even assimilate in the blurry haze of your mind.

Only the shrill ring of your phone brought you out of your bubble of work. Sighing, you don’t bother to check the name before picking it up, as you already know who it is. “Hey, Matt.” Your hand still scribbles words on the paper, phone pressed awkwardly against your ear by your shoulder.

“Hey. I called to see if you wanted lunch, but you sound busy.” Unlike last time, his voice doesn’t soothe your racing heart. If anything he makes it worse. “I’m so sorry,” you hope he can hear the sincerity in your voice, “I miss you. As soon as the crazy amount of work has subsided, I’ll call you.”

“Is there any way I can help?” You can’t help but smile at his caring nature, wanting nothing more than to be with him. But you know if you went to lunch you’d be too focused on work to be good company. “Remember that I love you?”

His laugh makes your heart melt, anxiety melting away with it. “Of course. As long as you remember that I love you. I won’t call so I don’t distract you from your work, but please take care of yourself. I love you so much, honey.”

“I love you too.” You hang up the phone and instead of returning to work immediately, you just sit there in silence, staring at the piles of paperwork in front of you. The sting of unshed tears joined by a nervous feeling in your stomach is enough to make you want to throw up. You’re so tired.

You should have listened to your body. You should have gone out for lunch and taken a break. But instead, you got back to work, ignoring the bright red signs of a panic attack on the rise.

⚝⚝⚝

Having been diagnosed with anxiety when you were younger, you’ve learned to identify signs of an upcoming panic attack. First, you begin to feel dizzy, then a little lightheaded. Your heart begins to hurt, and your stomach starts to turn. Then you can’t breathe, and you’re scratching at your skin to give your lungs more space to breathe.

Now, as you stand in your kitchen, staring at the piles of paperwork that cover the dining room table, it’s hard to ignore how your body reacts to the sight of the never-ending workload; the feelings you so carelessly ignored before forced to be brought to attention.

Your eyesight is unfocused, and you are unable to concentrate on the hand you’re using to prepare a small dinner. Your hands violently shake by your side and feel incredibly weak. But that isn’t what worries you; it’s the lack of air entering your lungs that has your eyes squeezed shut.

Feelings of worthlessness travel up your throat and block your airways. You’re having a panic attack. The realization has you sliding down the fridge and to the floor, tears running freely down your flushed cheeks. You bring your knees to your chest, hands scratching at your throat as if it would allow air into your beaten lungs.

Your body feels so weak, you’re sure you wouldn’t be able to stand up if you tried. You’re lost to the darkness and anguish the past weeks have wrought upon you; lost to the cruel insecurities your mind created to fool you into this vicious despair.

No matter how hard you cry, how hard you claw and scrape at your skin, you still can’t breathe. Hopelessness washes over your chilled skin, pulling you into its shadows. You can do nothing but let it take you as its own, the fight for air warring off as you succumb to the darkness that spots your eyes.

And as your eyes flutter shut, you fail to notice the opening of the window in the living room. You fail to notice the hurried steps and the gloved hands that hold your face gently. Or the man’s desperate calls of your name.

⚝⚝⚝

The first thing you notice when you regain consciousness is the exhaustion that wracks through your frail body. The second thing is the man who lays next to you on your bed.

Matt.

He’s sleeping peacefully, chest moving up and down in slow breaths. You frown, unsure of why he’s here. The last thing you remember was you freaking out about the workload and having a panic attack. You must have fainted from the lack of air, you consider then immediately cringe. How embarrassing.

“What are you thinking about?” You jump at the sound of Matt’s deep voice, eyes shooting up to watch a small smile grace his face at your reaction. “Why are you here?” The question comes out ruder than you intended, but Matt’s smile doesn't waver.

“I was on patrol,” he begins, pulling you into his warm embrace, “and figured I’d stop by to check on you. I wasn’t going to come in, just listen-”

“-that’s not creepy at all-”

“-then I heard you panicking. Your heart was beating really fast and you were breathing really heavily. You were already passed out from lack of air by the time I was inside.” He pulls you in tighter like the moment still haunts him. You trace your fingertips gently down his bare arm, ear against his chest as you listen to his heartbeat.

“What happened, sweetheart?” He asks when it became clear you weren’t going to speak. You sigh. “I’ve been a little stressed lately. And I should’ve listened to my body but I didn’t. There’s just so much work and such little time. I can’t handle all of this workload.” The familiar bite of tears has you shoving your head in Matt’s neck, letting him hold you tightly and reassure you that everything will be okay.

“Why didn’t you tell me? We could have worked through your stress together,” He questions quietly and you shake your head in response. “You take the burden of everyone else’s problems, and still go out every night to face all the bad guys- I just didn’t want to burden you with my problems on top of all the rest.”

He pulls away and you try not to frown at the lack of contact. Slowly, his fingers move under your chin and compel you to look into his beautiful, unfocused eyes that sparkle in the city lights shining through your windows. “You are not a burden. Your problems are not a burden. I want to be here for you. I want you to tell me what’s going on in that smart little head of yours-” He flicks your forehead playfully before giving it a small kiss “-And I want you to know you can talk to me.”

You nod your head slowly, feeling like a child that’s just been scolded. “Okay.” He lays there in silence for a moment, seemingly contemplating his words before he speaks, “I think you need to talk to your boss,” you open your mouth to protest but he cuts you off with a gentle squeeze, “This amount of work isn’t healthy. I mean, why hasn’t the workload been separated and passed around to all of your co-workers? It’s fucking stupid if you ask me. She’s obviously taking advantage of your brilliance-”

“-Matt,” You cut him off with an amused smile. His eyes glint at the sound of your giggles as if that was his mission all along and he won first place.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. If anything I’m being selfish.” He grins cheekily, kissing your palm as it raises to cup his cheek. “And why, pray tell, are you being selfish?” Your smile is sly and knowing.

“Because I’m doing this to get my beautiful girl back and into my arms. Foggy isn’t as good company as you, y’know.” You giggle, holding him tightly as your mind settles on a decision. “I’ve missed you too.”

Tomorrow you’ll call your boss and ask for a lessened workload. But for now, you’re just going to lay in bed with the man you love dearly and let him hold you tightly.

804 notes · View notes

vigilantekisser · 1 month ago

Note

hiiiiii!!! I just read all your dex fics and I’m frothing at the mouth… anyway I nEED a fic of reader riding Dex and calling him a loser and degrading him playfully.

anyway thank you sm

Misfit

masterlist | ao3 mirror

summary: [part 2 to loser] dex thinks he's gotten away with it, but you know more than you let on (1.7k)

cw: MDNI 18+!!! sub!dex, female reader, mean!reader, degradation, riding, pussyjob, cumplay, spit, humiliation, handjob, ruined orgasm, just filth

a/n: I’M BACK!!! finals week just finished and i’m almost done with the semester so i can get back to writing more dex soon yayyyy also idk how ‘playful’ this degradation was… sorry dex 😭 combined multiple asks for this one! thank you for the request!

To his credit, Dex was clearly trying to play it cool. His body was telling a different story, though—pants and boxers shoved haphazardly down sweat-slicked thighs, which flexed beneath you every time you moved. His chest was gleaming, flushed all the way down his sternum, skin damp between the soft scattering of brown hairs. The muscle in his jaw was working tight to stifle a groan.

You tilted your head, all sweet and mock-innocent. “Look at you.”

His cock twitched against his stomach, stiff and shiny with precum. There was little else that got you off like this: straddling his lap while you watched his lashes flutter lazily and catch the low light.

“I, uh—” Dex cleared his throat. “Not really fair, you lookin’ at me like that.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”

“Like…” He trailed off, shaking his head. Shrugging, you rolled your hips forward—slow, deliberate—letting your folds press around the full length of his cock without resistance. The sound was filthy as your clit bumped the head, the shaft gliding through the dripping mess between your legs.

Dex sucked in a sharp breath through his nose. His cock was soaked now, glistening in your slick, jerking with every grind.

“You’re twitching,” you murmured, smiling down at him. “Can feel it. Gonna come before you’re even inside, aren’t you?”

“C’mon,” Dex said shakily, voice low and strained.

“What?”

“I did so good for you, right? I got you off, didn’t I?” His voice was breaking, inching toward a whine. “M’being good, so… don’t be– don’t be cruel, okay?”

“Dex,” you whispered, nipping at his jaw. “I haven’t even started.”

Staying close, you kept moving, just slow, lazy rolls of your soaked cunt over his cock. The tip caught under your clit again and he shivered, shoulders flexing tight against the pillows.

“Thought you earned something? Just ‘cause you made me cum?”

He let out a little laugh of disbelief, trying for a nervous, lopsided grin. “I didn’t think a reward was outta line.”

“Oh, sorry.” You sat back upright and ground down on him harder. “I didn’t know you were the one in charge here.”

Troubled, Dex’s hands pawed at the sheets again, his pretty, trembling thighs tense between your own. He looked down at where you slid over his cock—the added pressure making the head catch at the dip of your entrance, slick stringing off the head.

“Sorry,” he muttered, swallowing hard. “Sorry.”

You laughed. “What a fucking freak.”

Your words seemed to break through to him enough, with a twitch of his hips and his cheeks flushing brighter.

“Oh, you liked that. So cute.”

He groaned, tipping his head back, the pale column of his throat exposed and taut—you had the sudden urge to mark the pristine line of it with your teeth.

“Okay, okay,” he rasped, “can we—fuck—can we please just—” Dex blinked up at you, “I’m already losing my fuckin’ mind. Just—please, I need it. I’ll be good, I swear—”

“You’ll behave?”

He nodded, too fast. “Yeah. Been so good to you anyway.”

“Oh, good.” You tilted your head, still grinding lazily on his cock. “That why you’ve been stalking me and stealing my panties? You call that good?”

His whole body went still. “What?”

In the dark, Dex couldn’t see your face clearly: just the shape of your mouth, a sliver of your expression caught in the pale citylight spilling through the window. But he knew his face was bare in it, visible and completely exposed, helpless.

Caught.

“Panties from my gym bag. My apartment. Remember?” You kept your voice airy, amused. “And that little show you put on earlier? Really subtle, Dex. Want a fucking medal?”

Dex’s lips parted, wide-eyed in panic. His chest rose hard beneath you, mind racing—trying to count how many times you’d caught him, how much you knew how far back it went. Maybe if he said the right thing, played it down—

“I didn’t think you noticed….”

Rolling your eyes, you lined up and sank down on him to shut him up, just enough to press the head of his cock inside. Dex made a raw, shameful sound before he could even swallow it down. His cock throbbed where your cunt cradled it, but the base of his spine buzzed with something closer to fear.

“C’mon, Dex,” you whispered. “Don’t act like I’m stupid. My phone, too. And my diaries? I hope you liked the messages I left there for you, at least.” You batted your eyes. “‘I think he’s the one,’ ‘I think I love him.’”

You leaned in. “I bet you loved that one. Touched yourself to that, didn’t you?”

Of course he had. The memory hit him with violent clarity: the heat in his palm, the diary open on his lap, the way he’d come too fast to even pretend it wasn’t what it was. His stomach turned, and as if to steady himself his hands gripped your thighs tight, bracing for something awful.

There was nowhere to hide—not from your eyes, not from the soft squeeze of your pussy fluttering around the tip of him. He could feel every ounce of judgment behind your breath.

“Well?”

He murmured a string of curses under his breath.

“Did you touch yourself or not?”

“I, uh—“ His gaze dropped to somewhere beside you, unfocused. “I didn’t mean to—” he started, but his voice gave out, useless.

“You gonna lie to me?” you said, pushing down again to tease another half-inch inside. “While you’re inside me? Really?”

You leaned in, lips against his ear.

“It’s okay, baby. Just say sorry.”

He shivered, forehead damp with the need to be forgiven.

“S—sorry,” he whispered.

“Not enough.”

You sank down one inch more. He groaned, long and wrecked.

“Properly now. Say sorry for stalking me.”

“I’m—I’m sorry for—stalking you,” he choked out.

“And?” You lifted your hips again, slow, dragging the head right back to your entrance. “What’s the rest?”

Dex’s breath hitched. His thighs were trembling now, his hips desperately straining not to thrust upwards into you.

“I’m sorry,” he said, barely audible. “Sorry for being a loser.”

“Louder.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “Say it louder, baby.”

“I’m sorry for being a fuckin’ loser,” Dex said, voice cracking, whole body bucking beneath you.

You sank down, all the way. His cock slid inside with a slick, obscene sound—your pussy swallowing him in one wet, greedy pull. The curve of it pressed just right against your front wall and he let out a sharp moan, loud and guttural.

“Oh, my Go—fuck—” Dex groaned. “Can’t hold it—”

“You’re doing so well,” you whispered, lips brushing his cheek.

He moved—hips jerking up, sudden and sloppy, the motion uncoordinated from how fucking overwhelmed he was. He shoved himself deeper and gasped again, mouth falling open. It felt mind-numbingly good—you moaned softly into the side of his neck.

Taking over, you rocked your hips down, slow and deep. He couldn’t keep up: the clench of your pussy squeezing around him, the obscene drag of your walls every time you lifted yourself and dropped again. Dex groaned, head thrown back, the strain in his throat sharpening, jaw slack.

“There,” you said, spitting down on him, “That’s how you do it.”

You kept riding him through it with your pace never breaking. Leaning forward, you kissed the sweaty hollow above his collarbone.

“Tell me when you’re close,” you breathed into his hair.

He nodded, frantic, hips thrusting up without rhythm now, chasing each stroke like it was the last.

“I’m—fuck—I’m gonna—”

You clenched once, deep.

“Please,” Dex gasped, voice thick and hoarse. “I’m close—I’m so close—please—”

His whole body jolted, once, and he let out a sound halfway between a moan and a sob. His cock was throbbing inside you, thick and twitching. He was so easy to read: hard pulses, the stutter of him right on the edge. In one move, you lifted off him, the drag of your cunt pulling away messy, his cock pulsing as it slipped free.

“Wait,” he gasped. “Wait—what—what are you—no, no no no—”

You grinned down at him, watching the confusion bloom in his eyes. You wrapped your hand around his cock—warm and wet with your combined mess—and started working him with fast, cruel strokes, mean and unforgiving.

“Fuuuck—” Dex choked out, whole body seizing. “Don’t—don’t do that—Fuck!”

His hips bucked off the bed, and he came hard. Pearls of milky cum shot up his stomach, spurting up to his abs, some catching on your fingers as you stroked him through it. A broken, pained whimper slipped out of him. It kept coming, desperate, each spasm of his cock twitching helplessly in your grip.

You slowed your hand, letting the last dribbles spill out and leak down his shaft, puddling messily in the patch of brown hair at the base.

Dex was a fucking mess, panting and red-faced, struggling to catch his breath.

“Poor baby,” you cooed, watching his cock twitch in the aftermath. “Made a mess of yourself. Fuckin’ gross.”

He didn’t answer, staring dazed at the sticky mess drying across his skin.

You leaned forward and kissed the corner of his mouth.

“Still think you deserve a reward?”

He shook his head, eyes teary, brows drawn up and pitiful. So cute.

You grinned and reached around, slipping your hand into the back pocket of his jeans, which were still bunched beneath his thighs. Pulling out the lace panties he thought he’d gotten away with, you dangled them over his stomach, hovering playfully, then pressed them into his shaky open hand.

“Go on, then,” you whispered, brushing your lips to his ear. “Clean yourself up.”

#benjamin poindexter #benjamin poindexter x reader #benjamin poindexter imagine #bullseye x reader #ben poindexter x reader #ben poindexter smut #dex x reader #daredevil #daredevil born again #bullseye #ddba #wilson bethel #vigilantekisser #🖋️

185 notes · View notes

pure-smut · 11 months ago

Text

inexperienced.

featuring: Itadori Yuji x f!reader

contains: first time s*x, friends to lovers, cunnilingus, mildly dom!yuji, virgin!yuji x virgin!reader

note: all characters are over 18!

MDNI | 18+ content

word count: 2.7k

masterlist

a/n: I adapted a story I'd already written bc re-reading it made me realise it's perfect for Yuji lol

Itadori Yuji and you were always the subject of the “will they, won’t they” debate in high school – as if you couldn’t be friends with someone of the opposite sex without wanting to fuck them. The truth is, you’d always viewed Yuji completely platonically. He’s easy to be with, makes you laugh, and you have way more in common than any of our other friends. You're even going to the same university.

The night of your graduation party, you're both tipsy at some guy’s house party and giggling in the corner while you watch a boy in your year helplessly flirt with the head cheerleader.

“Bless him,” you say. “He’s trying his best.”

“Can’t blame the guy for giving it a shot – it’s more than some people do,” Yuji agrees, leaning with his back against the wall.

“Yeah, it’s better than endlessly pining.”

He casts you a sidelong look but doesn’t say anything. Instead, he takes a long swig of his beer.

“You got your eye on anyone tonight?” he asks, changing the topic. You shake your head.

“Nope. I’ve fully accepted that I'm going to graduate a virgin.”

“Yeah, we’re both going to suck at college with no experience.”

“It’s a bit easier for me, I think,” you say, shrugging. “Blowjobs aren’t hard.”

“How would you know?” Yuji laughs.

“I just know!” A hint of defensiveness crawls into your voice. “Anyway, you’ve got the harder job. D’you even know where the clit is?”

Yuji’s cheeks go pink and you think you might have gone too far. You open your mouth to apologise but he interrupts you before you can.

“Are you offering to help?”

You stare at him for a long moment, not quite registering what he’s said. He’s wearing an easy grin but his hands are shaking as he takes a sip from his beer. To be frank, you’ve never entertained the thought of anything romantic or sexual with Yuji, despite all the peer pressure. He’s just Yuji to you. Not a potential boyfriend or even one-night stand.

But then your mind begins to whir, seriously considering him for the first time. You think of losing your virginity in college to someone you haven’t even known that long. Someone you might not trust fully. Maybe even someone who you find out, too late, is an asshole and the memory of your first time becomes tainted.

And then there’s the experience part – you don’t really want to go into college a virgin. You don’t want to fumble around in the dark, unsure of yourself. You want to go in a fully-realised woman, a sexy one who knows what she’s doing.

You’ve been quiet for too long because Yuji shoots you a worried glance and clears his throat awkwardly.

“Listen, I was just joking-”

“I think we should do it.”

The words fall out of your mouth before you can stop them. Yuji’s eyebrows shoot up and he freezes, the tips of his ears turning pink.

“R-really?” he stammers out, his previous grin wiped off his face.

“Yeah. I mean, for practice. Before we go to college, right?”

“Practice what?”

“I guess… all of it?”

You watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows hard and he shifts uncomfortably on the spot. You suddenly realise you’ve gone too far.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Yuji. You were just kidding around and I took it too seriously.” You avert your eyes, cheeking burning. “You can ignore me.”

“No, no, you didn’t.” He leans in close and lowers his voice. “I just didn’t think you were going to say yes.”

“Oh.” You get a waft of his aftershave – something dark and sweet. “So, you were being serious?”

“Yeah.”

You look at each other, pressed together in the throng of the party, and you’re suddenly finding it hard to breathe.

“We… we can’t do it now, obviously,” you say, breaking eye contact. “We’re drunk. And stupid.”

“Yeah. Of course.” Yuji shifts awkwardly again. You glance down and spot the bulge in his jeans.

“Wha… You have a boner?”

“Keep your voice down! Yeah, the thought of getting a blowjob gives me a boner, shoot me.” He rolls his eyes. You trail your eyes over him.

“Is it the thought of getting a blowjob or the thought of getting one from me, specifically?” you ask.

He presses his lips together and rubs the back of his neck.

“You,” he mumbles.

“Sorry, what was that?”

“From you,” he says between gritted teeth. You smirk.

“Why, Yuji, you didn’t realise I had that effect on you,” you say, batting your eyelashes. Secretly, a thrill runs through your chest. He groans and puts his beer down.

“I’m leaving before your head gets too big to fit through the door.”

He turns away but you grab his hand and he glances back at you.

“Come round to mine tomorrow night. My parents are out,” you tell him. It’s only two sentences but they’re so loaded with possibility that your throat goes dry. Yuji licks his lips and nods, once, before exiting.

As soon as your parents leave, you’re in panic mode.

Yuji texts to say he’ll be around in an hour so you take a hot shower and carefully shave everywhere below the neck. You have one pair of lingerie you own, bought more out of curiosity than with a goal of wearing it for anyone, so you put it on. It’s black and lacy and slightly uncomfortable but as soon as you look in the mirror, it’s like you see a different person. A woman. Sophisticated and sexy. Your heart sets off at a gallop as you throw a silky dressing gown over the top of it and wait for Yuji.

He arrives an hour later on the dot. You jump up from your bed when he texts to say he’s outside and scurry down the stairs, a ball of nervous energy. You open the door and watch his jaw drop.

“Jesus,” he exclaims, even though he can’t see the lingerie yet. You drag him inside before any of the neighbours see.

“It’s no big deal,” you say even though your heart is thumping so loud you’re pretty sure he can hear it.

“You look… fuck…” he breathes.

“I look fuck?”

“No, you-” He stops when he sees you’re grinning at him. He smiles back and shakes his head. “You look amazing.”

“Thanks.” It’s not the first time he’s complimented you before but usually it’s a “Oh, you look nice” or something. This feels different and heat crawls up your neck. Yuji clears his throat.

“So, you still want to…?”

“Practice? Yeah.” You gesture up to your room even though he’s been to your bedroom hundreds of times before.

We head up in silence, the tension so thick in the air it feels like treacle. You sit side by side on the bed and you gnaw at your thumbnail, not sure where to go from here.

“I think… this is really awkward,” Yuji says and your stomach drops.

“Have you changed your mind?”

“No, not at all,” he says quickly and half-turns to you. “But I think we’re, like, forcing it a bit too much?”

“Yeah.” You chew your bottom lip. “You’re probably right. What should we do?”

He glances at the rest of the bed before snaking his hand around your waist.

“Here,” he says and lays back, pulling you next to him. “Let’s just cuddle for now.”

You draw a relieved breath and lay draped over him, your cheek pressed against his chest and your leg slotted between his thighs. You’ve been physically close before, like when you fell asleep on his shoulder while you watched a movie, but you’ve never… cuddled. You realise you like it. You wrap your arm around his toned stomach and pull yourself in closer. Yuji chuckles, his breath ruffling your hair.

“You cosy?”

“Mhmm. How come you never told me how cosy you were?”

“Top secret information,” he replies, his hand resting on your waist.

This is nice, you think. Deep down, something inside you wants it to happen again. You feel yourself relax against him, warm and firm.

“Hey,” Yuji whispers and you look up.

His mouth catches yours softly. You melt into it as his hand cups your face and his lips part yours. His mouth tastes of mint. You run your tongue across his. Fuck, has he always been great at kissing? He tilts his head slightly and you instinctively turn in the opposite direction, your mouths fitting together perfectly. He catches your bottom lip between his teeth and you moan into his mouth.

Something presses against your thigh and you realise he’s hard. An animalistic urge to touch and suck it overtakes you and your hand shoots down to his crotch.

“Wait,” he says, slightly breathless. You pull back, confused. “I’ll tell you when.”

“Okay,” you reply, still confused, but there’s a command in his voice that you can’t ignore. Warmth unspools between your legs at the new gruffness in his voice and the lust in his eyes that you inspired.

“I want to touch you first,” Yuji says before pressing his mouth against yours again.

His hand travels down to untie your dressing gown, flinging it open and exposing your lingerie-clad body to him. You automatically go to cover yourself up but he grasps your wrist, not hard but enough to stop you.

“Leave it,” he says, so you do.

His kiss is still soft but his hands become rougher as he pushes down under the cup of your bra and kneads your breast. No one’s ever touched you there before and you feel like sparks are running through your body. He pinches your nipple and your clit throbs in response. His mouth leaves yours to kiss his way down your neck before closing around your nipple. Pushing gently on your shoulder, he puts you on your back, still sucking.

“Yuji,” you say. “I want to touch you.”

“Not yet.” He repositions himself so he’s laying over you, nudging your knees apart to make space for him between your legs.

“But-”

“Only when I say,” he orders you and you pout.

Yuji only smirks in response and moves further down, planting soft, slow kisses along your stomach as he goes. You get a brief moment of insecurity over what your body looks like, what he must see, but Yuji grabs your hips and holds you in a way that makes all those thoughts disappear.

You expect him to slide off your panties but instead, he pulls them to the side, exposing your bare pussy beneath. You inhale sharply as the cold air hits you, open and vulnerable for the first time. Yuji doesn’t hesitate, running the flat of his tongue deftly across your pussy lips.

“Oh, fuck,” you breathe, your hips bucking.

You keep your legs spread for him as he moves up to suck gently on your clit. His finger finds your entrance, slick with your arousal, and begins to push in. You’ve fingered yourself before, of course, but it never felt like this. Yuji’s finger is thick and he curves it upwards slightly until the pad of his fingertip grazes against something deep inside you. You give a low moan as pleasure shoots through your body.

He keeps up a slow, relentless pace with his tongue on your clit while he fingers you and you feel yourself opening up to him. Your orgasm builds quickly - too quickly for you to realise what’s happening. You cry out, your back arching and your hands grasping the duvet. Yuji doesn’t stop until you beg him to, your thighs shuddering around his head. When he looks up, his mouth is glistening with your juices.

“Goddamn,” he says, wiping his chin. “That was so fucking hot.”

You try to respond but you’re out of breath. Your chest heaves as he drags himself up until he’s holding himself over you. He brushes a lock of hair from your face.

“I… I need to do you too,” you say weakly, pleasure still tingling through your abdomen.

“No,” he says even as he reaches down to unbuckle his jeans. “I want to see you do that again with my cock inside you.”

You know you can tell him no, but you don’t want to. You want him inside you. You need him inside you. You look up at his face and wonder how you never felt this way before about him.

“Yes,” you say. “Fuck me. Please.”

He makes a noise from his throat, low and dark, and pulls his cock free. you have no basis for comparison but it seems thick and you’re simultaneously thrilled and terrified. Yuji pulls his t-shirt off, throwing it to the side, and you have a newfound appreciation for the firmness of his chest and the definition in his shoulders. You help him tug his jeans off until he’s completely naked on top of you, the heat radiating off him. You run a hand over his hard stomach and down to his cock, grasping it firmly. The tip is shiny with precum.

“God, you have no idea how badly I want you to suck me off.”

“Why don’t I?”

“Because I want to fuck you more.”

The head of his cock nudges against your folds, hard and hot. You’re more than wet enough for him and let your head fall back as he pushes in the first few inches. You sink your nails into his back, feeling him stretch me.

“Jesus,” he gasps. “Fuck. You feel amazing.”

You can only whimper in response, your pussy gripping him as he withdraws and hungrily pulling him back inside as he sinks even deeper. You move your hips in time with his, meeting him halfway until he’s fully buried inside you. You expected pain but there is none, only the raw pleasure from his cock rubbing against the sensitive walls of your pussy. Yuji starts to move at a steady pace, each stroke pushing you closer to another orgasm. He moves to support himself on one arm while the other plays with your tits. His fingers tease and pinch your nipples, catching you in complete ecstasy.

“Cum for me,” he growls, his eyes moving from where his slick cock is sliding in and out of you to your face. “Cum on my cock.”

You open your mouth to say something but only a lustful moan escapes. You reach back to grab the headboard, the bed rocking beneath you with the force of his fucking.

“Yuji, I…” You don’t get to finish your sentence. A tidal wave crashes over you as your pussy contracts around him in a vice-like grip. You wrap your legs closer around him, holding him to you. You buck and shudder underneath him but he doesn’t let up. It’s only when you push him back, your hands on his chest, that he slows down.

He withdraws completely, pulling his cock free and leaving you feeling empty. You reach for him but he’s already grabbing you by the hips and turning you over.

“On your knees,” he instructs, his voice thick.

You do as he says despite your head being foggy with post-orgasm bliss. You bend over, pressing your cheek against the pillow and arching your back. Yuji smooths a hand over your ass cheek before slapping it.

You yelp, feeling the sting of his handprint but you find yourself enjoying it. Your pussy drools for him, your arousal dripping down the inside of your thigh.

“This is even better than I imagined,” he breathes.

You don’t have time to register what he means before he’s lining the head of his cock up with your hole again.

This time when he presses inside you, the ridges of his cock rub against somewhere new. It’s even more electrifying and you push your hips back, wanting him to go deeper. He quickly obliges, grabbing your hips hard enough to mark you and slamming his cock inside. His balls slap off your thighs and he grunts with satisfaction. you can feel yourself getting wetter at the thought of him looking down at you, watching himself fuck you.

“I’m… I’m gonna cum,” he groans.

“Inside me. Please,” you whisper.

You hear him moan, long and loud, as his cock spasms. You feel him unleash a torrent of cum, filling you to the brim. He doesn’t withdraw straight away, catching his breath and stroking your back, but when he does, his cum spills out and down your thigh. You roll over onto your back as he collapses on the bed next to you. He gives you a lazy grin.

“Best practice ever.”

masterlist

Support me on Ko-Fi! ♡

#jjk x reader #itadori x reader #yuji x reader #itadori yuji x reader #jjk smut #itadori yuji smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk x you #jjk x reader smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader

985 notes · View notes