#at home. and then sticky notes because sometimes I put those in between notes in my notebooks

[iridescentcrisco]

Ladies, gentlemen, and gentlethem: my writing style

[em1i2a3]

Signs

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader

Summary: You haven’t been able to sleep for the past four days, you’ve tried everything in the book, but tonight Bob has come to your room to offer you some help.

Warnings: Semi-Spoilers for Thunderbolts because Bob is involved and there are mentions of his past (that aren’t really explored completely in the movie but hey…It’s just in case lol), Fluff-ish, Hurt/Comfort (Kinda), Mentions of Past Drug Use, Mentions of Readers Past Traumatic Experience, Established Friendship between Reader and Bob.

Author's Note: Hey y’all, I don’t know if I can somehow recover the darn request but this was a request from an Anon, if it was you thank you for the ask! This one was fun to write! Can’t wait to keep chipping away at the ask list! Hope y’all enjoy :)

Word Count: 7,338

You and the ceiling in your room had taken on a strange sort of companionship.

You’d memorized every crack in the plaster, every faint shadow that was casted by the bustling city outside your window, every blemish that faded across it–remnants of the last person who stayed in this exact room, someone who liked to put little glow in the dark stars on their ceiling.

For four nights you had found yourself in the same position. Sleepless, yet exhausted. Your body was begging for rest, but your mind just wouldn’t allow it.

You had tried everything under the sun to induce sleep.

You tried herbal tea–chamomile, lemon balm, even the “Sleepytime Knockout” blend that Yelena had smugly handed you like it was a modern day miracle, which you had proven it was not. You tried an array of different white noises–whirring fans, tv static, waves, but it only made you feel nauseous. You took warm baths, wore flannel pajamas, you even bought a weighted blanket–which now lays on the desk across from you because it felt like it was suffocating you. You even tried mint scented melatonin pillow spray, and that didn’t work–although it did leave your pillow smelling quite fresh.

Even with all those attempts at trying to resolve your insomnia, your thoughts just wouldn’t let you go. They clung to you like burrs in fabric–small, sharp, and impossible to shake off once they made themselves at home. They weren’t loud–not always. Sometimes they whispered, and other times they just echoed–half finished sentences, things you didn’t say when you should’ve, flashes from old missions that blurred at the edges like fog on glass, and regrets that you just couldn’t shake from your system.

You were tired in a way that felt cellular–tired of the stillness, of fighting your own brain, of crying every little thing you thought about in silence. Your chest felt tight and full. Like your body had been holding its breath for too long and didn’t remember how to let go.

The longer you stayed still under the thin white sheet you had pulled on top of you, the heavier your thoughts became. They didn’t scream, they just looped in this quiet, methodical way–cruel in how convincing they were. You thought about things that you had ruined by your own hands, people you had killed, innocent civilians that suffered the shrapnel of your actions. You were guilty of so much, and sometimes during these nights you felt like you had blood on your hands–real, warm, and sticky crimson blood that sunk under your nails and stained your skin.

It was a quiet kind of drowning, where you just allowed yourself to sink, thinking whatever was weighing you down would let you go so you could break the surface again, but it was never that easy.

You turned your head to the side, letting the cool cotton of your pillow brush against your cheek–damp from the heat trapped underneath the covering. You’d flipped it three times already tonight, hoping the fresh side might grant you sleep, but it never did.

Your fingers curled loosely around the sheet like they used to hold something, someone, once. Your knuckles ached, even though you had taken a break from training because you were too exhausted–Bucky had told you it was phantom pain, something he had experienced with his arm.

The air in your room felt used. Like it had been breathed in and out too many times, like it couldn’t carry comfort for anyone anymore. You wished, suddenly and without warning, for something as simple as a breeze to blow through your room, just something to reset the air. Something to prove there was still hope for sleep.

Instead, there was the occasional honk of a car too far away to care about, and sirens that distantly cried through the dark like tired wolves. It all passed you by. Out there, the world kept turning on its axis, but here–in your bedroom–everything was slow and suffocating, like you were drowning in molasses.

You closed your eyes tightly, and saw things you didn’t want to see.

The face of a boy whose name you never learned. The tremble in your own hands after pulling the trigger. A woman screaming. The echo of silence that followed. You brought your hands to your face, and pressed your palms over your eyes like maybe darkness could cancel out darkness, but it only made it worse. All it did was give the thoughts more room to expand.

You remember the moment you let someone die–not because you had no choice, but because you hesitated. You remember the blood that splattered on your face.

Even now–years later–on nights like this, those moments still felt fresh. You shook your head a little like it might scatter them, and curled in on yourself under the weight of it all, knees drawing up to your chest and arms tucked close like you could press yourself into sleep with the pressure alone.

Then, you heard a sound.

It was faint, almost imperceptible, but your brain was so trained to be on edge that you noticed those little noises. There was shuffling. The subtle creak of a floorboard. A soft rustle of fabric, then the nearly soundless click of a door opening from the room next door to yours. Bob’s.

You could feel your heart stutter at the noise when you realized he was awake too, but your ears tuned in more sharply now.

You could tell he was walking carefully–barefoot, you imagined, moving down the hallway like he was trying not to disturb anyone. His weight shifted gently, like he knew exactly where the creaky floorboards were, like he’d done this many times before. You slowly opened your eyes, staring up at the ceiling, heart pressing tightly in your chest, squeezing and contracting like it was struggling to regain its rhythm. You didn’t move, nor did you call out…Because what would you say? “I heard you. I’m glad you’re up too? I’m a mess and I wish you could fix it but I’d never let you try?”

No. Because you didn’t want to bother him.

Bob was kind. Gentle. The kind of man who offered you the last slice of pizza with a shrug like it didn’t matter to him, even though he was still hungry, the kind of person who always held the door just a second longer than necessary, the kind of person who would fight to give you the world even if it meant he needed to sacrifice something from himself to do so.

He was your friend, and you liked the friendship too much to chip at it with things he didn’t ask for. You kept the nightmares that plagued you to yourself. The sleepless night. The guilt. The ache.

You had to.

Because if Bob ever saw that part of you–the part still bloodstained and shaking–maybe he’d stop looking at you the way he did when it was just you and him. With eyes soft and full like you were something gentle and special to him, instead of something that was broken into millions of pieces.

So you stayed quiet, and let him drift down the hallway like a ghost. Maybe he was just getting water, maybe he had a nightmare, maybe he was sleepwalking and wouldn’t remember any of it in the morning.

And maybe…Maybe that was better.

Because some people in the compound had already caught on to your issues. Early on, after you joined the team. Yelena had raised an eyebrow the first time you turned up at breakfast with the bags under your eyes heavy enough to pack for a weekend trip. Walker had made a joke about you needing depuffing cream. Ava had noticed too, once–her voice casual but precise when she’d asked, “You sleep at all last night?”

You always gave the same answer. A shrug. A smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “I’m fine. Just a long dream.”

And somehow, they let it go.

But Bob–

Bob had never asked.

Not because he didn’t notice, you suspected. But because he respected your quiet. Because he waited for permission.

And that? That made it worse in the best way.

Because you could feel how much he wanted to ask. On the days he’d hand you your coffee and hover an extra beat too long. On the nights he’d walk you to your room after training and say, “Sleep well,” with a voice that felt more like a hope than a goodbye.

You kept listening to his movements though. There was a soft rummaging sound from the kitchen, the slow creak of a cabinet opening. The unmistakable clink of ceramic–just one, like he was pulling out a mug, not a glass. Then, quieter still, the dull metallic sound of a pot.

Your brows furrowed, glancing over at your clock to see that it was 3:21 AM.

You thought it was super late for him to be cooking something for himself, but then again he had mentioned in passing that after he received the Sentry serum it caused his metabolism to spike, and it made him feel like he was starving at odd times of the day–enough to put him on the brink of pain if he didn’t eat properly.

You heard a soft mutter, barely a whisper, but you couldn’t make it out–oftentimes you’d catch him talking to himself when he assumed he was alone, and this seemed like one of those times. Then came the hum of the fridge opening. The gentle click of a cap twisting loose. A drawer. A utensil. A quiet clink-clink of metal tapping ceramic.

He was definitely making something.

But you couldn’t piece together what it was, there were too many confusing sounds.

So you just sighed, and turned over slowly, the sheets rustling faintly beneath you as your gaze fell on the window.

The city beyond the glass was still awake, and buzzing with energy surprisingly. A few lights blinked in neighboring buildings. A plane cut silently through the sky in the distance, red lights flashing against the black. Clouds moved slow and soft, brushed in pale grey, like smeared charcoal across paper.

And behind them–stars. Only a few. Faint. Distant. Struggling against the glow of the skyline. But they were there. You stared at them for a long time. Let yourself trace imagined constellations. Let your breathing slow just enough to pretend your thoughts had too.Trying to give yourself the illusion of calm, even as the memory of his voice–not the words, just the sound of him–lingered in the hallway air like warmth that hadn’t faded yet.

Whatever Bob was doing in the kitchen was done now, at least that’s what you thought because the noise had halted. He was probably back in his room, probably eating at his desk, or curled up beneath his sheets, trying not to do what you were doing–thinking too hard, wanting too much, or hoping for something that would never be offered to you.

Minutes passed. You weren’t sure how many. Maybe five. Maybe twenty. It stretched and folded in on itself the way time always did when it was so early in the morning–when sleep was out of reach but everything else felt a little too close.

Then you heard it…Tap Tap.

Two knocks. Gentle. Hesitant. Like punctuation at the end of a sentence you didn’t know had been written for you.

Your body reacted before your mind could catch up, and you turned over quickly, the sheet slipping off your shoulder, pooling around your hips as your eyes landed on the door.

There was a shadow there. Still and uncertain. You could see it through the sliver of light spilling beneath the frame–two bare feet planted quietly on the hardwood.

Slowly, you pushed yourself up and out of bed. The room was cool, and your skin prickled under the change in air. Your loose, worn Stark Industries t-shirt that hung off your shoulder, the hem brushing the tops of your thigh. A pair of navy flannel sleep shorts clung gently to your hips and your legs were bare all the way down to your toes, which curled instinctively against the cold of the floor as you moved toward the door.

You reached for the handle, hesitated–just for a breath–and then opened it.

And there he was.

Bob, standing in the soft halo of hallway light, looking every bit as fragile and gentle as the moment deserved. His hair was tousled–bed-tousled, like he had also been tossing and turning a dozen times tonight as well. Soft light brown waves of hair hung over his forehead, catching the light, almost like it was emoting a crown of sorts.

He wore a familiar dark red hoodie, the sleeves were shoved up around his elbows, and the cotton was warped at the seams from how often he picked and fidgeted in it. His plaid pajama pants were rumpled and hit just above his ankles.

And in his hands, cupped with a kind of gentleness you had seen countless times before, was a simple white ceramic mug.

Steam curled up from it in delicate swirls, spiralin in the stillness between you. The smell hit you softly–milk, warm and rich, and a sweet hint of honey. The scent wrapped around you, caressing your skin.

Bob’s eyes met yours, and you saw the surprise in his face at the fact you had even gotten up to open the door. His lips parted, like he was going to say something but his eyes kept going over you, distracting his brain from saying what he wanted to.

”Hey.” You whispered, rubbing your eyes with your knuckles, before returning your gaze back to his, “You okay?” Bob flinched like your voice startled him. Like he’d been standing there for longer than he meant to, lost in thought, and not expecting you to say anything first.

He looked down at the mug in his hands, then returned his gaze to yours, his thumbs shifting nervously against the ceramic rim.

”Y-Yeah,” He said, his voice scratchy with sleep, and soft around the edges, “Yeah, I’m good…I just…I just heard you.” You didn’t say anything–just tilted your head slightly, brow furrowing. He cleared his throat, eyes flicking briefly toward the shared wall behind you.

”Through the wall I-I mean. Through the wall. I–I didn’t mean to. I just…You’ve been tossing a lot the last few nights, and I wasn’t sure if…You wanted me to do anything but tonight it just…” He looked down at the mug again, then shrugged a little, awkward and quiet, “I couldn’t lay in there anymore…Felt wrong.” Your heart thudded in your chest–not from panic, but from something warmer. Softer. Something dangerously close to comfort. Bob shifted again, like he thought maybe he should start walking away, like maybe he overstepped.

Bob swallowed thickly, like the nerves were caught somewhere behind his tongue, and with a small, careful motion, he held the mug out to you.

”It’s…It’s just warm milk with some honey…No-Nothing fancy or anything, just…Just something my mom used to m-make me when I was really small…” Bob rarely mentioned his mother, once in a blue moon he would say something in passing, and it was always about something she used to enjoy, but he never spoke about anything further than that. You never pushed, you knew the history, you knew his file like the back of your hand actually, so you understood what was off limits for conversation.

“She…Used to say that it worked b-better than anything else..I guess I was hoping maybe…Maybe it could help you too.” He wasn’t looking at you anymore. His eyes had dropped to the mug in his hands still, or maybe to the floor–anywhere but your face, as he waited for you to take it, still rubbing anxiously at the rim like there was a stain you couldn’t see.

You reached out, your fingers brushing his as you gently took the mug. The ceramic was warm, and the steam curled softly under your chin. The scent wrapped around you like a memory you’d never had—soft, homey, achingly kind.

”Thank you,” You whispered, so quietly you weren’t even sure he heard it, but then he nodded. You glanced up at him again, “Do you want to come in?” Bob hesitated for half a second at your invitation, caught off guard by the offer.

”…Only if it’s okay with you…” He replied, and almost immediately you stepped to the side, motioning for him to come in. He stepped past the door frame and into your room, his bare feet making almost no sound against the hardwood floor.

Your room wasn’t messy exactly, but it had the unmistakable signs of someone who lived inside their own thoughts too much–stacks of books were on the nightstand, a half-folded hoodie draped over the office chair in the corner, a mug with a plant sprouting from it on the windowsill.

The shelf across from your bed was lined with board games–stacked neatly but densely, as if you collected them slowly over time, favorites worn down at the corners from use, or from age. There were also tiny figurines lined up beside them–small, whimsical things that looked hand painted. There were also a few vintage snow globes from places you’d never been but had always meant to visit. It was little pieces of nostalgia and comfort that made the space feel like yours.

Bob didn’t say anything right away, but you noticed the way he gravitated toward the shelf, his eyes scanning the games in the darkness with an unmistakable curiosity. He crouched a little, careful not to touch anything, just reading the spines.

”You’ve got Clue…” He murmured, almost to himself, “T-The good version…With the m-miniature weapons…” You smiled softly at that and returned to your bed, setting the mug down gently on the nightstand before slipping beneath your sheet again. It barely warmed you, but it was just to cover yourself up a bit. With Bob being there the air already started to feel different–less used, less still. Like you could breathe just a little bit easier, even though your chest still felt tight.

“We can play something if you’d like…” You said gently, watching the way his fingers hovered near a box labeled Codenames before pulling back. You reached over and picked the mug back up from the nightstand, cupping it in both hands as the warmth seeped into your skin, bringing it up to your lips before taking a small sip–just enough to taste the gentle swirl of honey at the back of your tongue. It was soothing. Sweet. A kind of simple comfort that felt foreign to you.

”You sure you’re up for it?” He asked quietly, still looking at the shelves.

”Positive, besides…It’ll probably take a bit for this to work.” You said, motioning to the mug even though he wasn’t looking over at you. Bob’s fingers hover over a couple of boxes–Ticket to Ride, Bananagrams, even a battered-looking deck of Uno–but eventually settled on Scrabble. His hand lingered on the side of the box, thumb brushing over the worn cardboard like he was trying to gauge how many games had been played on it before.

”Scrabble okay?” He asked, moving to the side slightly so you could see the box, as a small smile tugged at your lips.

”Sure.” Bob slipped the box out of the pile and stepped toward your bed, careful not to knock into anything in the low light, and then out of nowhere you pointed toward your desk.

”Just turn on the salt lamp, it’ll be easier on the eyes than the overhead light, and we won’t go blind trying to read the little tiles while we play.” Bob gave a small nod and padded softly over to your desk, careful not to disturb the stacks of paper and stray pens scattered across the surface. He bent slightly, fingers brushing the dial of the salt lamp, and with a gentle click, it bloomed to life.

A soft amber glow filled the room-like the last light of day spilling across hardwood and skin. It curled into the corners, brushing gold over his cheekbones and catching faintly in the strands of his hair. The shadows no longer felt sharp, just softened edges fading into the warm orange hush.

As Bob straightened, his eyes flicked–almost unintentionally–over the contents of your desk. Notebooks flipped open to half-finished thoughts. Old mission reports, some with ink smudged across the corners where you’d rested your palm. Paperwork from the Thunderbolts med team. A few loose pages caught his eye–your handwriting sharp and slanted, trailing off into sentences he couldn’t quite make out. But the word “decompensating” was there. He didn’t linger though. He looked away just as quickly, like he hadn’t seen it at all.

He made his way back toward your bed and set the Scrabble box gently down between the both of you, careful not to make too much noise. He lowered himself carefully onto the edge of your bed, tucking his long legs beneath him and sitting criss-crossed on the sheets like a tall child. The salt lamp’s glow warmed the fabric of his hoodie, casting a faint orange hue along the planes of his face and deepening the shadows beneath his lashes. His posture was relaxed, but the tension in his hands betrayed the way he was holding himself still–like he wasn’t quite sure how close he was allowed to be.

You started setting up the board in front of you, drawing the tile racks from the box and arranging the letter pouch off to the side. You felt his eyes on you–not in a way that made you nervous, but in a way that made you feel seen. Quietly observed. Almost studied, like he didn’t want to miss a moment.

“How’s the drink?” He asked softly, voice still rough, like he hadn’t fully settled into being awake.

You glanced over at him and gave a faint smile. “It’s really good,” You said truthfully. “A little sweet, but…It definitely soothes. Or at least it feels like it’s trying to.”

Bob’s lips curved into something warm, the kind of smile you only get from someone who made something just for you and got it right.

“I haven’t made it in a while,” He murmured, eyes dropping briefly to your hands wrapped around the mug. “Didn’t know if it’d still be…I don’t know... W-Worth making.”

“It was,” You said, and then, after a pause, you leaned forward slightly, holding the mug out toward him. “Want a sip?”

His eyes lifted in surprise. For a second, he didn’t answer–just blinked at the offer like you’d handed him something much more important than a half-finished drink. But then he nodded, once, gently, and reached for it.

His fingers brushed yours as he took the mug, and you didn’t let go immediately. Neither did he.

The weight of the silence stretched between you, not heavy, but delicate. Something balanced. Breakable.

Then Bob looked down, brought the mug to his lips, and took a small sip–barely anything, like he was trying not to take too much. When he handed it back to you, his thumb lingered on the handle just a beat longer than it needed to.

“It’s…Yeah,” He said, voice low. “S-Still good.”

You didn’t reply, just gave him a quiet smile as you settled back, placing the mug carefully on your nightstand again. He straightened a little as you began to draw your tiles.

A few moments passed like that–quiet rustling of letter tiles, soft exhales, the hum of the city outside whispering beneath it all. Bob watched you with a quiet intensity–eyes soft, but wholly focused, like the flickering glow of the salt lamp had burned everything else out of view except for you.

You laid down your first word slowly, pressing each wooden tile into place with a soft click that seemed to echo louder than it should in the hush of the room.

“Still.”

He tilted his head slightly as he read it, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth like he thought the word was fitting in more ways than one.

You didn’t say anything. Just watched as his gaze dropped to his own rack of letters, brows drawing together slightly in concentration. His shoulders were curved inward, posture just shy of guarded, and his fingers fiddled with a tile between his thumb and forefinger, turning it slowly over and over in his palm like he wasn’t quite ready to play his move.

You could’ve looked away.

But you didn’t.

There was something about watching Bob think–watching the way he wrestled with something so small and inconsequential with the same care he gave to life-and-death situations–that made you feel like maybe nothing was inconsequential to him. Maybe that was part of what made him so easy to be near. He never treated anything like it was small, especially not you.

”…Why were you awake?” You asked, voice soft but clear, threading gently into the space between you like a breath that didn’t want to startle him. He didn’t look up immediately, but his thumb paused on the tile he was holding, and you saw his jaw tighten–just slightly, like he was sifting through what he wanted to say. Eventually, he set the tile down without adding it to the board, glancing up at you for a moment before looking down at his hands.

”S-Sometimes I get these…Muscle spasms,” He said, clasping his hands together slowly, “Uh…It started when I g-got clean. Back then…I chalked it up to j-just withdrawal symptoms or whatever…” He offered a small shrug, but it looked more like he was trying to take the weight of the memory off his shoulders, “But t-they never really went away…Even after the whole…Sentry serum thing.” You felt something inside you still at that–your breath, your hands, the thoughts that had been crawling under your skin just moments before. Bob had never talked about this, yes he had mentioned it in passing but he never went into details. Not with you, not with anyone in the compound as far as you knew. And he didn’t speak of it now with bitterness or shame–just quiet, exhausted honesty.

His fingers tapped lightly against his knee now, the motion faint but rhythmic. He wasn’t looking at you. Not fully. Just past you, like it might be easier to keep talking if your gaze wasn’t anchored to his.

“It’s not like–a c-constant thing,” He murmured. “Not always. But some nights…” His voice faltered for a breath, then gathered itself again, “Some nights it feels like my skin doesn’t fit right. L-Like something’s twisting underneath. And if I stay still too long, it gets worse. Hurts.” You stayed still, letting his words settle in the room like dust in a shaft of light. Not brushing them away. Not rushing to respond. You just…Let him be heard.

“And what about tonight?” You asked gently. Bob’s shoulders rose slightly at your question, like a breath caught halfway up his chest and couldn’t decide whether it wanted to stay there or fall. He didn’t answer right away, but you didn’t rush him. You just…Watched.

There was a fragility in the way he was sitting now–his tall body folded inward, arms loosely draped across his lap like he was trying not to take up more space than he deserved. The plaid of his pajama pants creased softly at his knees, and the hem of his hoodie had ridden up slightly where it bunched at his hips, exposing the edge of a thin white undershirt. He was swaying–just barely. That kind of instinctive motion people did when they were trying to self-soothe without realizing it.

And his hands–those quiet, trembling hands–were doing that thing again. Fingers laced loosely, thumbs rubbing in absent loops over each other like they were chasing comfort around and around.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low. Careful.

“It started in my thighs first,” He murmured, eyes fixed on the little wooden tiles in front of him like they might spell out a safer version of the truth. “Like this…C-Crawling pressure...”

You stayed quiet. Just listened.

“Then my back,” He added. “It always finds my back eventually. S-Sometimes it feels like–like something’s winding itself around my spine and pulling tight, and if I don’t move or stretch or…J-Just do something, it’s like I’m gonna shatter from the inside out.”

His voice broke a little on the last word, not from emotion but from the wear of speaking it aloud. He cleared his throat gently.

“I-I tried laying on the floor for a bit,” He continued, almost like he was narrating it to himself now. “It’s supposed to help sometimes. G-Grounding or whatever. I-I even tried counting backwards from a h-hundred, but I kept getting stuck on the same numbers…And I kept hearing…Hearing you t-tossing and turning.” Bob’s voice trailed off, and he looked up at you. His eyes were glassy in the amber light, not from tears, but from the kind of fatigue that went deeper than rest could fix. There was something raw in them–open and flickering with the effort of holding himself together. He gave a small, almost helpless shrug, like he didn’t know what else to do with the weight of what he’d said. Like the words had cost him more than he was willing to admit.

Then he glanced down at the board again, blinking like he was trying to reset his brain.

Silence stretched between you–but not the painful kind. It was the kind that wrapped itself around vulnerability like a blanket, the kind that said you’re allowed to feel this without needing to explain it.

You watched him as he shook himself a little–shoulders rolling back, breath catching in his throat like he was trying to brush something invisible off his skin. Then, without a word, he reached forward and laid his tiles on the board.

He pressed them down with gentle fingers, slow and deliberate, connecting to your word.

“Laying.”

Bob’s fingers withdrew slowly from the tiles, then settled in his lap again. You could still see the pink crescents of tension pressed into the skin where his nails had worried the edge of his thumb.

He glanced at you.

His eyes were steady now, but there was nothing sharp in them–just soft weariness. Mutual understanding. He looked like someone who had finally let a little of the weight slip from his shoulders, only to realize there was more to carry still.

“Can I–I ask you something?” He said, voice quiet but sure, like he didn’t want to startle the air between you.

You nodded, wordlessly.

“Why’ve you been…H-Having trouble sleeping?”

He didn’t ask it like a challenge. There was no tilt to his tone, no pressure to answer. Just a quiet offering of space. A question given without a demand. Like the mug he had handed you. Like the warmth in it.

You could’ve deflected. You could’ve lied–said it was the city noise or the caffeine or bad luck or anything else.

But Bob was looking at you like he’d listen to every word. Like none of it would make him turn away.

So, after a moment, you folded your hands in your lap, fingers tracing over one another like you were stitching the truth together slowly, gently.

“I’ve done…Pretty reprehensible things Bob…” His gaze didn’t waver. If anything, it softened.

You looked down at your hands in your lap, thumbs brushing over each other in a rhythm that didn’t calm you but at least kept you from unraveling.

“There are nights I can’t close my eyes without seeing it all. Not like a nightmare–those would be easier. You wake up from nightmares. These are… Flashes. Full-color, real-time, high-definition plays of everything I shouldn’t have let happen.” You laughed, just barely–a breath, really. Bitter at the edges. “Sometimes I think my memory’s too good. Like it’s punishing me for surviving when others didn’t.”

Bob didn’t speak. His silence wasn’t a void–it was presence. It was him listening the way only he could. The way that told you this space was yours to fill.

You pressed your palms together, trying to hold in the shake that had started at your fingertips.

“There’s this one kid,” You said, and your voice faltered for just a second, “–I didn’t even get his name. He couldn’t have been older than seventeen. He looked at me like I was going to save him. And I didn’t. I froze.” Your throat tightened. “I froze, and he died. I still see his face. Every time. Like he’s just waiting for me to try again and do it right this time.”

The silence between you grew deeper–but not colder.

“I know people say we all make mistakes, that we’ve all got blood on our hands in this job, but…” You swallowed hard, “But some mistakes don’t wash off,” You whispered. Then came a sigh–slow, worn-out, the kind that scraped the bottom of your lungs and left you a little emptier than before.

“Guess I just have to live with it,” You said softly, eyes fixed on the board between you. Your thumb dragged slowly over the edge of your tile rack, a motion that felt mechanical, just something for your hands to do so they didn’t shake. “You know? Make peace with the fact that some of the blood doesn’t come out, no matter how hard you scrub.” Bob was quiet for a long time. Not the kind of silence that asked you to fill it–just the kind that held things. The kind that made space for the ache in someone else’s chest.

His eyes stayed on the Scrabble board, but you could see his jaw shift, his breath catch on the edge of something he didn’t know how to say. And then he sighed–soft, almost soundless, but full of weight. Full of want. Of helplessness.

“…I–I don’t know how to fix that,” He said finally, and the words were almost apologetic. His voice was low and rough, like it scraped against his ribs on the way out. “I wish I could. I wish I had…I don’t know. A better thing to say. Or some way to–” His fingers twisted together tightly in his lap. “To take it away from you...” You looked up at him then, only to see he already had his eyes on you. His brows were pulled together. His lips parted. And his eyes–God, his eyes–were so heartbreakingly kind, even with all the pain swimming in them.

“But I–I don’t think you’re awful,” Bob said quietly. “I never have.”

Your lungs stuttered on the inhale. Like his words had knocked something loose inside your chest, and now everything you’d been bottling up wanted to come spilling out all at once.

You looked at him, really looked–at the way his lashes caught the salt lamp’s glow, at the way his mouth was pressed in a soft, worried line, like even kindness exhausted him when he meant it too much. And you wanted to say thank you, or that means more than you know, or please don’t stop looking at me like I’m worth saving–but what came out was smaller than that.

“Why?” Your voice cracked slightly as you spoke. He looked like he hadn’t expected you to ask for proof. He shook his head a little, as if you’d just missed the point completely.

“B–Because I see you.” He said quietly, and simply. You didn’t speak. You couldn’t—not when your throat felt like it was wrapped in wire, not when every muscle in your body was too tired to hold up all that guilt and all that tenderness at the same time.

But you held his gaze, and in the stillness that followed, something unspoken passed between you. Something that didn’t need to be named.

Bob shifted slightly, like your silence was something he was afraid to misread. “I didn’t mean that in some dramatic way,” He added quickly, his voice softer now. “I just… I h-have watched you hold everything in. I’ve watched you show up when it’s hard. W-When it hurts. And you don’t complain, you just carry it.” He blinked slowly, then smiled–just a little. “And I think… I think maybe someone should carry some of it with you, even if it’s just for a night.”

Your chest ached. You wanted to cry. But no tears came–just that deep, hollow breath that tried to make room for the feeling swelling inside you. You didn’t speak. Not at first. Because there was something so impossibly gentle in the way he said it–that he’d watched you carry it, that he wanted to carry it too–that you felt your heart stammer under the weight of being seen like that.

Not as a soldier. Not as an asset. Not even as a teammate.

But as you.

The person who lay awake four nights in a row memorizing the ceiling. The one who couldn’t scrub their hands clean. The one who still heard screams in silence.

And he still wanted to stay.

You looked down at the Scrabble board between you, and your hand hovered over your tiles for a second…Then dropped.

”I don’t think I can play anymore,” You whispered. Bob stilled completely.

You weren’t looking at him when you said it–your gaze fixed somewhere in the space between the board and your knees, your voice small and raw. You could feel his eyes on you, though, full of concern he hadn’t figured out how to put into words yet.

When you didn’t say anything else, Bob shifted slightly beside you. You caught the movement from the corner of your eye–the way his posture went from soft to stiff, the way he folded a little tighter into himself, his fingers fidgeting again like they were trying to untangle guilt from nothing.

“I–I’m sorry,” He said quickly, almost in a breath. “I shouldn’t have–I didn’t mean to push anything on you. If I made you uncomfortable, I can go. I didn’t mean to…”

You looked over at him then. His face was turned slightly down, his shoulders drawn up like he was expecting you to flinch away. The game between you had been gently nudged aside, but the distance left in its wake felt like something colder. Something afraid. Like Bob was already slipping back into himself, already preparing to apologize for wanting to be close to you at all.

You reached for him before you could stop yourself.

“Bob,” Your hand found his–warm and rough and trembling faintly beneath your touch–and you could hear his breath catch at the contact. “I don’t want you to leave,” You said softly. His eyes lifted slowly, hesitant and searching, as if he was still trying to make sure he’d heard you right–like maybe his mind had tricked him into hope again. But you didn’t look away. Your fingers were still wrapped around his, steady even if the rest of you wasn’t.

“I just…” You swallowed, the words pressing at the back of your throat like they’d been waiting for too long. “I just want you to lay down with me now, I think. And just hold me.”

You didn’t mean for your voice to come out so small, but there was no disguising the softness in it. The ache. The quiet want. You weren’t asking for much–just closeness. Just something real to rest your head against when the ceiling stopped being enough. And you watched it land in Bob’s eyes like it was something special.

“O-Okay…If that’s what you want…” He said gently, afraid the moment might shatter if he spoke too loud. He glanced down at the Scrabble board still sitting between you on the bed. Carefully, with hands that still trembled slightly, Bob reached for the box and began to collect the scattered wooden tiles, his fingers moving slow and deliberate. He wasn’t rushing. He handled each piece like it deserved care. You watched the way he placed them back into their pouch, then tucked it inside the box, closed the lid with a quiet thud, and stood.

Your gaze followed him as he padded back across the room toward your desk. He placed the box down in the empty space beside your half-folded hoodie, and then paused for just a second–like he was giving you one last moment to change your mind.

You didn’t.

Instead, you peeled back the thin white sheet over your body, slow and quiet, lifting the edge and waiting. The salt lamp made the folds of it glow softly, casting warm gold against your bare thighs, your Stark shirt, the rise and fall of your breath.

Bob turned. His eyes met yours, and for a heartbeat, you saw everything in them–his fear of doing too much, of being too much, and right beneath that, his need to be near you. The need to be wanted back.

He crossed the space in three long steps, slow and hesitant. His hand brushed the side of the bed, fingers curling lightly against the mattress before he eased himself down beside you.

He lay on his side, knees bent, close but not yet touching you. You felt the warmth of him, the faint scent of that old hoodie he always wore–faded detergent, sleep, and something that could only be described as Bob.

You turned onto your side too, slowly, until your back was to him. The sheet shifted with you, and for a second, neither of you spoke. There was just breath. The hum of the city. And the whisper of cotton against skin.

Then you felt it.

His hand.

Tentative at first–hovering like he wasn’t sure he had permission even now. But then it landed gently across your waist, his arm curling around you, pulling you just the smallest bit closer until your spine met the warmth of his chest.

You felt him exhale shakily behind you, and the sensation of it–his breath brushing the back of your neck, his chest rising and falling in time with yours–settled something deep inside you.

“Is this…Okay?” He whispered, voice so close to your ear now that it sent a shiver down your skin.

You didn’t speak right away.

Instead, you reached for his hand where it rested against your stomach. You found his fingers–calloused, long, warm–and laced yours through them slowly. Anchoring. Reassuring.

“Yeah,” You whispered back, your voice steadier than you expected it to be. “It’s better than okay.”

Bob let out a breath then–relieved, maybe, or maybe something more. You felt his grip tighten just slightly, like he was afraid you might slip away. But you didn’t.

Neither of you moved for a while.

Your fingers stayed woven with his, your back pressed to his chest, and you felt the weight of the night begin to shift. The quiet wasn’t heavy anymore. It was full. Full of warmth, presence, and safety.

He brushed the tip of his nose against the crown of your head–barely a touch, barely a breath. But it was there. A silent thank you. A soft kind of ache. A promise.

You let your eyes fall shut.

And for the first time in days, sleep didn’t feel like a distant thought.

[helenanell]

Pushing It Down || Dr. Abbott

Dr Jack Abbott x OC - (Also functions as X Reader)

This is Part Three of - You’re Good (But could be read alone)

Summary: Years after transferring off the night shift, I finally accept that I may have been running away from someone. From Jack. And I realise this, sitting beside him on a park bench.

Notes: Just Egregious Yearning in this one. Fluff. Angst. This is really them grappling with the power imbalance that kept them apart when they first met. Age gap. (OC / Reader is early 30s, Jack late 40s)

WC: 2.6k

This part was partially inspired by @youvebeenlivingfictional ‘s story - you shouldn’t be (down here with me) - it’s SO GOOD.

@madsmilfelsen @nyheartbreak @rachel2494 @lc-birdie @pear-1206

Many minutes passed uncounted in the quiet company of my colleagues, all of us downtrodden yet still standing, propped up by the hard-earned camaraderie that exists between us.

One by one, they drifted away, seeking shelter from the emotional storm in their homes, with loved ones or just in blessed quiet.

As the group thinned, there was a slow, creeping awareness that Abbott and I may be the last left, but it was not entirely unpleasant. It was a warm, honeyed trickle. Sweet if not a little sticky and uncomfortable. Bittersweet.

When we had arrived with Robby, we had sat side by side on the bench, closer than was necessary, leaning into each other’s sides.

It’s where we remain, Pittsburgh's restless, nocturnal rambling, our only remaining company. The fountain behind us offers its own incoherent, aquatic babbling.

I put it down to how tired I am that once we were alone, I didn’t stop my head from falling down onto Abbott’s shoulder.

I have no explanation for the arm he has wrapped around my back, either. His hand is resting on my upper arm, fingers flexing as if he’s fighting the desire to move them, to actually feel that I’m really in his hold. Despite the chill, he’s still just in his scrub top, arm bare.

When I speak, it doesn’t feel as though I’m breaking the silence, more that I’m reaching out for him in a secondary way; physical proximity that I can convince myself is real if I talk to him and he talks back.

“Admit it, you’re itching to get back to your police scanner.” I say quietly.

“What makes you say that?”

“I figure it’s too quiet here for you, with me.”

“It isn’t. Not with you.” He assures me a little gruffly. Before those words can hang too heavily in the air, he knocks them away with more. “I don’t use the scanner as a white noise machine, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“Don’t you? In a way?” I ask gently, “I don’t think you can bear silence.”

The night shift is him busying himself in the dark hours in which I’m certain he can never find sleep.

When so many relinquish consciousness, he’s tending to the trauma of others because if he stops, if he stands still in his apartment without the crackle of the police scanner spitting out more disaster and pain for him to focus on, his own will come crashing down on top of him.

To my surprise, Abbott drops his head on top of mine, his stubbled cheek on my hair. And it is as if that connection between our bodies, no matter how tentative, eases something within him. He lets out a steady exhale, perhaps an expulsion of air which carries an acknowledgement of my words which he can’t bring himself to verbalise.

When he murmurs, I feel it travel into me. Gentle, yet seeking.

“Why did you transfer off the night shift?”

It has been years since I made the choice, but my mind has been slow to react to the change. Resistant, as if it is on a stubborn lag. Sometimes, even now, I catch myself going on autopilot and drifting into the routine I had when on night shift.

It seems Abbott has struggled to reconcile my absence within himself, too. That must be the case, if he’s asking that question with such intensity, years after I made the change.

The night shift is where I transitioned from medical intern, through to residency. I became a doctor in the cradle of the night with Abbott’s guiding hand at my back.

Robby is a phenomenal physician, I respect and adore him. But sometimes I find myself leaning back, a fear of falling, aching for the absence at my back that used to be occupied by Abbott.

Too often, during particularly shitty weeks, when I’m a marionette to delirium, I walk into work and expect to find Dr Abbott there despite the sun shining outside.

I seek him out, in ways I’m both conscious and unconscious of.

I realise that I haven’t registered him as a loss in my life until he’s been returned to me for what I know will be the blink of an eye in our fast-moving profession.

I sit with him now, cocooned by his presence, wrapped up in the familiar comfort of him.

Did I ever realise when we worked together how tangled up in him I had become? Nowadays, I only see him when we pass each other by.

He’s only ever coming and I’m always going.

Yet, that’s still enough for us to snag on each other, caught on the sharp points of what we both left unsaid. What I didn’t let us say, when I transferred without much warning at all.

I never thanked him properly for all he did for me and I still haven’t. It bothers me daily, a sharp stone in my shoe.

I shift my head and he lifts his own so I can peer up at him. We’re so close, closer than we’ve ever been.

I feel his breath on my cheek and his eyes tracing the wearied lines of my face. He knows it so well, but he seems to be mapping it anew, as if taking the opportunity to see any evidence of our years apart in my features.

If it has left visible marks that he might have prevented.

“I left the night shift because it became a hiding place.” I say, voice hushed.

I was hiding in you. Clinging to you. Is what I don’t voice out loud.

My attending. My mentor. Never a friend and yet someone who I had felt intimately tied to. Dependent upon. I’d had to tear myself free. To grow away from him, in the warmth and the light.

Jack smiles down at me. It’s small and edged with a kind of melancholy, almost as if he’s not conscious of it. He reaches out and tucks a fly away hair behind my ear. His hand lingers.

“Come on, Hotshot. Home time.”

Hotshot. I haven’t heard that fall from his lips in such a longtime.

I had been an intern for maybe six hours when he first gave me the nickname and it stayed all through my residency. But then, when I became a full-fledged doctor, he stopped.

I never figured out why, but knowing how he is with all of his staff, he was probably trying to afford me respect. To give me confidence and affirm I was now qualified and deserving. It was always Doctor after that. No nickname.

I’ve missed Hotshot, though. It makes me smile tiredly at him. And it’s probably why I revert to the teasing nickname I had given him once he’d no longer terrified me.

“Are you getting sleepy, old man?”

It’s only as his hand falls away from my face, that I realise he’s been cradling my cheek. There’s a warm buzz where his thumb has been brushing back and forth on the skin, the tingle of bee stings with none of the pain.

“Careful,” he murmurs, “those are fighting words.”

“There is implied fondness in old man.” I say, a little too spacey to reel myself in.

Drinking alcohol around him, even a little, is clearly asking for trouble.

“You are exhausted.” When he pulls away to put his prosthetic back on, I know he’s readying to leave. It has a mournful effect on me.

It’s how I know I’m still in deep. Too deep.

How had I ever believed the lies I’d told myself? That I had pulled myself out of whatever dependency I’d fallen into with him.

Had that not been part of my reasoning for switching shifts too, though? To shake him off? I had found myself wanting him close all the time, needing him in ways that had begun to go beyond the clear lines of professionalism and into a blurry realm with a dizzying lack of clarity.

It’s old earth being turned over, uncovering things I thought I had buried deep.

Needing to move away from him, I get up off the bench far too quickly to be casual and grab my backpack, swinging it onto my shoulder.

Abbott follows suit, watching me in that all-too-perceptive way of his. God, why is he always so insistent on eye contact?

“How close is your place?” He asks.

I grip the strap of my bag a little tighter. “Close. About a fifteen minute walk.”

He frowns. “You walk?”

“I’m saving the planet.”

Abbott shakes his head at me and then holds a hand out, seemingly beckoning me to his side. “Come on, I’ll walk you home.”

I take a step back, but he immediately recovers the space by moving forward.

“No, Jack, you-“

He cuts me off. “It’s not respectful to argue with your elders. Get moving.”

It’s pathetic how quickly I succumb to him. It feels like I blink and then we’re walking to my apartment, side by side.

His hand keeps brushing mine, never making full contact but the repetition of the action tells me that he might want to.

Abbott walks me right up to the door of my apartment.

I turn the key in the lock, expecting to hear his shoes padding back down the hall any second now. But when I step inside, I feel him follow me in.

The air shifts to accommodate Abbott in this place that’s never encountered him.

My heart stutters, but I say nothing, as if I’m afraid that acknowledging him will shatter what will turn out to be an elaborate illusion.

He can’t possibly be in my home. This place I’m unhealthily protective of; the peace I let almost no one shatter.

When I want to see friends, we go out and I meet them there. I almost never invite them over. And dating…I haven’t done that in years. The few romantic liaisons I have had, I ensure unfold at their place.

But here’s Abbott, slotting into place as if he’s been the missing piece all along.

When I carelessly kick off my sneakers, he immediately, almost instinctively, reaches down to put them neatly on the shoe rack. Then, he picks up both of our discarded backpacks and leans them side by side up against the wall.

All of this he does without looking up, brow drawn tightly, intent on the task as if it is something imperative.

I catch myself watching him, a stupid, infatuated smile on my face and force myself to walk into the open plan kitchen. I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and crack it open.

As I lean back against the counter to take a sip, Abbott appears across from me, bracing his hands on the kitchen island.

I could ask him why he’s still here and what exactly he thinks he’s doing looking at me like that, but I don’t.

I stay still and make myself an easier target for his assiduous assessment of me.

“You going to eat something?” He asks.

I shake my head. “I’m going to sleep.”

“You’re running on fumes.” He grumbles and pushes off the island, moving into the kitchen and pulling open the fridge door.

“This might not legally be a home invasion, but it certainly feels like one.”

I’m half-joking, but Abbott looks at me over his shoulder, his expression achingly sincere, a touch too close to tender.

“Say the word and I’m gone.”

I scoff weakly, cheeks heating. “No. You…stay.”

“Good.” He goes back to examining the contents of my fridge and makes a disgruntled noise at what he finds. Or rather, the glaring lack of things to find. “So, you don’t eat at work or at home. Noted.”

“I order in.” I defend myself.

Abbott turns around and leans back against the fridge door once it closes, strong arms crossed over his chest, muscles flexing.

“Don’t make me worry about you, Hotshot.”

There it is again. Hotshot.

I feel my numerous, near-breakdowns that he has been witness to in the last few hours alone justify concern, but I can hear in his voice that my lack of foodstuff isn’t really what he’s talking about.

Still, I go along with it. I make myself complicit in this lie by omission we have wrapped ourselves up in when it comes to our feelings towards one another.

I shrug. “Tomorrow’s my grocery shopping day, it’s fine.”

“After today, all I’ll see when I think of you is this empty fridge.” Abbott says wryly, but there’s some truth pressing up from beneath, the shape of it ghosting the surface.

“You’ll have to do your best to put me out of your mind then.”

He gives me an indecipherable look. It lingers; outstays its welcome. It makes me shift in place.

Mercifully, he shakes the expression away and walks over to me, stopping only when he’s looming above, his face peering down at mine.

Then, holding eye-contact, his hand reaches out and dips into the pocket of my hoodie. He draws it back, revealing the protein bar he’d given me as we’d left the Pitt.

The way he smirks at my petulant huff, tells me that he knows that I had already forgotten it was there.

I roll my eyes. “Ah yes, gourmet dinner for one.”

Abbott chuckles, takes my wrist in his free hand and turns my palm up so he can place the protein bar in it.

“Sit down and eat that.”

“Giving me orders in my own home and then leaving? That’s just bad manners, old man.”

Abbott shakes his head. “I’m not leaving. I will be making you proper food, while you eat that bar of soap.”

“They’re nice.” I counter, ignoring the coil of warmth unspooling within my chest.

He grimaces, turning his nose up as I begin unwrapping the protein bar.

“No, they’re edible. After the day you’ve had, you deserve better than edible.”

“So do you.” I state simply. Then, I dare to add a demand of my own. “Make enough for two.”

Abbott beams at me. I’ve never seen him smile like this. It’s debilitating and does something unalterable to how I see him.

It makes me feel damned.

It makes me feel safe.

“You got enough in your kitchen for that?” He asks.

I grin at him, a little breathless as I back up into my living room. “I guess you’ll have to find out.”

I drop down onto my couch, legs curled beneath me and take a bite of the protein bar.

Perhaps it should set off alarm bells that I fall so easily into just watching him move around in my home, but instead, it’s a soothing balm for the aches and pains of the day. And the way his eyes flick over to me every now and then, leads me to believe that maybe it feels just as good to him.

It does feel good. I realise. He makes me feel good.

Maybe, for tonight, I have just supplanted the police scanner as his fixation: seeking out other people’s troubles to ignore his own. But I can live with that.

I can accept whatever reasons he has for being here, so long as he stays.

Part I - Part II

[psychesalcove]

taking hits for you, cause I wanna feel like I'm supposed to

✧.* jason grace after an argument with gn reader

synopsis: headcanons for jason after an argument w/ gn reader — college au !

cw: arguing (but more focused on after an argument), jason being a cutie pie and understanding bf, not proofread at all,

requested: yes, by anon !!

an: ty for the request babes !! hope this lives up to your expectations 😽😽

^᪲᪲᪲ i feel like arguing with jason wouldn't be a screaming match because of his calmer demener

^᪲᪲᪲ jason would be the type to leave midway through an argument because it gets to much for him

^᪲᪲᪲ he obviously communicates this with you, not wanting you to freak out to him leaving; but knowing that both of you could use space and have time to collect your thoughts

^᪲᪲᪲ if jason was the one leaving your condo and you were staying there, he would quickly write out on a sticky note that he loves you and he'll be home soon when he's more cooled off

^᪲᪲᪲ then he'll probably get into his car and drive around the campus,

^᪲᪲᪲ and he would probably put on a playlist that was ambience w/ light music in the background while he drives so he has something to focus on rather than his thoughts

^᪲᪲᪲ after he's been driving for about 30 minutes, he decides to run to the shop to grab some goodies for you before he comes back

^᪲᪲᪲ he'll get you a small bunch of your favorite flower, and a small teddy bear

^᪲᪲᪲ jason knows he doesn't really need to do this; as both of you were in the wrong in some way during your argument

^᪲᪲᪲ but he wants you to know that he loves you even when you don't meet eye to eye

^᪲᪲᪲ he quickly returns home, in his hands the gifts he had bought for you

^᪲᪲᪲ if he sees that you've been crying, he emideantaly drops his gifts and hugs you,

^᪲᪲᪲ "love, there's no reason to be upset. every couple has their moments; that doesn't mean that its over or anything like that. its just a little hiccup with us, but everyone has that in relationships."

^᪲᪲᪲ he would trace little hearts and stars onto your cheek as he calms you down

^᪲᪲᪲ ughh i need a jason grace in my life omg

^᪲᪲᪲ anyways..after he calmed you down, he explained his side of whatever you two were disagreeing on and how he thought he was right

^᪲᪲᪲ he's definitely one of those it's us against the world not us against eachother

^᪲᪲᪲ he'll have you explain to him what your perspective is and why you didn't agree with him

^᪲᪲᪲ and when you're explaining he'll nod after everything you say

^᪲᪲᪲ and he'll be rubbing your lower back with slow circles anytime you have to stop or if you're struggling saying your opinion

^᪲᪲᪲ he'll he really good at finding a middle ground between the two of you; and be able to sort things out

^᪲᪲᪲ as shown from above, jasons really heavy on communication in a relationship

^᪲᪲᪲ so he'll make sure that you understand why he was frustrated and that he understands why you were frustrated as well

^᪲᪲᪲ he wants to make sure that the disagreement the two of you were having wouldn't come up again or have a lower chance of occurring again

^᪲᪲᪲ he doesn't tell you that you were in the right if he knows that you weren't; he doesn't want you to start thinking that you're always right in every argument you have

^᪲᪲᪲ but he also doesn't want that for himself, so you remind him of that as well

^᪲᪲᪲ after the two of you find a middle ground for your argument, jason brings you to the living room so you two can sit down and relax

^᪲᪲᪲ "love, I was thinking that we could order some thai for dinner tonight?" (or whatever food you prefer!!)

^᪲᪲᪲ so then the two of you order some food, and pick out a moive or tv show to watch while you wait for your food to arrive

^᪲᪲᪲ butttt, if you're more upset when he does originally get back and still don't want him around you,

^᪲᪲᪲ he'll respect your request, knowing that you'd do the same for him; and that everyone needs their space sometimes and time away from others

^᪲᪲᪲ jason would leave for around 45 minutes, unless you text him saying that you were sorry and that he can come back

^᪲᪲᪲ I also feel like he wouldn't want either of you to apologize for how you were acting (unless it was completely out of hand) because those are the emotions you were feeling and he doesn't want to not express emotions if that makes sense

^᪲᪲᪲ anyway,, jason is overall really understanding of arguments and trys to find ways so the two of you can quickly resolve whatever you were disagreeing about

^᪲᪲᪲ and he'll be mature about the whole situation, taking everyone's feelings into consideration

[fisshbones]

Hcs of some Hoyoverse characters!!

ft!! Heizou, Sunday, Scaramouche/Wanderer, Furina, Sampo, Xiao, & Pela

Genre: fluff/crack!! No warnings that I can think of besides of being mildly ooc and some being shorter than others. Could be read as platonic. Modern Au Gn! Reader.

Heizou ->

Has thousands and thousands of screenshots, pictures, and videos saved on his phone. Refuses to delete them because “you never know, they might come in use later.” Once in a VERY LONG while does his habit actually pay off. He’s paying for the cloud subscription service 1000% If he doesn’t his phone is borderline useless. If you go through it you’ll wonder how he finds jack sh*t in that phone, there’s no organization on/in that thing. That being said he doesn’t need to put things in separate albums because he had absolutely no issues with finding what he needs. (he’s literally me)

Sunday ->

Sunday likes to tend to his multiple gardens back where he lives. There’s two green houses back at his home. One is his and one belongs to his dear sister. If you want one too, he’ll gladly make some plans for yours next. When him or Robin can’t tend to the flowers, he has a gardener come tend to them in the meantime. While all of them brings joy to him he has a special soft spot for (white) calla lilies and spider mums.

Scaramouche/Wanderer ->

The definition of an annoying menace. He’ll put sticky notes with (sometimes with writing) on your back without you knowing. He used to do this to Childe too, only when it was Childe it would be way meaner. One fool read the ‘kick me’ note on his back and actually did it. Poor idiot guy learned a lesson that day. The worst he’s put on your back was a note with a stupid face on it. And if someone makes fun of you for it, he’ll give them a black eye! He’s the only one allowed to be an ass to you. :)

Furina ->

Does catwalk struts in her mirror when no one is home. She gets wayyyyy too into it. She’ll start on one side of the house and when she gets to her mirror she’ll strike a pose. One time you walked into her standing in front of the mirror doing pose 28. She couldn’t look into your eyes for a week afterwards. If you ask her to give her a lil show, she’ll do it but don’t laugh cause she might cry. lol. (she’s so me coded)

Sampo ->

He plays those driving games with the steering wheel and all. Sampo started streaming it too to make some hot cash$$ This man is DEDICATED to the act he preforms while streaming this game. If he gets into an accident in the game he makes it look like it happened irl too. He’s given himself whiplash from how fast and hard he slammed himself in his chair. think this.

Xiao->

BIG CONCERT FAN!!! Hates the crowds so much though (T ^ T) He’s so not a people person. Always manages to get great seats for you guys. He’s willing to see any performer if it’s for you, even if it’s not someone he likes. I personally see him as liking every genre of music, so there’s a fat chance he’ll still like the music being played. Xiao would put you on his shoulders if you ask him too. But I can’t guarantee you’ll be able to see any better this way because of how short he is.

Pela ->

Pela makes a crap ton of edits and fanfics. Any where between thirst edits and angst edits of anime characters. She’s got over 50k followers just waiting for her to drop the newest robin or satosugu edit. She’s also got of followers on the platform she posts her fanfics on. She’s big on x readers AND ship fics. That girl puts in work making sure both her edits and fics are absolutely perfect.

If you enjoyed likes/reblogs/replies are appreciated!!

fisshbones © 2024 do not repost or translate

[landosjpg]

boy next door | ln

the one where you come home to a sticky note under your peephole.

lando norris x gender-neutral!reader

word count: ~1.3k

warnings: none!

notes: just a little blurb that has been sitting on my drafts for a while. i also have a rough draft for a part two because i feel like this didn't have enough lando, so let me know if you'd like me to go through it! not proofread

it was the beginning of july. the warm sun of monte-carlo kissed your skin as you walked your way back to your apartment, grocery bags in both your hands.

you had moved into your new house only a few weeks ago, finally being able to rent your own place and not depend on your parents' money anymore after two years of saving all your job's worth. it felt good, having your own place, even if sometimes it felt a little lonely. but you kept telling yourself that you just had to get used to it, give yourself some time to adapt to your new life.

however, you sighed contently as you stepped into the elevator; in the matter of a few minutes you would be finally resting in the comfort of your new couch for the first time that day. it had been a long day at work, and unfortunately, it was only tuesday. which meant you still had the whole week ahead of you.

while making your way to your apartment through the long corridor, you thought about what you'd make for dinner that night, but your eyebrows furrowed in confusion the second your eyes caught a glimpse of something unfamiliar on your door. you walked towards it and left the bags you were carrying on the floor, one of your hands reaching for the sticky note right under the peephole.

"beautiful singing. bit old-fashioned, tho" the note read, a smiley face accompanied the message.

you read the words carefully, the confusion that you had first felt when you saw the piece of paper fading away with a chuckle. you took the bags from the floor and finally opened your door, the note still between your fingers when you made your way back to the couch after having put your groceries down in the kitchen.

you read it again and again as your head rested on one of the fluffy pillows of your couch. you had been singing your lungs out that very morning, right before leaving for work. but you thought nobody lived in the apartment next door. at least, you hadn't seen —or heard —anyone during the few weeks that you had been living there. but to be fair, you hadn't encountered that many neighbors during your little time in your new home.

for a few minutes, you thought about if you should answer with another silly note. it was a lighthearted joke, whoever had written those words couldn't mean any harm. and maybe that could be your opportunity make some friends around the neighborhood.

after a few minutes of considering wether it was a good idea, you sighed and got up from the comfort of your couch and walked to your room, lazily sitting in front of the little desk. a sticky note right under your nose and a pen between your fingers.

a long sigh of defeat left your lips as you leaned back against the chair. you had wasted a good fifteen minutes and way too many sticky notes to count at that point, and you still hadn't come up with a decent answer.

nothing sounded good enough to you. too rude. too dumb. too immature.

why was it that hard to just write down some stupid words? you wanted to make a good impression, to whoever that was.

"britney spears will never be old-fashioned. but i'll try to sing something that might be more to your liking next time."

you read it once again. you weren't completely satisfied by your choice of words, but you knew you wouldn't come up with anything better, and you had already wasted half of your sticky notes.

you decided not to give the matter any more thought and left your bedroom again, ready to end your night with a shower and something nice for dinner, feeling the exhaustion from the day starting to kick in, your body feeling heavy already.

୨୧

your smile lit up when you walked to your front door after another tiring day at the office, noticing how there was a new sticky note placed to the same spot where you found the first one the previous evening.

that morning, you had decided to stick your own note under the peephole of the apartment next door. and truth was, you weren't really expecting an answer. but there it was: the same handwriting thar made you chuckle once again, trapping your lower lip between your teeth as you read what it said.

"already doing a good job, loved today's setlist."

and with that, a few days passed as you kept exchanging silly notes with your mysterious neighbor.

until one night, you came home to a sticky note in your door with only a few numbers written on it. you were quick to add the number to your contact list.

"was communicating through notes too old-fashioned for you?" you sent the text without thinking too much about your words and patiently waited for a reply that didn't take long to arrive.

that was the first text of the many that followed, the note exchange that at first seemed dumb, quickly turning into long sleepless nights in which your smile only grew wider with each reply you got from lando.

of course, the second a few facts about himself slipped through his texts, you immediately knew who he was. it was only natural, your dad always had been a big racing fanatic, so you knew a thing or two about it. but you never expected him to be as nice.

despite of texting back and forth, often using your phone on the sly at work just for your face to bright up the second his notification popped up, you two never saw each other. with your tight schedule and him being away for work a lot of the time, it wasn't easy.

not that any of you had mentioned actually meeting up, of course, but you found yourself thinking about the scenario a few times before going to sleep.

and all of the sudden you found yourself laying on your couch on a saturday night, having canceled on all your friends just to stay in and talk to the boy who hadn't left your mind ever since you saw that stupid note on your front door.

"i'd rather have some rest," you told them. “this week has been exhausting anyway." but you weren't as tired as you made it seem. not even close.

and so, after putting on some comfy clothes, you lied on the couch and turned your tv on, ready to put some movie as background noise while you texted with lando.

"any plans for tonight?" he suddenly asked. the question didn't catch you by surprise, he often asked what were you up to.

"movie and food delivery." you almost immediately answered, and while you waited for a reply, you scrolled through netflix looking for something that would catch your eye.

after a few minutes, you checked your phone. nothing yet. in fact, he had left your message on read. that wasn't quite like him.

you frowned and before you could send another text, your doorbell rang. you sighed and got up, lazily walking to the door and expecting your friends behind it, ready to force you to go out with them.

your eyes widened when, instead, you saw the brit standing in front of you with messy, curly hair and a hoodie over his head despite of being the middle of summer. he had some snacks in his hands and he was smiling down at you.

you were speechless, not having expecting him just to show up at your door like that.

"what movie are we watching?" he asked with a bright smile, inviting himself inside.

click here for part 2 :)

[chaewberry]

complete guide; how to move on from your ex (failure guaranteed!).

pairing; uchiha shisui x reader word count; 3.8k tags; breaking up and getting back together, explicit sexual content, from lovers to exs back to lovers again, humor, civilian reader. chapters; 1/5 read chapter two (02), read chapter three (03).

read on ao3!

You were both sitting on your balcony, fourth floor up, with your backs against the wall and the clammy, summer night heat clinging to your skin. The tube of ice-cream sitting in between you had all but melted into soup an hour ago and neither one of you bothered to return it to the freezer.

“Let’s break up.”

It was well late at night, after midnight for sure, and the balcony tiles had grown warm and sticky against the naked skin of your thigh. It was a hateful summer - as all summer were in the Land of Fire - beating down on you with merciless heatwaves all throughout July, and so you had opted to shed your shorts in favor of parading around the house with a loose tank top and your panties. Shisui had undressed himself down to his training gear shorts he’d left lying around during one of the countless times he’d spend his days and nights here, along with an insurmountable amount of clothing crammed away inside your closet next to yours. Sometimes he’d flicker in and out within seconds, grabbing this shirt or those pants or the tanto strap he’d disregarded somewhere underneath your bed after coming home from a two month mission, all needy hands and impatience etched into tensed muscles. One time he had left his standard shinobi vest here — you had washed it and put it out to dry one night before bed only to find it gone the next morning you woke up, replaced with a scribbled note of a crudely drawn kissing face and a heart in its place.

He’d pop in one second, leave a messy bite on your jawline or a wet kiss on your nape and be gone the next, leaving behind the smell of his shampoo or the scent of the earth he carried wherever he went and you with a heart that throbbed with such salacious pleasure that the feeling spread from your sternum down to your navel.

It was the little things that left you chuffed. You never knew when he would pop up or when. You could be in the bathroom brushing your teeth and soaking in the bathtub, you could be cooking or just sleeping in during your lazy hours, lounging on the couch reading a comic or a book; you’d wait, every day, for that one, two seconds where you’d feel the familiar pull of space.

You expected him but you could never predict him — Shisui had a talent for catching you off guard and tonight was no different.

You wracked your brain, trying to find suitable words to respond with because you couldn’t stay quiet now, you had to say something, anything, everything but to stay silent. Your mouth opened and closed again, opened and closed, lips pulling into a smile too thin and dry to be anything truly genuine, but for some reason you also felt that you were smiling as ludicrous as it were. “Is this because I ate the left-over yakisoba from lunch? Shisui, really, you’re being dramatic.”

“What? No,” he said. “It’s not that — and anyway, I bought that for you.”

Because today was Friday and you had the next week off and Shisui always brought you food after you worked for two consecutive weeks with barely a day off when things got busy at the hospital and you had to be stretched thin and do jobs that weren’t in your jurisdiction and then some. As soon as you stepped foot inside your apartment earlier that day and found the man sitting next to you languish laying in the tatami floors in front of the open balcony door, letting the sun bathe his skin and scars, you had taken it for granted that this was going to be a normal week off — Shisui would try to stay off the mission roster and work more at the police force next to his cousins and uncle. He’d buy you breakfast in the mornings and you’d make him lunch to take into work, and then once he got off of work he would go to his house or come to yours, wash the troubles of the day away and you’d go on to do whatever it is you had planned for the night.

Normal couple shit you’ve been doing for the past eight months and two weeks you’ve been together, ever since you turned the occasional ‘sleeping-together-for-benefits’ arrangement turned into this when Shisui bought you strawberry seeds to plant on the empty ceramic pots sitting outside on your balcony for over two years along with a glass of expensive rose and a flower bouquet so large and with such variety that your apartment had been the epitome of a lofty spring day for the better part of a month. Even now, the dried, well preserved flowers hang upside down next to your bookshelf, a mixture of faded color and the first, brittle feelings of the first serious relationship you’ve had in your life.

“Hold on. I need to wear some pants if we’re going to have this conversation.” You got up, unsticking your skin from the warm tiles and grabbing the ice-cream soup to throw away. “You want a shirt?”

“Yes, please.”

“ Please. Well, now I know you’re being serious.”

“Shut up, can’t I be nice? Am I not nice?”

“Perish the thought, my love.”

You stepped inside the house, closing one of the balcony doors and leaving the other one open. You poured the melted gooey mess down the kitchen sink, threw the tube in the trash and made your way to your closet, relying only on the light coming from the bathroom to find your way, a habit you picked up from a mother who was always scared of the darkness, who would wake up panting and gasping for breath in the middle of the night if the light on the bathroom or the hallway hadn’t been left on, who would grasp around for the covers, for your little hands, for whatever it was she could grab on in order to ground herself.

Most nights you slept with the light in the bathroom on too — other nights however it seemed too strong against the shapeless darkness the night dunked your apartment in and so you closed it completely, leaving only the moonlight and the warm palm against your back, wide and warm, almost burning down the skin.

From the confinements of your closet you fished out a pair of shorts and one of Shisui’s shirts, black and stamped with his clan logo at the back. Briefly, looking down on the too large for your frame tank top, the strands slipping down your shoulders no matter how many times you pulled them up, threatening to expose one part or another, you entertained the idea about changing into one of your shirts, though you quickly waved the notion off.

Changing out of his shirt would require a level of chalantness you weren’t willing to convey out into the open, now, when the moment required vulnerability.

Strangely, you felt still, as if a time bubble had come down around your house and paused everything; the frail summer breeze against the leaves and the grass, the sound of cicadas you loved so much, even the quips between you and Shisui remained the same, even the calmness that had settled down on your own self was in and of itself some sort of an admittance, a recognition of this time bubble which would burst once the first peaks of the morning shuttered through the curtains in a handful of hours, long after Shisui would leave, because it was a fact that he was breaking up with you, that he wanted to break up with you, and thus it was so that he would leave once he did so. You’d have the summer warmed sheets all to yourself, the light of the bathroom still on, the balcony doors still open even as you went to sleep, and the clattered clothes, yours and his, around your apartment.

You threw the shirt over his head and sat back down on the cooling tiles, your back against the wall of your small balcony, facing forwards, at the once small strawberry plant which had, by now, sprouted two more roots.

“I need to replant those,” you said, not taking your eyes off the strawberries. “The pots are too small.” You turned to him, watched as he tugged the shirt down the hard cut muscles of his chest, his stomach, the tantalizing sliver of skin just above the seams of his shorts. Nothing better than ogling at your soon-to-be ex-boyfriend in a shattering moment of vulnerability.

“So,” you clicked your tongue against the back of your teeth. “Where were we?”

***

Hikari was awkwardly charming with a too wide smile and childlike rose coloured glasses.

He was a civilian, like you, and was working as a manga editor in the new literary building that sprouted up two years ago. It made sense, in a way, that he had stayed behind in those childlike pages and romanticized stories of ‘boy-meets-girl’, in between adventures shared between friends and comrades, wine mixed with honey and warm in your mouth, sweet on the tip of your tongue. He held your hand all the way to the restaurant, pulled the chair back for you, gave you a single rose underneath the flickering light bulb of your apartment complex at the end of the night. 

His fumbling self had charmed you to an extent, although his kisses left much to be desired — despite it, or perhaps because of it, he was eagerly awaiting to please. 

It wasn’t bad, it wasn’t good, and at the end of the night you were laying naked on sweat soaked sheets passing a cigarette between raw, bitten lips. The thrumming anxiety underneath Hikari’s skin had dialed down, the small blip of chakra he possessed smoothed out. You rugged a pillow to your naked chest and he was enthusiastic in lending you an arm to use to lay your head instead. He pulled closed to you that way, his chest on your back and his other arm thrown over your waist. You pressed back onto him and buried your face in the pillow. With closed eyes and a steady heart you focused on the sound of his breathing, on the way his body felt against yours. 

This went on for two more weeks before you cut Hikari loose.

Tsunade herself had said that the remedy to a broken heart was either booze or short term flings below your league, and both of those things at once, on occasions, but you still had shifts to cover, your job to do, bills to pay, and a reminder to act like a perfectly working societal cog in the grand scheme of things. 

You drank more than put out, despite Rin’s sudden interest in safe sex lectures that she had printed and taped out all throughout the brake room walls and her tenacious, subtle-as-shit glances from around the corner or over your shoulder.

It was fine, you thought, because she at least wasn’t whimpering sympathetically while holding onto your leg metaphorically. She put you to work, instead, intent on wringing out any sort of liquid substance of life you had within your veins between the smoke in your lungs and whatever else passed as an acceptable amount of water and food.

Your existence was pure disgust that past week, so busy with work and indulging in miserably pleasurable pity parties or whatever the fuck it was that you were doing in the bathroom with an old sex toy you hadn’t used in years and had taken to now abusing the fuck out of. Between that and sleeping you were barely venturing outside of your apartment.

When Rin started becoming overbearing in her attempts to feed you from her lunchbox and “mistakenly buying” one extra juice box from the vending machine you decided that your lifestyle wouldn’t do. Not if you wanted her busting down your door one of these days and finding you in the midst of debauchery in your bathtub.

You put more effort in the way you dressed, dabbed some concealer underneath your eyes to hide the bruised skin stitched with weariness and an exhaustion that ran too deep. You even bought a new and up and coming magazine talking about all things fashion and what-not. You took the time to study it, read it from cover to cover and then talk about it with the nurses and doctors at the hospital when Rin was within earshot, pitching your voice higher and dipping it in sweetness.

Tsunade had taken one look at your well constructed facade and laughed in your face — but that was fine, it was fine. Tsuande wasn’t some meddlesome wench who would fuss and blow a gasket over something so trivial as a few missed meals and an unhealthy amount of staying up to use getting off in order to deal.

You were pretty sure you were losing all sensation on your clit though.

You had that Friday and the whole weekend off, not expected at the hospital until Monday for the night shifts. Your civilian friends came over, bringing booze for the purpose of getting drunk as a skunk before even setting foot anywhere near close to a club and an opulent onslaught of opinions regarding your ‘slutty Friday outfit’.

After shoving you into clothes that were entirely and embarrassingly too tiny and short on your and after shredding your tights to hell and back and slapped on some hard core, punk themes makeup on you in between the gin laced with bitter lemon juice in between, you had reached the appropriate level of intoxication to leave the house and head towards one of the seediest bars in Konoha.

It was a mix between civilians and shinobi looking to let loose, the stickiness of spilled drinks clinging onto your shoes, the smoke filling the room inside and making its way down your throat and making you grow lightheaded within the span of a few minutes, the noise vibrating from the walls and onto your bones; it was a wonder such place was ever allowed to remain open. The health violations alone were enough to warrant the immediate execution of the owner. 

One of your friends, Lisa, had flirted her way towards a table half-way full. She sat her ass right on a guy’s dick and after a few minutes and whispering into his ear and laughing like a dumb bimbo she most certainly was not she turned to you and your two other friends, one of which was her girlfriend, and crooked a wicked finger into a ‘come hither’ motion.

“How do you do it?” Chiyo asked. She turned towards Fumiko while pulling you towards the direction of the table, her grasp strong and sure on your wrist, as if you were at risk of getting snatched at any moment now. “I wouldn’t like it.”

Fumiko only smiled around the blunt on her blood painted lips, teeth tearing at the paper and the plant. “It’s different when you’re in love.”

You stumbled through the crowd in high heels you hadn’t worn in years.

“Besides - Lisa doesn’t like cock.”

Chiyo argues back, “that’s so not the point,” but by the time anything could come of it they were already at the table. Shoved between a rock and a hard place -- Lisa abandoned the dick trying to bury itself in her through various levels of clothing in lieu of climbing over your lap and directly sitting in between Fumiko’s legs now before starting to make out on your left side, tacky heels digging into your calf. Meanwhile on your right was a dude who was halfway smoking his second pack of the day of one went by the raspy quality of his fried as fuck vocal cords and was definitely not just a civilian with the amount fo scar tissue around the visible skin of his arms and throat.

Shisui had the same scars littering his body — one in particular, from the top of his right eyebrow, down over the soft skin of his eyelid until it stopped right beneath his cheekbone.

Kenji, as it turned out, was furiously in love with a man thirteen years younger than him as well as a glutton for punishment. He offered to share his cigarettes with you nevertheless, pouring you drinks from the bottle he had bought for himself and made idle talk while running circles with his thumb on the inner side of your thigh the whole time. He was handsome, older, and the tension beneath well sculpted muscle screamed of someone who had seen a lot of mayhem and maybe even caused a lot of it. 

Nearing the end of the night, you asked, blunt and honest, “are you a shinobi?”

Kenji chuckled, white teeth flashing, and the sound was deep and throaty and absolutely fucking fake. “Does that scare you?”

You didn’t hesitate. “No, not really.”

He paused, blinking down at you lazily. He started squeezing your thigh like it was a fucking squeaky toy. “You’re one of those, huh?” Looking at the visible confusion on your face, he explained. “Someone who likes the life, wants to try and take a bite out of it.”

You would have laughed if you felt like it. Instead, you asked, “Does the boy not like the life?”

His silence was an answer in and of itself, even though his smile never left his face.

At the end of the night you leave. Lisa and Fumiko have a swaying Chiyo clasped in between them because if anyone truly knew Chiyo then that meant that they knew her drank urges to start fucking sprinting for whatever reason. Lisa blew you a kiss as Kenji threw his coat over your head and Fumiko loudly declared to her girlfriend that they were out of condoms.

You took Kenji back to your apartment, fumbled through three flights of stairs and felt for the key hole in the dark and poorly maintained hallway as Kenji latched his teeth at the back of your neck like he was trying to bite through the bone.

Kenji was an attentive lover; he peeled the clothes off your body with care, petted his way down your body, exploring all the while every nook and cranny. His hands were warm on your breast, squeezing as if the skin would split apart with force, so much so that you laughed at him. Coaxing you to lay down on your back on the bed he pushed your thighs open, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he put your ankles over his shoulder and sank to his knees.

After the tenth lazy kiss he left at the crease of your hip bone, sucking on the sensitive skin there, you couldn’t take it anymore. “Are you scared of pussy or something?” you asked, squirming to cram your cunt into his face already.

Kenji laughed, “is romance lost on you?” he sucked another bruise into the meat of your thigh, lapping at the bite as an afterthought.

“No, but patience is,” you answered, leaning forward to tag at his hair.

“Fine,” he mouthed at your cunt, short, puffy breaths warming your core as he spread your labias. “Be like that, brat.”

The first time, he made you come on his tongue, arms wrapped around your legs and hands splayed out on your stomach and hips to stop you from squirming away when the pleasure mounted. He kept lapping at you long after, like a man fucking starved, unashamed and ignoring your senseless babbling. After he was satisfied Kenji wrestled your boneless body until you were laying on your stomach, making a quip about your shit stamina.

“Shut the fuck up,” you retorted. Your mental capacity was preoccupied with gripping the sheets as Kenji fed his cock into you, little by little, pushing in an inch, sliding out and then pushing twice as much into you.

He fucked you until you were hiccuping into the sheets, hips bouncing back to meet his every thrust, until your cunt was puffy and there were bruises and bite marks littering your back. Afterwards, he turned you around and latched onto your breast as you made ribbons out of his back.

Kenji fucked you like you a were a two bit whore, tying the last condom and laying it flat on your stomach with a cackle that made him look younger than he was.

You grimaced. “Thanks.”

“Anything for my lover,” he wisecracked, rubbing your belly as if to soothe you. You almost asked if he did this to the young man he said he liked or whatever the fuck his situation with him was but you stopped yourself. That man had just blown your back out, you shouldn’t finger old wounds and pour salt into them.

“Help me into the bathroom,” you said, picking up the condom cooling on your stomach and throwing it in the small trash bin next to your bed. A wrapper from an old chocolate bar had you blinking down hard. How long ago was it that you cleaned the house? Tomorrow the house was due for a thorough cleaning.

Kenji carried you into the bathroom and cleaned you up with a wet towel before starting to fill up your bathtub, smiling like a fucking school kid as he dropped an infuriatingly pink bathbomb in the water and watched as it dissolved. The hotter was hot against you, borderline on cooking you like a fucking seefood boil, but it was just the right temperature you liked. Kenji didn’t get it -- after cleaning himself with a wet towel he wore his boxers and sat down right next to you outside of the bathtub. Silently, he started scrubbing shampoo on your hair, rubbing small circles into your scalp and untangling entanglements.

It was good, soothing, and something you absolutely didn’t do for your one-night stand.

“What the fuck,” you rasped out, half of your neurons fried from bliss and the other half struggling to keep up. “I’m not gonna pay you.”

Kenji laughed. “I didn't think you would.”

“Well good, because I’m not going to pay you,” you repeated. “Seriously, what the fuck.”

“What, is it bad to take care of your habitual lover?”

Habitual lover, you mouthed, your heavy eyelids fluttering. The acidic taste lingering in your mouth was a cause from the throw you managed to swallow down. “You are so romantic, really.”

“I seem to remember that romance has long since been drifting past you.”

“First of all,” you turned around to face him, wiping the shampoo buds that were threatening to blind you, “don’t start waxing poetics in my bathroom. Disgusting. Second of all,” you paused, mind spinning, “you’re old and probably a pervert. Third of all, you like someone else, isn’t that insulting to that person?”

Kenji took your barraging criticism and insults with a smile on his face. He turned out the shower head and started rinsing your hair. “Are those your only complaints?”

“We are never seeing each other again,” you said in lieu of answering, facing the wall in front of you.

Naturally, went on to see each other again.

[celestie0]

heyyy!! how are you doing? i hope you’re well 💗

i’m writing this fic of mine and i’m having trouble with creating conflict and angst🥲 every idea i come up with doesn’t work the way i want it to so i thought i’d ask you cuz you’re highkey my inspiration lol, it’d be sweet if you got any tips you could give

hi love! i'm doin alright thank you :) hope you're well too!!

aw i'm so honored that you want my input haha <3 i hear you, creating conflict n angst is so hard in fiction but also so much ends up relying around it, and it can be really frustrating to have an idea but then it kinda crashes and burns

my advise for creating conflict:

have both circumstantial conflict and character driven conflict. likeee for example circumstantial conflict is the situation (ex failing a class makes a character do xyz, financial woes makes a character do xyz etc and it complicates things) and then character driven conflict is like stuff a character does because of their personality traits or previous experiences (ex character was trust issues in relationships or they're overly stubborn etc) i think it's easier to justify your conflicts in your stories if you have multimodal sources of them. gives you more flexibility too

definitely don't commit to a conflict if you don't know how it will eventually resolve. this will lead to insane writer's block down the line

draw from your life experiences! i find the most engaging conflicts are the ones that closely resemble how it would be in real life. no need to create anything super dramatic, i think it's more about execution of the feelings that the characters are going through during their adversity rather than the severity of it if that makes sense

don't overthink it too much. sometimes when i'm writing and trying to build conflict between my characters i have thoughts like "oh this feels so forced" or "oh it comes off as such an obvious plot device for xyz" etc etc. it's okay if the conflict is cliche, or repetitive, or doesn't make sense in some cases. it's hard to write an iron-clad conflict/resolution arc. if i'm being honest, i have only seen such a thing successfully pulled off in very few media i've consumed LOL even like professionally written stuff. sooooo just take it easy. i suppose that is part of the conflict itself! the author's inability to perfectly display it! beauty in imperfection xd

as for writing angst:

i think angst is aaaaaaaall about showing not telling. like it's easy to write "she felt ___" or "he wept for hours" stuff like that, which is all good n great n definitely should be stated here and there. but preferentially when it comes to angst, i like to provide more "details" surrounding things? like idk it's corny to pull from my own source material for an example LOL but like in ihm ch7 when reader is looking through her mother's things to start putting stuff in boxes. like yes i wanted to portray that she was sad but like the little details about the sticky notes her mother placed around her room n stuff i thought would more so show exactly why looking through all of her mother's stuff was so devastating for her

appeal to aspects of life anyone can relate to. sure, your characters are their own people and will have their own thoughts n feelings n stuff separate of trying to appease any reader's personal feelings. however, there are certain human feelings i think are relatively universal, which will likely be present in any conflict, and so appealing to those will really help drive the angst home

idk i'm running a blank on anymore tips here sorry bb LOL

don't feel discouraged!!!!! you've got thisss!!!!!

ok good luck byeee

[yeiwo7]

Loser = Lover

Chongyun x reader

Summary: He invites your group over for a group study session, all the others decided to ditch last minute. What did you guys do instead~?

Word count: 1k

tw.: puuuuuuuuuuuureee tooth rotting fluff

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Skateboarder!Chongyun who adores you from afar, never one to come up and speak. 

(He's a super shy baby)

Skateboarder!Chongyun who thinks you're some god-teir person and thinks of himself as a loser. That’s why hasn’t confessed yet, he thinks you deserve better.

Skateboarder!Chongyun who has stolen countless glances at you in class. He’s memorized all your facial expressions! The way you get bored in class, spinning your pen in between your fingers. Sometimes resting your head against the desk, dozing off in class. Sometimes he sees how hard you try to focus in class, learning. He’s seen the little light twinkle in your eyes when the teacher speaks about something that catches your interest.

Skateboarder!Chongyun who learns some of your habits by accident and does them by accident, like twirling his pen between his fingers! He’s observed you a lot, so doesn’t approach you because he is scared you might think he’s a creep!

Skateboarder!Chongyun who slips little sticky notes onto your desk before class, writing cute random things like " the clouds look pretty today" or " I saw a cute cat on the way to school, it had white fur!" . He's good at hiding that he’s the culprit. Even his friends keep it a secret for him, because this guy has never fallen for someone as much as you.

(I can see why, ♡)

Skateboarder!Chongyun who gets super shy when you two are put together for teamwork. In your team there was also Xingqiu, Hu Tao and Xiangling. 

Skateboarder!Chongyun who's told that at his house will be the meeting place to discuss the project assignment. 

Skateboarder!Chongyun who knew exactly what those mischievous grins were on his friend's faces.

Skateboarder!Chongyun who welcomed you into his home, and it turns out his friends all canceled at the last minute, because one got sick and the others were busy with family business. Busy dealing with his dad's problems and helping her father at the restaurant. 

Skateboarder!Chongyun who is very awkward with you in the beginning. You two will be sitting in silence for a few minutes. Trying to make conversation, but getting shy and eventually won’t be able to continue it.

Skateboarder!Chongyun who asks if you wanna go skateboarding after discussing some things about this project assignment. 

Skateboarder!Chongyun who feels very honored to be able to speak to you one-on-one. He got to witness how clever you are! He was so impressed at the ideas you'd present and explain why they're good.

Skateboarder!Chongyun who also said a lot of valuable input, and you two write up the ideas together, sitting on his bed.

Skateboarder!Chongyun who told you he'll be right back, and when he did come back he brought his signature popsicle. You two joked around and ate the popsicles. Afterwards, he asks if you want to learn how to skateboard and if you said yes he’s over the moon.

( if you said no, he’ll pout a bit, but respects you decision and you two just stay home and talk about things.) 

Skateboarder!Chongyun says he only has one skateboard and that there is a park near here that no one uses and is perfect for skateboarding! You two leave his house and walk to said park, oh and  before you two left he prepared a little bag with two cold water bottles, some bandages and his portable phone charger. When you two get to park, he’s teaching you all about it, and when you get the hang of it, he praises you so much and is really flustered, because the person he likes is so interested in one of his hobbies!

Skateboarder!Chongyun who, when flustered or shy, hides his face and looks away, so when he was busy cooling off he didn’t notice how you fell off the skateboard until too late. When he heard how you yelped when slipping off and scraping your elbow and bruising your knee so badly it bled a bit. He.panicked.

Skateboarder!Chongyun who frantically ran over and checked you for any other injuries before getting out the water bottle he prepared for you, and the bandages. He’s giving you the water bottle to drink, while heavily concentrating on your wounds, ( he’s being a little dramatic and waaayyyy too worried) he keeps muttering sorry sorry sorry over and over again. Even if you tell him your fine, he would not hear it because he’s breaking down inside. He let you get hurt! He’s beating himself up about it.

Skateboarder!Chongyun who broke out of his little monologue when you almost screamed at him that it is not his fault. He’s look at you with little tears brimming in his eyes. Annnd that’s when you start apologizing, but he just embraces you, because he was so scared you’d hate him. He even said it out loud, which earned a confused look from you. 

Skateboarder!Chongyun who hugged you so tightly you almost fainted from lack of air. This boy accidentally confessed. He was rambling about how nervous he was that he hurt you by not being attentive enough and not being quick enough and how he could never live it through because he loves you so much he’d have constant nightmares.

Skateboarder!Chongyun who hides his face in your shoulder when you repeat what he said to confirm he’s little crush on you. His face burning from all the blood that rushed to his cute little cheeks.

Skateboarder!Chongyun who goes on a ramble again about how he doesn’t deserve you and all because he’s a little loser.

Skateboarder!Chongyun who in the end gets convinced by you that he’s not some loser and that he is a really impressive person. And that you have also looked at him for a little too long. And maybe saw him doing his training and saw his abs. Baby boi turns red at this point.

Skateboarder!Chongyun who makes things official with you, AND ALL HIS lovely FRIENDS HOUND HIM WITH QUESTIONS. Poor boy, you could only laugh as they all asked you two. ( Chongyun was back hugging you and hiding his face in the crook of your neck.)

[djmysteryreader]

Done and Dusted

It’s not really a secret that I enjoy a cowboy romance so it’s probably not a surprise that I read Done and Dusted. It’s been circulating around my social media feeds for a while and I finally was like, “Okay, let’s just see.”

Emmy Ryder is a champion barrel racer but when she gets thrown from her horse and is hurt badly, she struggles to get back in the saddle. She breaks up with her boyfriend via sticky note and backs her whole life up to go back to her home town and the ranch her family runs. What she doesn’t expect is to find herself finding comradery with her childhood nemesis, Luke Brooks, who is coincidentally her older brother’s best friend. An offer to help her get through the panic attacks she’s having every time she thinks about riding again, leads to a not so surprising romance but it’s exactly what she needs, which surprises them both.

I can’t say that I didn’t enjoy this book. It’s a romance with some emotional components. I really liked the characters themselves because they were fun to follow around in this story. Luke is kind of a goof but he’s very sweet. Emmy is dealing with ADHD and trying to figure out how to get over the anxiety she’s experiencing after her bad fall. And together their differing personalities blended quite well.

Let me be honest, though, my big favorite character was Teddy, Emmy’s bff. The dialogue between her and Emmy’s brother Gus had me ROLLING and I think that I’ll likely read the other books in this series because I know that Teddy has her own book. Sometimes I just really click with a secondary character and I won’t apologize for that.

Now, why did I give this a 3.75? Well to be totally transparent I felt that some of the writing was a tad repetitive. There were things that I definitely read more than once. And while the chemistry between Emmy and Luke was steamy, I do feel like it was SO FAST. There wasn’t as much of a build up to the romance as I expected based on the initial introduction to Emmy and Luke’s relationship and I definitely missed that as I was reading. Sometimes romance books have too slow of a romantic build up and sometimes it’s way too fast. I’m usually looking for that sweet spot in between.

That isn’t to say that I didn’t enjoy this book. I definitely did. It was a good, lighthearted romance with some exploration of more emotional themes but not in a way that dragged down the fun of it. Romance is supposed to be fun, after all. Why else would they have put Fabio on all those old book covers if it wasn’t?

[lorelodge]

Acts of Service + Quality Time for Jeremy

headcanons based on the 5 love languages // accepting

Acts of Service:

does your muse like it when people do work for them? 

Not really. I think he likes when people do work alongside him. He doesn't want to be alone doing his own thing 24/7. He likes being the leader of collaborative projects & seeing the creativity of others shine through in group work.

does your muse enjoy giving people a hand with work?

... depends on the work. Lol. In general he doesn't mind. if it's something he's interested in? Absolutely. He will stay with you until the project is complete. However, if it's a chore then he'll help because his momma raised him right, but he's not exactly exuberant about it. Depending on how boring he finds the task he may need to be specifically asked. I think the rule of thumb is that he's pretty good about doing household chores if needed, but won't offer. If it's something like an errand he's more likely to put a sticky note in a place he'll remember and do that for someone. If it's something related to film, editing, etc he will give it his 100% attention.

what acts of service would your muse appreciate the most?

Probably simple stuff like driving him to an appointment so he doesn't have to wait for the bus or buying groceries for the week. He's one of those people who tends to get wrapped up in his own creative projects and sometimes it's just nice not to have to worry about the bus schedule or whether the home has bread.

what is one chore your muse would prefer someone else do for them?

Cooking. It's not that he can't, but it's so time consuming. If left to his own devices he will just buy a superpack of instant ramen so he doesn't have to think about it. Dishes go into the same category of 'would rather never'. He's one of those people who buys plastic plates & utensils so he doesn't have to do dishes.

Quality Time 

what is your muse’s ideal date night? 

Roll up to an abandoned building just as the sun is setting. Shoot a bunch of footage of their adventure. Whip out those EMF's too and see if there are any ghosts. Once they've had their fill go to some 24/7 diner and share a meal while talking about their day. You know... normal date stuff.

Alternatively, if this were a first date, he probably sets up a projector and plays a classic film. Makes snacks so they can enjoy that while watching & then takes them out for a bite to eat if they're hungry afterward. Talk about the film at dinner and maybe share a kiss once the date is coming to a close.

how comfortable is your muse with prolonged eye contact? 

I mean, your muse is welcome to try. Jeremy's eyes will be up & down & and looking every other which way. He has trouble with eye contact initially, especially when he likes the person. It's not impossible once he's gotten to know them, but it does take a bit of time.

does your muse prefer conversation or just sitting quietly with their s/o?

He's sorta funny in the sense that when he's "working" he tends to chatter and appreciates the company & engagement from his s/o. But he's not someone who generally sits down on a dinner date and is able to make great conversation. In those cases he's a bit reserved and a little awkward. He's definitely okay with silence and even prefers it until he's gotten to know someone- which ironically can be hard when you prefer being silent during the 'get to know them' phase.

is it easy for your muse to devote their full attention to one person at a time?

Yeah, I definitely think so. He grew up in a traditional nuclear family in the midwest. It's something he's always wanted for himself one day. He's a lowkey romantic who has watched one too many B&W romances. If anything, the issue Jeremy faces isn't from devoting himself to one person but rather finding a balance between a romantic interest & career interests. The best solution is probably just to find someone who is as eager as him to go on wacky ghost hunting adventures, to be honest.

[tteokdoroki]

(🦭) ah yes grippy graspy handsy deku.. . . .. much to think abt.. . .. . also hELO i hope ur doing okay this week )):

☆༉ — IZUKU MIDORIYA. handsy.

about. he likes when you show him how to touch you. hi baby!! im doing okay, thank you for asking! i hope you are too <3

warnings. [n]sfw & smut. minors & ageless blogs do not interact. exhibitionism, dry humping, fingering, praise, use of good girl / baby, light choking & fem!reader.

the idea of deku’s hands always being on you. him always secretly observing how you touch yourself with your own hands too, making mental notes on how to replicate the feelings that you give yourself.

day to day, he notes the way your fingertips brush up and down your sides before you get dressed. how you sometimes cup your own neck for comfort and rest your palms on the swell of your thighs to keep yourself together in the image of a perfectly tied bow. and izuku watches, from his place in your bed — leaning back against the headboard with his mop of forest green curls curtaining his trained eyes. he stares from across the room at galas and summits as you toy with the pendant that cages your throat (his initials dangling at the nape, the emeralds glittering under the glow of the lights up above). his calculating gaze settles on your twitching thighs and quivering legs whenever he’s seated beside you, anticipating the moment you both can leave for home and the world consists of just the two of you once more.

izuku watches how you touch yourself in the most mundane ways so he can do it better. he wants to be the only one who knows how what makes you tick, what has your body twitching and writhing and those sweet sounds tumbling from between precious lips.

“sit back for me, sweetheart,” lust pools between your thighs as he speaks to you in a low whisper. izuku can be performative, play the nice guy and the hero with a smile but when it’s the two of you behind closed doors he changes — let’s the darker parts of him overshadow all of the rest, consuming you whole. “spread your legs nice and wide. i want to see you touch yourself.”

“izuku—“

he doesn’t take no for an answer and nips at your ear in warning. “oh i’m sorry, should i have asked?” his scared hands smooth over the swell of your thighs, his voice like high dose of ecstasy to relax you. “please, show me how you touch yourself.”

he squeezes and tugs at the rest of your body — the spots he knows are sensitive become victim to deku’s surprisingly sharp teeth and rough padded hands. your own nervously dance their way up to the crotch of your panties, your face hot at the wetness pooling in their seam. izuku could have easily taken over from here, he’s stroked your cunt to orgasm more times than he’s had to sign his name away for fans. but he knows that this is the one thing you can’t do without him.

the one thing about your body that he knows better than you do.

deku grunts softly when your hips buck into your own hand, chasing the light pressure you put on your clit — and he lets the sound bleed out into a syrupy moan as your fingers disappear beneath the flimsy material to play with the sticky mess between your folds.

“there she is, my good girl. i like when you play with yourself for me.” he praises you, sickly sweet like saliva mixed with honey. pleased with the sticky sounds coming from your pussy. green eyes drink in the way you start off slow and pick up the pace each time he moans or huffs or clicks his tongue in approval. you stuff your little fingers deep inside the hot veil of your quivering cunt, rut into the seat of your palm and grind your swollen clit into it because you like it when deku watches. when he touches you.

your hips stutter and deku’s chest heaves — you can hear him swallow thickly from behind you, the thought of him being so wrecked by the sight of you fingering yourself makes you gush. “is this how you do it…when i’m not here?”

“yeah… but it’s never enough.” you keen into his forest fire-like heat, let his arms wrap around you to keep you steady against his chest, let him tongue a wet stripe from your neck to your ear hungrily. “baby please—”

“i know baby, you’ve done so well. you know i like it when you put on a show for me.” pride swells up from his lower stomach, spreads into all four of his limbs then straight to his cock nestled against the curve of your ass. “let me take over from here.” taking your wrist into his much larger hand, you jolt as the raised and scarred skin that criss crosses over his palms and knuckles bumps your thighs.

and even though you’ve been working yourself open, each of your muscles seize and tighten as izuku pushes two thick fingers into your heat. he stretches you out like you’re about to take his cock, skilfully drags his thumb over your sticky messy clit just indulge himself.

izuku’s resolve is as strong and as firm as he stands — but even he isn’t immune to the high pitched cries and little mewls you let out as he fucks you open and mimics the way you make yourself shake with ecstasy. he’s awfully good at it, curling his fingers until he’s able to brush over that salacious spongy spot deep within your walls.

an airy chuckle vibrates in your ear at the sight of you gushing into his scarred palm. “that’s it, huh? the spot. fuck baby.” mossy curls send the ghost of goosebumps over your body as izuku nuzzles himself against you, like a cage or a blanket of dark lust that keeps you trapped in his reach. he manipulates your body with slow methodological shapes etched over the heartbeat in your pussy, spreading your arousal all over you until you’re both glossy and shiny.

lewd, unmissable squelches echo through your room — sounds you couldn’t achieve on your own. a wetness you couldn’t get without izuku’s help. you can’t even pin point the source of your own pleasure, not when his free hand maps out the curves and dips to your body even though deku knows them off by heart. he pinches and pulls you apart, forces you to fall apart underneath his touch as he tweaks your hardened nipples and taps his fingers against your pretty throat.

leaning forward into his hand, you let him give your airway a gentle squeeze.

“ah, you’re so fucking good, sweetheart,” you can tell that izuku is pleased with the way his tone jumps. his husky voice bounces around in the empty walls of your skull and you stretch accommodatingly around the third finger he gives you as a reward. “i think…i think i want to see you cum. doesn’t that sound nice?”

“i-izuku!” you reach behind you blindly and anchor your fingers into the roots of deku’s hair — pulling and tugging, anything to cope with the unimaginable ripples of lust that pulse through your shaky frame. he lets you writhe against him, grins to himself as you wildly buck into his hand as he pumps his digits in and out you equally as wild.

he moans heartily, frantically fucking you through the white hot pleasure. “again, say my name again.”

“izuku,” you cry again, but louder this time. you claw at his hand around your neck and the sheets and his skin because it all feels so good when he touches you. “izuku! izuku please!”

with your head thrown back against his shoulder, he marvels at the crease forming between your brows and the delicate way your mouth falls open around the shape of his name. “that’s my girl, that’s it. cum for me, sweetheart.” he goads as your orgasm washes over you hotly. it’s like the ground has been yanked out from beneath you and you’re free falling faster than your mind can catch up.

you clench hard around izuku’s sloppy fingers, letting him catch you and guide you through it all. “so pretty when you cum, keep that orgasm going for me, okay?” he’s sweet, pressing soft kisses to your temple and you feel a loving warmth blossom at each spot while deku grounds you. he’s there while the aftershocks make their way through you and your cunt seeps happily with your arousal. he holds you close, lazily tongues at your neck while he pulls out of you — as though not to cause you any pain.

deku lets his arousal soaked hand rest lovingly on your navel as a reminder of what’s to come and how far he could reach if he decided to fuck you later on. for now he whispers cotton-wrapped and honey dipped praises into your ear, massaging the parts of you that might be sore from spreading yourself for him. “did that feel good? are you okay?”

“yeah, yeah. ‘m more than okay,” you hum, all sleepy like, and croon your head upwards in search of a kiss and a handsome face full of freckles. “did you—?”

deku’s hands tighten on your waist. “did you expect me not to cum in my pants from feeling you up?” he laughs brightly. “i like touching you, you feel good. it feels good to me.”

that’s hot. he’s hot.

and you’re suddenly aware of the warm stickiness against your backside.

“n-next time, izuku,” you lower your voice to a purr, rolling over in his arms so that you’re both chest to chest. your hand dips between your bodies to stroke at his semi-hardness, boldly. “you’ll let me touch you? let me have you…it feels good for me too.”

and who is deku to deny your hungry request.

꒰ end. — all rights reserved © tteokdoroki 2023. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

[epistaxia]

♡ Eddie Munson random headcanons ♡

Random headcanons - in some of them the reader is mentioned and it can be read as gender neutral, romantic or platonic. (No use of Y/N)

Contents and warnings: nothing really :) maybe a little bity if fluff. (664 words)

A/N: i’ve been collecting these in my journal in the past few days, beacuse yes, sometimes i write by hand about a man in my journal like an infatuated 19th century woman! Some are quite long, more like short drabbles. (English is not my first language so be kind :))

Eddie loves when his friends and partner give him drawings or little notes. He acts cool when he gets them, because they're often for the d&d campaign or they’re simple christmas cards, but then reads them when he’s alone in his room, smiling to himself. He keeps them in a shoebox and hangs up on his walls the drawings he likes most. (OMG if he ever met Will! !! Aaaahhh)

THRIFT KING. He spends the money he makes by dealing on music gear, so he has a limited budget for stuff like clothes. He's been doing it for a while now so he has a precise itinerary of thrift stores around Hawkins, fidelity cards, and all. He even once did that thing of hiding a jacket he wanted between other clothes and came back the next day with enough money to buy it. When he comes back, he puts on a little fashion show for you and explains in detail how he’s going to modify the clothes to match his style. (We’ve all seen those pictures of Joseph Quinn trying the different versions of the costume. That's the vibe. Chaos basically. )

Every Christmas and birthday he gets his uncle a new hat and has been since he was in elementary school. It turned into a tradition and now uncle Wayne proudly displays his collection in the trailer living room (you can actually see them in the show in the background and in that backstage tour of the van)

When he’s having a tough day, he goes to skull rock with his walkman and/or a book. He likes the walk from and to his house the most, it’s an opportunity to clear his mind and spend some time alone. He's been doing it for a few years and more than once he had to go back home because the spot was already taken by a couple. He didn’t know him personally yet, but at least twice the rock was occupied by Steve and the girl he was going out with at that time.

He read in a magazine that some metal band members use women’s perfume as an act of rebellion and provocation. So, he bought one and wears it, hoping that if anyone smells it they think it rubbed off a girl he was with, instead of making fun of him.

Asks you to help him collect bottle caps, can tabs and safety pins to make diy pins. He always makes an extra few to give you as a thank you.

Kind of an arsonist, out of curiosity though. He just has to set fire to different small objects and materials. He knows they will just burn but what if this time something else happens, doesn’t even think about how the something else might be something dangerous, like a small explosion or toxic fumes.

He has an ever-changing, but very detailed list of tattoos and piercings to get in the future. Yes, it includes at least one nipple piercing and a tramp stamp. He says it's not a tramp stamp, but the position and design say otherwise.

His weirdly specific childhood interest was Norse mythology. He still remembers some very specific events and details and adapts them to put in the D&D campaigns. Just imagine the joy of little Eddie learning there was a god of mischief!? It took him a while to spell mischief correctly but he got there.

When you spend the night at his and have breakfast together, he insists on doing stupid stuff, and you have to go along even if you’re still waking up. You have to throw him cheerios, because it’s fundamental to know how many he can catch with his mouth at 9 in the morning on a Friday. And you have to pour him maple syrup on the pancakes, and also directly in his mouth still full of cereals, because he doesn’t want to get his fingers sticky.

Eddie hates the feeling of stepping on anything like sand, grass or rocks barefoot, so when you go to Lovers' lake, he jumps on strangers' towels on his way to and from the water.

[blacksun-judar]

Relationship headcanons with Haruchiyo Sanzu ❀

rating/warnings: second part is nsfw! mdni. mentions of knife and gun play, choking, degradation, dacryphilia, overstim and other mature themes.

notes: english is not my first language, so I apologize for any and all mistakes. I'd let this man do unspeakable things to me.

masterlist

• oh honey, what were you thinking?

• no really, you’re in for a ride.

• this man is unhinged in the best and worst ways imaginable and you’re his number one prey.

• i pin sanzu as someone for whom the concept of personal space simply doesn’t exist. he loves to touch you, not necessarily in a sexual way. but feeling your warmth grounds him and provides a sense of security. • all those drugs really mess with his head, so memory issues and mood swings are a given.

• he keeps track of important dates by writing sticky notes or setting reminders on his phone.

• doesn’t want to lash out at you but if he’s had an especially rough week even the smallest of things can tick him off. won’t harm you physically but by god this man has a foul mouth.

• i only really see sanzu working out with someone who accepts him for who he is. you may suggest he tone down the drugs or work a little less but don’t expect him to quit either. • he is a workaholic par excellence, so please understand if he has to prioritize bonten at times. • it’s not that he doesn’t want to spend time with you, quite the opposite actually. but living life as a criminal, there’s just things he can’t forsee.

• if you make him choose between yourself and bonten, he’ll 1000% go with the latter. • firstly, quitting bonten not only meant certain death for himself but it also put you at high risk of being hurt. secondly, if you truly loved him, you wouldn’t force such a decision on him.

• I mentioned this in another post but sanzu is a surprisingly good cook. he sucks at anything else domestic but preparing a dinner for you at least once a week is his way of making up for all those nights he couldn’t spend with you.

• despite what he seems, this man has a really gentle and playful side that only you really get to see.

• cute date nights at home playing video games or watching movies.

• sometimes he’ll even have you paint his nails or do his hair.

• likes going out for drinks and flaunting you around. if there’s people checking you out it fills him with a weird sense of pride. though they’d better not stare for too long.

• loves watching you do just about anything. you could be sitting at your desk reading a book or doing laundry and he’s completely enamoured.

• really into matching couple outfits.

NSFW

• freak. absolute freak.

• name any kink and there’s a 99,9999% chance he’s into it.

• definitely leans more towards dom but by god does he make for a good bratty sub too.

• likes it messy. like really, really messy. • if you’re a squirter. he’ll make sure to soak the sheets with your juices and won’t stop until you’re a trembling mess

• knife and gun play!!! you know he’d never actually pull the trigger but that small glint of fear makes him so hard. if you let him, he’d carve his initals into your pretty skin. and of course he’d be happy to have you return the favour.

• please tease him. a lot. sanzu likes a challenge and he doesn’t want you to just lie there lifelessly.

• let him know you’re just as into it as he is. tug his hair, scratch his back, bite his lip, anything.

• sometimes wears a cockring to keep him from cumming so soon.

• very high libido. doesn’t always act on his urges but he’s ready to go whenever you are.

• sanzu enjoys giving head as much as receiving. • definitely a head pusher because how could he help himself when your pretty lips feel so heavenly around his cock. you’re just so good that he barely lets you get a breath in. • sometimes he’ll tie your hands to the headboard and fuck your throat until there’s tears streaming down your face.

• again, loves the mess.

• if you’re on top, overstim him. he swears he can take it.

• very vocal and will degrade you to hell and back. nothing but filth leaves this man’s mouth and he absolutely needs to hear you beg for him. • one of these days your pretty little moans will be the death of him.

• definitely into choking. Because nothing beats the way your gummy walls tighten impossibly harder around his cock whenever his fingers are wrapped around your neck.

• surprisingly gentle after sex. whispers sweet nothings into your ear and loves taking a bath together.

[scuttling]

Sweet Evening Breeze

Fandom: Criminal Minds Pairings: Aaron Hotchner/Female Reader Word Count: 5,042 Tags: 18+, NSFW, Naïve reader, Innocence kink, Oral sex, Unprotected sex, Previous bad sexual experience Summary: Being Jack Hotchner’s babysitter is a pretty great job. He’s an angel, most of the time, and his dad is so sweet and thoughtful, really takes care of you. Really takes care of you... *Requested by anon Link to A03 or read below! “Jack, buddy, time for breakfast,” you call down the hall for the third time. “We’ll play Legos later.” He shouts something nearly incomprehensible back, and you sigh as you stretch up, trying to reach the jam he likes on the top shelf of the cupboard.

Most of the time, the fact that Jack’s dad, Aaron, is very tall gives you butterflies in your stomach, but sometimes it’s just an inconvenience—like when he puts groceries up so high you don’t have a chance of reaching them.

“Dad did not say you could skip breakfast, and it’s not okay to lie. Little monster,” you mutter, and you can feel Aaron’s breath on the back of your neck when he chuckles softly. Whoops. You didn’t even know he was standing there. “I say that with full affection.”

He reaches around you to take down the jam, resting a hand on your lower back, probably for support. The bit of skin exposed by your stretching tingles at the touch.

“Of course, and so do I. Often.” You turn to face him, give him a grateful smile, and take the jar of jam.

“Thank you. Ugh, aren’t you miserable in that?” you ask, gesturing to his usual business suit. As Jack’s babysitter, you see Aaron in a suit almost every day—another thing that gives you butterflies—but you’re in the middle of a heatwave, and it’s 97 degrees in your little suburb of DC, which means it’s probably more like 115 downtown. That’s too hot to do anything, but especially in a suit and tie.

“It’s cool in here, but yes, I’ll probably be miserable the second I step foot outside.” You spread peanut butter on one English muffin and jam on another, laughing softly when a thought comes to you.

“Too bad you don’t have as much flexibility with your dress code as I do.”

At the start of this heatwave last week, you’d asked Aaron—after much nervous deliberation—if you could wear shorts and tank tops around the house instead of your usual jeans and a t-shirt or sweater. Your so-called uniform was self-imposed, because he’d told you from the start you could dress however you were comfortable, but you didn’t want him to get the wrong idea. You weren’t trying to show off your body, or tempt or tease, or anything like that; you were just extremely hot, especially playing outside with Jack.

He had agreed, of course, that you should dress for the weather, and that shorts and tank tops were fine. He also reminded you that you could use the pool whenever you wanted, whether he was home or not, and just thinking about taking a dip later is enough to make you sigh in relief.

“I don’t think anyone would be interested in seeing me in an outfit like that,” he jokes—sometimes people can’t tell when he’s joking, because he’s so dry, but you’re familiar with his humor by now—and you laugh again. It earns you a smile.

“I think it’s more important that you’re comfortable than what people think when they see you in something, but it would probably be a little distracting.” You’ve seen him in his swim trunks on more than one occasion, most recently with no shirt to accompany them, and you can attest to being very distracted that day. You were supposed to be keeping an eye on Jack, and you did, would never put him in danger, but your eyes had also been following the drops of water that dripped from Aaron’s hair, down his throat, over his chest…

You had been hot for more than one reason that day, and your butterflies moved a little bit lower.

You shake your head of those thoughts quickly, glance around you to see that Jack is still not in the kitchen. You sigh, and put the peanut butter muffin on a paper napkin, hand it to Aaron.

“I’m going to go get him, but have a good day, okay? Try to stay cool; maybe you can take a swim tonight when it’s not so hot.”

“Good idea. Maybe you can join me if you’re still here.” That was sweet of him to offer. You smile at his kindness, brush a hand over your head. You wish your hair wasn’t all over the place, clinging to the sweat on your neck, your temples, but humidity is not your friend. He doesn't seem to mind.

“Thanks, maybe I will.” He gathers his things to head out, and you steel yourself and head to Jack’s room, scoop him up, giggling, into your arms, and plop him down for breakfast.

The two of you spend the day inside, because even swimming is a nightmare when the sun is beating down the way it is. You play with Legos, watch a movie, do some coloring pages, and play learning games on his iPad.

At around three, Aaron texts you, lets you know he won’t be home tonight because of a case, and you mentally plan out a small, easy dinner for you and Jack, then a little more playtime, then bed for Jack and a swim for you after.

You tuck him in, turn on his nightlight, and close the door behind you, then head to your room to change into your bathing suit.

You usually wear a purple one piece with shorts over it, something you can play with Jack in without worrying about anything falling out, so you’re surprised to find a pale blue, floral print bikini on your bed—a very tiny bikini—with a sticky note on the tag.

Went shopping for Jack and this made me think of you. I hope you like it. - Aaron

The first two things to pop into your head are, it was so sweet of him to think of you while out shopping, and you’re really glad he’s not here to see you in it, because it only half-covers all the things it’s supposed to cover. You double check the tag, but it’s the right size, so it must just be the intended design. Your cheeks flush hot, but it also makes you feel good, to be wearing so little. Kind of wrong, but good in a way you can’t explain.

You grab a couple of beach towels and step out into the slightly cooler night air, sigh at the feel of it on so much of your skin. You lay out your towels on the lounge chair by the edge of the pool—maybe you’ll lay there and read or play on your phone after your swim—and then step into the pool.

The water is still so warm, and the contrast between it and the breeze that blows across the surface has goosebumps breaking out across your skin. You dip your head under the water, let your hair fall loose and luxuriously wet after being twisted up all day long, and when you open your eyes Aaron is standing at the edge of the pool; you gasp, startled by his sudden appearance, and then laugh lightly.

“Oh my god, you scared me. I thought you weren’t going to be home tonight?” You swim closer to the edge so you can see him better, and he crouches down to your level. He’s taken off his jacket and tie, loosened the collar of his shirt and rolled up his sleeves; your heart races a little at his proximity, and all the dark hair you’re presented with.

“Change of plans, we weren’t needed after all. I texted you, but I see your phone is over there; I’m sorry I scared you.” He looks you over, something calculating in his gaze, and then smiles softly. “You’re wearing the swimsuit I bought you. Do you like it?”

You can feel yourself flush, because you hadn’t anticipated him being home to see you in it, but there’s nothing you can do about that now.

“Yes, I like it. It’s pretty. Thank you.” He must be able to sense your apprehension, because he tilts his head curiously.

“If you don’t like it, you can tell me. It won’t hurt my feelings. Don’t be shy.”

“It’s not that I don’t like it, I love it. That was so sweet of you.” You reach out a hand to rest on his arm, don’t want him to feel like you aren’t grateful. “It’s just a little… revealing.” He makes a soft noise of contemplation, reaches out to brush his fingers over your shoulder, over the strap.

“I was a little worried about that. Why don’t you get out of there and let me see? I can let you know if I think it’s too much.” You appreciate that he’d do that for you, and you respect his opinion, but you feel really exposed in it—and you’re not sure why that makes you feel so uncomfortable and so good at the same time.

Sure, he’s the most handsome man you’ve ever seen in your life, but there’s no way he’d ever look at you as anything other than the sitter. You’re just too… innocent.

All the same, you nod your head and lift yourself up out of the pool; Aaron moves back, helps you up, and guides you over to the lounge chair. He sits, and you stand.

From there, he looks slowly over your body; he lingers over your breasts, your hips, then asks you to turn so he can see the back. You swallow, self-conscious under his gaze.

“Have you ever been this undressed in front of a man?” he asks, his voice low, and your breath hitches. “I can tell you’re nervous, that’s all.”

“Um. Once,” you say, flushing. He hums, brushes a hand down the length of your arm, and you feel a chill. You turn back to face him, and he pats the lounge chair, encouraging you to sit next to him. You sit, cross legged, facing him, nervous, but… also not; it’s hard to explain.

“Were you completely naked?” The way he asks it is so casual, but being naked isn’t casual for you; you can barely bring yourself to think about being naked, let alone talk about it. With your employer.

But something about the way he asks it makes you want to answer, at the same time, and there’s almost no one you trust more than Aaron. He’s always been so good to you.

“No. I left something on.” It had been a bra, gray with a pink bow in the middle. You were more comfortable keeping it on, and your ex-boyfriend hadn’t cared. He hadn’t cared about much, it turns out.

“Was it during sex?” The way the word sounds coming out of his mouth makes you anxious, and excited; you can’t believe you’re having this conversation, and you also don’t want it to end.

“Yes, during... sex.” He nods, brings a hand to your cheek and brushes your wet hair back, tucks it behind your ear. Your heart is beating so fast you’re surprised the world around you is still so calm, quiet. Intimate.

“How many times have you had sex, sweet girl?” You close your eyes, embarrassed. You don’t want him to know how innocent you really are, not when he’s so much older and more experienced. He’ll laugh.

Then again, this is Aaron, and he’s only ever made you feel cared about and safe before. So maybe he won’t?

“Um. One time.”

“Just one time? That’s surprising to me; you’re so beautiful.” You shiver, maybe from being wet with the breeze on your skin, or maybe because he brushes his fingers over your lips, or maybe because he called you beautiful. No one’s ever called you beautiful. “Did it feel good?”

You’d wanted it to feel good; it did, for maybe a minute, and you think about that minute all the time, especially when you… when you slip your hand into your panties at night in your bed, thinking about Aaron’s broad shoulders, his thick forearms, his hands, his mouth...

“Kind of. And then no.” His hand freezes and he frowns. His voice is abruptly less low, more serious. There’s a wrinkle between his eyebrows you want to reach out and touch.

“Did he hurt you?” It had hurt, but you know he hadn’t meant for it to hurt. He wasn’t mean. He was just so eager to finish that once he started, he’d stopped caring if you were feeling good, so focused on his own body. You figured that’s just how guys are, and it made you never want to do it again—so you didn’t.

“Not on purpose,” is what you say. He covers your hand with his, big and warm and careful. You’ve always felt so comforted by his touch, and tonight is no exception.

“What happened?”

“It started quickly and ended quickly. I don’t think I was… prepared.” You’re blushing, hoping he understands your indirect statement so you don’t have to say it out loud. He rubs his thumb soothingly over the back of your hand, reaches up with the other to touch your flushed cheek.

“You weren’t wet?” You exhale, a little shaky, tell him no. “Are you wet now, sweetheart?” You’re almost ashamed to say, but he is asking...

“Very.” It’s just a whisper, but it makes him smile a little, touch your mouth again. You could get used to that.

“Good girl. Can I feel?” That gives you pause, for a moment, but thinking of him touching you where you’ve imagined for months—it’s too good of a prospect to pass up, no matter how nervous you are. You nod, and he moves his hand inside your swimsuit bottoms, brushes over your core, slips between your lips easily. He never takes his eyes off of yours. “It would feel really good to have sex now. Do you want to try again? You’re always taking such good care of us; I want to take care of you.”

You bite your lip, and he leans in slowly, presses his mouth to yours for a gentle kiss. You make a soft noise of pleasure, tilt your hips so you’re sliding over his hand, and he groans—it’s honestly one of the best sounds you’ve ever heard in your life. It means he wants you… never in a million years would you have guessed that.

“I want to try,” you breathe, and you feel bold, so you kiss him this time. He pulls you close, deepens the kiss, adds tongue, and you moan at the feel, clinging to his shirt. “Aaron.”

“Let’s go to my bedroom,” he says, voice low, and he moves his fingers up to the part of you that makes you shake with desperate need, rubs tight circles so you’re panting, chest heaving; you nod quickly and he picks you up, hand still moving inside your swimsuit, carries you to the sliding glass door and pushes it open with his elbow.

You assume you’ll head straight for the bedroom, but he stops in the kitchen, sets you on the counter and kisses you again, a little harder than you’ve experienced before; you love it, try your best to match the way his mouth moves, and his fingers press hard against your aching bud, making you gasp with pleasure.

“Have you ever had an orgasm?” he asks, a little breathless himself, and you smooth your fingers through his hair.

“Um. I think so. From touching myself like this.” He moves his fingers faster, and you press your palm against the counter for support, move your hips against his hand. It feels so good, so much better than when you do it that you could cry.

“Has someone else ever given you an orgasm?” You use the fingers in his hair to bring him to you for a kiss, something you both moan softly into.

“No. I want-I want you to be the first,” you murmur, and he closes his eyes, exhales through his nose, and lifts you up again, this time carrying you to his bedroom and setting you on your feet by the bed. He looks down at you with eyes so dark and gorgeous, then asks if he can remove what little clothing you have on. You tell him yes, and he pushes down the bottoms, which you step carefully out of.

When his hands move to the top, you hesitate, always self-conscious about this; he leans in and presses delicious kisses to your neck, your shoulders, slides the straps down, and looks up at you with caring, gentle eyes. You nod, and he pulls your top off, too, leaving you completely naked in front of someone for the first time in your life.

It’s such a rush, you wish he hadn’t waited so long to initiate this.

“You are so incredibly beautiful,” he says, and with the way he‘s looking at you, you actually believe it. He takes your face in his hands, kisses your lips, then moves down your throat again, your chest—he pays your nipples a bit of attention, flicking his tongue, scraping his teeth, and your mouth falls open in a silent moan. “So perfect.”

He puts his hands all over your body, sweeping over your arms, your waist, and he presses kisses to your stomach, your hips, your thighs. You want his mouth where his fingers were, but you don’t ask; it’s almost like he knows anyway, when he looks up at you from his knees.

“Has anyone ever tasted you?” You shake your head, and he puts his hands on your butt, squeezes softly, and guides you to lay back on the bed. “I want you to tell me how it feels, okay?”

Normally, you’re quiet out of necessity, because when you aren’t here you have an apartment you share with a roommate—even though most of the time, you sleep here whether you’re strictly required to or not. You’re quiet here too, because you’ve never wanted Aaron to know how he makes you feel, although now you’re really wishing you’d have found out sooner that he feels the same way. Imagine all the cool, quiet nights you could have spent on this bed, in his arms…

Shaking yourself out of the fantasy—because reality is literally happening, and it’s so much better—you nod, and he carefully spreads your thighs, leans in to tease his tongue along your slit, light and wet.

“Oh. Aaron.” He looks up, reaches a hand forward to twine your fingers together, and you squeeze them, moaning when he dips again, this time pressing his tongue inside you where you’re wettest. “Oh my-oh my god.” He leans in to press damp kisses to your lower belly.

“That’s right, sweetheart. I want you to come on my tongue—come on my tongue, don’t be shy.” Again, he slides it inside, brings his free hand up to rub you, and it’s not long before you do as he asks, shaking and tightening your grip on his hand. You’re almost embarrassed by how loud you are, but he is nothing but sweet when he comes up, whispers in your ear how well you did for him, how pleased he is to be the first to make you moan like that, to taste you.

He kisses your mouth so you can taste yourself, and groans when you reach for his head, hold him closer.

“Thank you,” you murmur, shaky, when the kiss breaks, and he rubs over your lips with his thumb like he did before, smiles softly.

“You don’t have to thank me, sweet girl. I told you I wanted to take care of you; I’m just so glad you let me.” You move your hands to the front of his shirt and rest them there, hoping he’ll take the hint, but he just gets a glimmer in his eye that makes the butterflies flutter low despite your very recent release. “Don’t be shy. Tell me what you want.” You flush, don’t know how to ask a man—especially a man like Aaron—to get naked for you. “Oh, there’s that blush. My sweet, innocent girl. You haven’t even been properly fucked, of course you don’t know how to ask for what you want. But I’ll teach you.”

He sits up, hovering over your body, gets his fingers on the buttons of his shirt and starts to slip them free. He has to unzip his pants to untuck it, and the sight and sound of that makes you whimper—you immediately tense, feel shame at being so vocal, but he just leans in to kiss you, soft and slow.

“You can’t wait for me to be naked too, can you? You want to see what a man looks like, feel what a man feels like. Don’t you?”

“Yes.” It comes out roughly, almost too low for even you to hear; you clear your throat and try again. “Yes, Aaron.” It earns you a slightly harder kiss, and he climbs off the bed to undress the rest of the way; your eyes are drawn to his erection as soon as it’s exposed, and he looks at you with nothing less than lust in his eyes. It makes you shiver and want to open your legs for him again.

“You’re staring. Have you touched a cock before—stroked it with your hand?”

“No. Can I?” you ask, sitting up against the pillows, and he nods, moves next to you, and takes your hand. You’re intimidated by the size of him, all the more so when he wraps your fingers around it, covers them with his, and strokes.

“Feels so good, baby,” he rumbles, slinging his free hand around your hip and holding you close to his body. He is so… just good looking, so different from your ex-boyfriend, from guys your age, and you look up at his face while you touch him, hoping to bring him even half as much pleasure as he brought you. Your eyes flick back down, though, after a short time, transfixed by the wet head disappearing into your fist. “Hmm. Good girl. Do you want to try putting your mouth on it?”

God, do you want to try that. You want to know what it tastes like, feels like on your tongue; you nod, scoot back a little so you can bend over him, and he puts his hands on your head, slowly guides your open mouth to hover over him.

“Careful with your teeth, and keep me nice and wet, okay? We'll go slowly.” He pushes your hair back from your face so he can see you better, which is sweet, and you nod, close your lips around him, let him show you how he wants you to do it.

He feels so big in your mouth, and you remember to be careful, to be wet, like he said. He’s not making you take him deeply, just a couple of inches, and when you’re not so nervous it feels really good, the weight of him against your tongue, his gentle hands teaching you what to do. It makes you feel useful, learning how he likes to be pleasured, and you enjoy finding ways to make yourself useful to Aaron.

“Perfect, perfect. Just like that—you’re doing great, sweetheart.” You hum around him, pleased that it feels good for him, and you’re stricken with the urge to feel him spilling into your mouth, but he groans and offers something even more intriguing. “Would you like to come sit in my lap? I want to press into your warm, tight, sweet pussy; I promise it will feel good, not like last time.” You make another noise, something eager, and he pulls you off and gets his hands on your waist, brings you up to rest against his thighs.

“Will it hurt?” you ask, just in case. You hadn’t thought to ask that last time. “You’re big; what if it doesn’t fit?” You look up at him, and warm, tender eyes peer into yours.

“It won’t hurt, and it will fit, I promise. We’ll make it fit. Lean up.” You stretch up a little, press your hands to his shoulders, and he rubs his hands soothingly over your body, kisses your chest, and then dips a finger inside you; you grip him tightly, moan, hold still while he moves it in and out, then adds another. “How does that feel? Don’t be shy.”

“Feels-feels good,” you breathe, and he pumps them together which feels so incredible, so new. He brings his free hand to your butt and squeezes softly.

“Good girl. I’m adding another. You’re so wet, it shouldn’t be a problem, but tell me if it’s uncomfortable.” The third finger makes you feel like you’re full up, a little snug, but you know you’ll need to get used to it if you want him inside; you breathe, will yourself to only feel the good, remind yourself that this isn’t like last time. Aaron is being so good to you; he won’t stop being good to you.

“Aaron.” It’s a gasp, a plea, a question, and he answers it by pulling his fingers out, putting his hands on your hips, and lining his cock up at your entrance, lowering you slowly onto it. You pant, moan as it slides in; it feels tight to you, and you’re so incredibly full, but his hands feel like safety and you’re not worried. He’s always taken care of you; he wouldn’t hurt you.

“You’re perfect, you’re doing so good. You feel so good.” He squeezes you, stretches up to brush his lips over yours. “We’re going to make you come again; I’ll give you the best night of your life, I promise.”

“Of course you will. This is already the best night of my life,” you murmur, wrapping your arms around his neck, and he kisses you harder; you can feel his hands tighten, and it doesn’t hurt, only makes you want more, rougher. You feel filthy for wanting that, but it’s Aaron, and you want any and everything he wants to give; you also want him to take anything he wants to take.

He moves your body up and down, a show of strength that makes you moan, just a string of desperate sounds you’re a little embarrassed of; he appreciates the noises you make, though, if the way he grips you is any indication, his eyes determined as he makes you bounce on his cock.

“Oh, yes baby, just like that. How does it feel, sweet girl?”

“Mmh, good, so good, so good,” you sigh, your butt making contact with his firm thighs each time he brings you down on him. “Feels so good to be… to have it inside me.”

Aaron hums, frowns just slightly.

“Tell me what it is, baby. Your innocent little mouth can be dirty for me, this once. What feels good? What’s inside you?” His voice is a little tense, like maybe he wants to finish, but he doesn't change a thing, doesn’t hurt you so he can get there faster. You sink your teeth into your bottom lip, curl fingers into his hair.

“Your… It’s your cock, Aaron. Your cock feels so good inside me.” You’ve thought the word, never said it aloud, but it makes him groan deeply, so you vow to say it again at some point just to savor that reaction.

“Yes it does, yes it does. Feels so good inside your perfect pussy, my perfect, sweet girl.” His hands move you faster, and you want to help now that you know this is how he likes it; when the two of you work together, it’s quicker thrusts, harder thrusts, your breasts bouncing along with the rest of your body and making you feel filthy, indecent. Amazing.

You lean in for a kiss, and Aaron turns it into something deep and decadent, delicious; you pass moans back and forth, holding tightly to him, the both of you breaking a sweat even in the cool air. You’re so close, so close to the ultimate pleasure you felt with his head between your legs, and you can hear your moans change, eager, needy things.

“Aaron please. Please.” You take his face in your hands, look into his eyes, bounce on him and kiss him and plead for release against his lips, and he holds you so tightly and climaxes, spilling inside you and pumping up into you, breathless.

“Oh, good girl, you did that. You made me come, baby. Not so innocent anymore, are you?” You shake your head—you don’t feel innocent anymore, you feel good, you want more, want to chase the feelings you’ve felt tonight, including the one still building inside you. “Now let’s get you off. I want to feel it.” He digs his fingers into your hips, so hard you think it might bruise, but in your heightened state of arousal it just feels good; you keep moving until your orgasm takes control of you, makes you grip his hair hard in your fingers and slam yourself down on him.

“Yes, yes, mmm.” He brings a hand to your face, softly catches your jaw, and guides you to make eye contact while you ride him through it until you are both spent, sinking against the bed. He sweeps his hands over your body, kisses you softly, and you melt at his touch. “That was so incredible. Thank you.”

“I told you, you don’t have to thank me. I wanted to take care of you; been wanting that for some time,” he admits easily, touching your cheek. “I’m just glad I could give you a good experience after the bad one.”

“Good doesn’t even begin to cover it.” Your voice is light, low, because saying things like this, talking about sex, is still so new to you. “I love being here for you, helping you with Jack, and anything else you need. Do you think you’ll want or need me like this again?”

“Oh, I don’t see how I could do without, if it’s something you want. Although I may have to return that swimsuit. It is pretty indecent,” he says with a somewhat guilty smile.

You figured as much, and for the first time tonight you feel very confident when you say, “No, I think I’d like to keep it.”

Taglist ❤️: @thaddeusly @arsonhotchner @mrsh0tchner @ssahotchie @sleepyreaderreads @mintphoenix @meghannnnnn @disgruntledchowchow @azenpal @g-l-pierce @my-rosegold-soul @ssamorganhotchner @heliotropehotch @angelhotchner @qtip-blog @gspenc @wishuhadstayed

[tetsunova]

notes they’d give you

with: multiple characters x gn!reader as always

genre: fluff + crack

type: imagines??? 

a/n: i go on hiatus for a couple days and forget everything bare w me. writing’s still the same (i think)

masterlist

Doodles. Expect a crumpled piece of paper aimed straight to the back of your head that could contain anything from small hearts with both your initials in them to a whole comic strip. This boy makes sure his pencil case (if he ever makes one; it’s usually pens and pencils just dumped into his bag) has coloured pens, since ‘it brings out the best of his art’. Needless to say the drawings look miserable and nothing like they’re supposed to but it’s the effort that counts. His face lights up when he finds out you store all (well the almost decent looking ones) the doodles he makes in your journal. He’s most likely going to get caught throwing the paper but oh well that’s a story for another day.

Bokuto, Tendou, Matsukawa, Nishinoya, Tanaka, Hinata

Pick-up lines. He thinks he’s so cheeky and sly when he’s doing this. If he gets a single giggle or smile when you read the most pathetic pick-up lines he could ever find, it’s over for you. Thereafter, expect one of those either already placed on your desk when you get to school or just placed in between the pages of one of your notebooks. Now what he didn’t expect was getting pick-up lines in return, not the stupid kind, rather the ones that are aimed straight at his heart. Ladies and gentlemen, and my non-binaries, I now present to you a blushing mess. (Just imagine a blushing picture of him thank you). When I say he cannot even bear to hold your hand because of how flustered he is, I mean it.

Kuroo, Tsuki, Oikawa, Lev, Semi, Suna, Atsumu

Letters. Just a few words or lines aren’t enough for him to express what he feels, no no. Only a letter seems adequate at most. Now he knows he’s not always the best at expressing his feelings or talking about what’s on his mind, so he writes. That’s what he does best so why not put it to use. He’d probably give it to you once he’s walked you home and will request you to read it before you sleep. Loves talking to you about it later. Sometimes they’re just poems that he thinks can express only a fraction of what he feels for you. I swear they’re the most beautiful things someone could ever write. 

Kita, Akaashi, Osamu, Ushijima, Asahi, Sugawara

Sticky notes. You’ll find them stuck on your lunchbox, in the inside of your locker or maybe just over your table right before that one test you’ve been worrying about for weeks. They’ll have the cutest little messages- ‘I love you <3’ (yes with the heart drawn exactly like that) or maybe a ‘never doubt your looks, you’re the prettiest person I’ve met, inside and out’ when he knows you’ve been looking at the mirror a tad bit too much. He knows he gets a little too busy sometimes, so he thinks of this as a way of showing you that you’re always on his mind no matter where he is or what he’s doing.

Kenma, Yamaguchi, Kageyama, Konoha, Iwaizumi, Daichi

Bonus for Kags cause happy birthay to our lil blueberry headed gremlin <3

Greeting Cards. He’s so quiet all the time, and he knows that. It’s just that when you’re around, he feels a little too much. His heart beats a little too fast, he’s mesmerised by the trail of perfume you leave a little too much and your hands entangled with his make him smile a little too much, but he doesn’t mind. He could never mind. So he makes his actions speak louder than his words. Since he isn’t quite well aware of which one he should give you, he ends up picking the ones with the most idiomatic expressions. High chance he picks one with a dirty joke and doesn’t get why you’re laughing once he gives it to you, at all.

taglist: join here :)

@ri-days @bokubear @yatsurinamikaze @sakusaww @mxtchalilies and @ushijimacentral cause she hyped me up ily