#cue hours of scrubbing

[jacely]

Hahaha-… Uh-oh…

[robbysreaders]

pairing: jack abbot x f!reader  word count: 1.8k notes: I saw this gif of Shawn from Chicago PD i think? and it made me think of Jack giving a lecture and then i kinda spiraled out idk!!!

You slip away mid-shift, all your patients stable, waiting on results or beds upstairs. You catch Dana’s eye as you peel off your gloves.

“Running upstairs for a sec—page me if anything changes.”

Dana arches a brow, glancing at her watch. “How convenient. A certain silver fox is about halfway through his presentation, if my sources are correct.”

You raise a brow. “I’m just going to support my colleagues. Totally normal.”

“Sure,” she says, deadpan. “Totally normal to reapply lip gloss before a lecture.”

You roll your eyes and make your escape.

You duck into the back of the auditorium, quiet as you can, but your entrance still catches Jack’s eye. He doesn’t miss a beat in his sentence, just tips the corner of his mouth up in a smile before continuing. You melt into a seat, pretending not to notice.

Jack and Samira were asked to give a presentation on their banana pants pigtail catheter procedure from the PittFest MCI, after it had been published by The Lancet.

The talk wraps. The crowd filters out. You linger.

Jack steps down from the podium, spotting you. “Didn’t realize they were letting the riff raff in these days.”

You raise a brow. “We’re a teaching hospital, are we not, Dr. Abbot?”

Before he can reply, Samira swoops in and wraps you in a quick hug. “You made it! You’re coming out tonight, right? Jack’ll give you the details.” She says over her shoulder as she follows someone out the door.

Jack watches her go, then looks back at you. “So… are we?”

You blink. “Are we what?”

“Being honored with your presence tonight.”

You turn toward the exit. “I’m considering it.”

“You do realize you’re walking the opposite way from the ED.”

“What, a girl can’t grab a coffee mid-shift?”

He follows you to the cafeteria, orders a black coffee, pays for both without asking.

“You always this generous?” you tease.

“Only with people who show up to my lectures uninvited.”

You shake your head and sip your drink, and he falls into step beside you. “Can I walk you back to the Pit?”

“You say that like it’s a romantic stroll and not a direct line to getting roped into seeing patients on your day off.”

He laughs. “You still didn’t answer me.”

“I’m walking,” you say innocently.

“Not that question.”

“Oh,” you say, glancing over. “Yeah. If the next few hours don’t implode, I’ll come.”

“Careful—don’t jinx it. And first round’s on me.”

You grin. “Shouldn’t we be buying for you, Dr. Published?”

He shrugs. “Not my first publication. Still not sure why everyone’s acting like I cured cancer.”

Robby suddenly appears beside you. “You done monopolizing my best resident, Dr. Abbot?”

You take that as your cue. “Back to it,” you say quickly, slipping away.

As you walk off, you hear Jack murmur, “Told you we need ten more like her.”

“You don’t need ten,” Robby replies dryly. “One’s already got you tied in knots.”

--

The bar’s dimly lit, a little too loud, crowded with scrubs and badge lanyards. Samira’s already holding court in a booth, waving wildly when she spots you walking in.

Jack’s at the bar, two beers in hand, scanning the crowd. His shoulders drop when he sees you.

“Told you I’d show,” you say, sliding up beside him.

“You cut it close,” he says, handing you one of the beers. “Was about to assume I got stood up.”

You raise a brow. “That why you were brooding into your IPA like a sad Hemingway character?”

He huffs a laugh. “Only a little.”

You clink glasses. “To your big debut.”

He groans. “It wasn’t a debut. I’ve done talks before.”

“Yeah,” you say, sipping. “But this one had fans in the audience.”

He glances down at his beer, then at you. “Just one.”

You feel that zing of heat at his words and have to look away for a second—too much eye contact and you might combust.

Across the room, Dana’s already watching like she’s got popcorn in hand. Robby leans over and says something to her, and she nods in the most obvious way possible.

Jack notices too. “Are they—?”

“Oh yeah. Full-on surveillance mode. Maybe we should go join the group, get them to stop gossiping behind our backs.”

“Knowing them, they’ll start gossiping to our faces,” he jokes as he follows you to the booth.

Conversation flows from how excited they are with being done with revisions and how they’re being invited to a couple conferences to give the same spiel to the craziness of the emergency department and their personal lives.

At one point, your knee bumps his under the table and he doesn’t move away.

After a beat, he murmurs, “You always this bold off shift?”

You tilt your head. “You always this soft-spoken after a beer?”

He chuckles. “Maybe.”

You smile, leaning in just enough to keep the banter between you and him. “I like it. The mysterious gruff thing works on the floor, but this? This is nice.”

He looks at you for a long moment—eyes soft, mouth curved like he’s fighting the instinct to say something he shouldn't.

Then: “You’re trouble” as his hand moves softly to your knee, hidden from the group by the table. 

You grin. 

Samira calls your name across the table, beckoning you over to take a photo. You stand reluctantly, then pause and turn back to Jack.

“You coming?”

He hesitates, then shakes his head. “I’m good here. I’ll hold your seat.”

You lean in, just close enough to tease, your voice low. “Try not to miss me too much.”

He watches you  go, fingers still resting on the spot where her knee had been. He tells himself to get a grip, but his smile betrays him.

As you walk away, you hear Robby slide into the seat next to Jack and say, loud enough for you to catch it: “So… that seems like a new development?”

Jack mutters something you can’t hear—but you see the smile he doesn’t bother to hide.

The group’s thinned out. Laughter’s softened. Samira’s doing tequila shots with two interns and Dana’s deep in animated gossip with Robby at the end of the booth.

You and Jack are side by side, quiet again.

He’s got his hand back around your knee rubbing small thoughtless circles.

Jack nurses what’s probably his third beer, but it hasn’t touched him much. He’s too grounded. Steady.

“You okay?” you ask, voice low.

He glances at you, brow raised. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You’ve just been…” you search for the word, “thoughtful.”

He smiles faintly. “Guess I’m not used to being the center of attention.”

“You handled it fine. Better than fine.”

He looks at you for a long moment.

“This thing with you… it’s not just in my head, is it?”

You blink. Heart stutters. “No,” you say. “It’s not.”

He nods once, like he needed the confirmation, like he’d been carrying that uncertainty all night.

“I’m not good at this,” he admits.

You reach for his hand under the table, wrap your fingers around his. He doesn’t flinch. Just holds on.

“You’re doing okay so far,” you say quietly.

And for a moment, everything else—the noise, the bar, the chaos of the hospital world—fades.

--

You’re halfway through rounds when you catch sight of him at the nurses’ station—coffee in hand, hair still damp from the shower, reading through a chart.

He looks up. Sees you. Smiles. It’s different than before. Softer. Quieter. Like a secret just the two of you share.

Dana clocks it immediately.

“What the hell happened last night?” she hisses, falling into step beside you as you walk toward the trauma bay.

“Nothing,” you say too fast.

She gives you a look.

“Nothing… overt,” you amend.

Behind you, Jack appears. “Morning,” he says, voice low but warm.

“It’s 3:47 in the afternoon,” you reply, trying very hard to sound normal.

He shrugs “It’s morning for me” while he hands you a cup of coffee and keeps walking. Dana stares after him.

You sip. It’s exactly how you take it.

She turns to you, eyes wide. “Okay, no. That is not normal behavior.”

You hid your smile behind the cup.

--

The ER is quiet. It's after 3 a.m.—that liminal, weightless hour when the world feels like it belongs only to the people still awake. The lights are dimmed. Somewhere down the hall, a monitor beeps—steady, slow.

You’re at the counter, finishing notes on a patient you’re about to discharge, when Jack walks by, flipping through a chart. His scrubs are rumpled. He stifles a yawn.

“You’re still here?” he asks softly.

You glance up. “Working a double. I’m actually considering switching to nights—covering some shifts for Ellis to see how it feels.” You ramble a little, nerves showing.

He leans against the counter beside you, arms folded, close enough that your elbows nearly touch. For a moment, neither of you speaks. Just the quiet hum of fluorescent lights, the hush of a sleeping hospital.

“Hm. What can I do to help tip the scales?” he says at last. “You’re the best doctor I know. We’d be lucky to have you on nights.” He pauses, then adds with a grin, “Oh, fuck—does Robby know you’re leaving him?”

You chuckle. “Of course. He’s not thrilled, but he wants me to do what’s right for me. The cases are different overnight. I’ve always been a night owl. Still figuring it out.”

“I’m always here if you want a sounding board.”

“Thanks,” you say, smiling—then shifting gears. “Have you eaten anything? Dana said she stashed some thank-you cookies earlier.”

“I’ll never say no to a 3 a.m. dessert. Lead the way.”

You end up side by side on the doctors’ lounge couch, coffee in hand, both of you still bone-tired but not ready to leave. There’s a comfort in the quiet.

After a while, he says, “You should go home.”

You glance at him. “I could say the same to you.”

He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t deflect. Just looks at you.

“Truth is,” he says quietly, “I’ve been finding reasons not to leave.”

You straighten a little, watching him.

“Not the hospital,” he adds. “Just… you. Every time we’re together, I almost go with you. And I keep trying not to. Because we work together. Because you… you get it.”

You don’t breathe for a second.

“Jack…”

He shakes his head, like he’s already regretting saying it—but then: “You make it hard. To keep the distance.”

Your heart kicks. Loud. Certain.

You turn toward him fully. “Then maybe stop trying.”

He doesn’t move—but something shifts in his expression. Softens. Opens.

You lean in.

He exhales. “This isn’t smart.”

“I’m not asking for smart.”

He leans in slowly, like he’s waiting for you to change your mind.

You don’t.

And when his lips finally meet yours, it’s gentle—almost reverent. A sigh of a kiss. Like something long-held and long-denied.

When you part, foreheads pressed together, the silence between you feels full.

There’s nothing to say.

Not yet.

[tedmustache]

Hi, may I request Jack Abbot x fem!reader with them almost getting caught going at it while at work by different coworkers and no one knows they're together, but the one that does catch them is Whitaker or Robby and Jack is like "I'm helping her find something." Pls and thank you! 🥰😁

a/n: I loved this idea! Hope you like it :)

Adrenaline

Pairing: Jack Abbot x Reader

Summary: In the nonstop chaos of The Pitt, two ER doctors find something dangerously steady in each other. Between late shifts, locked doors, and close calls, they navigate a secret that’s as thrilling as it is fragile—because in a place where nothing stays quiet for long, hiding how you feel might be the riskiest move of all.

Warnings: innuendos

Requests are open | Main Masterlist

[...]

It started in the quiet in-between moments, those fractured seconds where the world narrowed to the heat of a shared laugh in the break room, the electric brush of fingers over a patient’s chart, the way his thumb would linger on your wrist when passing a syringe.  

You told yourself it was nothing. 

But then came the late shifts, the ones that left your bones aching and your lungs raw with the scent of antiseptic. Nights when the ER’s fluorescent lights flickered like dying stars, and the only thing that didn’t feel heavy was him. 

Jack, with his stupid smirk and the way he could make you forget the blood on your scrubs with a single glance. That was the danger.  

You were ease in chaos. And chaos was all you had.  

No one suspected. Not even Perlah and Princess, who had a sixth sense for gossip.

But then again, you were both professionals.  

The first close call happened in radiology, wedged between filing cabinets and the ghostly glow of old MRIs. You were supposed to be pulling images for a pelvic fracture. Instead, you were pressed against cold metal, Jack’s mouth tracing your jawline, his hands mapping the bare skin beneath your scrub top like he was memorizing it.  

"Someone’s going to walk in," you breathed, half-laughing, half-terrified.  

"Then we’ll be quick," he murmured against your pulse. "Five minutes. Ten, tops."  

You shoved him back, but your fingers curled into his sleeves. "You’re the worst."  

"You love it."  

And you almost said something reckless—something true—when—  

Knock. Knock.  

"Anyone in there? I need Walker scans!"  

Dana

Jack moved like a soldier under fire. Smooth, practiced, already spinning a lie as he straightened your scrub with one hand. He cracked the door, all lazy charm and raised brows. "Just grabbing them. They were misfiled behind expired head CTs. Classic."  

Dana’s eyes narrowed. "Why’s the door locked?"  

"Security protocol."  

"That’s not a thing."  

"It is now, check your email"  

She scoffed but let it go. The moment the footsteps faded, you sagged against the cabinet, heart hammering.  

"Security protocol?" you whispered, biting back a laugh.  

Jack’s grin was pure mischief. "Looked convincing, didn't it?"  

[...]

The end of the charade came a week later, in the hushed glow of the imaging room. The ER had been a warzone all shift. Gunshot wounds, a code blue, a toddler with a bead lodged so far up her nose you’d almost laughed from sheer exhaustion. You and Jack moved in sync, though, a single organism with four hands, finishing each other’s orders without speaking.  

And then, between one breath and the next, he cornered you under the hum of the machines.  

"Missed you today," he murmured into your temple, voice rough with fatigue.  

"You handed me a scalpel an hour ago."  

"Yeah." His lips grazed your cheekbone. "Missed you while doing it."  

This time, you kissed him first—slow, deep, a silent confession in the dark.  

Cue the door swinging open.  

"Jack, do you—oh."  

Robby.  

The three of you froze. Jack shifted instinctively, blocking you with his body (pointless, but sweet). Robby blinked, processing, then slowly backed out.  

"I’m gonna pretend I didn’t see anything."  

Jack cleared his throat. "She was looking for something."  

A beat. Then, from the hallway:  

"Under your scrubs?"  

"Very thorough search," you called back, deadpan, before collapsing into silent laughter against Jack’s chest. He just pressed a kiss to your hair, like getting caught was nothing. Like you were everything.  

[...]

Later, in the ambulance bay, the city exhaled around you—streetlights bleeding into rain-slick pavement, the distant wail of sirens a reminder that the world kept turning. You sipped terrible coffee, shoulders touching.  

"So," you said. "Robby knows."  

Jack shrugged. "Yeah. Probably."  

"You’re okay with that?"  

He turned, eyes dark and sure. "I already have what I want." A thumb brushed your knuckles. "Let them talk. They don’t get to know what this is unless we say so."  

You nudged him. "And if someone else walks in on us?"  

Jack’s smirk was a promise. "Then I’ll say I’m helping you find something."  

"Yeah? What exactly am I looking for?"  

His voice dropped, stripped bare of jokes.  

"Me."  

And this time, in the quiet, no one interrupted. 

[ds-angel1]

can you do a hitman! rafe x reader fic where reader hires hitman! rafe to kill her cheating husband— and she finds out that rafe doesn’t seem too bad himself ;)

a/n: um so... I didn´t read the request well enough and didn´t see the cheating... so so sorry!! I´m gonna keep it the way I have it, cause it´s not that integral to the plot. I hope this isn´t too far off from what you wanted and sorry that it´s taken me so long, such a cool request!!!!

cw: murder/hiring a hitman, brief mention of abuse, mention of shooting and drowning, unprotected sex

wc: ~ 1.5k

The parking lot was a wasteland of cracked asphalt and flickering streetlights, each drip of water from a leaky gutter slicing through the silence like a metronome of dread.

Your footsteps echoed, uncertain and slow, each one louder than you'd like. Fingers twitched at your sides, restless and cold, while your mind spiraled, thoughts crashing into each other with no room to breathe, let alone think clearly.

Time stretched. Minutes passed like hours, every second a drumbeat in your chest. Then finally, movement. A figure emerged from the shadows.

A man. Jeans, hoodie, buzzcut, and a scowl etched so deep it looked permanent. His eyes swept the lot in quick, practiced scans before settling on you. He stopped just out of reach.

“Um… are you… the guy?” you asked, the words fumbling out, awkward and thin. You didn’t know his name, only what he was supposed to do.

“Yeah. You Mrs. Walton?”

The name stung, triggering something deep in your skull. You clenched your jaw. Not for much longer, you reminded yourself. Soon, it would be gone, scrubbed from your life like blood from tile.

“Yes,” you murmured.

He studied you, eyes dark and unreadable. “You got anything on you I should know about?”

You shook your head. “What… like a recorder? No.”

“Good.” His tone was flat, but the warning behind it landed hard. “If this gets out, there’s people who’ll handle it. Even if I’m inside.”

You nodded, stiff.

“You’re gonna buy a new phone. Cheap, burner. Text me when and where. Got it?” He held out a slip of paper, a scrawl of numbers barely legible in the dim light. “Half the money now, half when it’s done. I’ll text you the location for the other half the day before.”

Your fingers closed around the paper, knuckles pertruding with tension. Your brain burned the details into your memory, this wasn’t a mistake you could afford.

This was murder. You were paying to have your husband killed.

It sounded monstrous when you thought of it like that. But you’d run the math a hundred times. A divorce meant ruin, he’d bury you in court, leave you penniless, maybe even dead. You knew the connections he had. You’d seen the bruises. Felt them. This wasn’t just escape. It was survival.

You looked him in the eyes, steadied your breath, and nodded. “Okay.”

With one last glance over his shoulder, he turned and disappeared into the night, swallowed by the same darkness he came from.

And you stood there, hand tight around the number, knowing there was no turning back now.

Just a few days later, the call came.

“Mrs. Walton? I’m terribly sorry to inform you—your husband was shot while driving to work this morning. The impact caused him to lose control of the vehicle… he drove off a bridge. Rescue teams are still recovering the car from the river, but… we’re confident he didn’t survive. I’m very sorry for your loss.”

It took them nearly two days to drag his overpriced luxury car out of the water, along with what was left of him. His bloated hands, that smug face already softening with rot. The bullet, once perfectly placed over his heart, had nearly dissolved in the water, just like the man himself, dissolving into memory, into myth, into nothing.

Then came the wave: condolences, hushed voices, solemn faces, the funeral. You cried on cue. Hugged on cue. Played the grieving widow like you’d been born for it. You should’ve won something for that performance, an Oscar, at least.

Six days after the hit, the text finally arrived.

A location. Coordinates in the kind of place GPS signals go to die—the edge of the worst part of town, where the streetlights didn’t bother working and the air smelled like rust and regret.

You showed up on time. Summer, yet the sun dipped early, casting the trailer in long shadows. It looked like it had been pieced together from scraps and curses. Through the grimy window, you spotted him, same buzzcut, same scowl, hand lazily resting on his chin as he watched you approach.

By the time you reached the door, he was already there, holding it open with that same unreadable expression. Wordless. You stepped inside.

“You got my money?” His voice was gravel in the cold, stale air.

“Yeah.” You reached into your purse, pulling out a plastic bag stuffed with bills—his money, technically. Now yours.

He took it without ceremony, fingers rummaging through it, counting. “You stay while I go through this,” he muttered.

“Okay,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

The silence was sharp. Tension hung like a fog as he flipped through stacks, licking his finger, counting aloud under his breath.

“Did… did you plan that?” you finally asked, breaking the quiet. “The river, I mean. To like... get rid of evidence?”

A low hum escaped him. A yes, maybe. Or just acknowledgment.

You let another beat pass before speaking again, quieter now. “Is this... your place?”

“Friend’s,” he answered, clipped and uninterested.

You frowned, letting out a small huff and turning your gaze to the peeling walls. His eyes flicked up at the sound.

“Something wrong?”

“No,” you said, folding your arms. “Just think you could be a little less rude. You know, considering.”

He raised an eyebrow, genuinely incredulous. “Yeah? I kill people for a living. You expect rainbows and compliments?”

You met his stare. “Wouldn’t kill you to be a little more polite to your clientele.”

Your words were met by a roll of his eyes before he stood slowly, nearing you threateningly.

“Oh yeah? Ya want me to be nice to you, darlin´?”

You don’t know how it happened, the moments between those few words and now, were a blur.

You were sat on the cluttered counter of the trailer sink, arching your back off of the wallpaper-ridden walls as the man holding your thighs to your chest was pumping in and out of you unapologetically rough and hard.

His eyes, illuminated only by a tiny lamp in the corner, were strictly focused on the sight of his length being engulfed by your soppy cunt.

You let out whine after whimper and moan after exclaim, muttering about his size and how damn good it felt over the lude squelching sounds and the rattling of the trailer. The tip of his mind-screwing cock hit a spot inside you your dead husband could never reach, making you come like you never have as he emptied his seed inside your warm, inviting womb.

Silence settled in, thick and charged, as the two of you caught your breath. His thumbs traced slow, almost tender circles on your bare hips, an unspoken lullaby after the storm. Then, with a quiet groan, he pulled out. A soft, slick sound followed, and a warm rush of your mingled release slipped from you, trailing down your inner thigh.

“Fuck,” he muttered, low and almost reverent as if the word alone could ground him.

He crouched down, redressing you with surprising care, slipping your panties back up, smoothing your skirt into place. His hands lingered at your waist as he guided you upright, placing you gently on trembling legs.

“You don’t tell anyone about this,” he murmured, voice barely more than a breath. His gaze lingered on your face, drinking in the wreckage of your expression, flushed cheeks, mascara streaked in messy rivers, eyes wide with something between shock and surrender. The dim light tried to swallow it all, but it couldn’t. He saw everything.

He reached up, his fingers rough but delicate as they wiped away the smudges beneath your eyes.

“Okay…” you whispered, the word ghosting past your lips. Your mind hadn’t caught up yet, still lost somewhere between shame and euphoria, disbelief and craving.

He nodded once, sharp and unreadable, before turning to the bag. Without finsishing counting, he began gathering the stacks of money, trusting it was all there. Somehow, that trust felt heavier than anything he’d said aloud.

You watched him in silence, your heart thudding like it was trying to break out of your chest.

“Can I… will I see you again?” you asked, your voice barely steady enough to make it out of your dry throat.

He didn’t look up. Not until his bag was zipped shut with all the money you paid him for killing your husband buried deep inside. Just like his cum was buried deep inside you.

“Keep the phone,” he said, tone flat, but something in it twisted, subtle and raw.

Your pulse quickened, your breath catching in your throat.

He walked to the door, hand gripping the bag so tightly that his tanned knuckles turned pale. You stepped forward, words tumbling out before you could stop them.

“Wait… what´s... what’s your name?”

He paused in the doorway, half in shadow. Then, turning his head slightly, just enough for his voice to reach you.

“Rafe. My name is Rafe.”

[zephyrchama]

Make barbatos fanfics pls

The memory of your recent mishap kept playing in your mind. It was a complete mistake - you hadn't intended to drench Barbatos in tea. Despite him being more than capable of protecting himself, you foolishly attempted to shield him from whatever toxic concoction Solomon was cooking up. One thing led to another, a massive pot fell over, there was an ear-deafening clang, and Barbatos was on the ground. Sopping wet.

He wasted no time in excusing himself to clean off, leaving you to bear the weight of your sins. Anyone could have easily cleaned the mess with magic, but Barbatos instead opted for a shower for some peace and quiet to calm down. Solomon was left to scrub the floor by hand since he started this issue in the first place.

As all of the castle's linens had been conveniently gathered in the laundry room to be inventoried, you took it upon yourself to grab a clean towel and deliver it to Barbatos.

You could hear the water running from down the hall. It was so loud, you weren't sure Barbatos could hear you. Wisps of steam escaped from the cracks around the bathroom door. You knocked. There was no answer.

"Barbatos?" you called, knocking again. There was no answer. Only the running of water. He was probably already in the shower. You could take this opportunity to grab his soiled uniform and clean it before the stains permanently set in.

With that plan of action, you opened the door. Barbatos was not in the shower, despite the running faucet. In fact, Barbatos was stark naked in the middle of the room. A washcloth in his hand indicated he had already obtained his own towels. He had his back to the door, as if he was just about to enter the tub. He made eye contact with you over his shoulder, eyes wide.

That one second felt like an hour.

His posture was superb. A mix of tea and condensation from the muggy bathroom air trailed down the curve of his spine, fine enough to be in a medical textbook. Your eyes followed, down to the base of his tail and the derriere behind it. Two fabulous, firm full moons. A sight rarer than anything else in all the three realms.

"Did you need something?"

Barbatos' usual polite tone was punctuated with umbrage. He placed a hand on his chest, as though shielding his visage.

"I'm sorry!" were the first words you spat out, on reflex. Coherent thinking failed you in the face of such art. Sentences started falling out of your mouth and you hoped they made sense. "I thought you might need a towel, so I got one from the laundry and came to give it to you. I knocked! I did, I knocked, but you didn't answer so I came in to leave this."

You held the towel forward with both hands as an offering. "And I was gonna collect your clothes so I could wash them. As an apology for, ah, that other thing I did. Sorry."

You stared at the ground. Even Barbatos' ankles were pristine. A little bony, tapering down at the sides that led to his slender feet. You watched his weight shift as his tail curled closer to his body.

"How thoughtful. I'd appreciate if you could hang it on the towel bar. I will handle my clothes myself, later."

"Right, of course." You swiveled and diligently hung the towel up. The dirty clothes in question were on the ground, still soaking wet, neatly folded in a square. You looked from them back to Barbatos. He was rooted in place, not budging in the slightest. One wrong move, and who knew how much you'd see?

More than the current eyeful, that's for sure. More than the slope of his shoulders. More than the rise and fall of his upper body with each fresh breath. More than the sight of his wet hair clinging to the curve of his jawbone and the tenseness in his arm when his painted fingernails wrapped around the tiny washcloth.

"Do you need anything else?" he asked. An obvious cue for you to leave.

"I'm good," you said. It was hard not to ogle at the size of his waist fully unobscured by clothing, and its ratio to his hips. "Do you... need any help?"

"I am fine. I will be taking my shower now." His voice echoed around the bathroom as you finally left. It echoed around your head, too, when he said, "be good and wait for me."

[janeyseymour]

A Case of You

Summary: You and a certain redhead are deeply, and undeniably in love- although the two of you don't realize it. Cue Barbara and someone unexpected to fix that for you on Fourth of July.

WC: ~5.4k

(lemme know if you wanna hear my rendition of the song mentioned in this fic :))

It’s an odd situation that you’ve found yourself in. You’ve been living in Philadelphia for a while now. You somehow manage to scrounge up enough money after years of odd jobs, a few investments, and your day job of teaching at Abbott Elementary to finally be able to afford a house. It’s a beautiful little house- one that you’ve been able to turn into something of a quaint little cottage core house. Your backyard is filled with flowers and emulates what some might say is a house in the movies.

And because you finally have a house that you’re proud of, you invite your folks to the city of brotherly love for Fourth of July. There’s no place like the founding city of the country to be in for the day. From the red and blue dyed beers, to the fireworks that burst over the museum of art (and you’ll have a beautiful view of the display room your house), your new city is one of the best places to be.

Once your coworkers find out that you’ll have the view that they’ve always wanted, it’s decided that you’re going to be hosting the holiday not only for your family, but for your work family as well. So, it might be a little crowded, but… it’ll be fun. That’s what you tell yourself. It’ll be fine.

So here you are, on July 3rd, frantically cleaning your house. Not that it’s messy by any means, but you want to impress. Your house is cozy, and you want to give off the effect that it’s well lived in (and it is) while maintaining the sense that you’re clean and proud of the place that you inhabit. It’s not all that hard. There are pictures dressing the walls, beautiful paintings that you’ve done, little knick knacks that you’ve collected over the years. It all feels homey.

But still, you’re making sure that it’s presentable enough that you won’t get ridiculed and lectured by your mother and your coworkers won’t make fun of your home.

That is, until your cell phone rings. Expecting it to be your mother, letting you know that she and your father have landed, you answer the phone, “Hey Mom.”

“Not your mom,” a voice that you’ve been missing comes through the phone.

Your brow furrows as you pause your scrubbing the toilet as you glance at your phone. “Melissa?”

“Yeah, hun. Just callin’ to see if you needed any help with the party tomorrow,” the redhead tells you. “Any cleaning or want me to bring anything or something?”

You bite your lip. You wouldn’t ever admit it out loud, but the person that you’re trying to impress besides your mother is Melissa- the woman that you’ve been hopelessly in love with since you started working at Abbott. “Uhm… I’m just cleaning the last few things now,” you tell her honestly. “But I really do appreciate the-”

“What’s ‘the last few things’? Because you’ve told me that you only have a few things to get done before you head home from work, and then I find out that you stayed at the school so long Mr. J handed you his keys to lock up the building for the night.”

You have to let out a laugh at that memory. You sigh softly as you decide to tell her the truth. “I still have to finish cleaning up the living room and the kitchen. But it really isn’t all that-”

“Jeet?” At your silence, the redhead continues. “I’m bringing over drinks and dinner and helping you clean. I’ll be over in an hour.”

“Melissa,” you try to protest.

She’s quick to cut your argument off though. “I’ll see you in an hour, hopefully less than that.” 

And then you hear the phone line disconnect, and you quietly groan to yourself as you look at your appearance. You’re in your cleaning clothes that are covered with bleach stains, your hair is tied up messily, and makeup hasn’t been applied since probably the last day of school. You look a mess. With a sigh, you head for your bedroom to at least put on your face- you want to look at least somewhat presentable.

The redheaded second grade teacher is knocking at your door less than an hour later.

“Hey,” you smile softly as you open the door. She’s standing there with a case of beer and a bag of what you can only assume is dinner. And somehow, even in just shorts and a tee shirt, she looks as incredible as ever. You find yourself blushing.

“Are you gonna let me in, or should we just have dinner outside?” Melissa quips.

You let out a small, nervous laugh. “No, no, come in. P-Please don’t mind the mess.”

“You’re cleaning, I’m ready to clean,” the woman laughs. “It’s all good. Let’s eat though first, yeah?”

Dinner is nice. The two of you chat about what you’ve been up to since school let out for the summer and potential plans for trips that either of you are looking to take. 

“I just don’t have all that many friends in the area,” you admit shyly. “So, most of my trips are solo.”

“You do have friends in the area,” Melissa refutes. “You got the Abbott group. You got me.” She nudges you with her elbow.

“I do,” you sigh softly. “I just don’t want to be a bother.”

“A lot of people are bothers to me,” the redhead laughs. Then she turns serious. “You ain’t one of ‘em.”

You roll your eyes playfully. “How kind of you to say.”

“If you ain’t doin’ nothin’, I spend a lot of time down at the shore in July,” Melissa offers casually.

You can’t help but smile. “That- that’d be nice, yeah.”

“Well,” your coworker sighs as she sets down her fork and begins to clean up. “This house won’t clean itself. So what do you want me to help you with?”

“You helped enough by making sure I ate dinner,” you tell her with earnest. “You don’t have to-”

“I’m helping, so just tell me what to do, or I’ll start snooping around for cleaning supplies anyway.”

The two of you clean the kitchen and the living room as music floats through your house from your record player.

“You got quite the selection,” Melissa tells you as she dusts the case that holds all of your music. “It ain’t half bad.”

You blush. Your music taste is all over the place.

“Mind if I pick an album to listen to next?”

“Of course not,” you call from the next room over. “Pick whatever.”

You expect her to pick a rock band, so when Joni Mitchell’s hauntingly beautiful voice begins to dance in the air, you’re a bit shocked.

Still, you let the music take over your heart and your soul, and when “A Case of You” starts, you can’t stop yourself from singing along softly. As you sing the words to yourself, you realize that you would drink a case of Melissa and still be on your feet. There’s something about her that is so intoxicating and yet always leaves you on your feet. 

Apparently though, your voice travels more than you were aware of. In the living room, Melissa can hear your gentle melody. Her cleaning pauses as she silently makes her way to where she can hear your voice better.

You’re standing there scrubbing the sink as you quietly echo Joni Mitchell’s vocals. It isn’t until the song is over that you hear a different voice.

“You sing real good,” the redhead compliments quietly.

Instinctively, you jump. You weren’t expecting her to hear you. And then your face flushes as you turn to face her. “I- uh…” You can’t get much out than that. You fumble for words for a few seconds before you just barely whisper out an apology.

“You ain’t got nothin’ to be sorry for,” Melissa smiles. “I think I like your version more.”

Your jaw practically drops at those words. “Oh, I- uh, thank you. But nobody can sing it like Joni.”

“I think you did it,” the redhead tells you, and you can tell in her voice that she truly means it. “I saw the guitar in your living room too. You play?”

You shrug. “Kind of.” You don’t want to admit that you’ve been playing for quite some time and oversell yourself- better to underestimate than over.

“Well, after we’re finished cleaning, I think I should get to hear it.”

You blush. “Maybe.”

By the time the two of you have the house straightened up to your liking, it’s quite late. If you’re being honest too, with the amount of alcohol that the two of you have consumed tonight, you aren’t necessarily comfortable with sending Melissa on her way.

“So, I believe you owe me a song,” your colleague teases you as she opens up another beer and settles on your couch.

“I was hoping you’d forget,” you laugh as you sit next to her.

“I’d never forget that voice,” the redhead smiles innocently. “C’mon, just one song?”

With a heavy sigh and a dramatic eye roll, you reach for the guitar that you keep in the corner of the room. You tune it up quickly, chuckling when you see the impressed look that Melissa wears on her face when you don’t actually need a tuner.

You strum the guitar a few times to ensure that it’s tuned to your liking before beginning to play.

Of course, you play your own rendition of “A Case of You” to prove to Melissa that you simply can’t do the song justice the way that Joni Mitchell does. Your approach doesn’t work. By the time you’re finished fingerpicking the last few notes, green eyes are wide and in shock.

“What?” you ask weakly. “I told you I only kind of play.”

“That’s a lot more than ‘kind of’,” the second grade teacher says. “You should be teaching Music, not fourth grade.”

You shake your head. “If I had to do it for a living, I’d hate it. But as a hobby, I do love it.”

“Play another for me,” Melissa requests as she leans back and takes another sip of her drink.

Somehow, the two of you end up going through another two drinks as you give the redhead her own personalized concert. Those sparkling green eyes stay mesmerized with your charming voice as you tell her the stories behind why you learned a few select songs, how you wrote a few, and the way that your melodies are nothing but soothing.

“You should be out in LA writing music,” Melissa tells you. “You’re… incredible.”

Your already red and warm cheeks from the alcohol only become more flushed at her kind words. You can only set the instrument down in response.

“I think I’m done for tonight,” you chuckle as you sip your beverage.

The redhead sighs softly. “I guess I should head out for the night.”

“Stay,” you tell her quickly- probably a bit too quickly. “You’ve had more than enough to drink, it’s late, and I don’t want you out there driving.”

The smirk that tugs at Melissa’s lips, along with that mischievous glint in her eyes gets you to look at her curiously.

“Somehow I knew that when I brought drinks over that would be your response, so I packed a bag,” the redhead reveals. “Let me just go grab my stuff from my car."

You can’t help but throw back your head with laughter. “Of course you thought that.”

“Was I wrong?” your coworker teases.

The two of you end up sharing a bed that night, and when your alarm goes off the next morning, despite the fact that it’s July, you find yourself cold. You turn over, only to discover that the redhead isn’t next to you.

But you can hear soft humming coming from downstairs, along with the record player. She’s downstairs. And then once you’ve woken up a bit more, you can smell the coffee and breakfast being made. You make your way downstairs and can’t stop yourself from practically drinking in the sight of Melissa Schemmenti cooking you breakfast.

She must hear your footsteps, because she turns on her heel and smiles at you. “Hope you don’t mind that I made breakfast.”

“I’ll never pass up a Schemmenti meal,” you tease. “You know that.”

It’s only a few minutes before the two of you are sitting at the kitchen table with plates in front of you.

“You know you cuddle in your sleep?” Melissa asks.

You turn a violent shade of red. “S-sorry.”

She shrugs. “Don’t be. It was nice.”

Your heart flutters. You never thought that the rough and tough Melissa Schemmenti would be one for cuddling, but here she is.

Breakfast is nice and warm, and you can’t help the blush in your cheeks as the two of you clean in a comfortable silence. More than once, the two of you accidentally brush hands together or her hand finds the small of your back to guide you out of her way.

The both of you get ready for this party, and by the time you’re making your way down the steps to change the record, your doorbell is ringing.

It’s your parents- of course they show up first. It’s not that you aren’t happy to see them, but you wish the house was a bit more full so that you wouldn’t get the third degree as soon as you see your mother.

“Is it Barb?” Melissa’s voice floats down the steps before she comes into sight. When she turns the corner, she sees your parents still standing on the front step. “Oh.”

“Who are you?” your mother eyes your coworker warily.

“Melissa,” the redhead states. “Just a coworker of Y/N’s.”

Your mother hums quietly before inviting herself in. Her eyes glance around your place with a slight frown. “This isn’t much.”

“It isn’t,” you mumble. “But I very much like where I live and how I live.”

“When you said you could afford to buy a house, I was expecting more.”

“Jane, lay off,” your father cuts in. “Y/N, your house is very… you. I like it.”

You’re not quite sure what to say to that. So you simply smile at your father as a silent ‘thank you’ and direct the conversation elsewhere, praying that your coworkers show soon. “Did you want anything to drink? I have wine in the fridge, or I just have to set out the ice for the coo- shoot.”

“What is it?” Melissa asks, brows furrowed with concern.

“I forgot to buy ice yesterday.”

“Oh,” the redhead rolls her eyes as her arm wraps around your waist. “I can just run to the corner store real quick and grab some.”

Your eyes soften significantly as Melissa Schemmenti saves the day. “Thank you.”

“Not a problem, hun.” She grabs her purse from the kitchen table and heads out with a soft hum, only to pop back in. “You need anything else? Or… do you guys want anything?” she directs that last part at your parents.

All three of you shake your heads, so she smiles that Philly smile of hers and heads out.  You momentarily forget that your parents are present, and you can’t help the shy smile and blush that creeps into your cheeks as you watch her figure leave.

“Your little friend is very pretty,” your mother states once the door is shut.

You turn to her sharply. “Oh?”

“She’s very pretty,” your mom says again.

“Oh, good. I thought it was just me,” you mutter.

“No,” your father cuts in this time. “It’s a fact. You should probably get a move on if you want to do something about that. A girl that pretty won’t be single for long.”

“I was planning on pining from afar for anywhere from two to ten years and seeing where that got me. Probably nowhere, but I won’t know until I try,” you quip cheekily. “

"Your mother and I both saw the way she looks at you- she definitely has a thing for you too,” your father tells you. “Just… think on it. Yeah?”

You roll your eyes dramatically, and sigh. “Just… don’t go doing your meddling, please?”

“I won’t,” your dad raises his hands in mock surrender. Your mother, on the other hand though, stays quietly.

Melissa makes her way into the house again not twenty minutes later, a smile dancing on her lips. “The ice is in the cooler, along with the drinks.”

“Thank you,” you smile at her warmly. You then note that she has three drinks in her hand: a beer for her and your father, and a seltzer for you. She passes them out silently before cracking hers open and taking a sip.

She then leans in and wraps an arm around your waist again before mumbling into your ear, “If my mother said that to me about a house this beautiful, I would’ve lit the trash can on fire.”

The giggle that erupts from your soul is hard to contain. Thankfully, you don’t have a chance to say anything else because your doorbell rings. And when the two of you go to open the door, you’re more than pleased to see the entirety of the Abbott clan. Anything to get your mother’s attention off of you.

As it turns out, your mother and Barbara seem to get along swimmingly. What surprises you is how much your mother likes Janine and Ava as well. Your father quite enjoys Mr. Johnson’s tales, is able to talk sports with Gregory, and even falls for Jacob’s awkward charm. And Melissa is able to meander through your backyard with you as you ensure that nothing gets too out of hand.

When you’re chatting with your father and Mr. Johnson, your mother glances over at you. Melissa has an arm slung around your shoulder, and you don’t seem to mind it one bit.

“Tell me,” your mother implores Barbara. “Melissa.”

“What about her, dear?”

“Her and my daughter.”

“Oh,” the kindergarten teacher chuckles as she sips on her wine. “Those two have been pining for each other for years. If you ask me, it’s just a matter of time before they finally pull their heads out of their asses and get together.”

Your mother sighs a breath of relief. “I’m glad I’m not the only one to notice.”

“Oh, you aren’t, Jane,” Barb laughs. “Don’t tell either of them, but we have a bet on how long it’ll take them to finally start dating. I said by the end of July. Everyone else still thinks they’ll be dancing around it come the beginning of the school year.”

“While I don’t approve of a lot of the choices my daughter has made,” your mother sighs. “Including moving away from us, I do want her to be happy. Do you think she’ll be happy with Melissa?”

“That daughter of yours is never happier than when she’s with Melissa,” Barbara states simply. “And just so you’re aware: your daughter has done a whole lot of good while she’s been out here with us. We are very proud of her, and you should be too. I know she sometimes feels that she isn’t good enough for you.”

Your mother bites her lip, a bit ashamed at how she knows she’s made you feel- both today and in the past. “I suppose you’re right. I’ll mend that.”

“As you should.”

“But for now… my husband promised he wouldn’t meddle in her love life, but I made no such promise. Should we win that bet for you?”

The kindergarten teacher is clearly intrigued as she raises a brow. “And how do you propose we would do that?”

Their plan, as it turns out, is not the most intricate. It’s to simply get the two of you hammered while your mother quietly feeds you comments about how you’re already practically in a relationship with the redhead. Meanwhile, Barbara will plant that same seed in Melissa’s head before daring her to just make a move- Melissa is never one to turn down a dare while intoxicated; that’s how she ended up doing cartwheels on South Street one night after a particularly wild night at Oscar’s.

“You know she spent the night last night?” Barbara asks your mother. “Came over to help clean and ended up just staying.”

Your mother’s perfectly sculpted brow lifts. “I just assumed she was the first one here.”

“Nope,” your mother smirks. “I was supposed to pick her up so all of us Abbott people could come together.”

“Interesting… if you’ll excuse me, I believe I have some snooping to do.” With that, your mother rises from her seat and enters your house. Immediately, her eyes turn to the steps where your room and main bathroom are. She ascends up the steps. Melissa’s things, at least that’s what she assumes, are still scattered around in the bathroom. And… bingo: two toothbrushes. Then her eyes wander into the bedroom. Your mother knows that you don’t typically make the bed, but she is surprised to see that both sides of the bed are disheveled- bodies had clearly been on both sides.

Meanwhile, outside, Barbara makes her way over to you and Melissa.

“Where’d my mom go?” you ask.

“Bathroom,” Barb tells you gently. Her eyes don’t miss the fact that the redhead’s arm is still around you. “You two seem to be having a nice time.”

Green eyes glare at her work best friend, but you just smile and lean into Melissa. That glare washes right off of her face.

“It’s nice,” you smile. God, that smile of yours has the second grade teacher wrapped around your finger. “I’m almost done my drink though.”

That’s all the kindergarten teacher needs to hear to begin her side of the plan. “Let me get you both drinks.”

“Oh, I can get them for us,” Melissa tells your coworker. Her hand slips away from your back, and it’s odd that you feel the slightest bit cold without her holding you.

The kindergarten teacher watches the way that your eyes linger on Melissa’s figure. And when she’s bringing back the drinks, you simply attach yourself to her hip again.

“Cheers,” Barb smiles as she lifts her glass in the air. The three of you clink, and then drink. She makes a mental note to pace herself while raising her glass in your direction often. Melissa and you never turn down a toasted drink. 

When Barbara sees your mother make her way back out, she moseys over. “What did you find?”

“Those two are so in a relationship, even if they aren’t admitting it. They shared a bed and everything!”

“Well, I’ve already initiated them getting drunk,” Barb informs your mom.

“Perfect,” your mother grins. Her eyes glance in the direction that you and your coworker are in. “Those two are idiots if they don’t think they’re in love. Well, time to go start.”

When you see your mother walking in your direction, you simply tap your can with Melissa’s before downing a good portion of it. The redhead follows your actions, although her eyes do widen when she sees how much and how quickly you’re drinking.

“My dear,” your mother starts. “Can I have a word with you?”

With a soft sigh, you nod and allow her to pull you in another direction. 

“What, Mom?”

“Don’t take that tone with me,” your mother instructs strictly. Then she softens significantly, and you feel like you’re a young child again. She used to look at you with so much love. “I just… wanted to apologize.”

“For?” you raise a brow.

“The things I’ve said about your career choices and the likes,” your mother sighs sheepishly. “I- I am very proud of you. I hope you know that.”

You frankly aren’t sure what you’re supposed to say to that, so you just give a sad smile. “Thank you for saying that, Mom.”

“I know that you probably don’t believe me, but I am very proud of you. You’re shaping the future generations, and you’ve been able to make it out here on your own. You seem to have a lovely work life, and… you’re a hell of a lot happier here than you were back home.”

“I am,” you admit. “I love it here, Ma.”

“That’s all I could ever want in this life for you- happiness,” your mom smiles as she squeezes your hand. “My sunshine deserves sunshine.”

“Thank you, Mom.”

“I think I know how you could be happier though.”

“I’m not moving back-”

“I’m not asking you to move back home,” your mother rolls her eyes. “I’m asking you to pull your head out of your ass and get with that little friend of yours already.”

“I thought I told you and Dad not to meddle in my life love,” you smirk.

Your mother replicates your facial expression- one of mischief. “I never agreed to that, dear. But I mean, come on. It’s quite clear to me that you have feelings for her.”

“So what if I do?”

“It’s also quite obvious to me that she reciprocates those feelings for you,” your mother states. “I mean, the two of you act as though you’re already together as it is.”

“We do not,” you blush.

“She stayed at your house last night, the two of you shared a bed, her toothbrush is right next to yours in the holder.”

“Friends stay over at each other’s houses sometimes,” you counter.

“She’s been hanging off of you all day,” your mother points out. “She calls you hun.”

“She calls every one ‘hun’.”

“Her eyes never leave you, and your eyes never leave her. Just admit that you’re in love with her. And she’s in love with you.”

“She is not,” you roll your eyes.

“All I’m saying is: the two of you act like you’re in a relationship already. Just… think about your happiness for your ol’ Ma. I do want grandkids at some point, you know.”

Barbara grabs her work wife by the arm. “Cheers!”

The redhead only throws back her head to laugh before taking a long swig.

“So when are you gonna just tell that girl that you’re in love with her?” the kindergarten teacher probes.

“Never,” Melissa rolls her eyes. “I plan on pining from afar for… forever. There ain’t no way someone like that would ever want me.”

“I see the way she looks at you, Melissa,” Barbara reminds her friend. “She loves you, and the two of you act like you’re in a relationship as it is.”

“No we don’t.” The pointed look from her coworker has the redhead blushing. “Okay, maybe we do. But there’s a difference between acting like it, and actually being in a relationship.”

“I think you should go for it,” Barb says. “Tonight.”

“What?” Green eyes go wide.

“Why not? Nothing is more romantic than fireworks. And, the two of you are drunk, and if it doesn’t feel right you can always blame it on the booze.”

The second grade teacher bites her lip. “I don’t know.”

“Just… think about it.”

No sooner is the redhead back at your side, holding you by the hip again. And while she seems like everything is wonderful and there is nothing but pleasant thoughts going on in her head, that couldn’t be further from the truth. Her mind is swirling with what it would be like to kiss you, to be in a relationship with you.

Maybe, Melissa thinks to herself. 

Well, that maybe turns into an Absolutely I will, when Barbara dares her a few hours later to do something about the mutual pining that is going on between the two of you.

“I dare you to kiss her while the fireworks are going on,” the kindergarten teacher smirks, pretty intoxicated herself. 

“I will,” the redhead chuckles, never one to turn down a dare.

By the time the fireworks start going off, everyone is either on a blanket that they had brought or in a chair that lived at your house. Of course, you’re the last to search a seat due to your expert hosting skills, and you find yourself coming up with nothing.

“Come here,” Melissa rolls her eyes. As if you would find anywhere else to be but near the redhead. You stand beside her, ready to take in the spectacle that is about to light up the sky. And in a daring move, the second grade teacher easily tugs you into her lap. She her arms around your midsection and rests her chin on your back.

Your mother nudges Barbara with her elbow, grinning from ear to ear. “You think it’s gonna happen?”

“I dared Melissa to,” the kindergarten teacher mutters back. “So, yeah.” 

“Perfect.”

As the first fireworks go off, you can feel the excitement practically radiating off of Melissa. It’s adorable when you turn and see how awestruck she is by the lights in the sky. Your coworkers are entirely entranced by the display, and when it’s clear that the finale is about to take place, you expect to see those green eyes focused on the dark night above you. But instead, the redhead is looking directly at you.

“Lis,” you chuckle, and you try to turn her head so she can look up at the last of the fireworks. She doesn’t seem to care about the spectacle. No, her eyes are trained on you. “You’re gonna miss the finale.”

“I don’t care,” the redhead breathes.

“But they’re beautiful,” you whisper.

“Not as beautiful as you,” Melissa tells you quietly. And then her lips meet yours. And… the fireworks in the sky are no comparison to the fireworks in your heart.

Everyone that had gathered at your house is mesmerized by the display in the sky- all except your mother and Barbara. Silently, they high five before turning their eyes back to the finale of the fireworks.

Once the fireworks are over, it isn’t long before your friends and family begin to file out of your house.

“Don’t think that we aren’t talking about that kiss that I saw,” your mother whispers to you as she hugs you goodbye. Immediately, your cheeks flush red. But you can’t say anything, because she’s off of you, and giving Melissa a hug goodbye.

Barbara, on the other hand, doesn’t give any inclination that she knows what had taken place just a few short minutes ago. She heads out with a hug and a kiss to your cheek, thanking you for your wonderful hospitality.

And then you and the redhead are alone. And before you know it, her lips are back on yours.

Fast forward to the end of Summer, and Melissa has been your girlfriend since the Fourth. It’s been a wonderful summer spent down at the beach with her, and all too soon you’re walking back into the halls of Abbott.

Barbara doesn’t say anything when she sees the two of you walk in together or the way that Melissa instinctively prepares your morning beverage for you. No. She chooses to wait until the last of your Abbott family has made their way into the staff lounge.

“So,” the kindergarten teacher claps her hands together with a bright grin on her face. “Where’s my money?”

“Your money?” your girlfriend raises a brow.

“My money,” Barbara states with a smile.

“For what?” Jacob asks.

“The bet.”

“No one won,” Ava rolls her eyes. “Not yet at least. I still got my bet going.”

“That’s where you would be wrong,” the kindergarten teacher reveals. “Y/N and Melissa got together on Fourth of July.”

Your jaw nearly drops. “What?”

“You heard what I said, baby.”

“H-how?”

“While everyone else was watching the fireworks, I saw what I needed to see. So, just confirm it so I can win my three-hundred dollars.”

“Three hundred dollars?” Melissa asks incredulously. At her best friend’s nod, the redhead just continues to flounder for words.

“I ain’t payin’ until one of them confirms.”

You sheepishly smile as you raise the two of your hands from under the table, intertwined.

TAGS: @schemmentis @thesapphictimelady @marvel210 @itisdoctortoyousir @morgana-larkin @doesthatsuggestanythingtoyou @sweetcheeksschemmenti @megamultifandomtrashposts @lemz378 @http-sam @melissaschemmentisbranzino @imaginesmultifandoms @sexysapphicshopowner @lilfartbox1 @maybe-a-humanbean @imlike-so-gaydude @a-queen-and-her-throne @notinmyvocab @melanielaufeyson @dvrkhcld @cosmichymns @sasheemo @m1lflov3rrr @ricejucie @temilyrights @emilynissangtr @squinnchy @dopenightmaretyphoon @emeraldoceansstuff @shinyfaerielights  @blkmxrvel @marvelwomenrule @sarahjohannson @casualfoxwitch @babytakeittothehead @schemmentits @schmentisgf

[emmyrosee]

“Pssst…”

“Choke.”

“Wanna makeout?”

Instantly, as if on a cue, Hajime’s face blisters into a flush, eyes widening and brows angry as he whips his head to face you.

You’re smiling, and he hates it, and you’re wearing his shirt that completely drowns your frame, hands and knees on the mattress just inches away, and he’s convinced he could live an extra 15 years if you hadn’t stumbled into his life.

But you did stumble into his life. Yay him.

His pencil taps rapidly against his desk, his studying having been completely hijacked by your straightforward flirts. Inviting you to do homework with him never really ended well, and how he hasn’t learned this lesson yet, is a mystery to you both.

“I’m busy.”

You huff and shift to sit on the bed as the gods intended, “you can take three minutes to makeout with me.”

“When was the last time we made out less than ten minutes?” He asks, and he wishes he hadn’t by the way your cocky grin splays over your face.

“Cant help that you’re into me,” you croon. He groans as he tosses his hand up to his face, scrubbing gently to revitalize himself. He’s quickly snapped out of it when he feels your feet wrap around the base of his desk chair and pull him closer to the bed.

This, has him chuckling from disbelief, moving his hands from his face and letting his eyes flick towards your feet. “Be so for real right now,” he says, snickering.

You bite your tongue between your teeth, but before you can do anything else, you scream as he makes a dash at you, barely letting you kick in defense before he pins you down to the bed, his broad chest doing most of the caging while his fingers spider up your sides and his lips sponge kisses on your neck and ears.

“You’re so annoying,” he growls, the vibrations of the rasp tickling your neck. His fingers still and instantly, your arms shift to toss around his neck, looking up at him longingly.

You lift a hand up to card his hair away from his face, “hi.”

“Hey baby.”

With that, he leans down to kiss you, knee planting on the bed to keep him stable and allow him to deepen the kiss. You mewl happily, letting your fingers push his head impossibly closer to you.

You taste sweet, like the bowl of fruit you’ve been stealing from him for the past hour, and you’re so warm from being swaddled in his blankets that he feels calm just by being close to you.

Then again, you always have that affect on him.

With a slight bite of your lips, he slowly starts to pull back, planting little pecks to soothe the bites. You giggle happily and reach up eagerly for each one.

“Haji?”

“What?”

Biting your lip cheekily, he hardens his gaze and reinforces his grip slightly, ready to restart a tickle attack if needed.

“Got you to makeout with me.”

You smirk and lick his nose with the tip of your tongue, making him reel back slightly with a scrunch of his face. He looks at you blankly, while you laugh and play with the locks of hair at the nape of his neck.

“How do you always manage to get your damn way?” He mumbles, leaning down to press another kiss on your lips. Under him, you giggle and chase his lips, clearly eager that now you’ve gotten him to kiss you once, he’s keen to give you more.

Like he always does.

Like he always will.

“Cant help that you’re into me.”

“I really am. Asshole.”

“I love you, too.”

[antithetical-bolter]

Out Of The Woods

Chapter 1

Shoutout to @antisocialfiore for helping me with the title!! This is my first fic I’ve posted to tumblr so any tips on how to keep chapters organized and whatnot would be lovely. Hang in there while I figure it out lmao. Chapter 2 is written and will be posted shortly <3

5.0k words | Seasoned ER nurse Iris McDowell finds herself pregnant after a one night stand with Robby, who is predictably handling things very poorly.

Warnings: unplanned pregnancy, discussion of abortions, excessive use of the word fuck, commas, and em dashes.

Tag list: @antisocialfiore @snowflames-world @eviemonroeer

Page dividers by: @cafekitsune

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Iris

Well, shit.

That is most definitely two pink lines.

On three different tests. Iris Elizabeth McDowell, you fucking idiot.

Just my fucking luck, that getting tipsy and fucking the very hot and very emotionally unavailable attending would result in a god damn pregnancy. I’d been blissfully ignorant the last 3 weeks - my periods have never been all that regular but as soon as the nausea and the sore boobs hit I knew it was time to face the music. And sure enough, the music was telling me that I was pregnant. With Michael Robinavitch’s baby.

Robby, who has barely made eye contact with me past what was required for patient care since it happened. Robby, who let it slip at the bar that he had been interested in me for months now. Robby, who I was unfortunately in love with. Had been for an embarrassingly long time now - so him up and leaving the morning after the best sex of my life triggered a full blown crisis. Almost a decade of pining, all for one (admittedly spectacular) night. The whole debacle had me briefly considering finding a new ER to work at, but I decided I wouldn’t let a man dictate my life. Even if it was that man.

Do I want to keep it? I think so? Should I want to keep it? Probably not.

It’s not like I’m some young new grad nurse who doesn’t have a career. I’ve been an ER nurse for more than ten years now, working at the Pitt for all but the first two. I’m damn good at my job, so much so that I occasionally fill in for the charge nurses, and I have a great support system. But the thought of having to tell Robby that I’m carrying his child? Genuinely makes me want to puke. Again.

I have money, a 2 bedroom condo, a regular enough schedule that daycare wouldn’t be an issue. But do I really want to be a single mom? Put my body through the fucking wild ride that is pregnancy? Oh god. Pregnancy scrubs? The absolute worst. Not to mention actually giving birth.

Thankfully, the universe has seen fit to give me a single win in all this, and I have the next 4 days off to figure out how to be normal at work again. First order of business - call my OB. A brief phone call later, I have an appointment for 9:45. Just over two hours from now.

Fuck, I could really use my mom right now. Not like we were ever super close, with her living on the west coast and me getting the fuck out of my tiny ass hometown right after high school, but I’d like the option to call her and freak out. Both her and my dad were killed in a car accident just over three years ago, and somehow this scenario had never crossed my mind. I have an older brother who lives back home in Washington, but we have very different works views and I highly doubt he would be a good source of familial support. Cue the tears - but they feel cathartic. A release I desperately need right now.

My therapist is going to lose her ever-loving mind. A quick look on her patient portal reveals that she has an opening this afternoon, so I guess that makes 2 wins from the universe for me today. I’ll take what I can get.

I am very picky about my medical providers. Working in the field myself means I have seen some shit doctors, and I just flat out refuse to put my care in the hands of someone I don’t trust. My OB is the best of the best, and she’s really earning her copay right now.

The transvaginal ultrasound was quick, confirming that I definitely have something cooking in there. The tech asked if I wanted to hear the heartbeat - but I said no. I’m right at the six week mark so a heartbeat can be heard at this point but I am not ready for that just yet. Not until I decide what I want to do. My OB, bless her, ran me through all of my options. She knows I know them, I’m an ER nurse after all, but it’s like all my schooling and experience fell out of my brain the second the stick(s) turned pink.

She encouraged me to take my time making a decision, since I have a few weeks to make a choice either way. We went through what it would look like to keep, terminate, and adopt. Having all the information laid out in front of me makes me feel both better and far, far worse.

She also tells me that no matter what the father wants, this is my choice. That I should lean on my people, and find someone I trust to tell. That if I do decide to terminate, I need to have someone with me after I take the medications to make sure everything progresses as it should.

I leave the appointment armed with 4 different pamphlets and 3 sonogram images that I have yet to look at.

Therapy is significantly harder. Erica, bless her, has been my therapist since I moved to Pittsburgh for college when I was 18. She knows me far too well - immediately clocks that it must be hard to be dealing with all of this without my mom’s support, which triggers a crying spell. Once I’ve recovered from that we move on to how I’m going to tell Robby.

“I don’t know, Erica. He’s barely looked at me since we slept together, I can count the non-patient related words he’s said to me since then on one hand and none of them were particularly nice.” That man needs therapy more than anyone I’ve ever met. He’s an incredible doctor and great to his friends, but ever since he fucked up his relationship with Collins so badly that she left the state he’s been especially moody.

“How do you think he’s going to react to this?”

“Not particularly well. He’ll freak out, not speak to me for a few days, and then inevitably come back around and say that he’ll help me with whatever I choose. I know that if I decide to keep it that he would help, but that it would be out of obligation and that is not what I want. I would never keep him away from his kid but I can almost guarantee that I would be eternally fucked up over it.” Erica nods thoughtfully, taking a pause to formulate a reply that won’t send me over the edge.

“Maybe you should start by telling someone else, then. Maybe Samira, or Dana? Someone who will support you unconditionally without any emotional baggage taking up space in the back seat. They could help you decide what to say when you tell him, and support you if it goes as poorly as you think it will.” She gives me a very pointed look before continuing. “Also, and really think about this before brushing it off, maybe this conversation between you and Robby will help you both. A push that requires communication where there is a gap right now.”

“I - I, ugh. I just really, really don’t want to have to do this with him. He really hurt me when he just up and fucking ghosted me. Especially because he spent the whole night prior telling me that he’s been wanting to kiss me for months, and a whole bunch of other shit that he clearly didn’t mean.” He doesn’t seem like the type to spout bullshit to get a woman into bed with him, but I really cannot come up with another reason for him to be acting this way.

“It’s fair and reasonable for you to be scared. And if he screws this up, you have my blessing to tell him to fuck off. But no matter what you choose, you will be okay. It might suck for a while, but you will come out the other side.” The unspoken words are loud - that I will be okay but that it’s going to take a while for me to get there.

“I know you’re right but it’s hard to see right now.” Pretty much impossible, actually.

“That’s okay, I’m here to remind you. Your homework this week is to tell someone you trust.” Sad that I don’t consider the father someone I trust, but he definitely is not making that list right now.

“I’m going to call Dana literally as soon as we hang up - Samira’s working right now.” She nods in response, flashes me what I’m sure is supposed to be a reassuring smile but it just doesn’t land. We schedule an appointment for next week and then we hang up. I give myself 10 minutes to spiral before I pick up the phone and call Dana.

Dana picks up her phone on the third ring.

“Hey, kid! Where are ya?” I can hear the sounds of what is likely a bar or restaurant in the background and belatedly realize that there’s ER social plans today - most of day shift is gathered at the sports bar near the hospital to watch the first Penguins game of the regular season. Hockey is one of the few sports I will watch voluntarily, and I definitely told Dana I would try and make it out tonight.

“Shit, Dana. I totally spaced, had a bit of a personal crisis. Can I call you later? When you aren’t surrounded by our coworkers?” I hear a booming laugh in the background and immediately place it as Robby’s. Because of course he’s there. “Can you just, uh - text me when you leave the bar?”

“Hold up, Iris, wait. Are you okay?” Her voice changes, drops lower and sounds muffled. Like she’s covering her mouth while she speaks in an effort to afford me some privacy. She knows something happened between Robby and I, and has had a front row seat to whatever the fuck is going on right now so she’s sensitive to the fact that I might not want him knowing about said personal crisis. Little does she fucking know that he’s going to be quite privy to the details when I’m no longe actively in a state of crisis.

“I mean, okay is not really the word I would use but I’m safe and not currently in any physical danger.” Very much not okay, but I don’t want to make her change her plans for me. It’s so rare that we’re all able to see each other outside the Pitt and I know she values this time with her friends.

“Iris, honey. What’s wrong?” I don’t answer, but I do start to cry. My best efforts at keeping my sobs quiet are unsuccessful. “Oh fuck, you know what, never mind, I’m just gonna come over. Hang tight, okay?” I hear the screech of a chair as she presumably scoots back and stands up. Her voice is quieter as she speaks next, having moved the phone so she can talk to whoever else is at the table. “Change of plans, guys. I have to go. Enjoy the game and I’ll see you all tomorrow.”

The crying has not slowed in the thirty seconds it takes her to get outside.

“Dana, really, I appreciate it but you can stay and finish the game. I can wait.” I must not convince her, because she laughs at me. Fairly so, given that my words are very much broken up by sobs.

“Absolutely not. I’m on my way, I’ll see you in ten minutes.”

She arrives in eight.

I’m waiting by the door, and open it before she has a chance to knock. I’m still crying - no longer sobbing, but a pretty steady stream of tears track their way down my cheeks. I see the question forming on her lips but I beat her to it and hold out my three positive tests for her to see.

“Are we happy? Shopping? Making an appointment at the clinic?” Classic Dana - no big reaction, just thoughtful statements of action. Unfortunately I don’t know what I want.

“I don’t know yet. Took the tests early this morning and was able to get in last minute to see OB to confirm it. I’m just about 6 weeks along and I have no fucking clue what I want to do.” She closes the door behind her and immediately pulls me into a tight hug. Rubs my back with one hand and runs the other through my hair, tells me that it’s okay to not know what I want and that she’s here for me no matter what. Does not ask me who the father is. Unfortunately that is the biggest piece to this puzzle and I know I need to tell her.

We move to my couch and she makes me drink some water before continuing to fill her in. I decide it’s best to just fucking do it - no preamble and no backstory.

“Robby’s the father.” That stops her in her tracks for a second. Her eyes go wide and I can tell she’s working extremely hard to keep her own emotions under wraps.

“Well, shit. So that ‘thing’ that happened between you guys in September was sex?” I nod. “And, let me hazard a guess here, he freaked the fuck out and now he’s unable to act normal around you.” I nod again.

“That about sums it up. He left before I woke up and any effort I made to talk to him about it ended with him getting snippy and walking away from me. My texts went unanswered so I just stopped trying.”

“What an asshole - I’m so sorry, Iris.” She leans over to pull me into another hug. “Are you going to tell him?”

“I mean I kinda have to, don’t I? Would be a real dick move of me to not tell him about this. Even if he doesn’t deserve me speaking to him ever again.”

“I think that depends on what you decide you want to do. If you want to keep it, then yeah you’re gonna have to tell him. But if you don’t, then we go to the clinic this week and he remains none the wiser. Either choice is okay, whatever you decide to do will be the right decision for you.” I take a deep breath, enjoying having her here to support me.

“See that’s the thing, my first instinct is that I want to keep it. I’ve always thought that I could go either way on having kids, but now that it’s staring me in the face I can’t imagine not going through with it.” Saying it out loud all but confirms my decision - this is happening. I’m going to have a baby. And I’m going to have to tell Robby.

“Then that’s what will happen. I’ve got your back through all of it, and if you want me to hide upstairs while you tell Robby I can do that. I’ll even chase him out if he acts a fool.” She’s serious, and I love her for that.

“Might not be a terrible idea. The last thing I want is for him to be involved purely out of obligation.” I debate stopping there, not divulging the depths of my (extremely unadvised) feelings for him, but I’ve already gone this far so what’s the harm in spilling the whole story. “I’m like, stupidly in love with that man. Have been for a long time, and I was happy to have it kinda live in the background of my life up until recently. He approached me at that party we had for Jesse and we hit it off, and he was really sweet. Told me that he’s been wanting to kiss me for months and that he hasn’t been able to get me out of his head. We each had a few drinks, but I wasn’t drunk. A little tipsy for sure, but sober enough to consent and be smart about it. We even used a fucking condom! Then he was gone when I woke up and you’ve seen how he’s been since then.” She grimaces a little before responding.

“Yeah, he’s been in rare Robby form. Very broody. But, Iris, I really think he meant what he told you. Handled it terribly for sure, but he’s so thoroughly fucked up in the past that his ex literally left the state. He’s probably just trying to protect you in his own, very fucked up way.” I laugh and try to wipe away the tears staining my face, but they just keep coming.

“Well he’s doing a terrible job. Is it crazy of me to make him go to therapy before I let him really be involved? Is that, like, blackmailing?” The last thing I want out of all this is for my kid to be hurt in the same way - their dad hot and cold, unable to really make a commitment to be present in their life.

“Maybe a bit, but I fully support you in that. I actually think that’s plenty reasonable, and if he gives you pushback then he’ll hear about it from me.” So quick to jump in and support me, even when the problem is one of her best and longest friends. “If it makes you feel any better, the second I said your name at the bar earlier he looked like he was two seconds away from taking my phone and checking on you himself.” A mirthful laugh escapes me at that - it does not make me feel better.

“Then blackmail it is. Now, how the fuck am I supposed to have this conversation with him when I can’t even get him to say three consecutive words to me that aren’t directly work related?”

We spend the next hour brainstorming, and by the time she leaves I feel better. I have a loose plan, my tear ducts have long since run dry, and I no longer feel like I’m about to majorly fuck my whole life up.

I make myself a list before I go to sleep - things I need to buy for first trimester health, food I should avoid, and symptoms I’ve been experiencing so I can be as informed as possible.

My list exhausts me (that, and the tiny human I’m currently forming) and I fall into a blissful, dreamless sleep as soon as my head hits the pillow.

I spend the next few days making more lists. Baby names, furniture, birth plans. If there’s a relevant list to be made - it’s currently up on my fridge.

My first day back at work since The Event (TM) is fine, I guess. Dana greets me with a hug and a quiet check in, and while this isn’t that out of the ordinary it is unusual that she pulls me off the floor to do it. I feel Robby’s eyes track us as we walk back in from the ambulance bay, especially when we get closer and Dana does not smell like she’s just come back from a smoke break.

I treat Robby to his own taste of the silent treatment. No niceties, no attempts at small talk. Strictly patient care and work related conversations, and honestly conversations is a generous word. Terse exchanges is more accurate. Not even a polite smile in his direction. I don’t let it get in the way of my job, and if I do say so myself I really knock it out of the park nursing wise. Even escaping to the bathroom a few times per shift to puke doesn’t get in the way of my determination to keep up my ‘everything is fine’ facade.

Three shifts pass in this manner, three shifts where I can feel him fucking watching me like he knows something is up. Thirty-six hours of me sitting on the biggest fucking secret I’ve ever kept when all I really want to do is yell “Hey, fuckface! You ghosted me and it sucked, and I’m fucking angry about. By the way, I’m pregnant with your child. Get some god damn therapy if you’d like to be involved!” And then walk out, middle fingers up, leaving him to stand with the aftermath of his actions.

But, unfortunately, I am a professional adult so I don’t do that. I do heavily fantasize about it though.

Samira notices that something is up right away, but she is also on a long stretch of shifts so we agree to hang out when our work weeks are both done. We meet for breakfast (at 8pm) at the closest Denny’s and she spits out her coffee when I tell her that not only did I sleep with Robby, but that there’s going to be literal life long consequences for it come early June.

“Oh my god. I would ask if you’re okay, but I think I can answer that myself. When are you going to tell him?” I shrug as I finish my bite of French toast.

“Great question. He’s been fucking frosty with me lately and it doesn’t have me feeling very generous towards him. I know he deserves to know but god the thought of that conversation makes me want to punch a wall.” Another bite of toast. “I know that a few weeks after we slept together was the anniversary of Pitt Fest and Adamson’s death, but the way he’s been treating me does not make me want to tell him. It makes me want to be spiteful and keep it from him until the last possible second, so he can be as blindsided as I feel right now. Very immature of me and I won’t do that but it’s nice to entertain it for a bit.”

“He’s clearly fumbling the bag pretty hard right now, but you and I both know he’s going to do the right thing.”

“I know, and that’s almost worse. If he’s going to be all emotionally constipated while attempting to be present I am going to lose my shit. Dana said she thinks I am well within my rights to threaten him with therapy, so I think that’s my game plan.”

“That’s - that’s actually a great idea. If anything will get that man into therapy it’s the threat of potentially fucking up his child’s life.” She chuckles a bit. “Can I tell Jack? I will obviously swear him to secrecy but it might be nice to have him in your corner.”

“Please do - but if he tells Robby before I do I will kill him.”

“And I will help you hide the body. Also, he’s picking me up from this meal so if you’d like to fill him in yourself you’re about to have your window.” Like she summoned him, Jack Abbot walks in the door. He immediately finds Samira and she waves him over.

I decide that I do not have another long, emotional story in me and just spit it out.

“Hi, Jack.” He looks at me a little weird, we’re friendly at work but I don’t think I’ve ever called him by his first name before. “Welcome to the party, you’re about to hear some very classified information so prepare yourself.” He stares at me, a little stunned, but I just keep on talking. “I’m pregnant and keeping it. Robby’s the father, but I haven’t told him yet.” His jaw drops open, and he has to open and close it a few times before actual words come out.

“Uhhh, wow. Fuck. Are you, uhm, are you going to tell him?”

“I mean, yeah. Not sure when or how, but yeah. What’s your opinion on me using this as an opportunity to threaten him into therapy?” This gets a loud, genuine laugh from him.

“I think that’s a wonderful idea. You want my therapists number? I’ve given it to him multiple times but he’s clearly never used it.” Abbot doesn’t wait for me to answer, just pulls a card out of his wallet and hands it to me. “Are you doing okay? Managing symptoms alright?”

“Yeah, I’m okay. Thanks. Freaking the fuck out, but okay.” With that, I decide I’ve had enough social interaction for the day. “Now that all that’s out of the way, I’m going to head home. Samira, love you, thanks for the support, and Jack I’m a little sorry to drag you into all this but thankful that you’re here anyway.” I leave them at that, dropping enough cash to cover my meal and all but running to my car so I can have my next meltdown in peace.

I’m a little embarrassed to admit that I let another two full weeks pass before I even consider telling Robby. Erica, Dana, and Samira are all on my case a little bit but ultimately don’t push me too hard. My OB and therapist have both been informed that I’ve decided to continue the pregnancy, and the appropriate follow up appointments have been scheduled.

It takes an extra long session with Erica, complete with roll play and multiple outcomes of the conversation for me to feel even slightly ready to broach the subject with him. We decide that I’ll attempt to talk to him after our next shift together, a rare night where neither of us have to be in the next morning.

Dana knows, and as she leaves out the ambulance bay doors she shoots me a very encouraging thumbs up and a ‘call me!’ While I wait for him to leave. I don’t have to wait much longer. 10 minutes pass before I see him walk out, backpack slung over his shoulders and thick winter jacket thrown on like it’s armor. He doesn’t turn his head to look at me as he passes.

I parked at the very end of the lot today, hoping to use my car as an excuse to follow him for a bit. As we approach my green Honda CRV, I know it’s time to bite the bullet.

“Hey, uh, Robby? Can we talk for a sec?” He pauses, takes an AirPod out, and turns to face me. He looks like shit. Tired, like he hasn’t had a good sleep in weeks. I feel mean for thinking it, but I’m glad he’s getting just as much (little?) rest as I am.

“I’ve got somewhere to be, Iris. Now’s not a good time.” He may be facing me, but he’s not really looking at me. Fucking infuriating.

“It won’t take long, please. It’s kinda important.” Fuck him for making me plead to have a conversation - this is starting to feel a little humiliating. I can feel the tears forming and threatening to spill out, but he isn’t looking at me so he doesn’t see them.

“Not now. There isn’t really anything for us to talk about. I have to go, I’ll see you later.” And with that, he’s got his AirPod back in and is walking away. Fucking dick. The hot sting of rejection sits heavy in my chest, and I have to take a few minutes before I feel steady enough to drive home.

I work myself up pretty well on the way home, moving from shame to anger. I kick my shoes off in the entryway and slam my bag down, feeling like I need to scream. I decide a run will suffice and quickly change into my running gear. As I slip on my shoes and grab my running belt I decide there’s something I need to do first, and pull my phone out to send the riskiest text I’ve ever sent.

Iris (7:58pm)

Hi, asshole. I have been working up the nerve to talk to you for weeks, but since I apparently don’t deserve even five minutes of your time I guess this is how you’re going to find out.

I attach a picture of the tests and hit send, and then immediately send a follow up.

Iris (7:59pm)

Before you have the fucking audacity to ask, yes it’s yours and I’ll be keeping it.

I immediately put my phone on do not disturb and start my watch so I can track my run. I hit the pavement with a vengeance. My feet feel heavy beneath me, and it takes me longer than usual to feel warmed up enough to really run. I blast my angriest playlist, and run until I no longer feel like murdering the father of my unborn child.

I hit my favorite smoothie place on my way home, and call Dana as I walk and warm down.

“So I told him.” She gasps. “But, uh, over text. I tried to talk to him as he left but he blew me off and I was just so fucking angry and maybe jumped the gun a little, but it’s done now. I went for a run as soon as I got home, I’m walking back to my place as we speak.”

“How are you feeling about it, hon?”

“Terrified. Have not checked to see if he’s responded. Maybe a little elated? But like, in a manic way so maybe that’s not a good thing.” Dana laughs and reassures me.

“It’s alright, kid. That’s a big step you just took and you tried to do it in person, so fuck it. You want me to come over?” She asks, just as I turn the corner onto my street. My heart all but stops as I see an unfortunately familiar suburban parked in front of my house, and my breathing stops with it when I see that the man himself is sitting on my front steps.

“Oh fuck.”

“He’s at your house, isn’t he?” She’s far too smart for her own good, or maybe she just knows him too well.

“Yup.” God dammit, past Iris. Did you really have to send those texts?

“I can still come over if you want.” Seriously considering taking her up on that.

“No, I’ll handle him. But, maybe later? If and when I need to cry about this?”

“I’ll be waiting by the phone. You’ve got this, kid. Give him hell.”

[kxsagi]

hello! I know I’m asking this on ur glorious main character goatsagi’s bday but w the recent manga leaks (IF U HAVENT READ THEM YET PLS STOP HERE) I have a request (SPOILERS BELOW)

Could you write abt Househusband!Nagi like in an AU where bro doesn’t become a pro footballer after his Blue Lock elimination 😞 and what you think he would be like? For example: he’s unhelpful post u guys moving in together until reader lwk crashes out from the strain of carrying their household on their back (poor reader) and then nagi locks in 😈 and they r happy!! Or they aren’t I feed off of angst so either is ok 😊

“𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐡𝐮𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝! 𝐧𝐚𝐠𝐢”

a/n: this request is exposing how behind i am on requests 💀 BUT MY GLORIOUS GOATSAGI LMAOSJKSGJS

i’m all caught up to the manga so don’t worry! can’t spoil me 😼

i decided to not write angst for this one because nagi deserves to be happy after all the “burger king” jokes 

(i wish i knew art credits bc the art is so cute ☹️)

at first, living with house husband! nagi is like adopting a really pretty cat who doesn’t know what a vacuum is and keeps eating your leftovers. not out of malice, he just… forgets. or assumes you won’t mind. 

you do mind. 

"sei, did you wash the dishes?" 

"huh? no, i thought you were gonna do it after your class." 

cue the twitch in your eye. 

he’s not mean or messy. actually, house husband! nagi’s pretty neat. he wipes down the counters after he makes instant ramen and always folds his socks into perfect pairs. but helpful? not exactly. not unless you're standing there, giving him a step-by-step tutorial on how to do it. 

you didn’t expect it to be this hard. being the one who works, cooks, cleans, keeps track of bills, makes the appointments. he lounges around in oversized hoodies and his soft, soft hair, watching you buzz around the apartment like a stressed-out bee. 

and you love him, you really do, but love doesn’t clean the bathroom. 

so it happens. you burn out. 

it starts with you skipping breakfast. then forgetting to charge your phone. then breaking down in the laundry room because the dryer ate one of your socks and you’ve been on your feet for 12 hours and there’s no more clean towels. 

you come home and just. crash. 

no fanfare. no dramatic monologue. you face-plant into bed and sleep through dinner, still in your shoes. 

when you wake up, everything’s… quiet. 

no game noises. no crumbs on the floor. you blink blearily and shuffle into the kitchen, expecting chaos. 

instead, there’s house husband! nagi. hair tied back messily, sleeves rolled up, scrubbing a pot like he’s reenacting a cooking show tutorial. 

you just stare. 

"oh. you're up," he says, looking over his shoulder. there’s an apron tied crookedly around his waist. you don’t even own that apron. where did it come from? 

“did you… did you cook?” 

"mhm. made curry. didn’t know how spicy you liked it, so i made it mild and left the chili flakes on the side." 

you blink again. 

he glances at you, then at the floor. “also cleaned. and made a list of stuff we need. you look tired, so… i figured.” 

turns out, house husband! nagi just needed a wake-up call. he doesn’t like seeing you worn down. he doesn’t like knowing he was part of the reason. 

after that day, it’s like he flips a switch. he’s still the same laid-back, sleepy house husband! nagi, but now he folds your laundry with yours on top so you don’t have to bend down. he sets timers for the rice cooker and writes "don't forget lunch ♡" on post-its he sticks to your keys. he learns your favorite shampoo and stocks it before you run out. 

he even starts meal-prepping. you catch him slicing vegetables with alarming precision while watching cooking videos on 2x speed. when you ask him if he’s okay, he shrugs. 

“it’s kinda like a puzzle game,” he says, sticking a cut carrot slice to your forehead. 

he still doesn’t like vacuuming, but he does it anyway. with noise-canceling headphones and a sour face. 

"i miss football sometimes," he admits one night, curled into your side on the couch. "but this isn't bad, y'know? taking care of you. feels like i'm good at something again." 

your fingers slide through his hair. "you’re amazing at it." 

he hums, sleepy, a little smug. “yeah? then let me spoil you, okay? house husband! nagi’s locked in.” 

and you let him. because for all the lazy afternoons and pajama days and burnt toast attempts, he really is locked in. 

and the two of you? you’re happy. 

finally. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[allgoodnamesrgoneee]

hii! can we get a story were jude and the reader are expecting a child and he’s being super protective and attentive with her and just being the best husband ever maybe a little smut if you’re feeling like it😉

Heyyy… so, remember me?

Yeah, it feels like it's been about eighty-four years. I swear I didn't fall off the face of the earth, life just decided to humble me a little. Between school, work, and a near-death experience (yes, seriously), I've basically been living on caffeine and sheer willpower.

Now, with the end of the semester creeping up, things are somehow even busier than before. BUT(cue dramatic music)...summer Break is almost here!! Yayy!

Starting May 20th, I'm going to try (emphasis on try) to post at least twice a week! Fingers crossed. Pray for me. Light a candle.

Thank you so much for being patient with me. I promise I'm cooking up some really good stuff, and it's going to be so worth the wait. I can't wait to finally share everything I've been planning with you guys!

Love you all & see you soon!

-Bianca🌻

P.S. Don't forget my fics now available for ONLY $3 ($4.50 on iOS) each on my Patreon shop if you're looking for something specific; don't miss your chance to catch up on all the exclusive content!

I've uploaded way more fics to it. I just haven't posted them on Tumblr.

In All the Little Ways

Masterlist

𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚 — Your son isn’t even here yet, but Jude is already head over heels—fiercely protective, endlessly patient, and so in love with the little family you’re building together.

𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 — Husband!Jude Bellingham x Pregnant!Wife!You

𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 — 2.9k

Warnings! FLUFF, protective Jude, domestic sweetness, lots of baby fever, Jude being the most attentive husband ever, soft!dilfJude energy, boydad!Jude

You learn very quickly that there are two types of pregnant women in the world: the ones who glow like goddesses, and the ones who swear they're being slowly taken out from the inside.

You, for better or worse, fall solidly into the second category.

"Sit down, love. Please."

You blink down at your hands, still buried wrist-deep in the kitchen sink, suds clinging stubbornly to your knuckles like a second, soapier skin. The dishes clatter faintly against one another as you scrub, a mindless rhythm that’s become almost meditative these days—one of the few chores that lets you feel halfway normal.

Behind you, you can feel Jude hovering. His hand is half-extended, frozen awkwardly between reaching for you and holding back, like he’s ready to physically lift you away from the sink if it comes to that.

"Jude," you sigh, exhaustion threading through your voice as you turn slightly to look at him. "I'm just washing a few plates."

"You’re seven months pregnant," he counters immediately, his voice rising a fraction, that note of helpless urgency slipping through. His dark eyes—usually so steady, so soft—are wide and pleading, like he’s trying to will you into understanding the sheer scope of his concern. "And you’ve been on your feet for nearly an hour. An hour, babe."

You glance over your shoulder and catch the full effect of his worry. His brows are drawn together in a fierce line, his mouth pressed into a thin, stubborn line of determination. His arms are crossed tight over his chest, but he’s leaning toward you like he can’t physically help it, practically vibrating with barely restrained anxiety.

God, he looks so sincere it almost makes you feel guilty.

Almost.

You huff out a breath and dry your hands on a towel, more out of pity for his poor, fraying nerves than anything else. "Fine. But not because you're right," you mutter, flicking water droplets in his direction for good measure. "Because I’m tired."

"Same difference," he says immediately, flashing a grin that's more relief than triumph. He steps forward, gentle but firm, and catches your elbow in his hand like you're made of blown glass. Like you might shatter if he isn't careful enough.

You roll your eyes dramatically, but you let him lead you away from the sink, secretly grateful to be off your feet.

"Feet up," he instructs as soon as your back hits the couch. His voice has taken on that soft, bossy lilt he only uses when he’s pretending to have any say in the matter.

Before you can even protest, he’s already fussing—grabbing one of the giant, overly fluffy pillows he once swore he hated ("Why do we need a graveyard of cushions?") and tucking it carefully under your ankles, adjusting it once, then twice, until he’s satisfied.

It’s ridiculous, really. Over the past few months, Jude has evolved—or maybe devolved—into some insane hybrid of husband, bodyguard, and personal butler.

If you so much as breathe funny, he’s at your side with a glass of water and three different suggestions for prenatal yoga. He’s read every book, highlighted every article, downloaded every app the internet has ever recommended. He meal-preps your favorite comfort foods on Sundays now—though he always burns the roasted vegetables—and has stocked the pantry so full of prenatal vitamins it looks like you’re preparing for the apocalypse.

Last week, he spent three hours installing some ridiculous contraption in the car that promised to make your seatbelt “more bump-friendly.” You didn’t have the heart to tell him you weren’t entirely sure it was legal.

You’d tease him mercilessly if it wasn’t…well. Kind of the sweetest thing you’ve ever seen.

"You comfortable?" he asks now, crouching down in front of you so you’re eye level. His hand—big, calloused from years of gripping footballs but somehow still warm and impossibly gentle—finds your knee. His thumb traces slow, absentminded circles there, grounding you.

"I'm good," you reassure him, giving him a small, real smile.

Still, he hesitates, scanning your face like he’s waiting for you to suddenly combust or cry or both. And to be honest, you don't blame him. The mood swings lately have been… unpredictable at best. Yesterday you cried because the cereal box wouldn’t open properly.

"Really," you insist, reaching out to cup his jaw. His scruff has grown in a little, prickly against your palm, but familiar in the most comforting way.

He leans into your touch immediately, closing his eyes for a second and releasing a breath you didn’t realize he’d been holding. The noise he makes—somewhere between a hum and a sigh—blooms warm and soft in your chest.

"Okay," he says finally, though he still sounds like he’s ready to spring into action at the slightest twitch. "You need anything? Tea? Water? Grapes?"

You lift an eyebrow. "Grapes?"

"You said you craved them the other day," he says defensively, looking almost sheepish.

You laugh under your breath. "That was one time, Jude."

"Still," he shrugs, as if that explains everything. "Just in case."

You shake your head and tug at the sleeve of his hoodie, coaxing him closer. "Just sit with me."

It’s all he needs to hear.

The tension bleeds out of him like air from a balloon. He shuffles onto the couch beside you with comical caution, lowering himself like he’s afraid the cushions might collapse under his weight.

Almost immediately, his hand finds your bump—it's instinctual by now—his fingers spreading protectively across the stretch of fabric covering your stomach. His thumb moves in slow, reverent circles, as if he's wordlessly communicating with the little life inside you.

You cover his hand with yours, weaving your fingers between his, squeezing lightly. His touch is steady, reassuring.

He smells like fresh laundry and the faintest trace of the aftershave you got him for your last anniversary—the one he insists on saving for “special days” but you know he wears just to make you smile. It's a stupidly perfect combination. It smells like home.

You let your head fall back against the cushion, your body finally surrendering to the tiredness that's been gnawing at your bones all day. Your eyelids flutter closed, your breathing syncing up with the slow, steady rhythm of his. He’s so warm.

For a while, neither of you speaks.

The television hums softly in the background, some late-afternoon cooking show playing reruns you're not really watching. The clatter of pans and soft chatter from the screen fills the living room with a kind of easy, domestic noise. Outside, the sky bruises into early evening, colors bleeding together in dusky streaks of violet, gold, and deepening blue. The kind of light that makes everything look a little softer. A little slower.

Jude’s hand stays splayed protectively across your bump, thumb tracing lazy, mindless circles. His touch is warm, grounding. You can feel the steady beat of his pulse under your fingers where your hands are still tangled together.

It’s peaceful. So peaceful you feel yourself drifting a little, lulled by the steady background noise, the weight of Jude's palm, the rhythmic inhale and exhale of his breathing beside you.

And then—A flutter. Small, quick, like the flick of a bird’s wing inside you.

You blink, roused from your haze, and press your hand a little more firmly against your belly, right over where you felt it.

"He's kicking," you murmur, your voice barely louder than the hush of the television. You smile, small and instinctive, as the tiny movements continue beneath your skin. It’s a strange and beautiful sensation. A secret only you and your baby share—until you let Jude in on it.

Jude’s face lights up instantly, the transformation so pure it makes your chest ache. His whole expression softens, his eyes going wide and glassy, lips parting in awe. "Yeah?" he breathes, already leaning closer like he’s afraid he might miss it if he doesn’t move fast enough.

You nod, shifting a little to give him more space. The couch creaks under your combined movements. Jude's hand slides lower, fingers splaying wide across the curve of your stomach, just above your hip bone. His touch is gentle, tentative, like he’s afraid of pressing too hard.

"There," you whisper, catching his hand and guiding it to the right spot. You hold your breath as you wait, heart thudding in your ears.

For a few long moments, nothing happens.

Jude stays perfectly still, head bowed, brow furrowed in concentration. So still you can almost feel the tension vibrating under his skin. You can see it, too—the faint crease between his eyebrows, the slight pinch at the corners of his mouth. You wonder if maybe the baby’s decided to nap just to spite you both.

But then—

A kick. A little harder this time. A tiny, decisive thump right against Jude’s palm.

He jolts like he’s been shocked, sucking in a sharp, disbelieving breath. His head snaps up, his eyes locking onto yours with a kind of wide-eyed wonder that makes your throat close up. He’s so close you could count every freckle dusting his nose, every individual eyelash framing his gaze.

"Did you feel that?" you ask, grinning so hard your cheeks hurt.

"I—yes," he stammers, looking completely dazed. "I did. Shit." His fingers flex instinctively, trying to catch the feeling again. "It was…shit, it was amazing."

You laugh wetly, blinking back a sudden, stupid rush of tears. Because it is amazing. And because you know that look. The look that says he’s falling a little more in love with both of you every time he feels that tiny life moving. The way he stares at you, like he’s seeing something sacred. Like he can’t quite believe any of this is real.

Like he can’t quite believe you’re real.

Your heart twists so hard it’s almost painful.

He doesn’t look away for a long time. His thumb strokes absentmindedly over your hip bone, the touch feather-light and reverent. "How are you feeling?" he asks eventually, voice pitched low and careful, like he’s afraid to break the moment.

You take a beat to answer, savoring the way his hand still cradles you, the way his thumb keeps brushing soothing, absentminded strokes against your side.

"Not too bad," you say finally, smiling through the knot of emotion tightening your throat.

It’s not a lie. Not really. These days, the morning sickness is more like occasional afternoon queasiness. Still unpleasant, but nothing like the all-consuming misery of the first trimester when you couldn't even think about food without dry-heaving. You’re sleeping better now, too—well, most nights—propped up on a fortress of pillows Jude arranges for you religiously.

You may not be able to walk up a flight of stairs without needing a full recovery nap afterward, and you definitely haven't seen your own toes in weeks…but you’re here. You’re okay.

Better than okay.

"No headaches?" Jude presses gently, his brows knitting together again, that familiar, earnest worry back in full force. "Back okay? Feet?"

You nod. "All good," you reassure him, squeezing his hand where it still rests over your belly.

He searches your face for a few seconds longer, his gaze darting between your eyes like he’s trying to read something invisible there. Like he knows you too well to just take your words at face value. Finally, he seems satisfied and turns his gaze back down to your bump.

"Jude?"

"Hmm?"

Your voice is soft, almost shy in the quiet room. You lean down, pressing your forehead gently to his. His arms come around you without hesitation, wrapping carefully around your waist, mindful of the bump between you, holding you like you’re the most precious thing in the world.

You can feel the tension in him—the way his muscles stay taut even as he pulls you closer, the way his breathing hitches slightly when you exhale against his skin.

"I just…I worry," he says after a long beat of silence, his voice so low you almost miss it under the soft hum of the television and the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the far wall. "That you’re doing too much. That I'm not doing enough."

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes—those familiar chocolate brown depths that have always been a mirror for every thought he’s too stubborn to say out loud. They're wide and earnest now, glinting faintly in the low evening light. Vulnerable in a way that makes your heart twist.

You lift your hand to his face, tracing the strong line of his jaw, feeling the faint prickle of stubble beneath your fingertips. Your thumb sweeps softly over the shallow cleft in his chin, the way it always does when you need him to believe you.

"You're doing enough," you whisper, meaning every word with a fierceness that almost startles you. "You're perfect."

He closes his eyes for a second, like he’s trying to let the words sink in—but when he opens them again, there's still that shadow of doubt lingering. He shakes his head slowly.

"But I can't carry it for you," he says, voice cracking the tiniest bit, raw around the edges. His hand slides instinctively back to your belly, resting there like an apology. He presses a soft kiss to the top of your head, lingering for a second longer than usual. "I fucking hate that I can't."

"Jude." You grab his chin, forcing him to look at you, gentle but firm. "Do you trust me?"

"Of course I do," he says without hesitation, the easiest truth he's ever told.

"Then trust me when I say you’re doing everything you can. More than everything. You carry me. That's more than enough." Your voice wavers, but you steady it, pulling him closer until there’s barely an inch between you. "This is our baby. Our job. Not just yours, okay?"

He stares at you for a long moment, his throat bobbing with the force of the emotion he's trying—and failing—to swallow down. Then, slowly, he nods, leaning heavily into you like he’s finally letting himself be held, too.

You wrap your arms around his neck, cradling him against you, your fingers combing through the soft coils at the nape of his neck. His breathing evens out against your collarbone, slow and shaky, like he’s exhaling every fear he’s been carrying alone.

When he lifts his head again, his eyes are glassy, lashes clumped together with unshed tears he stubbornly refuses to let fall.

He nods after a moment, leaning heavily into you. You wrap your arms around his neck, combing your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. He closes his eyes, exhaling a slow, shaky breath. When he opens them again, they're glassy.

"I'm gonna be there," he promises, voice thick and raw, a solemn vow sealed between your heartbeats. "For everything. The late nights. The nappies. All of it. I'm not gonna miss a second." His hands tighten around your waist like he's anchoring himself to you. "Swear to God."

You believe him.

You believe him with every fiber of your being.

"I know," you whisper, brushing your thumb along the curve of his cheek, feeling the slight tremble there.

Because Jude Bellingham doesn’t do anything halfway.

Not on the pitch.

Not in life.

Not in love.

Your baby kicks again—a sharp, cheeky little nudge against your ribs—and both of you laugh, the sound bubbling up to soothe your tears. Your foreheads stay pressed together, and it feels like the whole world has been distilled down to this: the two of you, and the tiny life growing between you.

"You're sure I can't get you anything?" Jude asks a few minutes later, breaking the silence, though his hands stay firmly planted on your bump. "Juice? A snack? Anything?"

You roll your eyes fondly, leaning back into the couch cushions with a sigh. "Jude, you just brought me lunch. Like, two hours ago."

"Yeah, but that was forever ago," he insists, brow furrowing in earnest worry. "You need to eat more. You’re eating for two, remember?"

You lean back against the couch cushions and sigh. "I promise I'll tell you if I want something. Now come sit with me. Your show’s on."

"You sure?"

"I’m positive."

He hesitates—torn between wanting to keep fussing over you and finally accepting that maybe, just maybe, you’re okay for now. Eventually, he nods, dragging himself onto the couch properly and settling beside you, one arm slipping around your shoulders, the other instinctively returning to your bump. His fingers stroke over your clothes, tracing invisible patterns only he knows the meaning of.

It’s been his favorite thing to do ever since your bump started forming.

At night, when you’re curled up in bed, he’ll rest his head there, ear pressed against your stomach, almost trying to catch whispered secrets through your skin. Sometimes he stays so still you think he’s fallen asleep—but then you’ll feel the faint hum of him, humming to your bump, a low, soothing rumble that vibrates through you both.

Sometimes he talks, too.

Whispers soft things he thinks you can’t hear. Promises. Hopes. Fears he’s too proud to say out loud when you're awake.

Later, when he thinks you’ve drifted off to sleep, you hear him whisper it again against the soft curve of your belly:

"You're my whole world. Both of you."

You don’t open your eyes. You don’t have to. You can feel it in every careful brush of his fingertips, in the way he tucks the blanket a little tighter around you both, in the way he kisses your bump with a tenderness that could tear you apart if you let it.

He rests his cheek there, humming under his breath, and you think—no, you know—that whatever storms might come, whatever fears might lurk in the edges of the night, you’ll never face them alone.

Not with Jude by your side.

Not ever.

-Bianca🌻

[erwinsvow]

dad’s best friend reader did a sub-i at the hospital in like ob or peds pretty convinced that’s what she wanted to do & went to see jack in the emergency room at the end of her shift to say hi. it’s kind of cute watching them from afar catching up (you’re thinking how he was always your dad's cute friend when you were younger but now he’s so much cuter and he’s thinking. well we all know what he’s thinking) just talking quietly and the awkward yet sweet hug because you usually hug him all the times you’ve seen him outside of the hospital but it somehow feels weird to do it. he’s asking you about how your shift was and you’re elated—it was great, saw lots of things and did lots of procedures and you really love the program upstairs so maybe he’ll be seeing more of you! cue some kind of crazy trauma and he walks away but it seems like they need an extra set of hands and you're still in your scrubs so you just gown up to help out. follow around jack and try to help where you can. you haven't done emergency yet so you're out of your element but he talks you through what he's doing and why he's doing it. a hundred split second decisions in the span of a few minutes. and you, to your surprise, find it incredible. that your hands move faster than your brain does, that you answer some of jack's questions before he can even finish asking them. that you just saved lives by staying an extra hour. the adrenaline runs through you at eight-thirty, and jack recognizes it in you, that feeling like how could you go back to another field after this? he makes you sit down and brings you a juice box and a granola bar because he doesn't want you to crash out before you get home and he knows you've been here all day too. but you don't want to leave, insisting that you can keep helping, and he urges you to go home and that it was just a weird fluke of incomings all at once (though it happens pretty regularly, he doesn't think you need to know that). you drink the juice and eat under his watchful eye and he sends you home and tells you say hi to your dad for me. a week later you show up for an audition rotation (the charge nurse asks him if that's the girl he was hugging last week) and a little bit later, you show up as a first year intern (the same nurse, alongside another, ask him if he's excited you're here about three times in the first hour. they already know the answer.)

[arabella-syntax]

Between the Lines

Pairing: Leah Williamson x Y/N

Part 4

Summary: She’s Ellis to the world, Y/N to the ones who matter. Leah is captain, but never in control of what she felt for her.

They meet by chance in London through mutual friends. What follows is slow and full of silences: voice notes unsent, songs never released, touches that linger too long.

Word count: > 15k

Parts: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

A/N: Still trying my best to update regularly. Some angst in this post, like lots of angst and longing.

———————————————————————

Y/N – Los Angeles, June 2025

There were four cameras in the room, two more than necessary.

The set was warm-lit, sterile in that distinctly American way — soft beige furniture, a branded coffee mug, a host with teeth too white to be trusted. Y/N sat in the middle, hands loosely clasped over the mic on her lap. The label’s stylist had curled her hair just enough to look effortless, tucked a chain around her neck like a promise.

She smiled on cue.

When the host leaned in with a wink and said, “Ellis, the fans want to know — what’s new in love and music?”

She laughed.

Tucked her hair behind her ear.

“Well,” she said, careful and light, “I’m writing. A lot. And letting life do what it does.”

A practiced smile. A soft pivot.

The host pushed again. “There’s been some buzz around you and Sam Lawson — what can you tell us?”

Y/N tilted her head. “Sam’s a great collaborator. We’ve worked together before. It’s been fun to reconnect.”

“Just fun?” The host teased. “Nothing more?”

She looked into the camera lens like it was a telescope to another world. “Let’s just say… I’m letting people think what they want.”

Everyone laughed. Even she did.

But inside, she felt like she was watching herself from somewhere above.

————

Later, backstage, Olivia pulled her gently into a hallway.

“You nailed it,” her manager said, eyes scanning the hallway for nosy interns.

Y/N gave a tired nod. “I feel like I’ve been scrubbed clean of who I actually am.”

“That’s the point,” Olivia replied, voice lower. “For now.”

There was sympathy in her tone, but also steel.

Y/N leaned her head against the cool wall. “Do you ever wonder what this would all look like if I could be honest?”

“All the time,” Olivia said. “But you signed a deal. And we’re walking a tightrope between artistry and brand. I can’t change the clause. But I can make sure you don’t fall.”

Y/N closed her eyes. “I already did.”

————

After the cameras cut and the studio cleared, Olivia met her in the dressing room with a lukewarm coffee and a knowing look.

“You did what you had to do,” her manager said.

“I feel like a stranger to myself,” Y/N muttered, wiping off her lipstick.

Olivia’s face softened, but her tone stayed pragmatic. “You knew what signing that contract meant. We’re managing perception, not your truth.”

Y/N didn’t reply.

Instead, she sat there in silence, watching herself in the mirror — Ellis, pop sensation, carefully built and now boxed in.

————

Back at the Laurel Canyon house, Y/N dropped her bag and walked barefoot to the small studio space tucked behind the kitchen.

She shut the door. Kicked off her shoes. Pressed record on her voice notes app.

You were my pause in a world of noise.

I should’ve said I loved you on the bridge — not after.

We had more than some nights. We had hours that rewrote the way I breathe.

She breathed, picked up her guitar. Strummed the chords she wrote in Camden.

Let her voice wrap around the ache in her chest like gauze.

A melody unraveled — delicate, bruised.

She opened her lyric journal:

I left the light on in Camden

Just in case you ever came back.

And then:

It’s the things I don’t say

You’d knew I lied from a mile away.

The words came faster than she could contain them.

She recorded three demos in under four hours.

She didn’t eat. Didn’t text Olivia back.

She just made something that sounded like honesty.

————

It wasn’t until the next day, in a rare moment of impulse, that she posted a 20-second video to Instagram.

A black-and-white clip of her at the piano.

The caption: something unfinished.

Hashtag: #Camden

The melody was soft, but the lyrics echoed.

In the comments, fans speculated wildly. Some about the song. Others — more accurate — about the line.

Olivia called within ten minutes.

“I won’t take it down,” Y/N said before she could speak.

“I’m not asking you to,” Olivia replied. “I think… it’s the most you’ve said in weeks.”

Y/N leaned against the studio wall. “It wasn’t for them.”

“I know,” Olivia said quietly. “I think she will too.”

————

That night, Y/N lay awake listening to voice notes she never sent.

Lyrics she never sang aloud.

And one voicemail she had saved — Leah’s voice from two months ago when they first shared the night:

You’re a thunderstorm, you know that? Loud in all the right ways. But I’d still let you break me open.

Y/N closed her eyes.

And let herself cry — not for what she lost, but for what she hadn’t been brave enough to keep.

————

Leah – Switzerland, UEFA Women’s Euro 2025

The air in Zurich felt heavier than usual.

Or maybe it was just her — Leah Williamson, Captain, composed. She still answered the press with the same fluency, passed every fitness test, wore the lioness badge with pride. But something in her steps was slower. Her reactions, a beat behind. Her fire, slightly dulled.

It hadn’t gone unnoticed.

“Leah,” the England manager said after drills one morning. “You’re quiet.”

She gave a quick nod. “Just focused.”

But that wasn’t the word.

She was distracted.

Still smelling jasmine shampoo in her dreams.

Still hearing Y/N’s laugh on loop inside her ribcage.

————

That night, Leah found herself on Instagram, half-scrolling on autopilot after lights out.

There it was.

Y/N’s post.

Black-and-white video. Just 20 seconds long.

She sat at a piano, hair pulled back, no edits, no captions — except:

something unfinished

#Camden

The melody was soft, stripped back. But the lyric sliced straight through:

I left the light on in Camden

Just in case you ever came back.

Leah’s breath caught.

Because that was her.

That was them.

She played the video again. And again.

Her fingers hovered over the screen. Wanted to comment. To like.

She did neither.

Just turned off her phone, set it face down, and stared at the ceiling until morning.

————

During breakfast, Keira clocked her silence again.

“You’re not eating,” she said, pushing a cup of tea toward her.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re still lying.”

That night, after a win in their opening match, Leah finally cracked.

They were in Keira’s room, the telly on low, the adrenaline fading.

Leah sat on the edge of the bed, hunched forward, hands gripping the hem of her training top.

“She posted a song,” she whispered.

Keira paused. “The one you were seeing?”

“She called it Camden. It’s us. It’s—” Leah’s voice broke. “It’s a breadcrumb trail of something I can’t follow anymore.”

Keira leaned closer. “You still love her.”

“I don’t think I ever stopped.”

“She might love you too.”

“She left.”

Keira was quiet. “And yet, you’re still here. Still trying.”

“Trying not to drown in something that was real for me. And maybe only me.”

“You don’t know that.”

Leah looked down at her hands. “It doesn’t matter. I wasn’t brave enough to stop her. She wasn’t brave enough to stay.”

Keira exhaled. “You don’t need her to finish the story, Leah. Just… write yours.”

————

That night, Leah pulled her duvet up over her chest and replayed the video again.

Let the sound of Y/N’s voice — Ellis, to the rest of the world — fill her room.

Not for closure.

Just for proof that what they had had a melody after all.

————

Y/N – Los Angeles, Late July 2025

Y/N never thought she’d be the kind of person who watched sports in secret.

But here she was, curled on a sofa, blanket pulled over her legs, the England vs. Sweden quarter-final playing at a low volume on her laptop.

The commentators’ voices were muted, but Leah’s presence roared through the screen — in every intercepted pass, every commanding shout, every flash of armband-red under the lights. There was a steeliness to her now that hadn’t been there in March. That softness Y/N had known still flickered beneath her movements, but it was buried deep. Protected.

She didn’t blame her.

She only blamed herself.

————

After the final whistle, Olivia entered the room with a glass of wine and a look that said she was tired of pretending.

“They made it to the semis,” Y/N said quietly.

“I saw.”

“Spain next.”

Olivia nodded and settled into the armchair. “You want to go, don’t you?”

Y/N stared at the screen, still paused on Leah’s face. Sweat-damp hair. Determined eyes.

“I know it’s insane,” Y/N admitted. “But I want to be in the same city. I want to— I don’t know. Breathe the same air for — even if it’s a while.”

Olivia didn’t answer right away.

“I talked to the label’s PR team this morning,” she finally said. “They’d be okay with you attending. Under one condition.”

Y/N already knew. “Sam.”

Olivia exhaled. “They’ll only approve the trip if it’s packaged as a continued public romance. One more round of airport candids. A box seat side-by-side. Maybe a shot of you two walking hand-in-hand.”

Y/N swallowed. “You think Leah would even want to see me?”

“I think,” Olivia said gently, “she deserves the truth. But if you’re not ready to give it, at least don’t lie from across a stadium.”

————

Y/N hated airports.

Especially this one — sterile, over-lit, and full of eyes she couldn’t see but knew were watching.

Sam Lawson had shown up in a bomber jacket and designer sunglasses, smile polite but eyes vacant. They didn’t speak much as they walked through arrivals. Olivia flanked them, a publicist trailing just behind.

A camera flashed.

Then another.

A ripple of voices:

“Ellis! Sam! Over here!”

“Ellis, is this your first trip together abroad?”

“Are you here to support the Lionesses?”

Y/N forced a smile. Slipped her hand loosely into Sam’s as instructed. He gave it the appropriate squeeze — not too intimate, not too cold.

She felt her soul wince.

————

Later that night, alone in the hotel bathroom, Y/N stared at her reflection.

She looked like Ellis.

Not Y/N.

Not the girl Leah kissed in the rain just outside Camden Market.

Not the woman who played Camden on a dusty upright piano at 2am.

Ellis was just a product.

Polished. Controlled. Palatable.

She pressed a hand to her chest.

“Still me,” she whispered.

Like saying it might make it true.

————

Back in bed, she opened Instagram.

Searched Leah’s name.

Nothing new. But the England FA account had posted a training reel.

Leah, mid-tackle. Leah, in a huddle.

Leah, laughing with Keira.

Y/N watched it on loop, her fingers hovering over the comment box.

She didn’t type anything.

Just scrolled to her own profile.

The #Camden post was still there.

Thousands of comments.

One stood out:

“We all know who that song’s about.”

She turned off the phone.

And tried to fall asleep to the hum of someone else’s silence.

————

Leah – Switzerland, UEFA Women’s Euro 2025 Semi-Final

The locker room buzzed with adrenaline and nerves.

Leah sat alone on the bench, boots tied tight, head down. Her captain’s armband rested across her knee like a promise she’d made to herself and the nation.

Spain.

Of course it would be Spain.

Her mind ticked through formations. She pictured Alexia’s movement in tight spaces. Aitana’s turns. Mariona’s instinctive strikes.

But the image that slipped through like a fault line wasn’t football at all.

It was Y/N.

Or rather, Ellis — in the crowd tonight, no longer abstract. She had heard from Alessia that Ellis was in town.

“She’s in Zurich,” she said. “Paps caught them, there are photos of her and that Sam guy.”

That name landed in Leah’s stomach like a cold stone.

Leah nodded like it didn’t matter. Like her chest hadn’t just splintered beneath her ribs.

————

The tunnel was quiet in that sacred, suspended way before kick-off. Cleats scraped gently on concrete. National flags fluttered in the breeze outside the stadium mouth.

Leah closed her eyes.

Breathed in. Out.

Blocked everything out but the whistle.

Or tried to.

————

The first ten minutes were tight — England pressing, Spain circling like dancers.

Leah held her shape, directing the backline. She felt sharp.

Until the twenty-second minute.

A cross floated in too low, and Leah instinctively stepped forward to clear — too early. Her timing faltered by half a second.

Alexia Putellas pounced.

A touch with her left, a volley with her right.

Top corner.

Spain 1 – England 0.

Leah didn’t even hear the roar. Just the sound of her breath catching in her throat.

Keira jogged back toward her.

“We reset,” she said firmly.

Leah nodded, too quick. “Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

But her feet felt like lead.

————

Second half. Minute fifty-three.

England equalised — Alessia Russo with a header that cracked through the tension.

For a moment, there was hope.

But then came Aitana.

Spain sliced through midfield like it was choreography. Keira stepped too wide. Leah moved to cover.

Too late.

Aitana sent the ball sailing low past the keeper’s gloves.

Spain 2 – England 1.

Leah wanted to scream at herself.

Instead, she clenched her fists and ran back to the halfway line like her lungs weren’t burning.

She didn’t dare glance at the stands.

She didn’t want to know if Y/N had looked away.

————

England clawed one back in the 70th minute — Beth Mead with a stunner from distance.

2–2.

Momentum shifted. The crowd lifted.

It felt, for the first time, winnable.

Until minute eighty-nine.

A throw-in turned quick counter.

Leah saw the pass. Saw Mariona making the run.

And froze.

Just for a second.

Mariona slipped through like a ghost, one touch past the keeper.

3–2.

Game over.

————

The final whistle didn’t sound like a whistle.

It sounded like a door slamming shut.

Leah dropped to her knees, hands pressed into the grass.

It wasn’t just the match.

It was months of holding everything together — in training, in interviews, in silence.

She could feel the eyes on her.

Teammates. Fans.

Her mum in the stands.

And somewhere…

Y/N.

————

She stood eventually.

Clapped her hands for the crowd.

Hugged Keira. Thanked Alessia.

Met Alexia’s eyes across the pitch and gave a faint nod.

Spain had been better tonight.

They’d also been lucky.

But mostly — Leah had fallen apart at all the worst moments.

————

Y/N – Zurich, Late July 2025

The silence in her hotel suite was deafening.

Muted replays of the England–Spain match flickered on the TV in the background, but Y/N wasn’t watching. She already knew how it ended. Had known, really, the moment Leah missed that first clearance. The moment the camera cut to her face — jaw clenched, blinking fast, refusing to let anything break through.

Y/N felt like she’d swallowed glass.

She had watched from the VIP box beside Sam, every second carved into her memory like it was punishment. The guilt, the rage at herself, the unbearable ache of wanting to scream, I’m not really with him.

But she hadn’t.

Instead, she clapped politely. Kept her distance. Played her part.

Now, in the aftermath, she felt like the air itself had turned against her.

————

Her phone buzzed.

One name. One line.

Leah:

Are you still in Zurich? I want to talk. Somewhere discreet. Tonight.

Y/N stared at the message for a full minute.

She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Just typed:

Yes. Just tell me where.

————

They met at the back entrance of a park near Lake Zurich, where the lamps were low and the path led to a quiet stretch of trees. Y/N arrived first, dressed plainly — hoodie, jeans, no makeup. She didn’t even know why she cared about looking normal. Maybe because there was no script for this version of herself.

Leah showed up ten minutes later.

Ball cap pulled low. Hoodie zipped to the neck.

The tension between them was immediate. It crackled, sharp and unfinished.

“You came,” Y/N said softly.

Leah didn’t return the smile.

She just stood there, arms folded, pain simmering under her skin like a fault line.

“You watched the match?” she asked flatly.

Y/N nodded. “Yeah.”

“With him?”

She hesitated. “We were seated together.”

Leah’s eyes narrowed. “So that’s why you came here? For a photo op?”

“No—”

“Then what, Y/N?” Her voice cracked. “Why are you here?”

Y/N looked away, throat thick. “I… I just wanted to support—.”

“Bullshit.”

Leah stepped closer, not aggressive, but visibly trembling.

“You showed up and everything went to hell. You think I didn’t see it? You and Sam laughing in the stands. The headlines. The hashtags. I had to play Spain knowing you were out there — with him — watching me fall apart.”

Y/N’s chest collapsed inward. “Leah…”

“I made mistakes tonight. I fucked up — not because I wasn’t ready. Not because Spain were better. But because I couldn’t shut you out of my head.”

“I never meant to distract you—”

“Then why lie?” Leah snapped. “Why come and pretend? You already broke me once. Why do it again just to stand here and say nothing?”

Y/N’s mouth opened. Closed.

The truth, raw and trembling, perched at the tip of her tongue:

Because I missed you. Because I never stopped.

But what came out was safer. Smaller. False.

“I thought it would be enough. Just being in the same place.”

Leah let out a bitter laugh, almost disbelieving. “You don’t get it. I would’ve given you everything. I did. And you threw it away — for Sam.”

Tears burned behind Y/N’s eyes, but she didn’t let them fall.

“It wouldn’t have worked…Us, we wouldn’t have worked.”

“We’ve never even begin. How—” Leah stopped midway, eyes staring up to the skies, blinking the tears that threatened to escape.

A silence stretched, thick and unbearable.

Then Leah inhaled slowly, steadied herself.

“You know what hurts most?” she asked, quieter now. “Not that you lied. Not even that you let them use you. It’s that I let myself believe I mattered more than that.”

Y/N couldn’t speak.

So Leah continued. Cold now. Final.

“I’m drowning here. I tried to block it out, but you’re everywhere I see, I can’t shut you out of my mind. And you came here wanting to breathe the same air as me, when you are the one that left!”

Y/N flinched at Leah’s words. She let out a hollowed sigh, visibly shaking and eyes welled up. With her best resolve, she said, “I’m sorry. You need a clean break, and I’m not brave to give it to you— so delete my contact.”

Leah looked taken aback. “What…?”

“Block me. My number, my socials - everything.”

“Fine.” Leah turned and walked away without another word.

And Y/N stood under the trees, shaking.

————

Back in the hotel, the room felt colder than before.

She sat on the edge of the bed, phone in hand.

Opened Leah’s contact.

Stared at it.

Heart thudding.

Then, with trembling fingers, she hit delete.

A single tear slid down her cheek.

She didn’t wipe it away.

She just let it fall, as quietly as everything else she’d lost.

————

Leah – Switzerland, Early August 2025

There was a strange kind of quiet that followed heartbreak on the international stage.

It wasn’t the kind of silence that soothed.

It buzzed — beneath the surface of training sessions, inside the team bus, in the unspoken glances shared over breakfast. Leah had been in tournaments before. She knew how to carry disappointment. But this time, the weight didn’t just sit in her legs — it nested behind her ribs.

England had fallen short of the final.

But they still had one more match to play.

One more night to prove they were more than their collapse.

And Leah knew — more than anything — she needed redemption. Even if it was quiet. Even if no one but her really noticed.

————

The day before the third-place match, Keira found her in the gym alone.

“Still punishing yourself?”

Leah didn’t look up from the rowing machine. “Just staying sharp.”

Keira tilted her head. “You’ve been sharp since you were seventeen.”

Leah paused. Sweat dampening the collar of her training kit.

“Can’t afford to slip again,” she said quietly.

Keira didn’t press. She just sat on the edge of the mat nearby, silent company.

That was why Leah trusted her.

She didn’t need fixing.

Just someone who understood that staying afloat didn’t mean you weren’t drowning.

————

Matchday. England vs. Germany.

A different kind of energy pulsed through the dressing room.

There was less pressure.

But more pride.

Like every player had something left to give — and no expectation to carry.

Leah looked at her teammates. The ones who’d run until their lungs gave out. The ones who’d cried in silence. The ones who were already planning their club returns.

She tied her armband with a deliberate steadiness.

Tonight, she would lead.

Not because she had to.

But because she needed to remember what it felt like to stand for something that didn’t break her.

————

The match started tense. Both sides playing cautiously, as if afraid to take risks after semi-final heartbreaks of their own.

But Leah felt different.

Light, somehow. Not weightless, but… grounded.

In the 67th minute, England won a corner.

Beth Mead jogged over to take it. Leah moved into position at the edge of the six-yard box, eyes on the ball. She could feel Germany’s centre-backs tracking her — but she wasn’t focused on them.

She was focused on the space.

Beth sent it in, low and curling.

Leah stepped forward, rose above the chaos — and nodded it into the far post.

Goal.

1–0.

The roar that followed didn’t break her.

It lifted her.

Her teammates swarmed. She let herself be folded into their arms, just for a moment.

She didn’t look for anyone in the crowd.

Didn’t check who might be watching.

She just let herself feel it.

A moment of truth.

————

England held the lead.

The final whistle blew.

They won.

Not the Euro winners. But tonight, it felt enough.

————

The locker room was jubilant.

Music, dancing, beer showers. Coaches laughing like kids.

Leah smiled. Laughed even. Let herself breathe.

But later, when the noise had quieted, she slipped away. Out the back entrance, still in her training jacket, hair damp with sweat and champagne.

The night air was cool against her cheeks.

She scrolled aimlessly on her phone.

Instagram. Twitter. TikTok.

She tried not to type Ellis.

Failed.

She did not delete and block Y/N’s neither. What Y/N requested her to do, as she was not brave enough to allow Leah the distance.

Leah was not ready to lose all their message thread, voicemails Y/N sent. She knew she was hurting herself - Leah wished she was braver.

With a sigh, see saw all the posts.

There Y/N was — at the Zurich airport, snapped leaving earlier that morning. Sam beside her. Her face unreadable.

Another headline:

“Ellis and Sam Spotted Departing Switzerland After England’s Defeat”

Another lie made glossy.

Another version of reality Leah couldn’t claw her way into.

She threw her phone into the empty bench beside her. Pressed her hands to her face.

She didn’t cry.

But the ache behind her eyes throbbed like a bruise.

She’d scored a goal tonight.

But she’d lost the only thing that had ever made her feel seen — not as a captain, not as a symbol, but just as Leah.

And that kind of victory would always taste like ash.

————————————————————————

A/N: Let me know your thoughts!

[moeyynorris]

Reunited

Lando Norris x F!Reader

Warnings: it’s basically entirely smut (fondling, oral f receiving, unprotected p in v, slight praise kink?) with a little fluff mixed in.

A/N: At the beginning of the fic, there is a hint at the reader working in a hospital. In my mind, she is a veterinary nurse (which is what I do), but the actual profession is up to you. It’s not really relevant to the story. Anyway, I hope you enjoy! Oh, and thank you for 100 followers!! ❤️

You turned your key into the front door of your apartment, grinning with excitement to finally be home. It had been a long, 13 hour shift at the hospital, and you were more than ready to be home.

The moment you shut the door behind you, you tossed your dirty scrub bag into the adjacent laundry room. You would deal with that later. Now was time for some R&R.

A shuffling sound in the living room made you freeze. Was it the cat? It sounded heavier, almost like a—

“Hello, baby,” you heard a familiar voice greet you. Your lips instantly curled in a gleeful grin.

“Lando!” You scurried over to him as he lifted from one of the living room chairs and coiled your arms around his neck. You leaned up and pressed a soft, sweet kiss on his lips. “I thought you wouldn’t be home until tomorrow night.”

Lando softly pulled away, shaking his head. “I got away a day early. It’s only a three hour flight, so I thought I would come back home to you.” His eyes glimmered in the low light, but that didn’t hide his pupils quickly darkening as he stared down at you.

“Did you miss me?” you whispered as you pulled Lando close again. You peppered kisses along his jaw, which coaxed a low growl from him.

“Oh, did I miss you?” He playfully mocked. “When I sat there in the car, through every turn, you were the only thing on my mind.”

Lando’s arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against him. His head dipped to your shoulder, allowing his plump lips to smooth down the length of your neck. He nipped at the crease of your neck between each kiss.

“I thought about coming back home to you, to hold you in my arms.” Another nip. “To taste you on my lips again.”

You tilted your head back while a soft moan left your lips. Lando’s free hand slipped under your sweater, and reached up, quickly unhooking your bra. He paused for a moment, waiting for a cue to continue. Ever the gentleman. You smiled to yourself before grabbing his hand and sliding it forward, allowing it to cup your breast.

“Touch me, Lando,” you begged.

And that’s all he needed.

Keeping your breast cupped firmly in his hand, he used his other hand to guide your sweater up and off your body, followed by your bra. He leaned down and wrapped his lips around your other nipple.

“Mmmm, definitely missed your taste,” he growled as he swirled his tongue around your nub, coaxing a gasp you.

Your fingers tangled in his hair as he switched from one breast to the other, showing no mercy to the sensitive flesh. A familiar ache brewed in your core, tempting you to reach down to the waistband of his sweatpants. You began to tug the fabric off his hips, earning a low moan from your boyfriend.

“That can wait, love. I want to show you how much I’ve missed you first.” Lando turned you towards the chair he had been sitting in before you got home, and eased you down into it. He then pulled your leggings and panties off in one go, leaving you completely naked on the white furniture.

Lando pulled his sweatshirt over his head, revealing nothing but his toned chest beneath. He lowered to his knees, leaning forward towards your heated body. His long fingers wrapped around your calves and hoisted your legs onto his shoulders.

Then, he dove in.

He started slow, kissing and biting the inside of your thighs while his hands squeezed your outer thigh. Then, he guided his tongue down your thigh and licked a slow stripe up your folds. He flattened his tongue, repeating the motion a few times while you squirmed beneath him. Oh, he was taking his time with you. There was no rushing. No, he clearly wanted to savor every second of this.

“Oh,” you gasped the moment his lips wrapped around your clit. He sucked in just a little, enough to elicit a moan from your throat.

“That’s my good girl,” Lando cooed. He peered up to watch you start to unfold. “What should I do next? Maybe this?” He inserted a single finger into your slick entrance.

“Lando,” you hissed. Your hips bucked in response as his finger curled inside you. After a few thrusts, he slipped in a second finger.

“Oh, you’re so wet for me, baby.” He placed his lips and tongue back onto your clit, teasing the fullness in your core. You arched your back slightly, that tense pull getting stronger and stronger.

With a grin, Lando pulled away, and replaced his lips with his thumb. He rolled slow, wide circles around your swollen nub, pushing you even closer to—

“Lando.” His name left your mouth in a groan as the pressure finally released. Your mouth fell open and your eyes fluttered shut as you rode his fingers through the waves. His thumb continued its pace, never relenting.

One thing that Lando loved to do was push you. To be a better person, to be patient, and to cum so many times you couldn’t see straight for days.

Lando removed his fingers from your dripping hole, but kept his thumb right where it was. He lowered his mouth to your hole, extending his tongue to lick the sweet juices he was coaxing from you.

“So sweet,” he hummed. He smirked up at you his mouth shining with slick. Your lips quivered as you stared down at him. The sight alone sent you over the edge again. Your spine ached as your whole body tensed with your release. Both of your legs shook on Lando’s shoulders, but he held you steady.

You moaned and sighed as your body relaxed again. Lando studied your every move, the rise and fall of your breasts, your hands gripping the armrests, your jaw slack with pleasure.

“God, you’re so beautiful, Y/N,” he praised while licking your slick from his fingers. He quickly wiped his face, then eased your legs off his shoulders. “You good, baby?” You nodded. “Good.”

Lando stood, sliding his sweatpants and briefs off, his erection tapping his lower stomach is he did. Your hazy gaze landed on the gorgeous site. His toned body, those strong legs. God, he was stunning.

Oh, and that smile.

Lando grinned down at you for a moment before moving to lift you into his arms. You knew he wouldn’t carry you, but he knew you needed something to help with your wobbly legs.

“C’mon, baby. Let’s head somewhere a little more comfortable.” Lando winked as he lifted you from the chair. He snickered a little as one of your legs buckled. “I’ve got you, beautiful,” he whispered as you both made your way to your bedroom.

The moment the two of you were in your bedroom, Lando turned you towards him. He slid his hands under your bare ass and lifted you. He tossed you into the bed, then pulled your ass right to the edge. He stood over you, gazing down at his prize.

“I’ve been waiting for this for six days.” His eyes fluttered closed as his cock twitched. Then, his eyes opened again.

You opened your legs a little wider, silently begging him to fuck you. Oh, and he saw you.

With a smirk, he lined up his cock with your entrance, then slowly entered. His head rolled back and a groan left his throat as he slowly filled you.

“So good,” he praised. His curls fell in a halo around his face and his aqua eyes had gone nearly black.

He gripped both of your legs and pulled them against his sides before he slowly pulled back out, then thrusted back in. He repeated slowly a few more times, getting accustomed to your feel again. Then, he sped up, quickly finding a rhythm.

Your eyes fluttered closed as he thrusted into you. His thick cock slid against every sensitive nerve, making you squirm beneath him.

“You feel so good, Y/N. So tight and so wet for me,” his words trembled a bit, and it was fucking hot. His breath huffed out of him with each thrust.

His gaze met yours for a moment. He licked his lips as he slid his hand down your leg, and up to your clit. A gasp escaped you the moment his thumb found the swollen flesh. His thumb swirled around the bundle of nerves again, a little faster this time, quickly raising the heat in your belly. You bucked quickly against his as he fucked you.

“Oh my god, Lando, don’t stop,” you begged as your body wiggled. Your clit was so sensitive, but you didn’t want it to end. His calloused thumb added just enough pressure, and the friction of him inside you was almost too much.

“What was that, baby?” He teased. He loved watching you fall apart.

“Don’t stop,” you huffed between whimpers and moans. Lando grinned as he halted his thumb. He also slowed his pace, watching your face. You whined at the loss of friction. “Please.”

He leaned down a little. “What do you want, my love?” You let out a little whimper.

“Lando, please fuck me harder. Touch me.” You reached up for his hand and brought it back down to your clit. He chucked.

“Since you asked so nicely.” Lando slammed deep into you. A mix of a moan and a scream left you, and the sounds didn’t stop. He continued the glorious combo, lifting you closer and closer to release.

You moaned and screamed his name, rolling your hips to his movements. Your legs shook against his sides, indicating you were close.

“Let go, Y/N. I want to feel you cum around my cock.” His words, and the feral look on his face, pushed you into bliss. You bucked and screamed your boyfriend’s name as he thrusted impossibly deep inside you. You struggled to suck in a breath, the overstimulation keeping you in your high.

As you started coming back down, Lando’s thrusts started to falter. You knew he always started to lose it as he watched you fall apart.

“Lando, cum inside me,” you pleaded. Lando’s face contorted, his eyes squeezing shut.

“Fuck Y/N,” he groaned as he finally spilled into you. He thrusted into you a few more times, emptying himself into you. Then, he hovered there for a moment, before pulling out and collapsing at your side.

The two of you laid beside each other, catching your breath. You turned to him and took in the gorgeous sight. His eyelashes fluttered over his caramel cheeks, and his frizzy curls stuck out in every direction. His chest heaved up and down, and his muscular legs rested lazily on yours.

“I love you,” Lando muttered, opening his eyes. “And I missed you.” You smiled.

“I love you too. I’m so glad you’re home a day early.” He reached over and pulled you against him.

“I couldn’t stand to be away from you for another day.” He started to chuckle. “Wow, that was cheesy.” You both laughed.

“Yeah, it was,” you confessed. “But you know I love it.”

Lando nodded. He reached up, his fingers lightly toying with your hair. There was nothing else you wanted in that moment.

“How did I get so lucky?” Lando whispered. Your heart fluttered at the words.

“I was just wondering the same thing. Thank you for loving me,” you muttered meekly. Lando just smiled widely.

“I always will, baby. I promise.”

[jeridandridge]

On Your Side

Melissa Schemmenti x Reader based off of these prompts: “Please don’t lie to me again, I can’t take it.” And “Go with me?” “As long as you hold my hand.” Kinda ooc Melissa? BFFs Melissa and Jacob.

If Melissa had known how her week would start she would’ve stayed on the couch with you on Sunday instead of hosting family dinner. The day starts just as it always does, you curled up behind the redhead with your arm wrapped around her in a comforting hold lazily moving your fingers up and down the soft skin of her stomach.

“I have to get up, Amore.” Melissa hums through a stretch turning to face you.

Meeting green eyes and a freckle dusted nose you crane your neck kissing the tip of her nose making her smile. “You sure I can’t talk you into canceling and staying in this nice, comfy bed with me all day?”

Melissa laughs pecking your lips. “I love the sound of that. But you know how my mom is.”

As if right on cue, a knock comes from the bedroom door with a frantic Jacob on the other side.

“Mel Mel! I scrubbed the living room, dusted the plastic, and wiped down the china cabinet. We’re on schedule!”

“I do love that kid.” Melissa whispers with an adoring smile, playing with your hair as she lifts her head.

“Thanks, Jacob! I’ll be out in a minute!”

Sighing contently you close your eyes for a moment longer enjoying the warmth of the space you two share. “I suppose I’ll let you go.” You joke shifting to sit up.

“You’re comin’ back tonight right?” Melissa asks as she gets out of bed, milky skin on full display in the morning sun rays.

“Of course. Maybe I can get some lesson planning done without Venus herself distracting me for a few hours.”

“I didn’t hear you complaining last night,” the redhead tosses a wicked grin over her shoulder.

Leaving Melissa’s house with a kiss, you don’t think anything of the family get together as you get chores and work done at home. You’ve been together for about six months, but Melissa wasn’t ready to subject you to a family dinner just yet. Hours later, Melissa is baking to death in the kitchen while Jacob runs around like the energizer bunny entertaining the Schemmenti family.

“Melissa, there’s a guy here.” Jacob whips around the corner in frantic fashion.

“Yeah, my cousins and uncles are out there. Lots of guys around.”

“No, Melissa. your mother invited a guy over here. To see you.”

Melissa looks at the young teacher confused, taking the dish towel off of her shoulder as she moves through the door to the noisy dining room. The cousins are sat around munching, the uncles are yelling at their sons, and Teresa is smiling at a tall man with dark hair that Melissa hasn’t seen since her own wedding.

“Ma, you didn’t tell me to set an extra plate.” She huffs over the noise. “Hey, Nathan. Good to see ya.”

“Hey, Mel. I didn’t mean to crash, your mom called me up the other day.” Nathan chuckles, a bottle of wine in hand offering it out.

“Don’t worry about it,” Melissa gives a friendly smile taking the bottle putting it with the others on the table.

As everyone settles at the table and digs into their plates, Melissa soon realizes why her mom invited an old friend over.

“Melissa, Nathan is single you know.” The older woman smiles.

“Oh yeah? Ya know, you’d like my boss at Abbott. She’s- something.” She chuckles not thinking anything of the comment until she sees Kristen Marie shoot their mother a look.

“I invited him here for you, silly.” Teresa shoots back sipping her wine.

Nathan looks confused, Melissa looks angry, and Jacob looks like he’s just seen the devil himself.

“Ma, don’t start with me.” Melissa rolls her eyes, the family now eerily quiet at the table as the redhead brushes the comment off. “Jacob, how’s the garlic bread?”

And that was the end of that. Until everyone but Teresa and Kristen Marie leave the house. Nathan left apologizing to Melissa, now the redhead has to deal with the matriarch of the family. Cleaning the table of dishes Jacob keeps his head down trying to keep his attention elsewhere as the three women stand in the kitchen.

“What the hell was that, ma?” Melissa demands crossing her arms. Had she done this as a child, she most definitely would have been swatted with the wooden spoon.

“What? I was only trying to help you, Melissa.” She shrugs continuing to wash a pan.

Kristen Marie sips more wine, eyes going back and forth between the two like watching a tennis match.

“Help me with what? Make my dinner uncomfortable for no reason?” Melissa quirks a brow not backing down.

“Is it so bad I want my daughter to settle down again?”

“Ma!” She finally snaps. “I am settled down, you know I have a girlfriend.”

“Oh Melissa, come on. When you get out of your midlife crisis you’ll want to settle down properly.”

Kristen Marie opens her mouth but before she can say anything Jacob comes into the kitchen moving to stand between Melissa and Teresa. The redhead stands in what can only be described as shock, knowing that no matter what she won’t make her mother happy.

“Alright, I know I’m not a blood relative but I consider Melissa and I friends,” he glances over his shoulder at his older mentor, “and I can’t have you disrespecting her decisions in her own house. I hate confrontation and I kinda want to puke right now but I can’t listen to it anymore.” He rambles in Jacob like fashion.

This stuns the matriarch, rendering her speechless glaring daggers at the man.

“Pipsqueak is right.” Kristen Marie cuts in. “I like the girl, she’s the only one of Melly’s conquests that can keep up with my wit.”

“Woah, maybe don’t call her a ‘conquest’ of all the titles out there.” Melissa finally speaks, giving her a thankful look only her little sister can understand.

“Well, we’ll see how long this lasts.” Teresa sighs. “Kristen Marie, let’s go.”

With a soft look from her sister and the adrenaline rushing through her veins Melissa breaks as soon as the front door closes.

“Melissa, I’m sorry if I-“ Jacob begins, only to be cut off by a hug.

“Thanks, kid.” Melissa fight back tears as her hands rest on his back in a soft hug.

Stiffening for only a moment, Jacob returns the hug with a small smile on his lips.

“Anytime, Mel Mel.”

Melissa pulls back glaring at him. “Stop callin me that. And, let’s not mention this to anyone okay?”

Smiling, Jacob nods and heads for the doorway. “You got it, Mel Mel.”

That night when you return back to Melissa’s you find yourself back in her bed like earlier that morning. tv volume on low as you run your fingers through her hair you wonder what happened at dinner. As soon as you walked into the house, Melissa was extra affectionate hardly letting you out of her sight for the rest of the evening.

Giggling when you feel soft lips against your neck you smile to yourself. “Maybe I should spend all day at my place more often if cuddly Melissa is who I get when I come back.”

“Hell no,” Melissa huffs against your neck playfully nipping.

“Oh,” you laugh tipping your head back into your pillow. “Careful, Schemmenti. You know I like that a little too much.”

“Mmmh.” She hums kissing the spot she just nipped. “I love you.”

Your stomach flips hearing her words just like it did the first time she said them. “Ti amo Tesoro.” You whisper kissing her head pulling her impossibly closer.

Monday morning comes all too fast for your liking. Years of being a teacher and it still catches you off guard, often times drinking enough caffeine to fuel a horse before eight am. That morning is no different. Sitting at your usual table with Barbara and Melissa, you sip from your mug getting a jump start on grading for the day as the others have lively conversations about their weekend.

“Mel, do you have that skill building program email on your phone still?” You lean over resting your head on her shoulder.

“Here, Amore.” She hands her phone over freely going back to papers.

Sitting up straight you find the email you need, looking at the device curiously when you see a text notification from Kristen Marie.

Im sorry about Ma. Did you tell your girl?

Schooling your features you send the email to yourself and hand the phone back.

“Did something happen to your mom?” You ask worried, not wanting to miss anything in Melissa’s life.

Melissa’s head snaps up, glasses going to the tip of her nose. “No, why ya ask?”

“Kristen Marie texted you,” you shrug. You feel bad for wanting to snoop, but the way the text was worded has you worried. “She’s okay?”

“Yeah, hon. She’s okay.” She brushes it off giving you a soft smile.

“Okay,” you let it go for now, knowing it’ll be better to bring up tonight after work.

Throughout the day the thought nags at you, sitting in the back of your mind like an annoying fly buzzing by your ear. What would Melissa have to tell you? During your prep period, you realize you can’t take it anymore. Going down to the first floor you pass Jacob in the hallway.

“Hey, did something happen yesterday at Melissa’s?” You ask him, only to shake your head and walk away when he looks like a deer caught in the headlights.

Shoes stomping down the hall you find Melissa at her desk, her kids gone for a special.

“Okay, something’s bothering me.” You admit as you close the classroom door.

Melissa sighs setting her phone down. “About the text from Kristen Marie?”

“Yes.” You nod putting your hands in your pockets. “And on the way down here I ran into Jacob. The kid looked terrified. So what happened?” You ask once again, almost annoyed now. “We said when this started we would keep no secrets.”

Melissa stands up, moving to take your hands in hers. Fingers laced together you gently squeeze hoping the tremble you feel is nothing. The redhead sighs meeting your eyes.

“Ma invited a family friend over yesterday, a guy I’ve known since middle school. She thought it was a good idea to play matchmaker.”

Hearing her explanation, you take a breath trying to gather your thoughts as you pull your hands away. “Your mom tried to get you a hookup, and you didn’t think to tell me when I came over last night? That’s why you were so touchy feely?” The realization hits you.

“Amore, I didn’t think it was important. You know how ma is.” She sighs watching you, unable to read you for once.

Running your hand through your hair you look up at the tile ceiling. You’ve been officially together for six months after a year of flirting and skirting around each other. Maybe Melissa was bored now. “I need some space to think.”

“Hon, I didn’t-“ Melissa steps forward.

“Stop. I just heard my girlfriend, who has a history of cheating by the way, was set up with a guy by her mother and she didn’t think to tell me.” You huff trying to keep yourself composed. You were still at work even if you were hurt. “I need some time, Melissa.”

She gives you a nod, mouth agape as if to say something but no words come out. She knows she fucked up. You disappear for the rest of the day, only reappearing in her line of vision when you’re walking down the hall car keys in hand after the kids have gone.

“Hon,” Melissa calls, following you out the doors.

“Melissa, I told you what I needed. Please respect it.” You all but plead with her trying to keep the interaction short and quiet.

“Will you at least text me when you get home? Please?”

“Yeah, I will.” You nod not wanting to argue any further.

Standing on the steps Melissa holds her bags watching you drive off, going the opposite direction to your apartment.

“Girl, what was that all about?” Barbara finally comes out seeing the look on her friend’s face after hanging back.

“She- I did somethin wrong, Barb, and I have to fix it.”

Barbara rests a hand on her friends arm realizing how serious this could be just by how upset she looks.

“That girl loves you. whatever it is, make it right.”

If you wanted space, that’s what Melissa will do. In the early days of your relationship you’d spend a day or two at her place, then go back home. Now she’s spoiled. She’s gotten so used to you being in the house, your coffee mug in the cabinet, toothbrush in her bathroom, and a plethora of hoodies in her closet including one draped over the back of the couch that you deemed ‘The tv watching hoodie.’

Sitting at home that night Melissa flicks through the tv channels aimlessly, only stopping when Jacob sits next to her.

“How bad was it?” He asks cautiously.

The redhead lets out a humorless laugh. “Bad enough.” She shrugs adjusting the sleeve of the hoodie she stole from you months ago.

“Maybe if you admit you thought it was for the best and explain how it went, maybe she’ll understand.”

“I sorta did, kid. Didn’t work.”

Jacob hums letting Melissa have the time she needs in comfortable silence.

“She brought up my past ya know? That hurt, that she thinks I’d ever cheat on her.” She hums.

Jacob has been roommates with the redhead for a while now, but he’s never seen her like this. Small, nervous. So unlike herself.

“You know,” he starts, “when I came out, I was already in a relationship. Having to hide it, caring about what my parents thought, it ate away at me. Having everyone at Abbott, my brother, it made all the hard times worth it.” He gently smiles. “If you want your mom to respect you, maybe it’s time you bring her around.”

Melissa signs tipping her head back. She knows he’s right. “Dammit, Jacob.” She sighs getting up, grabbing her shoes and purse. In the car she takes a breath, trying not to work herself up on the short drive to your apartment. She may or may not blow a few stop signs along the way, but she can’t wait any longer. Before she realizes it Melissa is standing in the hallway of your apartment building waiting.

Opening the door you poke your head out first before opening it all the way. “Melissa what the hell? It’s ten o’clock.”

“I know. But I need to talk to you. Please, hon.”

Reluctantly, you nod your head gesturing for her to come in. “You coulda called me you know.”

“Like you would’ve answered.” Melissa scoffs playfully setting her stuff down. You had definitely settled in for the night, take out on the counter in the kitchen and a blanket on the couch.

You shrug with a smirk. “Maybe on the 4th or 5th try.”

“I uh, I wanted to say I’m sorry. For not telling you about Nathan. He’s an old friend is all, and apparently my mother thought it was a good idea.” She explains herself. “I know keepin it from you wasn’t the right choice now. But I’d never, ever hurt you like that, Amore.” She shakes her head realizing just how small she sounds. “I did some stupid things back in the day, but not now. Never to you. You’re it for me.”

Arms crossed you stand there listening, arms falling to your sides when she finishes. You can see the tears welling in her eyes and how she’s playing with the sleeves of the Eagles hoodie she’s wearing. A tell tale sign of discomfort. Outside of her eyeliner and leather jacket, she’s vulnerable.

“Mel,” you sigh opening your arms for her. She immediately pulls you into a warm embrace, arms looped around your neck and a content sigh leaving her lips. Rubbing her back in slow circles you stay in the bubble of warmth for a moment, speaking quietly. “You know I’ll always be on your side. Please don’t lie to me again. I can’t take it.”

“Never. It did more harm than good. If my ma doesn’t like that im happy and in love, you won’t have to ever see her.” She promises squeezing you tightly. Lifting her head she seals her promise with a kiss.

A week later, you wake up on Sunday to the redhead playing with your hair.

“Go with me, test the waters?” She hums quietly.

Giving her a tired smile you lean over kissing her nose.

“Only if you hold my hand.”

[minyoongisnewthing]

Han river lullaby chapter nine | myg

Chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four, chapter five, chapter six, chapter seven, chapter eight

Pairing: Min Yoongi x Reader

Genre: angst, fluff, exs to lovers, eventual smut, idol!au, co parents, second chance romance

Chapter warnings: mild suggestive content, mentions of medical situation (humorous)

Word count: 5.2 k roughly

Authors notes: I want to thank everyone for there patience waiting for this chapter life indeed kicked my ass between work emergencies and life just lifting I apologise for leaving you hanging I hope this chapter meets expectations as always let me know what you think in the comments and in my ask box if you’d like as well :)

The bliss of Daegu still lingered like the aftertaste of something sweet—but even the most heart-warming moments couldn’t keep the demands of the ER at bay. Life kept moving, and so did your shift. You were nine hours into what was rapidly becoming a twelve-hour marathon, your body aching from the relentless pace, and your brain running on fumes.

Leaning against the nurse’s station, you took a moment to breathe, letting the hum of machines and distant voices blur into background noise. You fished your phone from your scrubs pocket, thumb hovering over the screen. You needed a moment of softness. A tether.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard.

What did you even call him now that you were back together?

Y/N: Hey sweetie.

No. Too cutesy.

Y/N: Hey honey.

Nope. That felt like a sitcom mom from the ’50s.

Y/N: Hey baby daddy.

Okay, he’d definitely laugh at that one, you could practically hear the scoff of amusement he’d let out when that popped up on his Lock Screen, but still… no.

Y/N: Hey my love.

Your thumb froze. Too much? Maybe. But also… was it wrong? Not even close. You’d felt that way for a long time. You were nearly certain he’d been on the verge of saying it back in Daegu, but then Han had come bounding in, all wide eyes and cookie ambitions, and the moment had slipped away.

You exhaled slowly, your heart thudding, before deleting the message and starting over.

Y/N: Hey Yoon, the ER is wild tonight. Looks like I might be stuck for a 12-hour shift. Is it okay if Han stays over again?

You hit send before you could overthink it.

The reply came fast—like he’d been waiting.

Yoongi: Sure thing, baby. No drama. Han’s currently munching on an apple and telling Tae every single detail about our trip.

You’re welcome to crash here too—so you’re there when he wakes up.

Your heart stuttered. “Baby.” It rolled off his tongue so easily, like it had never left. Like it belonged. The warmth that bloomed in your chest was immediate.

Y/N: Thank you. I’ll head over after my shift.

Kiss Han for me.

Yoongi: I’d rather kiss you.

Your cheeks burned. Right on cue, a familiar voice chirped over your shoulder.

“That Han’s dad?”

You jumped. Grace—your favorite nurse, your chaotic work-wife, and trusted gossip partner—peeked over your shoulder with an infuriating smirk.

You turned, mock glaring. “Mind your business.”

Grace laughed, completely unbothered, already halfway down the hallway. “Too late. I’ve seen the flirty texts. He wants to kiss you and everything. Better be ready to spill.”

You sighed, tucking your phone away—but the smile on your face didn’t budge. Even the ache in your legs felt a little easier to bear with that warmth in your chest.

Fifteen minutes later, you found yourself in the break room, finally snagging a bite of dinner. You collapsed into the chair across from Grace with a sigh, dropping your salad on the table like it had personally offended you.

She arched a perfectly drawn brow. “That kind of sigh usually comes with either a panic attack or a love confession. What’s going on?”

You looked at her for a beat before finally letting it spill. “I need your advice.”

Grace perked up like a cat hearing the treat bag crinkle. “Say less. I live for this. What’s the tea, babe?”

You stirred your salad with your fork, barely picking at it. “Han’s dad… he asked me and Han to move in with him.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Grace’s jaw dropped. “Y/N! What?! That’s huge!”

“I know,” you groaned. “And I’m not saying no. I’m… considering it. It’s just… is it too fast?”

Grace leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, giving you that trademark Big Sister Look™ that was usually followed by painful truths and unrelenting honesty.

“Okay, let’s break this down,” she said, popping a grape in her mouth like a therapist with snacks. “Do you trust him?”

“Yes.”

“Do you still love him?”

Your hand froze halfway to your mouth.

You didn’t answer right away. But you didn’t need to.

Grace’s eyes softened. “Yeah. Thought so.”

“I do,” you whispered. “I love him. I never really stopped, if I’m being honest.”

“And Han?” she asked.

Your expression softened immediately. “He’s obsessed with him. They’re like—ugh, Grace, it’s stupid how much they adore each other.”

“Y/N, that’s not stupid. That’s everything. That’s your kid feeling safe, seen, loved. Don’t you dare brush that off like it’s nothing.”

“I just…” you hesitated, chewing on your lower lip. “I don’t want to ruin it. What if it’s too soon? What if we’re chasing a version of us that only worked because of nostalgia?”

Grace snorted. “First of all, nostalgia doesn’t survive toddler tantrums or early morning school runs. This isn’t a fantasy. You’re living it. You’re showing up for each other. And honestly? You’re already living between his place and yours.”

You blinked. “That obvious?”

“Babe, You left your stethoscope in his bathroom just two weeks ago. That man is basically one romantic dinner away from holding your toothbrush hostage.”

You laughed, unable to deny it. Your heart felt a little lighter, the edges of your anxiety softening under her words.

“And let’s not forget,” Grace added, pointing her fork at you, “you’re not just doing this for you. Han’s happiness matters too. And if moving in makes him feel secure, feel like his little world finally has all the puzzle pieces in place… then don’t let fear stop you from giving him that.”

You nodded slowly, her words settling deep into your bones.

“Okay,” you said, a slow smile tugging at your lips. “I’ll think about it. Seriously.”

Grace beamed, victorious. “Good. Because I better be invited to the housewarming. And if you two make another baby, I get to pick the name.”

You choked on your salad. “Grace!”

“What?! I’m great with names. And this time I’ll keep it under four syllables.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, the last of the tension bleeding out of you as the room filled with warm, easy banter.

Maybe this wasn’t rushing.

Maybe this was just… finding your way back home.

As you’d predicted—though hoped desperately against—your shift spiraled straight into the dreaded 12-hour marathon. Your feet throbbed in your shoes, your back ached from hours hunched over trauma charts and triage forms, and your brain felt like it was running on static and adrenaline fumes. The ER never let up tonight.

By the time you arrived at Yoongi’s front door, you were barely holding yourself together. Even lifting your hand to knock felt like too much. Instead, you leaned your weight against the cool hallway wall, eyes fluttering shut as you waited for the door to open, silently praying for comfort in any form—a warm bed, a soft word, his arms.

The sound of the deadbolt turning snapped you out of your daze.

The door creaked open, and Yoongi’s familiar voice, warm and laced with concern, greeted you.

“Damn… Wanna talk about it?”

You looked up. He stood there in sweats and a worn gray t-shirt, hair pushed back messily, eyes scanning you with gentle worry. There was something in his expression—equal parts softness and mischief—that nearly undid you. Without a word, you stepped into the apartment, dragging your aching body toward the couch like a survivor returning from battle.

You collapsed with a sigh so deep it shook the room, letting your head fall against the cushion. Yoongi followed you in, a quiet presence as he padded to the kitchen, returning with a glass of water and a folded blanket he draped across your lap. He sat beside you, one knee bent on the cushion, elbow on the backrest as he turned to face you fully.

“Gonna sound like an asshole,” he said, handing you the water with a half-grin, “but you look like you’ve been through hell.”

You took a sip, then let out a tired laugh, the sound raspier than usual. “Oh, you have no idea.”

“Wanna give me the highlight reel?”

You nodded, your body starting to relax into the cushions now that he was close, now that the chaos of the ER had been replaced with the scent of clean linen and the soft rhythm of Yoongi’s voice.

“Okay,” you said, rolling your neck out. “Let’s see. We started the night with a kid who shoved a magnet up his nose—easy fix. Then a guy with a couple of broken bones, pretty straightforward. The usual parade of non-emergency emergencies. One guy came in because he had hiccups. For three hours.”

Yoongi blinked. “…He came to the emergency room for hiccups?”

“Oh yeah,” you said, wryly. “I gave him a glass of water and told him to hold his breath. Then billed him $600.”

That made Yoongi snort, but you weren’t done.

You leaned in a little, dropping your voice conspiratorially. “But the real gem of the night? A couple walks in—early thirties, super flustered. The guy looks like he’s about to pass out. Turns out…” You paused for effect. “He tried to spice things up in the bedroom. Used one of his girlfriend’s toys on himself. And it got stuck.”

Yoongi blinked again. “Stuck?”

You nodded solemnly. “Stuck. And still on.”

There was a beat of silence before the full horror (and hilarity) of it hit him. His mouth dropped open, then shut, then he burst into laughter. That full-body kind—the deep, chesty kind that Yoongi didn’t give away easily. He clutched his stomach, his head dropping back as he gasped, “Nooo—”

“Oh, yes,” you said, holding your hands up. “The vibrating noise echoed through the trauma room. I had to stay composed while this poor guy was practically in tears. He kept saying, ‘Please, make it stop, I can’t feel my legs.’”

Yoongi wheezed with laughter. “Oh my god—”

“I had to give him a sedative just to remove it,” you said, already giggling at the memory yourself. “He thanked me afterwards like I’d just saved his life. The girlfriend couldn’t even make eye contact.”

Yoongi was red in the face, nearly in tears. “I will never complain about a long shift again. That’s… Jesus.”

You nodded. “ER nurses deserve hazard pay and a therapist.”

The laughter faded slowly, replaced with a familiar warmth as Yoongi looked at you—really looked. The exhaustion in your eyes, the tension still lingering in your shoulders. He reached out, brushing a stray hair behind your ear before standing with a stretch and offering his hand.

“Come on,” he murmured. “You’re done for today. Shower. Pajamas. Then I want you horizontal—no arguments.”

You groaned as he helped you up. “I’m getting you a best boyfriend award like right now.”

He smirked, guiding you toward the bathroom. “I already laid your stuff out. Towels, lotion, some fluffy socks. I even found that hair clip you left last time.”

You paused at the door, touched. “You’re dangerously good at this.”

“I know,” he said with a wink. “Now go wash the vibrating trauma off of you.”

You laughed again, then disappeared into the bathroom. The hot water was heaven—steam rolling over your sore muscles, washing away the ER grime and emotional weight of the day. You stayed under until your fingers pruned and the ache in your back melted into manageable warmth.

When you emerged, clean and wrapped in your softest pajamas, the apartment was quiet and dim, the only light coming from Yoongi’s bedroom. You padded in slowly, hair still damp, and found him already under the covers, one arm stretched across the mattress in silent invitation.

You didn’t hesitate.

You slipped into bed, curling into his warmth as he pulled you into his chest without a word. His hand rubbed slow, lazy circles across your back, and the comfort of it nearly undid you. You buried your face in his shirt, breathing in the familiar scent of laundry, skin, and something warm and safe that only belonged to Yoongi.

He pressed a gentle kiss to the crown of your head, voice barely a whisper.

“You’re amazing, you know that?”

You hummed, too tired to respond with words, but your hand slid beneath his shirt to rest over his heart, your thumb tracing the steady beat that grounded you.

As your eyes fluttered shut, the hum of the ER faded from your mind. The only thing left was Yoongi’s breath in your hair, the way his hand held you close, and the subtle, almost imperceptible shift in the air—like something was settling into place.

Then it hit you, you were home.

The next morning, the soft hush of the apartment wrapped around you like a promise. You stirred awake to the sensation of something gently pressing against your ribs. Blinking against the early light seeping in through the curtains, you looked down—and smiled.

There he was.

Han, curled up between you and Yoongi, his little body sprawled out diagonally like a starfish. One sock-clad foot was wedged into your side while the other rested lightly against Yoongi’s stomach. His head rose and fell with the steady rhythm of his father’s breathing, nestled against Yoongi’s chest like it was the safest place in the world. His tiny hand was pressed sleepily to Yoongi’s cheek, fingers twitching in dreams.

Your chest tightened with a fierce, quiet love.

You slid carefully from the bed, tucking the blanket back over the boys. Yoongi stirred slightly but didn’t wake—his arm automatically tightened around Han in sleep, protective and instinctual. The sight etched itself deep into your heart.

Padding quietly into the kitchen, the coolness of the tiles grounded your aching feet. You started the coffee machine, the low hum and rich aroma instantly soothing. The comforting scent of roasted beans filled the space, mingling with the soft light of morning just beginning to filter through the windows. The city outside was still stretching itself awake.

You were halfway through your first sip when the thunder of tiny footsteps echoed from the hallway.

“Eomma!” Han squealed, launching himself into the room like a pint-sized missile.

You winced and chuckled, crouching just in time to catch him. “Bubba,” you whispered, rubbing his back, “inside voice.”

His eyes grew comically wide as he slapped a hand over his mouth. “Oops,” he stage-whispered, and your heart swelled at the sincerity in his face.

You straightened, moving toward the fruit bowl, starting to slice up a banana for breakfast when Han’s attention shifted. His gaze wandered to the partially open door across the room—Yoongi’s studio.

You hadn’t even realized it had been left ajar.

His brows furrowed as he pointed. “Eomma… what’s that room?”

You turned to follow his gaze, realizing the glass display case was in full view—the awards, the gleaming plaques, the golden trophies all standing proud on the back wall. Han’s jaw dropped slightly as he took in the sight.

“Those are Appa’s,” you explained gently, walking over to close the studio door with care. “Trophies from his music. From him and your uncles.”

Han blinked up at you, eyes shimmering with awe. “Appa’s music?” he whispered. “Can I hear it?”

You felt your breath catch for a moment at how reverent his little voice sounded—like he was asking to hear magic. You smiled and nodded.

“Of course, baby.”

You pulled out your phone and tapped into Yoongi’s Spotify. His solo work was already favorited—your little secret indulgence whenever you missed him more than usual. You hooked it up to the speakers, and as the opening beat of “Daechwita” roared softly to life, Han froze.

The percussion vibrated gently through the apartment, and Han’s eyes widened like he was witnessing a superhero transformation. He looked at you, utterly floored.

“That’s Appa?”

You nodded with a soft chuckle. “Yep. That’s Appa.”

Han’s little body twitched with excitement before he started moving—tiny shoulders bobbing, feet bouncing, mimicking the beat. You joined him, unable to resist, rapping along the parts you could, both of you dancing freely in the middle of the kitchen. It was chaotic and hilarious and utterly joyful.

By the time “Who’s the king? Who’s the boss?” hit, Han was spinning in circles, and you were breathless from laughter, clapping along and feeding off his energy.

You were mid-spin when a soft voice drifted in from the hallway.

“Well, damn. Am I interrupting dance rehearsal?”

You turned, cheeks flushed, to find Yoongi leaning sleepily against the doorframe, hair tousled and sticking up adorably in every direction. His hoodie hung lopsided off one shoulder, and his face was still puffy from sleep—but the smile on his face?

It was full-on sunshine.

“You’re up, did we wake you?” you said, brushing hair from your face, flashing him an apologetic look

“No you didn’t wake me,” he replied, voice rough with sleep but warm with affection. “I just didn’t want to miss the show.”

Han gasped when he saw Yoongi and ran full-speed across the room. “Appa! That’s your song!”

Yoongi crouched just in time to catch him, letting Han knock into his chest like a cannonball. He chuckled. “It is, did you like it?”

“Yes!, can I hear more?” Han begged, bouncing in his arms.

Yoongi chuckled again and nodded. “Sure bubs, why not.”

You switched the playlist, letting BTS’s “Mic Drop” take over the room. Han lost it—jumping, spinning, throwing his arms around like he was on stage himself. Yoongi plopped down on the floor next to him, sipping the coffee you handed him while watching his son with unmistakable pride.

You stood beside them, your hand brushing against Yoongi’s arm.

“Hey, Yoon,” you said softly.

He glanced up at you, his smile fading into something more open, more vulnerable. “Yeah?”

You hesitated for just a moment, your heart beating a little faster. But you were done dancing around it. You were ready.

“I’ve made up my mind.”

His brows lifted slightly. He set his coffee down, full attention on you now.

“Han and I…” You inhaled slowly, then smiled. “We’ll move in with you.”

Yoongi froze.

His breath caught, his eyes searched yours like he was trying to make sure he’d heard you right. And then—

His smile broke across his face like sunrise.

“Really?” he breathed.

You nodded, and barely had the chance to say yes again before Yoongi surged to his feet, cupped your face in both hands, and kissed you—deep and full and bursting with happiness.

It wasn’t rushed. It was slow and sure and full of promise, like the closing of a chapter and the beginning of something new all at once.

Han, oblivious to the emotional milestone, was still dancing, spinning in dizzy little circles.

When Yoongi finally pulled back, he pressed his forehead to yours, his voice low and thick.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

You brushed your thumb across his cheek. “Don’t thank me yoon, It’s what we should have been all along.”

And right there, with music still thumping low in the background, your son dancing in a blur of joy, and your heart beating steady against the man you never stopped loving—you felt like you were home.

The packing up of your life over the next few weeks had felt… surreal.

This apartment had witnessed so much. It had been your sanctuary during heartbreak, your war zone during toddler tantrums, your safe haven when the world outside was too loud. Every chipped mug in the cabinet, every crayon mark on the wall, every squeaky floorboard under your bed carried pieces of the life you built—just you and Han. A life you’d fought for, protected, and nurtured with everything you had.

And now, it was all being folded into cardboard boxes and labeled in permanent marker. Bedroom—Han’s toys. Kitchen—everyday plates. Hall closet—donate.

It was all so tangible, so final. A chapter closing, not with a slam, but with the quiet reverence of turning the last page.

You stood in the middle of the empty living room, staring at the spot where Han had taken his first steps, where you’d cried after one of your hardest night shifts, where you’d once slow-danced with a glass of wine in hand and music playing through your phone speaker. You let the silence settle around you, breathing it in, letting it echo. Letting it go.

Yoongi had offered to help move, of course. He even suggested hiring a moving service. But you’d wanted to do this part yourself. Not out of pride, but because… this mattered. Closing the door yourself mattered.

With the last box secured in the trunk, you took one last look at the apartment—at your first home as a mother—and shut the door behind you.

You climbed into the driver’s seat, hands pausing on the steering wheel for just a beat longer before you looked into the rearview mirror. Han was already buckled in, his little legs swinging with uncontainable excitement. He was clutching his current favorite stuffed toy—a blue dinosaur with a wonky stitched eye—and humming to himself, a tune made up on the spot, off-key and perfect.

The sight made something twist in your chest—a soft ache of joy and nostalgia. His happiness was radiant. It filled the car like sunlight.

You turned the key in the ignition and backed out of the driveway for the last time. As the apartment disappeared in your rearview mirror, you cleared your throat lightly.

“Alright, Han bubba,” you said, keeping your tone upbeat but firm. “You remember the one room in Appa’s house you’re not allowed to go in unless Appa or I say it’s okay?”

Han immediately let out a loud long groan and flopped his head against the side of his car seat. “Eommaaa… I know! Appa’s music room!”

You raised your eyebrows at him through the mirror in warning. “Wanna try that again without the attitude, mister?”

He sat up straight and nodded quickly, lips pressed together in seriousness. “Sorry,” he said, and then his mouth split into a wide, wiggly-toothed grin. “I’m just… happy!”

That time, you couldn’t help but laugh. You reached your arm back between the seats and he eagerly grabbed your hand with his smaller one, squeezing tightly.

“I know you are, baby,” you said softly. “I am too.”

He beamed at you, his joy bubbling over like a bottle of shaken soda.

“But,” you added, giving his hand a gentle squeeze, “just remember… even though Appa will be home, that doesn’t mean he’s always free. He still has to work.”

Han nodded along enthusiastically. “Because he makes music!”

“That’s right,” you said. “Appa’s music room is really important. That’s where he records his songs and helps other people with their songs too. So we have to respect his space when he’s working, okay?”

“I promise, eomma,” he said, solemn as a judge. And then, his voice dipped shyly. “But… do you think Appa will ever let me hear him make music? Like, really hear it?”

Your heart squeezed.

There was something sacred in the way Han said it. Not just curious. Admiring. Like he already knew his father made something powerful, something special, even if he didn’t fully understand it yet.

You turned back to the road, but your smile lingered. “I think… if you ask nicely, and promise not to touch anything, Appa might let you sit in with him one day.”

Han gasped, practically vibrating in his booster seat. “Really? Like… watch him play? And wear the big headphones?”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing. “We’ll see, bubba. You know how Appa feels about his buttons.”

“I won’t press any!” he promised, voice high with excitement.

You reached to turn down the music playing quietly in the background, letting the moment settle in as you merged onto the main road, leaving your old neighborhood behind.

As the skyline of Yoongi’s neighborhood began to appear in the distance, something shifted in your chest. A quiet knowing. A peace.

You weren’t running toward a fantasy.

You were moving toward something real.

A home that Han could grow up in. A space where your little family could build—not just exist.

And in the seat beside you? A promise of a second chance. A man who’d never stopped loving you, even in the moments when he couldn’t say it. A man who’d stayed up late assembling a bed with Han’s help, who put up glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling because “Eomma says you sleep better with the stars watching.”

You reached up to adjust the rearview mirror and caught Han watching out the window, his breath fogging the glass as he whispered to himself, “We’re going home.”

And you couldn’t have agreed more.

Walking into Yoongi’s apartment, you barely had a chance to take in the sleek lines and minimalist decor before you were met with absolute chaos.

“Jimin, just stop moving the boxes—I had a system!” Yoongi shouted from somewhere down the hall, his voice echoing off the high ceilings in pure exasperation.

“I’m literally helping,” Jimin fired back indignantly, arms thrown in the air as he stepped around a stack of labeled containers. “You should be thanking me! I’m putting them where they go!”

“Where they go? According to who?” Yoongi barked from another room. “You’re just putting shit wherever it fits!”

A loud thud echoed through the apartment, followed by the sound of a picture frame teetering dangerously.

“Jungkook!” Yoongi’s voice rose another octave, more desperate now. “Stay out of the kitchen!”

You turned just in time to catch the youngest member of the group sheepishly poking his head out from behind the refrigerator door, a guilty grin smeared with something suspiciously like the leftover kimchi you were planning to use at dinner. “I was checking for… perishables,” Jungkook mumbled, cheeks puffed out mid-bite.

Namjoon, the only semblance of calm in the whirlwind, stood by the open front door holding it wide for you. He looked almost serene, though the slight twitch of his eye gave away his internal suffering.

“Thanks, Joon,” you murmured, shifting the box on your hip as you stepped inside.

“No problem,” he replied smoothly, lips twitching in amusement. “Welcome to your new madhouse.”

The second Han’s shoes hit the floor, he bolted forward like a rocket. “Uncle Kookie! Uncle Minnie!” he squealed, his tiny voice slicing straight through the noise like a bell.

Jungkook lit up immediately. “Han!” he called, dropping the snack and scooping the boy up into his arms with a dramatic twirl. “My favorite nephew!”

From the hallway, Yoongi’s voice rang out, deadpan. “He’s your only nephew, genius.”

You couldn’t help it—you laughed. Deep and warm and surprised by how much this noise, this mess, this family had crept into your heart. You had missed them. All of them. Not just Yoongi, but these men who had stood beside him through everything—who were now standing beside you and Han without hesitation, without question, without condition.

Yoongi emerged a moment later, arms full of more stuff, hair a little sweaty, eyes narrowed at Jimin, who was busy pushing a pile labeled “Bedroom – Fragile” suspiciously close to the bathroom.

“I’m warning you,” Yoongi muttered through clenched teeth, “if I open that box and find y/n’s books or something under a damn weighted blanket—”

“You’re welcome for protecting it!” Jimin shot back. “You know the saying saying moisture ruins the sleeves!”

“That’s not what it meant!”

You shook your head, laughter bubbling out of you. Yoongi was trying so hard to maintain order, but it was like trying to herd caffeinated cats.

Out of the corner of your eye, you spotted Namjoon lingering by the entrance, arms crossed as he watched the scene unfold like a man observing art—beautiful in its chaos. He looked like he wanted to intervene… but also like he was enjoying this way too much.

You carefully set your box down on a side table and turned toward him. “Hey, Joon,” you said, your voice quieting just slightly.

He tilted his head, his sharp, perceptive eyes immediately honing in on you. “Hey,” he answered warmly, though there was a subtle question hidden beneath the greeting.

You hesitated only for a moment before exhaling. “I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to thank you,” you said softly, sincerity threading every word.

Namjoon’s brows lifted in surprise. “For?”

You gave him a knowing look. “You know what for.”

He didn’t answer, just stood there with that typical calm, waiting patiently—offering you space.

“For helping me and Yoongi get to this point,” you said, your voice a little raw, a little vulnerable. “For being his anchor when he needed one. And for being mine… even before I deserved it.”

Namjoon’s face softened, but he stayed quiet.

You chuckled lightly, more at yourself than anything else. “The day you saw me and Han at that café? You could’ve torn me to shreds. You should’ve. I half-expected it. Honestly? And I would’ve accepted it.”

His jaw twitched, his silence turning contemplative.

“But you didn’t,” you continued. “You let me come to him on my own terms. You didn’t pressure. You didn’t guilt me. You supported me through it all, Joon. Without ever making me feel small.”

You looked down, fiddling with a piece of tape still stuck to your hand. “That meant everything. Still does.”

Namjoon let out a long, quiet breath. Then he nodded once, his smile slow and gentle, like sunlight peeking through morning fog. “Yeah, well… it’s what family does.”

The word hit you like a stone dropped in still water. Family.

Not a pitying word. Not a throwaway one. A declaration.

Your breath hitched quietly. You stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him, solid and sure. No hesitation. No awkwardness. Just… gratitude.

Namjoon hugged you back just as tightly, warm and grounding. “You don’t owe me anything,” he murmured. “Just be happy. Both of you.”

Your eyes burned with unshed tears, but you smiled against his shoulder. “We’re trying.”

Across the room, Han shrieked with glee as Jungkook flipped him upside down, and Yoongi—finally defeated—sat cross-legged in the hallway with a beer Seokjin had handed him, mumbling, “Fine. Let the boxes live where they fall.”

Han scrambled over to him and immediately climbed into his lap, arms around his father’s neck. Yoongi melted, his lips pressing to the top of his son’s head as he murmured something you couldn’t hear. But you didn’t need to. The sight alone sent warmth spilling through your chest.

You turned back to Namjoon, who gave you one final nod and a squeeze on the shoulder.

And as you crossed the room toward Yoongi and Han, your chest felt so full it was almost hard to breathe. This—this glorious, chaotic, imperfect thing—was yours. A life you’d almost convinced yourself you’d never have again. A love you were no longer running from.

You sank down beside them, Yoongi’s hand reaching to find yours instinctively. Fingers intertwined like it was second nature. Han curled against both of you, babbling about where his toys would go and asking if his dino could live next to the window.

You smiled and nodded, pressing a kiss to the back of Han’s head. Yoongi caught your eye and mouthed one word.

Home.

And it was.

Taglist: @busanbby-jjk @jajabro @kam9404 @yoongiiuu93 @julseka07 @tea4sykes @marihoneywk @maryhopemei @sanarin @misschelliejeon @boraluv @wobblewobble822 @amarawayne @hyuninslutbbgirl @Granataepfelchen @mar-lo-pap @enfppuff @senaqsstuff @vainkiss @rinkud @lanyia @alessioayla @watchingover-hypegirl @muchwita @elliott-calls @kiki-zb

[onmykneesforcourtneyeaton]

The Program

Lottie Matthews x fem!r w cock

Warnings for: forced breeding, “medical setting”, knotting, non-con, and probably more that I’m forgetting (literally depraved shit below) 18+ only

Lottie blinks her eyes open and sees a blinding white light. Well not actually blinding, but it may as well be with how fucking bright everything looks. She tries to take a deep breath, but something restricts it. Lottie feels a slight panic run through her body, and realizes she can only move her head a slight bit. Everything else is held down to a weird table sort of thing. The more Lottie wiggles the more she can feel each individual strap around her arms, torso and legs. Fucking great, she thinks, what the fuck has she gotten into now.

Startling her out of her thoughts the sealed door opens with a quickness.

“Good morning Lottie, I’m Dr. L/N. I’ll be facilitating your care while you’re here.” I say as I enter the room and lock the door.

She notices I’m dressed in scrubs and a white jacket, but she can’t lift her head enough to see my face.

“Sorry about the wake up, I know normally our subjects tend to have a bit of panic. I tried to fight for an easier wake up. Maybe sitting up or lying unrestrained. But the big wigs weren’t up for that. Something about time management,” I mumble the ending sounding slightly annoyed. Lottie hears me moving some things around and hear wrappers peeling and needles being set down.

“Well let me just get right into it. This is the new breeding program. We’re still a fairly new setup.” I say as I take a seat in one of those rolling doctor chairs. I start to roll towards her and press the side button on the table to lift it up. She is now about eye level and can see my face for the first time.

“What questions do you have for me before I begin a better explanation?” I ask sweetly.

“Well I guess you said what this place is, that’s pretty self explanatory. But I never volunteered for anything like this…” she says with a very upset tone to her voice.

I chuckle a little as I grab a needle and inject it into her neck, “Sorry just a little pinch.”

She groans at the poke to her throat and gives me a scowl.

Lottie begins to have fuzzy vision and hears me say, “We don’t run based off of volunteers here, you were hand selected… by me. You’ll be bred and producing for us in no time.” Before she fades off again.

When she wakes up the second time she can feel the chill of the room on her bare skin. She must’ve been stripped, flipped over and placed back on the table. Her legs are now spread apart and her boobs must be hanging down through holes in the table. She hears me working behind her and then feel a suction on her nipples.

I hear the machine kick on and say, “sorry to startle you with that, they kick on when you wake up. They are essentially like high grade breast pumps. I’ve given you a drug that induces lactation within 48 hours. Unfortunately it takes some stimulation to work most times. So I’ve just hooked you up and gotten the ball rolling.” I explain to her. She stays silent just waiting to hear what else I’m going to say. But more words never come, she just feels her vagina being entered by something cold and metal feeling.

“This is just to pre-stretch you, I’ve had some enhancements to ensure breeding quality and let me tell you. The first time adjusting to me is not pleasant without a warning.”

The metal object inside of her starts to unlatch and open and she feels her muscles try so hard to contract around it and stop the gaping of her hole. But it’s to no avail, it must be a machine.

“Please stop, it’s so cold and it hurts,” she pleads and shivers.

“Ope, yeah no can do I’m afraid. I picked you, I was very interested in you. This part will only take about 15 minutes. It shouldn’t be too bad, it’s all the way open now.” I smile and give her a lingering look.

“You said you’ve been altered? Im confused.”

“Yes.”

“…okay?”

“Oh you want to know how. I’m sorry I don’t pick up on cues very well. I was born with a… member, but in order to breed I have been given treatments that enlarge the girth and when I finish, I now have a knot. You will be my first breeding. So I don’t really know how it works yet.” I say excitedly.

I then leave the room and don’t return until her 15 minute stretching time is up. Upon my return I press a button and her cunt collapses back down and the muscles try clenching to their original tightness to no avail. But the temporary relief doesn’t last long, something else pokes into her. It goes all the way to her cervix and then she feels a gel being emptied inside of her.

“Okay miss Matthews, that was a gel that tricks your body into ovulating. I don’t know how that one works actually, but it takes about 2 minutes before it kicks in. In the meantime, I will get ready to breed.”

She lifts her head and eyes to see me stripping off my pants and boxers. Lottie sees my dick and visibly pales. It’s nowhere near the normal size for a human and suddenly she understands why the stretching was necessary. “Um a-are you sure I’m stretched enough for that doctor?”

“Probably not, but I didn’t want to take all of the fun away from myself,” I smirk laughing at her.

“Okay, now I’ll lower the table and we should be about ready to go, just waiting for the timer. I’m not into um… moaning, I don’t know if you’ll enjoy this. But try your best to not let me know if you do. It’s a turn off for me.”

Lottie just makes a disgusted face and huffs, “As if, you fucking sicko, fuck you.”

I pay her no mind and start grabbing my member with two hands and stroking myself. I have a tub of lube next to her hips so I grab a scoop of the thick stuff and place it inside of her stretched vagina.

“You took well to the stretching, I can see inside of you already. You’ll take well to childbirth for sure,” I sound pleased and I am, I made the right pick.

On the other hand she felt a hand reach inside of her with no resistance and leave a handful of cold lube sitting against her cervix. It’s not pleasant, but it’s not the worst she has to admit. Then she hears mellow music start playing. Lottie recognizes it as the timer, she hears me shut it off abruptly and then feels hands on her hips. She takes a deep breath and waits for the stretch she knows is coming. It comes sooner than expected and she screams out. It feels like someone is trying to shove a football sized up item up her vagina and she simply can’t take it. It hurts so bad she starts cursing me out and crying. Unable to thrash out of my grip she panics. I like it.

Meanwhile her crying is making me harder and harder, I feel my head pop into her cunt and I let out a moan of relief. It feels so good to finally be inside a vagina again. I grab her hips and push forward as hard as I can to get Lottie to take more of my cock than before. I know I’m fucking huge, but it’s such a pleasure watching small un-stretched vaginas take my cock for the first time. There’s always some blood and crying. I’ve been conditioned to get hard for it now.

Lottie feels me getting deeper and deeper and she prays I’m almost bottomed out by now. But before she even feels my hips press against hers she can feel me start fucking into her. With every thrust she grunts out her discontent through tears and snot. She can hear me happily humming to myself from behind as I get to fuck my first breeding pick. Immaculate taste I must say.

She prays I finish quickly so she can finally feel normal again. Her wish seems to come true, or so she thinks. It doesn’t take long before she feels me start to stutter with my hips and then feel my knot pressing against her lips. Already fully formed and twice the size of my dick. Lottie starts to scream bloody murder as it presses against her opening. It feels like it’s splitting her open and she’s thrashing around in her restraints. Wishing she could crawl away and hide in a corner forever. Wishing that this pain inside of her would end and she could just close up.

I keep doing my job with ease, thrusting my knot against her hole and feeling incredible. When I notice my knot has already fully formed I put my hands underneath her hips to prop her up and pop my knot inside of her hole, sealing us. I feel her body rearranging around something so big intruding it. Then without a second thought I start cumming. I cum for about two minutes before my spurts taper off and become weak. Lottie feels her stomach expand with every burst of cum. Till it feels like she’s pregnant off of the cum in her pussy, giving her a belly bulge.

I give her a pat on the back while she’s still whimpering quietly and decide to have a small mercy on her. I press a button on a remote that I have on the table next to her head. And all of the sudden there is something latched around her clit. It’s absolutely not enough stimulation to cum with the pain she’s in. But even through the pain of being ripped open it feels good to be sucked on. And since I kind of like her, I picked her, I’ll allow it.

We stay knotted for about a half hour before my knot starts slowly deflating, it has only gone down slightly, but I’ve had enough and I rip my dick out of her, the knot seemingly ripping her again on the way out. This is when a flood of semen drops out of her and onto the floor. It splashes back up onto her face and the part of her boobs that are exposed for the pumps.

“Well miss Matthews, I’m throughly tapped. I don’t know about you. I’ll be back in the morning to clean you up. Don’t go anywhere now,” I giggle as I pull my scrub pants back on and leave the room….