#it would lock automatically when the door closed

[sylestine-redacted]

Object Permanence

astartes POV x f!rogue trader

A/n: a perspective I'm really excited about!! Space marine boy thinking about human?? Underutilized territory my friends. Anyways tried to make it for the fem reader's gaze but hey maybe it'll check some boxes for others!! AND ITS SHORT(ER). I'm trying over here.

Cw: NSFW, size difference, fingering, aftercare, obsession, a reverent (but maybe slightly corrupted) war machine touching a human for the first time

She smells… warm.

Like silks pressed between thighs. Like old parchment folded around secrets. Like blood, but not spilled—shared.

He doesn’t know if it’s the warp that’s made her linger in his mind, or simply the way she looks when she stands too close, chin tilted up in defiance, eyes glazed with adrenaline, voice low as venom.

He tells himself it’s nothing.

She’s human. Mortal.

Breakable.

He shouldn’t think about her mouth. Shouldn’t imagine how her lips would look swollen, bitten, stretched.

And yet—

“You’re staring again, Brother,” she says.

She always calls him that. Brother.

Mocking, sweet. Like she wants to see what he’ll do if she says it while kneeling.

He’s… curious. That’s all. Curious how something so small can walk like she owns entire star systems, like she’s never known real hunger, real pain, the warp-slick heat of his body pressing into hers.

---

He’s imagined it.

How she’d stretch.

How her hands would scramble at his thighs, her breath shatter into sobs as she tried—gods, tried—to take him.

Not because he wants her hurt. No. Never.

But because he wants to see her withstand it.

To choose him. Even when it overwhelms her.

Even when it breaks her open and makes her new.

---

“You gonna stand there all night?” she murmurs now, crossing her arms, her coat sliding off one bare shoulder. “Or are you going to do something useful with all that armor?”

He exhales. The sound escapes like a furnace opening.

She flinches—but doesn’t move away. Never does.

He steps forward.

One hand lifts—gauntlet off, palm exposed, thick and scarred. He touches her face.

Her cheek fits in his palm like a relic. Like something ancient and sacred.

She leans into it. Smirking.

“You’re not supposed to want this,” she whispers. “Are you?”

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to.

His other hand is already under her coat, finding the curve of her ass, dragging her closer.

His body throbs. Not just with arousal—but purpose.

He will not fuck her like a man.

He will fuck her like a weapon offering mercy.

Like a cathedral coming down around her ears.

And he will watch every second of her coming apart.

---

She shifts.

Just slightly. A flex of her thighs. One heel twisting against the deck. Her weight redistributes, and that simple movement carries a thousand signals.

He catalogues them—automatically.

Body language. Heat signature. Microspike in pulse.

Pheromone surge. Salivary dilation. Sweat blooming beneath fabric.

But none of it explains what he feels.

It’s not data. It’s not chemical.

It’s psychic noise, like a door creaking open somewhere deep in her, and letting him in.

Desire, not as scent or breath—but as pressure.

A hum just under her skin. A ripple in the air around her hips.

She’s slick, and she hasn’t even been touched.

And Emperor help him, he can feel it.

Not metaphorically. Not imaginatively. Literally.

---

It’s a gift—and a curse—of his lineage. Sensory fusion.

Where another man might only see the way her breath catches when he closes the distance, he hears her cunt contract like it’s inside his skull.

A soft, wet pulling—wanting. Needing.

You’re wanted, the warp croons inside him. Let her prove it.

He locks his jaw.

He won’t take anything she doesn’t beg for. Not because he’s noble. But because he wants her to surrender with her eyes open.

He leans close��closer than command structure, closer than ritual, until his voice brushes her mouth:

“You’re aroused.”

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t hide.

She licks her bottom lip—slow, obscene—and whispers, “So are you.”

He is.

Raging.

Painfully.

But he’s endless. And she’s not.

---

What shocks him more is the deliberation of her arousal.

How carefully she’s letting it bloom.

How she wants him to feel it. Not just see the signs. Not just taste it on the air like sacrament.

But to know: this is hers.

This is what she gives no one else.

It should be beneath her. He’s a weapon. A war-beast. Nothing more.

But her body says otherwise.

Her pulse—visible in her throat.

Her skin—fevered. Goose-pricked, despite the heat.

Her scent—full and filthy now, like wet silk and opened fruit and something older, something that isn’t entirely human anymore.

She’s unraveling. For him.

And it’s more terrifying than combat.

More beautiful than prophecy.

More sacred than blood.

---

“You feel it?” she asks, cocky, voice husky with heat.

“Tell me what I smell like, soldier.”

He grips her jaw—not cruelly, but with reverence.

He doesn’t answer right away.

Because the truth is: she smells like hunger.

Like danger.

Like a future he hasn’t been allowed to dream of since before he was born.

He could fuck her now. Tear her open with the weight of him and pin her to the floor like she’s part of his wargear.

But no.

Not yet.

Because the smell of her arousal has changed again—richer now, deeper.

She’s starting to ache.

And he wants to see how much more her body can want before it breaks.

---

He kneels.

Not out of deference. Not out of shame.

He kneels because he wants to see.

She’s already panting—soft, controlled, too practiced. But her thighs twitch when he touches her belt. Her spine arches. She swallows like she’s about to speak, and then doesn’t.

She’s letting him work in silence.

That undoes him more than anything.

---

He parts her clothing with reverent slowness, revealing skin by degrees. Pale. Hot. Damp.

Not sweat—slick.

Her body’s made itself ready.

Not for sex.

Not for some base, biological urge.

For him.

And she knows what that means. She has to.

His bare hand—callused, thick-fingered, huge—settles against her inner thigh. Her heat throbs through him like warp-pulse, like a beacon, like a sin that wants to be confessed with every moan.

He parts her with two fingers.

She’s soaked. Swollen. Holy.

“Emperor,” he rasps, reverent, voice wrecked. “You’re…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. Doesn’t need to.

---

Her cunt clenches around nothing, desperate.

So he gives her something.

Just the tip of his finger, pressing inside—slow.

Her body flutters around him—tight, impossibly soft.

He groans, not from pleasure, but from awe.

“She’s taking me,” he thinks, wonder and hunger twinned. “She’s taking me without fear.”

He adds another finger.

Her breath breaks.

And he feels it:

The flutter in her stomach.

The greedy pull of her walls.

The godless wanting behind her gaze when she meets his eyes and whispers:

“Deeper.”

He obeys. Not because she commanded it—but because it’s right.

She’s his purpose.

This is the mission.

He works his fingers in carefully, curling, searching, dragging slow pressure over nerves that make her hips jerk, her voice catch.

And when he finds it—her spot, her pulse, her sacred ruin—her legs spasm.

“Fuck,” she hisses, head thrown back, eyes fluttering.

He’s memorizing her from the inside out.

Learning every twitch. Every flutter. Every whimper that means yes, there.

And he knows he’ll never forget it.

---

“You’re shaking,” she pants, smiling now, wicked and open. “What’s the matter, soldier? Can’t handle me?”

He stares at her.

Not with anger.

With worship.

“You feel like divinity,” he says—low, thick, unholy.

“You feel like the first thing I’ve ever touched that wanted me back.”

She doesn’t say anything.

Just blinks—slow, pupils blown wide, chest rising with quick, shallow breaths.

Her fingers twitch against his arm.

Not to pull him closer. Not to push him away.

Just to feel him.

He should move. He knows that.

But he doesn’t.

Can’t.

Not when she’s looking at him like he’s real. Like he’s not just an engine of violence and genetic excess—but something that can be wanted.

“Say something,” he mutters, voice cracking on the edges. “Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me you don’t—”

She cuts him off.

Not with words.

With a soft grind of her hips against his palm, her body slick and pulsing and answering him.

“You’re not wrong,” she says.

Then she bites her lip.

Tilts her head back.

And lets him in.

---

She’s so close now.

He can feel it in how her cunt spasms—tight and fluttering around his fingers, trying to drag him deeper, trying to keep him.

She’s grinding against his palm without realizing. Sharp little gasps spill from her lips, uncontrolled now, her pride forgotten, voice fraying at the edges.

She’s breaking open.

And she’s beautiful.

“Let me watch,” he thinks. “Let me see the moment you lose yourself. Let me carry it forever.”

---

“Please—” she gasps, the word torn from her throat.

He answers not with words, but with pressure—his fingers curling just right, his thumb pressing against her clit like it’s a trigger only he knows how to pull.

She jerks.

Her body tightens—locks around him like a vice—and then…

She shatters.

---

Her mouth drops open, soundless at first, then a strangled, keening cry—so raw it makes his skin prickle. Her cunt clamps down hard, pulsing, wetness slicking his wrist as she milks his hand, trembling like she’s coming apart on a molecular level.

She grabs his arm, nails digging in—not to stop him, but to anchor herself.

To him.

“Mine,” he thinks. Not with possession. With awe.

He slows—but doesn’t pull out. Keeps his fingers buried deep, holding her from the inside while the aftershocks ripple through her, one by one, like psychic waves he can feel even in his teeth.

Her eyes roll back. Her body slackens.

And he holds her through all of it.

---

When it ends—when her muscles go limp and her breath catches in the silence—he eases her down. Not like she’s fragile.

Like she’s sacred.

He slips his fingers from her slowly, reverently, watching her slick coat his knuckles—thick, warm, shining.

He stares at it.

Then, with aching slowness, he brings his hand to his mouth.

He licks it clean.

One finger at a time.

Like ritual.

Not because he wants to taste her.

Because he wants to remember her.

This is what she gave me, he thinks. This is what she let me witness.

---

She’s watching him now, dazed and spent—lashes heavy, mouth open, legs still spread from where he’d knelt and worshipped her from the inside out.

“You—” she starts, voice rough.

He gathers her into his arms before she can finish.

Lifts her with impossible gentleness—his strength used not to take, but to hold.

Her head rests against his shoulder, breath warm against his neck.

He can feel the pulse of her cunt still fluttering where she’d cum, like her body hasn’t accepted it’s over yet.

“She let me bring her to the edge of death,” he thinks, clutching her tight. “And now she’s letting me carry her back.”

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move.

Just kneels there, cradling her, breathing her in, forehead resting against her temple like she’s the prayer he’s never said out loud.

And maybe never will.

-------------------to be continued------------------

Thank you guys for reading, would love to know how/if this hit!

Tagged: @incrediblethirst @druidwolf21

[leeril]

Infatuated Nerd

Tobias Rogers x Reader

Bitchy reader, weird guy Toby, college au

Banner credit- @cafekitsune

One / Two / Three

~ It had been a week, a whole gruelling week since your date with Toby. Were you aware of said date? Well.. no, not really. But it’s all good, Toby would make it known soon. In the meantime he had kept up with you from a burner account on insta. Too scared to interact on his main, afraid you’d find a flaw that you couldn’t overlook.

~ He was currently in his dorm doing the same thing he had been doing, staring at your insta story. Some literary quote layered over a picture of today’s outfit; a tiny pink skirt, white frilly bra and a mesh light pink cardigan. He was almost certain you were posting such teases for him to see. And would it be so wrong of him to indulge?

~ His hand began to sneak across his torso, faded grey tee rustling as his fingers inched under his waistband. Slow. Tentative. Relishing in his own sudden gentleness. His eyes stayed glued to the screen, tracing over the soft curve of your hip, up the exposed skin of your stomach and landing on your pushed out, doughy tits. He let out a soft breath. Hand quickly pulling back out of his boxers as he shook his head.

~ He couldn’t. He hadn’t. Allowing such a thing while thinking of you was almost forbidden. Teasing himself was enough- for now.

~ He instead turned to look to his drawers, or more specifically what was atop those drawers. A cute Sanrio gift bag, decked out all in pastels and holographic stickers, that he was sure you’d love. Inside a brand new Isabel Marant Mecelia top. Sure it wasn’t as extravagant as the one you were wearing, but he had seen it posted to your story once.

~ This weekend will be his chance to give it to you. It was the long awaited girls trip he had been counting down the days to. He had done a lot in preparation. His hands- though still scarred- no longer were covered in bites and cuts and grazes. He had stopped picking at them. He knew you deserved better. And he was going to be that better.

~ He sighs to himself, locking his phone and letting it drop to his chest, fingers impatiently tapping the cracked back. Staring up at his ceiling, face switching from a scowl to a warm smile repeatedly. It pained him to be away from you, but being away gave him more time to think… about you…

~ With a final exaggerated sigh he jumped up, phone slamming onto the carpeted floor without a care, his feet moving faster than his brain, carrying him to his door, down the hall, out the entrance, straight down the path to your building, and somehow finding him outside your lecture hall.

~ Arms crossed, shoulder twitching, foot tapping. He craned his neck through the small window on the door, eyes scanning the view for less than ten seconds before landing on you. There you were in all your beautiful, ethereal glory. Chin in your hand, hair in loose curls, bubblegum hypnotising him as you chewed and legs swinging beneath your chair, each tiny movement pushing that pretty pink skirt up, panties almost fully on show.

~ Okay- Alright! He may not have fully thought this through, but did he ever when it came to you?

~ He gritted his teeth subconsciously, thanking whatever gods made him wear loose sweats today as he felt the strain in his boxers. How much longer must you torture him? He closed his eyes and let his forehead rest against the door, hand dramatically slamming against it and dragging a path down.

~ It took him a moment to realise what he had done, well.. no, it took him an awkward stumble into the lecture hall as the professor opened the door and cleared his throat, to realise what he had done. And when he did- his eyes automatically panned to you.

~ Your perfect scowl on your face but he could have sworn he saw the twitch in your lip, fighting hard to keep it from turning up, and that was beyond enough for him. Shooting you a dopey grin and a corny finger gun before straightening up and happily turning on his heel, prideful strides all the way back to his dorm.

~ Seeing you was enough, his heart felt full, he knows what he saw. The flicker of amusement in your eyes, the slightly raised brow and curling lip, the perfect view of your cherry thong.

~ He wasn’t sure what tomorrow held, but tonight there was one thing he was sure of. He was going to get that panty shot even if it killed him.

[evegwood]

aw fuck the "did you forget your keys" comic is doing the rounds again rip my activity feed

[thepencilnerd]

When the Sun Hits

summary: What begins as a hospital-wide power outage leaves you trapped in a supply closet with your emotionally unavailable attending. But when the lights come back on, what lingers between you can’t be shut off so easily. genre/notes: forced proximity, slow burn, panic attack + trauma comfort, domestic fluff, my fave kind of intimacy, mutual pining, humor/crack, soft!Jack that can't flirt for shit, idiots in love but neither of them will admit it, you discover you have a praise kink in the most inconvenient of ways, jack abbot on his knees—literally warnings: references to trauma, depiction of a panic attack, mentions of grief and burnout, implied but not explicit smut word count: ~ 7.2k a/n: down bad for whipped Jack Abbot. p.s., thank you to everyone who reblogs/replies/takes the time to read my brain vomit, i appreciate you more than you know ㅠㅠ <3

You had just turned to ask Jack if he could grab another tray of 32 French chest tubes when the lights cut out.

One second, the supply closet was bathed in its usual flickering overhead light—and the next, everything dropped into darkness. Sharp. Sudden.

You froze, one hand on the bin. Jack swore behind you.

"Shit," he muttered, somewhere just inside the door. The backup emergency lights flickered red from the hallway, but barely touched the cramped space around you.

Then the intercom crackled overhead: Code Yellow. Facility-wide outage. All staff remain on current floors. Secure all medications and patients.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Automatic lock.

You turned just as Jack tried the handle. It didn’t budge.

He sighed. "Well. That’s one way to guarantee a five-minute break."

You looked at him sharply, but he was already scanning the room, looking for anything useful, keeping his voice light.

"Guess we’re stuck for a bit," he added.

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. The air felt too tight in your lungs, too warm all of a sudden.

Because now, the supply closet didn’t just feel small.

It felt like it was closing in.

It had been a normal day.

Or as normal as anything ever was around here—high-pressure shifts balanced by the strange rhythm you and Jack had settled into over the past few years. You worked together well—efficient, quick to anticipate each other's needs, almost telepathic during traumas. Partners in crime, someone had once joked. Probably Robby.

You’d learned how to read his silences—the kind that weren’t dismissive but deliberate, like he was giving you space without needing to say it aloud. He’d learned how to decode your muttered curses and side glances, how to step in behind you without crowding, how to let his shoulder bump yours during charting when words failed you both.

There was a kind of ease between you, a rhythm that didn’t require explanation. He’d hand you tools before you asked for them. You’d finish his sentences when he gave consults. Even in chaos, your partnership felt oddly... quiet. Intimate, in a way that crept in slowly, like warmth from a mug clasped between two hands after a long shift.

When you were paired on trauma, nurses and med students stopped asking who was lead. They knew you moved as one.

People had started to notice—how the two of you always seemed to stay overtime on the same days, how Jack would make dry, cutting jokes around others but soften them just enough when talking to you. Robby, in particular, teased him about it relentlessly.

"Jack, blink twice if this is you flirting," he’d once called across the ER after Jack mumbled, "Great work Dr. L/N," while watching you tie off a flawless stitch or nailing a differential.

Jack huffed. "It’s efficient. She's efficient."

"God, you’re hopeless," Robby laughed.

"She’s my best resident," Jack shot back, like it explained everything. Like it wasn’t a deflection.

You snorted into your coffee. "You say that like it’s not the fifth time this week."

Jack, without missing a beat: "That’s because it’s true. I value consistency."

He was awful at flirting—stiff and dry and chronically understated—but you’d grown to read the fondness buried in the flat delivery.

Like the morning he handed you your favorite protein bar without a word and then said, as you blinked at him, "Don’t faint. You’ll ruin my numbers."

Or the time he stood outside your call room after a brutal night shift, coffee in hand, and muttered, "You deserve a nap, but I guess you’ll have to settle for caffeine and my sparkling company."

He always made sure to loop you in on the interesting cases—"Figure it’s good for your development," he’d say. But then linger just a little too long after rounds, just to hear your thoughts.

And when you were quiet too long, when something in you withdrew, he never asked outright. Just gave you space—and a clipboard he’d pre-filled, or a shift swap you hadn’t requested, or the gentlest, "You good?" when you passed each other by the scrub sinks.

And now, here you were. Trapped in a closet with the man who rarely made jokes—and never blushed—except when you were around.

Now, you were stuck. Together.

The air felt thin but simultaneously stuffed to the brim.

Jack turned on his penlight, sweeping the beam across the room. "We’re fine," he said, calm and certain. "Generator will kick in soon."

You nodded. Tried to match his steadiness. Failed.

The closet was small. Smaller than it had ever felt before.

The walls crept in.

You didn’t notice the way your hands started to shake until he said your name.

Your vision tunneled. The room blurred at the edges, corners shrinking in like someone was folding the walls inward. The air felt heavy, every breath catching at the top of your throat before it could sink deep enough to matter. It felt like someone had filled your veins with liquid lead, your entire body suddenly weighing too much to hold upright. You staggered back a step, hand scrambling blindly for something to anchor you—shelf, handle, Jack. Your heart was pounding—loud, ragged, out of sync with time itself.

You tried to swallow. Couldn’t.

Sweat prickled your scalp. Your fingers tingled, every nerve on fire. Your knees gave out beneath you, and you crumbled to the floor—head buried between your knees, hands clasped behind your neck, trying to fold yourself into a singularity. Anything to disappear. Anything to slip away from this moment and the way it pressed in on all sides. There was no exit. No sound but your own spiraling thoughts and the slow, careful way Jack said your name again.

You blinked. Your eyes wouldn’t focus.

"Hey," Jack coaxed, his voice cutting through the static—low and steady, somehow still distant. His full attention was on you now, gaze locked in, unmoving. "Breathe."

You couldn’t.

It hit like a wave—sharp and silent, rising in your chest like pressure, no space, no air, no exit.

Jack’s hands found your shoulders. "I’ve got you. You’re okay. Stay with me, yeah?"

He crouched in front of you, grounding you with steady pressure and careful, deliberate calm. His hands—firm, callused, the kind that had seen years of split-second decisions and endless sutures—gripped your upper arms with a touch that was impossibly gentle. Like he could mold you back into yourself with his palms alone. His thumbs brushed lightly, not demanding, just present. Just there.

"Can you breathe with me?" he asked. "In for four. Okay? One, two, three…"

You tried. You really did.

Your chest still felt locked, ribs tight around panic like a vice, but his voice—low and even—threaded through the chaos.

"Out for four," he murmured, exhaling slowly, deliberately, like the sound alone could show your body how to follow. "Good. Just like that."

The faint light dimmed between you, casting his face in half-shadow. He was close now—close enough for you to catch the scent of antiseptic and something warm underneath, something that reminded you of winter nights and clean laundry.

"You’re here," he said again, softer this time. "You’re safe. Nothing’s coming. You’ve got space."

You reached out blindly, fingers finding the edge of his sleeve and clutching it like a lifeline.

"Good girl," Jack said softly, instinctively, like it slipped out without permission.

Your brain short-circuited. Of all things, in all moments—that was what hooked your attention. You let out a strangled little laugh, shaky and almost hysterical. "Fucking hell," you murmured, pressing your face into your arm. "Why is that what got me breathing again?"

Jack blinked, startled for a second—then let out the smallest huff of relief, like he was holding back a smirk. "Hey, if it works, I’ll say it again," he said, a thread of warmth sneaking into his voice.

You groaned, half-burying your face in your elbow. "Please don’t."

He was still crouched in front of you, his tone gentler now, teasing on purpose, like he was giving you something else to hold onto. "Admit it—you just wanted to hear me say something nice for once."

"Jack," you warned, half-laughing, half-crying.

"You’re doing great," he said quietly, real again. "You’re okay. I’ve got you."

And eventually—one shaky inhale at a time—your lungs obeyed.

When the power came back on, you stood side-by-side in the wash of fluorescent light, blinking against it.

You were still trembling faintly, your breaths shallow but more even now. Jack didn’t step away. Not right away.

"Feeling better?" he asked, voice low, steady.

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

Jack stood slowly, offering a hand. You took it, letting him pull you up. His grip lingered just a second longer than necessary.

Then he tried, awkwardly, to lighten the mood. "If calling you a good girl was really all it took, then I’ve been severely underutilizing my motivational toolkit."

You let out a startled laugh, breath catching mid-sound. "Jesus, don’t start."

He gave you a crooked smile—relieved, even if the corners of it were still tight with concern. "Whatever works, right? Next time I’ll try it with more enthusiasm."

"Next time?" Your eyes widened like saucers—absolutely flabbergasted, half-tempted to dissolve into laughter or hit him with the nearest supply tray.

He shrugged, another smug grin threatening to cross his lips. "Just saying. If you’re going to unravel in a closet, might as well do it with someone who knows where to find the defibrillator."

You rolled your eyes but didn’t let go of his hand until the light flickered again.

Only then did you both step apart.

You didn’t say much.

He didn’t ask you to.

You’d made it as far as the locker room before the adrenaline crash hit. You rinsed your face, changed into sweats, and shoved your scrubs into your bag with trembling fingers. Jack had walked you out of the department without a word, just a hand hovering near your lower back.

"Thanks," you said quietly, as you scanned out. "For earlier."

Jack shook his head, like it was nothing. "You don’t need to thank me."

"Still," you said. "Just… please don’t mention it to anyone?"

He looked over at you, mouth twitching at the corner. "Mention what?"

That made you laugh—brief, breathless. "Right."

You parted ways near the waiting room, sharing your usual post-shift goodbyes.

Or so you thought.

Jack had been about to leave when he saw you—doubling back through the double doors, slipping through the staff-only entrance and back into the ER.

His brow furrowed.

He hesitated, then turned to follow.

The corridor was quiet. Most of the day shift hadn’t arrived yet, and the call room hallway echoed faintly under his footsteps. He paused outside the on-call room and knocked once, gently. When there was no response, he eased the door open.

The room was cramped and windowless, just enough space for a narrow bunk bed and a scuffed metal chair in the corner. The mattress dipped in the middle, the kind of sag that never quite let you forget your own weight. The attached bathroom offered a stall that barely passed for a shower—low pressure, eternally lukewarm, and loud enough to make you question whether it was working or crying for help. It felt more like a last resort than a place to rest.

Your bag was on the bed. Half-unpacked. Toothbrush laid out. Socks tucked into the corner. Like you were staying in a hotel. Like you’d been staying here.

He was still standing there when the bathroom door cracked open and you stepped out—hair damp, towel knotted tightly around your torso.

You both froze.

Your eyes widened. Jack’s went comically wide before he spun around on instinct, shielding his eyes like it was second nature. "Shit—sorry, I didn’t—"

"What are you doing here?" you asked at the exact same time he blurted, "What are you doing here?"

The silence that followed was deafening.

Jack cleared his throat, ears bright red. "I… saw you come back in. Just wanted to check."

You were still standing in place like a deer in headlights, towel clutched in a death grip.

Jack rubbed the back of his neck, eyes very pointedly still on the wall, as if the peeling paint had suddenly become the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen.

Fingers clenched around the edge of the towel, embarrassment prickled across your chest like static. "One second," you murmured, disappearing back into the bathroom before either of you could say anything more.

A minute later, the door creaked open and you stepped out again—now wrapped in an oversized hoodie and soft, baggy sweatpants that made you look small, almost swallowed whole by comfort. Jack’s brain did something deeply inconvenient at the sight.

You lingered in the doorway, sleeves tugged down over your hands, damp hair framing your face. "You can look now," you said, voice softer this time.

Jack didn’t move at first. He shifted his weight, cleared his throat in a way that sounded more like a stall tactic than anything physiological. Only after a beat did he finally turn, cautiously, eyes flicking up to meet yours.

He caught himself staring. Made a mental note not to think about it later. Failed almost immediately.

A breath left your lungs, quieter than the room deserved. You crossed to the bunk and sat down on the edge, fingers fidgeting with the seam of your sweatpants. "You can sit, if you want," you said, barely above a whisper.

The mattress shifted a second later as Jack lowered himself beside you, careful, slow—like he wasn’t sure how close he was allowed to get. His knee brushed yours. He didn’t move it. You didn't pull away. 

Your eyes fluttered shut, a long exhale dragging out of you like it had been caught behind your ribs all night. "I’ve been staying here," you said finally. "Not every night. Just... enough of them."

You looked over at him, then down at your hands. "It’s not about work. I just... I didn’t want to go back to an empty place and hear it echo. Didn’t want to hear myself think. Breathe. This place—at least there’s always noise. Even if it’s bad, it’s something."

That made him pause.

"I don’t want to be alone..." you added, quieter.

Jack was quiet for a moment, then nodded once, slow. "Why didn’t you tell me?" he asked, voice quieter than before. "You know I’m always here for you."

You looked down at your lap. "I didn’t want to be a burden."

Your fingers twitched, and before you realized it, you’d started picking at a loose thread along your cuff. Jack’s hands came up gently, catching yours before you could do more than graze your skin. He held them between his palms—warm, steady. Soothing.

His thumbs brushed over your knuckles. "You never have to earn being cared about," he said softly. "Not with me."

A few moments passed in silence. He still hadn’t let go of your hand.

Then, quietly, Jack reached into his pocket.

And handed you a key.

"I have a spare room," he said, voice low. "No expectations. No questions. Just… if you need it."

You stared at the key. Then at him.

He still didn’t look away, even as his voice gentled. "Don’t sleep here. Not if it hurts."

You took the key.

Not right away—but you did. Slipped it into the front pocket of your hoodie like it might vanish otherwise, like the metal might burn a hole through the fabric if you held it too long.

Jack didn’t press. Didn’t ask for promises.

He stood to leave and paused in the doorway.

"I’ll leave the light on," he said. "Just in case."

You didn’t answer right away. Just nodded, barely, and stared at the key in your lap long after the door shut behind him.

The call room was quiet after he left.

Too quiet.

You stared at the key until your fingers itched, then tucked it beneath your pillow like it needed protecting—from you, from the space, from the hollow echo of loneliness that filled the room once Jack was gone.

You didn’t sleep that night. Not really.

And two days later—after another long shift, after you’d showered in the same miserable excuse for plumbing, after you’d sat cross-legged on the cot trying to convince yourself to just go home—you took the key out of your pocket.

You didn’t text him.

You just went.

The last time you'd been to his place was different. Less quiet. More raw.

It was the night after a shift that left the entire ER shell-shocked. You'd both ended up at Jack’s apartment with takeout containers and too much to drink. You’d lost a kid—ten years old, blunt trauma, thirty-eight minutes of resuscitation, and it still wasn’t enough. Jack had lost a veteran. OD. The kind of case that stuck to his ribs.

He’d handed you a beer without a word. The two of you had sat on opposite ends of his couch, silence stretching between you like a third presence until you broke it with a hoarse, "I keep hearing his mother scream."

Jack didn’t look away. "I keep thinking I should’ve caught it sooner."

The conversation didn’t get lighter. But it got easier.

At some point, you’d both ended up sitting on the floor, backs against the couch, knees bent and shoulders almost brushing.

He told you about Iraq. About the first time he held pressure on someone’s chest and knew it wouldn’t matter.

You told him about your first code as an intern and the way it rewired something you’ve never quite gotten back.

He didn’t touch you. Didn’t need to. Just passed you another drink and said, "I’m glad you were there today."

And for a while, it was enough—being there, even if neither of you knew how to say why.

You’d gotten absolutely wasted that night. The kind of drunk that swung from giggles to tears and back again. Somewhere between your third drink and fourth emotional whiplash, you started dancing around his living room barefoot, music crackling from his ancient Bluetooth speaker. Tears for Fears was playing—Everybody Wants to Rule the World—and you twirled with your arms raised like the only way to survive grief was to outpace it.

Jack watched from the floor, amused. Smiling to himself. Maybe a little enamored.

You beckoned him up with exaggerated jazz hands. "C’mon, dance with me."

He shook his head, raising both palms. "No one needs to see that."

You marched over, grabbed his hands, and tugged hard enough to get him upright. He stumbled, laughing under his breath, and let you spin him like a carousel horse. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t even really dancing. But it was you—vivid and loud and alive—and something in him ached with the sight of it.

He didn’t say anything that night.

But the way he looked at you said enough.

You were still holding his hands from the dance, your breathing slowing, your laughter softening into something tender. The overhead light had gone dim, the playlist shifting into quieter melodies, but you didn’t let go. Your fingers stayed laced behind his neck, your forehead nearly resting against his chest.

Jack’s palms found your waist—not possessive, just steady. Grounding. His thumbs pressed gently against your sides, and for a moment, you swayed in place like the world wasn’t full of ghosts. You were sobering up, but not rushing. Not running.

You hadn’t meant for the dance to turn into this. But he didn’t step away.

Didn’t look away either.

Just held you, as if the act itself might keep you both tethered to something real.

You woke the next morning to the sound of soft clinking—metal against ceramic, a pan being set down gently on the stovetop.

The smell of coffee drifted in first. Then eggs. Something buttery. Your head pounded—dull, insistent—but your body felt warm under the blanket someone had pulled up around your shoulders during the night.

Padding quietly down the hall, you peeked into the kitchen.

Jack stood at the stove, hair ever so slightly tousled from sleep, wearing the same faded t-shirt and a pair of plaid pajama pants that made your chest ache with something you couldn’t name. He hadn’t seen you yet—was humming under his breath, absently stirring a pan with practiced rhythm.

You leaned against the doorframe.

"Are you seriously making breakfast?"

He turned, eyes crinkling. "You say that like it’s not a medically necessary intervention."

You snorted, stepping in. "You’re using a cast iron. I didn’t even know you owned one."

"Don’t tell Robby. He thinks I survive on rage and vending machine coffee."

You slid onto one of the stools, blinking blearily against the light. Jack set a mug in front of you without being asked—just the way you liked it. Just like always.

"You were a menace last night," he said lightly, pouring eggs into the pan.

You groaned, cupping your hands around the mug. "Oh god. Please don’t recap."

He grinned. "No promises. But the dance moves were impressive. You almost took me out during that one twirl."

"That’s because you wouldn’t dance with me!"

"I was trying to protect my knees."

You laughed, head tipping back slightly. Jack just watched you, eyes soft, like the sound of it made something settle inside him.

And for a moment, the silence that settled between you wasn’t hollow at all.

It was full.

If only tonight's circumstances were different. 

Jack opened the door in sweatpants and a black v-neck that looked older than his medical degree. He blinked when he saw you—then smiled, just a little. Not wide. Not obvious. But real. The kind of expression that said he hadn’t realized how much he’d wanted to see you until you were there.

He said nothing.

After a slow smile: "Didn’t expect to see you again so soon," he said lightly, trying to break the ice. "Unless you’re here to critique my towel-folding technique."

Lifting your hand slowly, the key warm against your skin, you tilted your head with a deadpan expression. "Wouldn’t dream of it," you said, tone dry—almost too dry—but not quite hiding the twitch of a smile. Jack’s mouth quirked at the corner.

Then you held the key out fully, and he stepped aside without a word.

"Spare room’s on the left," he said. “Bathroom’s across from it. The towels are clean. I think."

You smiled, a little helplessly. "Thanks."

Jack’s voice was soft behind you. "That was a joke, by the way. The towel thing."

You turned slightly. "What?"

He shrugged, almost sheepish. "Trying to lighten the mood," he said, rubbing the back of his neck and looking anywhere but at you. "Make it... easier. Or, y'know. Less weird. That was the goal."

The admission caught you off guard. Jack Abbot had a tendency to ramble when he was nervous, and this was definitely that.

You didn’t say anything right away, but your smile—this time—was a little steadier. A little sweeter.

"Careful, Jack," you murmured, feigning seriousness. "If you keep being charming, I might start expecting it."

He looked like he wanted to say something else. His mouth opened, then closed again as he rubbed the back of his neck, clearly debating whether to double down or play it cool.

"Guess I’ll go work on my stand-up material," he mumbled, half under his breath.

You bit back a laugh.

He ran a hand through his hair again—classic stall tactic—then finally nodded and disappeared into the kitchen.

The room he offered you was small, clearly unused, but tidy in a way that suggested recent care. A folded towel sat at the foot of the bed. A new toothbrush—still in its packaging—rested on the nightstand. The faint scent of cedar lingered in the air, mixing with the soft clean trace of his detergent. The air had that faint freshness of a recently opened window, and the corners were free of dust. Someone had aired it out. Someone had taken the time to make space—room that hadn’t existed before, cleared just enough to let another person in.

You set your bag down and sat on the edge of the bed, fingers brushing over the blanket. Everything felt soft. Considered. You stared at the corner of the room like it might give you answers.

It didn’t.

But it didn’t feel like a hospital either.

You took your time in the shower, letting the heat soak into your skin until the mirror fogged over and your thoughts slowed just enough to feel manageable. Jack's body wash smelled different on you—deeper, warmer somehow—and the scent clung faintly to your skin as you pulled on the softest clothes you had packed: shorts and an oversized shirt you barely remembered grabbing.

When you stepped out of the guest room, damp hair still clinging to your neck, the smell of garlic and something gently sizzling greeted you first. Jack was in the kitchen, stirring a pot with practiced ease, the kind of domestic ease that tugged at something inside you.

He turned when he heard your footsteps—and froze for a beat too long.

His eyes swept over you and caught on your hair, your shirt, the visible curve of your collarbone, the quietness about you that hadn't been there earlier. He blinked, clearly trying to recover, and failed miserably.

"Hey," you said gently, brushing some damp strands behind your ear. "Need help with anything?"

Jack cleared his throat—once, then again—and turned back to the stove, ears visibly reddening. "I think I’m good," he said. "Unless you want to make sure I don’t burn the rice."

You crossed the room and leaned against the counter next to him, still slightly bashful yourself. The scent of his soap clung to your sleeves, and Jack caught a trace of it on the air. He said nothing—but stirred a little slower. A little more carefully.

"Your apartment’s just as nice as I remembered," you said, soft and genuine, fingers brushing the edge of the countertop.

Jack glanced over at you, a flicker of something warm behind his eyes. "You mean the sterile surfaces and suspiciously outdated spice rack?"

You gave him a knowing smile. "I mean the parts that feel like you."

That stopped him for a second. His stirring slowed to a halt. He looked back down at the pot, a faint smile ghosting over his lips.

"Careful," he murmured, voice low. "If you keep saying things like that, I might start thinking you actually like me."

You nudged his elbow gently. "I might. Don’t let it go to your head."

He smiled to himself, the kind of expression that didn't need to be seen to be felt. And in the soft space between those words, something settled. Easier. Closer.

Dinner was simple—pan-seared salmon, rice, roasted vegetables. Nothing fancy, but everything assembled with care. Jack Abbot, it turned out, could cook.

You said so after the first bite—and let out a soft, involuntary moan. Jack froze mid-chew, raised a brow, and gave you a look.

"Wow," he said dryly, lips twitching. "Should I be offended or flattered?"

You felt heat rise across your cheeks, laughing as you covered your mouth with your napkin. "Don't tell me you're jealous of a piece of salmon?"

He grinned. "I’m a man of many talents," he said dryly, passing you the pepper mill. "Just don’t ask me to bake."

You smiled over your glass of water, a little more relaxed now. "No offense, but I didn’t exactly have ‘culinary savant’ on my Jack Abbot bingo card."

He shot you a look. "What was on the card?"

You hummed, pretending to think. "Chronic insomniac. Secret softie. Closet hoarder of protein bars. Dad joke connoisseur."

Jack snorted, setting down his fork. "You’re lucky the salmon’s good or I’d be deeply offended."

You grinned. "So you admit it."

And he did—not in words, but in the way his gaze lingered a moment too long across the table. In the way he refilled your glass as soon as it dipped below halfway. In the quiet, sheepish curve of his smile when you caught him looking. In the way his laugh lost its usual edge and softened, like maybe—just maybe—he could get used to this.

After dinner, you moved to the sink before Jack could protest. He tried, weakly, something about guests and hospitality, but you waved him off and started rinsing plates.

Jack came up behind you, handing over dishes one by one as you scrubbed and loaded them into the dishwasher to dry. His presence was warm at your back, the occasional graze of his hand or arm sending tiny shivers up your spine. The silence between you was companionable, laced with unspoken things neither of you quite knew how to name.

"You’re seriously not gonna let me help?" he asked, bumping your hip with his.

"This is letting you help," you shot back. "You’re the designated passer."

"Such a glamorous title," he murmured, his voice low near your ear. "Do I get a badge?"

You glanced at him over your shoulder, a smile tugging at your lips. "Only if you survive the suds.

Jack leaned in just as you turned back to the sink, and for a moment, your arms brushed, your shoulders aligned. His gaze lingered on you again—your profile, your damp hair starting to curl at the edges, the stretch of your shirt down your back.

You glanced back at him, close enough now to kiss, breath caught halfway between surprise and anticipation when—

Jack dipped his finger into the soap bubbles and tapped the tip of your nose.

You blinked, stunned. "Did you just—"

Jack held your wide-eyed gaze a beat longer, then said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world, "Nice look, Bubbles."

And the dam broke. You laughed, bright and unguarded, flicking water in his direction.

He dodged each droplet as best he could with a grin, triumphant. "I stand by my methods."

You scooped a pile of bubbles into your hand with deliberate menace.

Jack immediately backed away, holding both palms up like he was under arrest. "No. No no no—"

You grinned, nodding slowly with mock gravity. The chase ensued. He darted around the counter, nearly tripping on the rug as you chased after him, suds in hand and laughter trailing like a siren’s call. He was fast—but you were relentless.

"Truce!" he yelped, dropping to his knees in front of you, hands held high in mock surrender.

You smirked, one brow raised. "Hmm. I don’t know… this feels like a trap."

Jack looked up at you with wide, pleading eyes. "Mercy. Have mercy. I’ll do whatever you want—just don’t soap me."

You hummed, pretending to consider it. "Anything?"

"Within reason. And dignity. Maybe." He started lowering his hands.

You tilted your head, letting the moment draw out. Jack watched you carefully, breath held, the corners of his mouth twitching.

"I mean…" he started. "If praise is your thing, you’re doing a fantastic job intimidating me right now."

Your mouth parted, stunned. "Did you just—"

Jack smirked, sensing an opening. "You excel at it. Really. Top tier menace."

You laughed, nearly doubling over. "Oh my god. You’re the worst." The bubbles had dissipated by now, leaving you with only damp hands. 

"And yet, here you are," he said, still kneeling, still grinning.

You shook your head, stray droplets slipping from your hand, your laughter easing into something softer. "Get up, you idiot."

But Jack didn’t—not right away. Still on his knees, he inched closer, crawling forward with slow, deliberate grace. His hands found your thighs, resting there gently, like a prayer. Thumbs stroked the place where skin met fabric, featherlight and reverent.

"I mean it," he said, voice quieter now, almost solemn. "You terrify me."

Your breath caught.

"In the best way," he added, gaze lifting. "You walk into a trauma bay like you own it. You fight like hell for your patients. You get under my skin without even trying."

His hands slid up slowly, still gentle, still hesitant, like waiting for permission. "Sometimes I think the only thing I believe in anymore is you."

Your heart thudded. Your hands, still damp, twitched against your sides.

"You deserve to be worshipped," he murmured, and that was when your knees nearly buckled.

The joke was long forgotten. The laughter faded. All that was left was the way Jack looked at you now—like he wasn’t afraid of the quiet anymore.

His hands had made a slow, reverent climb to your bare skin, thumbs sweeping small, anchoring circles into your skin. You felt the heat of him everywhere, your body taut with anticipation, nerves stretched thin. He didn’t rush. Just looked up at you, drinking in every unsteady breath, every flicker of hesitation in your gaze.

"You’re shaking," he murmured, voice low. If you weren't so dazed, you could've sworn you heard a shadow of amusement. "You want to stop?"

You shook your head—barely—and he nodded like he understood something sacred.

"I want you to feel good," he said softly, leaning in to press the lightest kiss to your thigh, just below the hem of your shirt. "I want to take my time with you. If you’ll let me?"

The question lodged in your chest like a plea. You couldn’t speak, only nodded, and his hands flexed slightly in response. 

Jack stood first, rising fluidly, eyes never leaving yours. As he straightened, your hands found his hair, fingers threading through the soft strands at the base of his neck. That was all it took—the smallest pull, the softest touch—and the space between you collapsed.

Not in chaos, not in desperation, but in something careful. Like reverence wrapped in desire. Like he’d been waiting for this, quietly, for longer than he dared admit.

And when his lips met yours, it was a live wire.

Deep. Soft. Unapologetically tender.

But it didn’t stay chaste. Jack’s hands found your hips, drawing you closer, fitting your bodies together like a secret only the two of you knew how to keep. His tongue brushed yours in a slow, exploratory sweep, and you gasped against his mouth, fingers fisting in the back of his shirt.

The kiss turned hungry, molten—slow-burning restraint giving way to a need you both had held too tightly for too long. Jack’s hand slid beneath the hem of your shirt, tracing the curve of your spine, and you arched into him, a quiet gasp slipping free.

"Tell me if you want me to stop," he murmured between kisses, voice thick, reverent.

You pulled back just enough to whisper, "Don’t you dare."

That was all he needed.

And when he kissed you again, it was like promise and prayer and everything you hadn’t let yourself want until now.

His hands moved with aching care—one sliding up your spine to cradle the back of your neck, the other splaying wide at your waist, pulling you flush against him. The heat between you was slow and encompassing, more smolder than spark, until it wasn’t—until it ignited all at once.

Jack walked you backward until your hips bumped the counter, and he pressed into the space you gave him, forehead resting against yours. "You undo me," he whispered, breath trembling against your lips. "Every single time."

You were already breathless, clinging to his shirt, heart pounding in your throat.

His mouth found yours again, deeper this time, hands exploring—confident now, reverent, like he was learning every part of you for the first time and never wanted to forget. You moaned softly into the kiss, and Jack cursed under his breath, low and ragged, like the sound had torn through his composure.

And then there was no more space. No more distance. Just heat, and hunger, and the slow unraveling of restraint as Jack lifted you gently onto the counter, your knees parting for him, his name spilling from your lips like a secret.

You kissed like the world was ending. Like this was your only chance to get it right. He needed to feel you pressed against him to believe it wasn’t just a dream.

The kiss deepened, urgent and breathless, until Jack was devouring every sound you made, like he could live off the way you whimpered into his mouth. He groaned low in his throat when your nails scraped lightly down his back, your body arching into his hands like instinct.

He touched you like a man memorizing, devout and thorough—hands mapping the curve of your waist, mouth dragging heat across your throat. He tasted sweat and shampoo and you, and that alone nearly undid him. You felt the tension coil in his spine, the restraint he was holding like a dam, every movement deliberate.

"God," he rasped, lips at your ear, "you have no idea what you do to me."

And when you gasped again, hips shifting, he exhaled a shaky breath like he was trying not to fall apart just from the sound.

"You smell like my soap," he murmured with a rough chuckle, nosing along your jaw. "But you still taste like you."

You whimpered, and he kissed you again—harder now, letting the hunger break through, swallowing your reaction like a man starved.

He praised you in murmured fragments, over and over, voice low and wrecked.

Beautiful.

Brave.

So fucking good.

Mine.

Each word making your skin feel like it was glowing beneath his hands.

And when he finally took you to bed, it wasn’t rushed or careless—it was everything he hadn’t said before now, every ounce of feeling poured into his mouth on your skin, every whispered breath of worship like he was praying into the hollow of your throat.

Jack kissed you like he needed to memorize the taste of every sound you made, like your skin was the answer to every question he’d never asked out loud. His hands roamed slowly, confidently, with that same quiet focus he wore in trauma bays—except now it was all for you. Every inch of you. His mouth lingered at your collarbone, your ribs, the soft curve of your stomach—pressing his devotion into the places you tried to hide.

You felt undone by how gently he worshipped you, how much he wanted—not just your body, but your breath, your closeness, your everything. He murmured praise against your skin like it was sacred, like you were something holy in his arms.

And when he finally moved over you, hands braced on either side of your head, eyes searching yours like he was asking permission one more time—you nodded.

He exhaled like it hurt to hold back. Then gave you everything.

Every kiss was a promise, every touch a confession. He moved with aching tenderness, like he was trying to memorize the feel of you beneath him, like this wasn’t just sex but something divine. You clung to him, nails digging into his shoulders, breath catching in your throat with every thrust. It wasn’t fast or frantic—it was slow, overwhelming, unbearably close.

He whispered your name like a prayer, forehead pressed to yours, and when you finally came apart beneath him, he followed soon after—undone by the way you sang his name like it was the only thing tethering you to this world.

Later, tangled in blankets and the afterglow, Jack pulled you closer without a word. One hand splayed wide against your back, the other curled around your fingers like he wasn’t ready to let you go—not now, maybe not ever. You buried your face into the crook of his neck, breathing in the warmth of him, the scent of skin and comfort and safety.

"I’m gonna need you to stop making that noise when you taste food," he murmured eventually, voice sleep-thick and amused.

You huffed a laugh into his shoulder. "Or what?"

"I’ll marry you on the spot. No warning. Just a salmon fillet and a ring pop."

Your laughter shook the bed.

Jack smirked, the ghost of a tease already forming. "If I’d known praise got you going, I’d have started ages ago."

You swatted at his chest, heat blooming across your cheeks. "Don’t you dare weaponize this."

He grinned into your hair, voice low and wrecked and entirely too fond. "Too late. I’m gonna ruin you with kindness."

You huffed, hiding your face in his shoulder.

Jack chuckled and pulled you closer.

You were never going to live this down. And maybe, just maybe, you didn’t want to.

Because Jack Abbot being a secret softie had officially made its triumphant return to your bingo card—and if you were being honest, it had probably been the center square since day one.

"You know," you murmured against his chest, lips curving into a grin, "for someone who acts so stoic at work, you sure have a lot of secrets."

Jack stirred slightly, arm tightening around your waist. "Yeah? Like what?"

You propped yourself up on one elbow, counting off on your fingers. "Total softie. Great cook. An absolute sex god."

Jack groaned into your shoulder, bashful. "Jesus."

"I'm just saying," you teased. "If there’s a hidden talent for needlepoint or poetry, now would be the time to confess."

He lifted his head, eyes heavy with sleep and amusement. "I used to write really bad song lyrics in middle school. That count?"

You laughed, light and easy, your fingers tracing idle circles on his chest. "God, I bet they were terrible."

Jack smirked. "You’ll never know."

"I’ll find them," you said with mock determination. "I’ll unearth them. Just wait."

He kissed your forehead, chuckling softly. "I’m terrified."

And he was—just not of you. Only of how much he wanted this to last.

Jack smiled into your hair, pressing a kiss to your temple. "You're incredible, you know that?"

You shook your head, bashful, eyes cast toward the sheets—but Jack didn’t let it slide. His hand curled tighter around yours, his voice still soft but firm. "Hey. I meant that. You are."

When you didn’t answer right away, he leaned in a little closer, his thumb brushing along your wrist. "I need you to hear it. And believe it. You’re—extraordinary."

The earnestness in his voice left you no room to hide. Slowly, your eyes lifted to meet his.

Jack held your gaze like a promise. "Say okay."

"Okay," you whispered, cheeks burning.

He smiled again, slower this time, and kissed your temple once more. "Good girl."

You didn’t answer—just smiled you were on cloud nine and squeezed his hand a little tighter.

Outside, the city was quiet. Inside, you drifted in and out of sleep wrapped in warm limbs and steadier breath, heart finally quiet for the first time in days. Jack’s hand never left yours, his thumb tracing lazy, grounding circles over your knuckles like he needed the reassurance just as much as you did.

Your limbs were tangled with his beneath the softened hush of early morning, the sheets kicked messily down to the foot of the bed. Skin to skin, steady breathing, fingers still loosely clasped where they had found each other in the dark. He shifted just enough to press a kiss to your shoulder, murmured something you didn’t quite catch—but it didn’t matter. The weight of the night had passed. What remained was warmth. Stillness. Something whole.

You fell asleep like that, curled into each other without pretense. Closer than you'd ever planned, safer than you thought possible. And for the first time in what felt like ages, the quiet wasn’t heavy.

It was home.

[xi-vz]

Shen Yuan stared up at the man, disbelief clear on his face.

The man before him huffed a laugh, brown eyes becoming crescent shaped with amusement. He was a little taller than Shen Yuan, a little broader, with a sleeve tattoo covering his right arm to his wrist. His dark brown hair was softly curled, more wavy, and a little shaggy, falling to his shoulders. His face reminding Shen Yuan of Binghe. Not a lot, but just enough if he were to tilt his head and squint.

“You’re just a kid.” When the man finally spoke his voice was as smooth as velvet. “How old are you?”

“Nineteen.” Shen Yuan automatically responded as he gawked.

The man had round wire glasses, a piercing on the left side of his lower lip, both ears were pierced, and he had cheekbones that belonged on a magazine cover. He was a little older than Shen Yuan expected. Somewhere in his late-twenties compared to Shen Yuans late teens.

“Cucumber-Bro, come on, I’m not that different.” Airplane Shooting Towards the Sky offered a smile, showing off dimples underneath a days worth of scruff.

“How old are you?” Shen Yuan demanded, still blocking the doorway into the dorm.

“Thirty.”

What the fuck?

“What the fuck?” Shen Yuan asked aloud.

Seriously, this was the caffeine addicted crack-writer?!

When Shen Yuan had woken up back in his dorm room instead of in bed with his husband in the bamboo house, he immediately contacted Airplane—it was a gamble, but it paid off. The relief Shen Yuan felt when Airplane responded was like a weight lifted off his shoulders. He gave the other man his phone number and address, then waited an excruciating five days until the two could meet. (Because Shen Yuan lived in Beijing, but Airplane apparently lived in Chengdu, and last minute flights weren’t cheap.)

Shen Yuan knew that his friend would look different. Hell, Shen Yuan looked different! A little shorter, a little rounder, way younger. With pitch black eyes, short inky black hair, and an ear piercing. He was pretty rather than handsome, softer than Shen Qingqiu.

And it wasn’t that Shang Qinghua wasn’t handsome—he was! Like everyone else in PIDW. But Airplane?

“Can I come in?” Airplane asked while shoving his hands into his back pockets. He wasn’t dressed fashionably. His beat up backpack was slung carelessly over a shoulder, jeans were ripped due to wear and tear, his faded band shirt was due to too many washes, his sneakers were scuffed. And yet…

Shen Yuan dressed in the latest fashion. He tried his best to look good, he had standards for himself! He looked like a C-Pop star.

Airplane wasn’t even trying to be hot. (WHY WAS HE SO HOT?!)

It shook something inside of Shen Yuan. All of his past theories of Airplane being a troll flew out the window.

“Well?” Airplane looked like he wasn’t above shoving past his friend to get in.

Shen Yuan allowed his friend inside, still shook.

“Shang Qinghua.”

“What?”

“My name, bro.”

“Wait…you used your actual name for the character closest to Mobei!? Fucking Mary-Sue!”

“Ah, there we go, there’s the Peerless Cucumber I know. Although it’s weird to hear such vitriol from a face so cute.”

Shen Yuan felt the blood rush to his face and wished he had a fan in his hands to use as a weapon when Airplane chuckled.

“Come on, let’s try to figure out how to get back home,” Shang Qinghua said as he moseyed to the desk in the room.

Shen Yuan sighed as he closed and locked the door.

BONUS:

SY: I thought you said you were a broke university student who wrote to make sure food was on the table.

SQH: Yeah, dude. I’m working on my dissertation. Writing pays the bills.

SY: YOU’RE GETTING YOUR DOCTORATES?????

SQH: Yeah, in Topology.

SY: YOU’RE GETTING YOUR DOCTORATES IN MATHS?????

[yukioos]

Hii! Could we have a cute comfort fic where reader and bakugo are dating, and she starts feeling insecure in the relationship (such as him leaving her or getting cheated on) but he reassures her that shes the only one he wants and has eyes for 🥰 just a lil cutie

Song- sunflower by post malone

when you feel insecure in your and katsuki’s relationship

katsuki had appeared more irritable in the past few weeks, especially to you. unfortunately, you had no idea why, and were too shy to confront him about it. he started holding doors open a second less than how he normally did, and didn’t look at you as often as he normally did.

that enough was clearly a sign. you were still stuck in limbo, as you were timid and nervous to ask him about his actions, or even if he was still romantically interested in you. did he really find someone else to replace you? were you not good enough?

eventually, you didn’t interact with him as much, as you almost gave up with your relationship, but katsuki noticed how differently you’ve been acting. you were more distant, maybe even more self-conscious.

but he was fed up with it. you hardly even glanced at him, and avoided him rather than leaning to him. clearly, something was occurring in your mind, and he needed to deal with it quickly.

you lay on your bedroom, curled up into your soft and comfy bed. you randomly got a text, which distracted you from the series you were watching. eyes pulled away from the screen, your screen lit up with katsuki’s contact name and a notification.

‘im not letting you ignore me anymore. i’m coming to your dorm, we need to talk.’

he was going to break up with you, wasn’t he? maybe now you would find out if he found a different woman, or if he just became bored of you. were you not interesting anymore?

a fist strongly knocked on the door before it automatically opened. your boyfriend’s spiky blonde hair poked out from the crack of the door, and he peeked in with soft yet hard eyes.

he closed the door behind you and stared at your body lying on your bed, eyes tired. you looked so exhausted. was something or someone physically or mentally tiring you out? he hadn’t looked closely into your eyes for a while, but now he felt guilty.

when he locked the door behind him, you felt uneasy. he put his hands in his pockets and asked, “why have you been acting weird?” straight to the point.

you retorted, “i’m not acting weird—“

“yes you are. you have something on your mind, so you better spit it out.” he tried to remain calm with you, giving you a sense of safety.

you hesitated, averting your eyes from his harsh but loving gaze, and instead focused them on your dresser. you replied, “you haven’t been spending a lot of time with me, and you’re not holding doors open for me as long as you normally do. you hardly even look at me, even during class.” you paused, “do you love someone else?”

katsuki’s heart stopped, and his eyes widened. his face relaxed, but he noticed your eyes were teary. he needed time to think about how to respond. of course, he still loved you, but why would you doubt it? why would you doubt him?

he stated, “i don’t love anyone else.” he paused, “the reason why i may have seemed unfocused is because i don’t know what to get you for your birthday. it was supposed to be a surprise, but i think you should know since you’re stressing about it.” he mumbled the last part, feeling as if the words were too intimate.

you muttered an, “oh, i didn’t know that katsuki.” well, at least you knew not to be so worried anymore! “‘m sorry for worrying you.”

he jumped into your bed and threw his shirt onto the ground, tucked himself into your bed, and laid behind you. he wrapped his arms around your waist and placed his face in the crook of your neck. your boyfriend shook his head, “stop apologizing, idiot. you didn’t do anything wrong.”

you nodded and placed your hand on his large bicep, which wrapped around your waist. you pressed your body closer to his, wanting proximity. smiling, you felt much better after talking to katsuki. maybe you should’ve confronted him faster. he didn’t even seem bothered by what you were worrying about!

he was the best boyfriend ever.

this request was so cute! hope u like it!

[okwonyo]

CUFFING SEASON 𓂃 gymrat!enhypen 𓈒

𝗜𝗦𝗣𝗜𝗥𝗔𝗭𝗜𝗢𝗡𝗘 ✶ ────── 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝖼𝗎𝖿𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝖺 𝖻𝗂𝗀 𝖻𝗈𝗒. 𝗂 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽 𝖺 𝖻𝗂𝗀 𝖻𝗈𝗒.

엔하이픈 & fem!rea 14OO fluff established relationship cautions kissing skinship ˊᯅˋ altero

❛ 姫　❜ thanks to danipie for the heeseung prompt and tam for jakes >< plus to jenn, tam and pockemonz for being my emotional support 🎀

reblogs⠀⠀ꢾ꣒⠀ feedbacks please

HEESEUNG ｡｡ ever since you moved in together, your boyfriend likes to walk around with a tank top embracing his upper body, showcasing his biceps and making you daydream about his chest.

frankly, this habit of his isn’t new to you— back when you lived in different apartments, he would always open the door while dressed in that sort of clothes.

you admired his arms for a while during the long times whereas you were together. gaze dragging over his hands to reach his biceps, you always wondered if the ribbon you put in your hair could fit around his big muscles.

“do you think it’d fit?” the ribbon is held between your index finger and your thumb as you question your boyfriend.

he looks at his biceps then at the pink hair accessory in your hand. seeing the sheer happiness on your face, he smiles “we can always try, sweetheart.”

wiping the grin off his face as he watches you wrap the thing around his flexed bicep is impossible. it is fun and you find it irresistibly hot— wrapping his arm is like marking him as yours. and you both love it.

JAY ｡｡ honestly, you think you are dreaming even now, deep in doze still, when you step into the kitchen and are met with a heaven-sent view in front of you.

with a mouth agape and eyes growing wide, you admire the back of your boyfriend. you want to thank whoever created gyms and thank your fortune for making your boyfriend such an addict.

his muscular and defined back shines, stares back at you as he is focused on making breakfast. the laces of the pink apron he wears on top of his naked torso wraps his waist perfectly.

it feels like heaven when your cheek collapses on his hot naked skin. you hug his waist like a teddy bear— almost melting into his skin. and god, he smells too good.

it’s dreamy when he kisses the top of your head, “good morning, baby,” he greets you, but you are too enamored by the vision of his broad shoulders a few moments ago to respond just yet.

you only hum, thinking that today will be a great day.

JAKE ｡｡ your phone rings as you are making yourself lunch. upon picking it up, a breathy voice reaches you through the phone. given the hour of the day, you don’t need to double check to know who it is.

“hi, princess, you good?” he greets you and you can hear the grin in his tone. a groan comes quick after— proving his current physical effort and confirming that he is at the gym, as he always is.

“yes, i’m good, jake,” the deep breath you take makes you able to respond after a few seconds. the next question is automatic, “how are you?”

“’m good, babe, i’m on the lat pulldown machine right now.” it would have been better, way better, if he hadn’t said that. or if he never showed you what a lat pulldown looks like.

but he did, and you cannot wipe the image of him sitting, his wide shoulders flexing alongside his back as he pulls the lat down. it makes you feel dizzy, him groaning again doesn’t help.

due to your silence, he continues. his voice is whiny, your knees get weaker, “i’ll finish my set quickly and take you on a date, alright?”

imagining him at the gym makes your whole behind fragile. your voice is locked in your throat and you tongue won’t move. but you’d let that man take you anywhere he’d like— the frail sounds of agreement you make are a confirmation of it.

SUNGHOON ｡｡ “stop moving around,” he commands, rather gently. his smile is too big for his words to be an order, he is so close to you that you can’t stop giggling. but you do stop moving.

the man’s beauty hits you one more time as your eyes focus on him. your boyfriend has his hands either side of your torso, next to your arms while you lay down on the floor.

he lower himself slowly, his lips brush over yours ever so gently, a quick kiss before he pushes on his arms and gets in his initial position. he is the one who got that idea, claiming that it’ll motivate him more.

it is in the privacy of your living room that he does another push up, his chest presses against yours when he lowers himself. this time, the kiss linger a little more than the last one.

you should have known that this exercise wouldn’t last long. it takes him less than three pushups to start focusing on your lips a little too much. “you know what? nevermind.”

his weight drops on you, a little ‘oof’ escapes from his mouth and a gentle ‘sorry, darling’ does the same from his. you kiss him back quickly when his mouth gets on yours.

SUNOO ｡｡ when you first met, his gym journey wasn’t as long as it is currently. therefore, you were used to his old, already quite muscular build. when he started going more regularly to the point where it was almost everyday, the changes weren’t very obvious to you.

of course, you knew he was getting more buffed every passing day but you didn’t realize how much until now. when your head is resting on his chest, covered by the thin fabric of his t-shirt.

it takes you a bit to realize how firm his chest feels under your resting head. you stay still for a moment, then your eyebrows furrow as you rub your cheek against his chest.

his arms tighten around your form, and you realize that his pecks are not the only parts that got more muscular. his chest vibrates as he laughs, “what are you doing?”

taken out of your examination, your gaze shoots up. it’s absurd how his natural cute face is on top of that kind of build. “since when are you hulk?”

JUNGWON ｡｡ during the time when he isn’t getting on your nerves or teasing you, he spends his energy on lifting weights at the gym and working on his muscles.

therefore, you know how well his body is built. you can tell, honestly, whenever you surreptitiously peek at him while he takes off his shirt to put on a hoodie instead. his big shoulders and small waist looks back at you, his beceps flex as he folds the clothing piece.

his muscles might be one of his greatest assets, to both send you into a spiral and irritate you the most. because being manhandled everywhere by your boyfriend creates an eruption of butterflies in your stomach but not being able to fight back makes you want to bite him.

“leave me alone!” you laugh when he lifts you off the floor in a swift mention. you are unable to move your arms as he jailed them in his embrace when he rushed to you.

the man quite literally throws you on your shared bed, making your body bounce against the mattress. you are breathless from both laughing, running away from him— even more when you find him on top of you.

you try to push him away when he leans closer. well, not really trying, because you don’t put any strength in the process. he ends up getting his kiss at the end, and he is quite content about it.

RIKI ｡｡ after occupying your room more than you do, even when you are not here, it is natural for him to have a place in your dressing where he can put his clothes.

the first time you thought about it, there wasn’t any big deal or issue related to it. it is the natural course of things, and you love that he is always there with you.

but it gets harder for you when he actually changes. when he takes off his shirt right before your eyes, letting you have a look of the creation he worked hard to have.

embarrassment becomes a prominent emotion in your head whenever you catch yourself staring at his defined abs. it is torture, you cannot yake your eyes off of them.

only a short amount of time passes before he notices it. soon enough , your boyfriend is smirking at you with his shirt in his hand, “like what you see?”

it’s a shame that you actually do. rather very much than not.

taglist open + net— @sgz-net

[moonstruckme]

Thawing Out

summary: You and Sirius are in dire need of a new coach just weeks before the Olympics. Remus is a former figure skating prodigy forced to retire after a career-ending injury. Though it's not smooth skating right away, those stiff Olympic village beds are dying to be broken in.

collab with @ellecdc

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7 | part 8 | part 9 | part 10 | part 11 | part 12 | part 13 | part 14 | part 15 | part 16

cw: modern au, chronic pain

poly!wolfstar x fem!reader ♡ 1.3k words

Remus still wakes before dark every morning. It’s automatic, an urgency and excitement that thrums through him like an old instinct, born from years of his alarm clock rousing him at this time. The rink is always at its best right now, when they’ve just finished resurfacing the ice and no one else is around. It was Remus’ favorite time to practice. 

Now, he has a new reason to get up. His hip clicks as he does it, so he starts his day with a couple of proactive painkillers. If he really wanted to be proactive he would stretch like he’s supposed to, but there’s no time and Remus doesn’t feel like it. He’ll pay his toll for the negligence later. 

The webpage of his Airbnb boasted a five-minute walk to the rink, but with his hip it takes Remus seven. It’s like an odd sort of muscle memory, an old routine from another life that feels as bitter as it does comfortable. He heads out early to give himself some cushion. The streets are empty but for bakers and baristas, the first hints of dawn tinging the sky a deep blue. When he turns a corner and the rink comes into view, the absence of his bag hanging from his shoulder is a phantom ache. 

The front doors are locked but the side one staff uses isn’t, the Zamboni driver already inside. Remus lets himself in, makes a cup of tea from the hot water dispenser they leave out when concessions are closed, plants himself on a bench, and waits. 

And waits. 

And waits. 

Remus has nearly nodded off when two pairs of shoes come bounding up to him. Well, one pair bounds. The other drags. 

“Hi, sorry we’re late.” You’re breathless and hauling a sullen-looking boy along behind you by the hand, but you manage a smile when Remus looks up at you. “I had to run over and get him out of bed. It’s good to meet you!”

You hold out your untethered hand. Remus might normally stand to take it, but he no longer feels like doing you the courtesy. Your grip is firm and warm. 

“You were supposed to be here at six,” he says. 

You wince. “I know. Sorry, Sirius is really not a morning person.” 

Remus thinks that he might put more stock into your apologies if you looked a tad more contrite. As it is, your countenance is almost cheery, a fizzy eagerness about you as you look between him and the ice like you can’t wait to get out on it. 

In stark contrast, the ill-tempered boy behind you seems not to have a clue where he is. He looks rumpled and disoriented, squinting in the rink’s fluorescent light. 

“Then why didn’t you pick another time?” Remus asks. 

He hadn’t realized he was still looking at Sirius, or that the other boy could talk, so it’s a surprise when he answers. “Wasn’t my bloody idea.” 

By the way you grin, Remus wonders if you’ve even heard the obvious bitterness in your partner’s tone, or whether it’s gone straight over your head. 

“I like the rink better early,” you explain. “No one else ever comes before the hockey practice starts at nine, and they’ll have just finished resurfacing the ice.” 

Begrudgingly, Remus nods. “I always preferred it about now, too.” 

He realizes immediately that his agreement was a mistake, because your smile grows into something far too brilliant for the early hour. Christ, what has he gotten himself into? There’s you, starry-eyed and effervescing all over the place, and your partner, who looks more inclined to fall asleep on your shoulder than put on his skates. 

And this is the pair skating duo Remus is supposed to take to the Olympics. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

“Watch that back foot!” Remus shouts across the ice.

Sirius doesn’t look happy about it, but he corrects the placement of his skate, transitioning smoothly into the next synced turn. 

“Good,” Remus murmurs to himself. 

Once Sirius got out on the ice and woke up a bit, he was good. He skates with the technical proficiency of someone who’s been in the sport since before they started primary school, and the intuitive artistry of someone who loves it. You’re much the same, though your virtuosity and obvious competence are consistently undercut by hesitation, the grace of your movements interrupted when you second-guess yourself. But these—technical prowess paired with devotion—are the basics of what makes a good figure skater. You’ll have to be flawless if you want to do well at the Olympics. 

And Remus has found many flaws. 

“No, no—shit!” Remus stands as you fall out of your jump again, catching yourself on your forearms. “You’re still under-rotating! Come on!” 

Sirius snarls a quick “Hey!” over his shoulder before turning his back on Remus, going to help you up. He speaks to you quietly, checking you over as you stand. Remus seethes. 

He has no clue why he’s been called out here to coach a pair. Remus doesn’t know pairs, has never been a part of one. He was a solo skater. And frankly, it makes him wary that what’s supposed to be the best skating pair in Britain has asked him, a former solo skater who’s been isolated from the figure skating community in general for the past two years, to coach them. But Remus does know figure skating. And he knows when skaters are making stupid mistakes behind their skill level. 

“What aren’t you understanding?” asks Remus as you skate back to the edge of the rink. He really wants to know. “It’s simple. You can do this.” He knows he could have. As easy as breathing, and he would kill to have the chance again. 

“What the fuck is your problem?” 

Sirius’ glare is sharp as knives. He steps off the ice before you can, positioning himself between you and Remus. Your lips purse with a knowing sort of apprehension. 

“Sirius…” 

“No, you don’t talk to her like that,” Sirius spits. “It was a tiny mistake.” 

Remus raises his eyebrows, incredulous. “I’m trying to help her! It was a giant mistake, with a simple fix. You ought to be telling her the same, unless you’re okay with your partner snapping her ankle weeks out from competition.” 

“None of that means you get to fucking yell at her! Who do you think you are?” 

“Okay—” 

“I’m her coach,” says Remus, voice rising, “and—”

“Then coach her! Maybe if you’d give some actual fucking feedback instead of just nitpicking—” 

“Okay!” Your shout cuts through the space, echoing in the empty rink and silencing the other two. “That’s enough.” 

You haul Sirius back by his shoulder. Your grip doesn’t look severe enough to move him, but he goes, stepping back to your side. His eyes never leave Remus’. 

Your own gaze jumps between both boys, that same spark he’d seen in you earlier burning with a different light. 

“Let’s call it for today,” you say firmly. “Okay? We’ll try again tomorrow.” 

Neither boy speaks, though Remus nods. It seems to be taking all of Sirius’ willpower to bite his tongue. He gets the impression it isn’t something he succeeds at often, so Remus isn’t ashamed to say that it brings him a perverse sort of joy to see it now. His tiny bit of smugness fizzles out, though, when your eyes land on him. There’s something desolate in your expression that’s a salient deviation from how you’d looked at him before. Remus has the sinking feeling that he’s disappointed you. It’s more distressing than he can account for. 

“We’ll be here on time tomorrow,” you say in that same steady tone. “And my jump, I’ll work on it.” 

Remus nods again. You return it, and when you turn to leave, you drag Sirius after you by his shirtsleeve, picking up your bags along your way. Remus’ mouth feels dry. His lips are chapped, his fingertips hurt from the cold, and the sight of your skates sinking into the rubbery floor makes his hip ache terribly. 

It’s only once you’re nearly out of earshot that he manages to mumble, “Thank you.”

[xitcantlast]

“Slut!”

Theodore Nott x f!reader

Summary: Inspired by the song “Slut!” by Taylor Swift.

Word Count: 1.5k. English is not my first language.

Divider Credit: @uzmacchiato

"Slut!"was something you heard too often passing the halls of Hogwarts. "She's so boy-crazy it's disgusting" was also common. You've lost friends because of the rumours. The rumours that said you slept with far more boys than you actually did. The truth was you have had a few boyfriends here and there, but you didn't even sleep with most of them.

Theodore Nott was somewhat the male equivalent of you, but worse. A playboy at his worst. He didn't even have girlfriends. He slept around. Breaking hearts left and right.

Of course, no one spoke badly about him. There were no rumours. Nothing. Girls were throwing themselves at his feet, and no one said something. He was praised for his charming ability to make girls fall for him.

So when the two of you started dating, there were endless whispers about your love life. And of course you were the centre of every single one.

"He's going to break up with her soon anyway."

"Why would he even settle for her? Everyone knows she just sleeps around."

From time to time you were tempted to throw something back, but with Theo beside you at all times, you didn't want to risk him getting involved.

Time passed. You and Theo grew closer and closer. He was always the gentleman. Opening doors for you, saving you a seat everywhere. Defending you even if you were wrong. Looking back, all the boys you dated in the past were just that. Boys. You both fell deeply in love. But the rumours didn't stop. They got worse.

Months passed, and you stopped caring. Your relationship was as strong as ever. Maybe it was worth it for once. Being called a slut didn't affect you as much as before.

When people saw that this relationship was going to last, they tried to manipulate it.

You were right out of Theo's dorm, exhausted from the long day and just wanting to lie down. You knocked and waited for him to let you in. No answer. Maybe he's still in class, you thought, and tried to open the door, but it was locked. You decided to just go in and wait for him.

"Alohomora" you whispered.

The lock clicked, and you opened the door.

You saw Theo on top of a girl, making out. His back was facing the door, but the girl could see you. Her eyes widen in surprise, but then a sly smile creeps on her face. Theo notices and turns around, confused.

"What are you doing here?" he asks. "Can't you see I'm busy?"

With that you swiftly turned around and left. You were on your way to your dorm, and you refused to let the tears fall, but as soon as the door closes behind you, they start falling and falling and falling. Even though your heart was clenching with sadness, that little voice in your head tells you you deserved it. It's what everyone told you, and that was the thought that stayed for the rest of the night, torturing you. Just this night, you promised yourself. Just this night I am allowed to grieve.

The next morning you woke up. Your eyes are puffy and red from all the crying, but nothing a bit of makeup and a charm couldn't fix. Before leaving, you glanced in the mirror one last time, and you looked like always; just your eyes were empty. Mentally you prepared yourself. By now the whole school should know what happened last night, and with that you made your way to the great hall.

Steady breaths, you told yourself. From the outside you seemed composed, but from the inside it felt like you were having a panic attack at any moment now. You entered the great hall, your eyes automatically searching for Theo, and when your eyes found him at your usual spot at the very end of the long table, you decided to just sit with Pansy. Throughout breakfast you kept glancing towards him, and each time you felt like breaking down. You had to grip the edge of the table to steady yourself. Thankfully Pansy decided to completely ignore the whispers around you and tried to have a normal conversation. Which wasn't really a conversation because you gave either short answers or you didn't answer at all; she didn't seem to mind though because she just kept on talking. Anything was better than silence, so you just let her.

Your first class was potions, and instead of taking your normal seat right next to Theo, you sat down next to Pansy. Theo shot you a confused and slightly worried glance which you decided to ignore. The audacity of him to think that you would sit next to him after the incident last night was honestly unmatched. The lesson continued, but you were hardly listening. You were mentally absent the entire time. You didn't even notice when everyone started to leave, and Pansy had to tap on your shoulder multiple times to break your trance. You stood up and packed your books back into your bag, but from the corner of your eye you could see Theo approaching you.

"I'm sorry I have to leave. I still have to talk with Professor McGonagall before my next lesson." Pansy says. She must have noticed Theo as well because she was fleeing the room.

You awkwardly turned around to Theo and tried to find an excuse to leave the room as well, but your mind was blank. You turned around hoping you could just escape, but a firm grip on your arm stopped you.

"Theo, let me go." you demanded.

"No. Not until you tell me what's up."

"Nothing is up. Don't you have to find someone to sleep with next?"

"What are you talking about? You are my girlfriend. Why would I sleep with someone else?"

And that's when you snapped.

"You don't know what I'm talking about? How dare you lie straight to my face? I saw you yesterday with that girl, and you even noticed me standing there, but all you did was continue. You don't even know what it took me to make this relationship work. I cut ties with friends because they were unsupportive. I was being called a slut by practically every girl at Hogwarts. There were girls who said you cheated on me just so we would break up and they could get with you, and the worst of all: it was all for nothing. You proved them all right." You tried to hold back the tears, but one escaped and rolled down your cheek. Almost like it was an instinct, Theo's hand reached up and cupped your cheek. His thumb wiping away the tear.

"Darling, you have to believe me. I didn't cheat. I was in the library all evening studying for the charms test. Mattheo was with me; you can ask him if you want to." Your eyes finally lifted from the floor up to his eyes. There was nothing but truth in his eyes.

"Then who was it?" you mumbled.

Theo sighed. "I don't know, love, but trust me, I will find out."

He reached forward and engulfed you in a hug. You let yourself completely melt into his embrace, burying your face in his neck. His familiar scent calming your nerves.

The days passed, and the perpetrator still wasn't found. You were studying in the library trying to concentrate on the topic, but the loud noises a few shelves down stole your attention. You were ready to give them a piece of your mind, but when you came nearer, you recognised Theo's voice.

"You used a fucking Polyjuice Potion." Theo exclaimed.

"Well, yeah. Someone had to put an end to your relationship." the other voice said.

"So just let me get this clear: you took the potion, and you and your girlfriend went to my dorm to snog." Theo's voice was seeping with anger.

"Correct. We even got some money from that." The other person said.

"Money?" Theo asked.

"Do you know how many girls still want to sleep with you? They would all pay a lot of money to get you two apart." The person said, a laugh escaping.

That's when it was over for Theo. He was about to throw himself at the boy, but that's when he saw you hiding behind the shelf.

"Darling, what are you doing here?" Theo asked.

"I was just studying, but then I heard you and was curious what was going on, and then I heard what you were talking about, and you know me, of course. I stayed and listened..." You began to ramble, and suddenly you found yourself in his embrace.

The boy took his chance and escaped. You tried to follow him, but Theo just kept you close.

"Love it's alright; I will find him later." Theo muttered and pressed a kiss against your forehead.

In that moment you knew it was all worth it for once.

Masterlist

Thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed it.

©2025 xitcantlast . Please do not translate, copy, or take credit for my work.

[accio-sriracha]

James loved Regulus in the most sensual fucking way possible.

James loved the way his name fell from Regulus' lips, the way his eyes closed and his mouth parted automatically when James tilted up his chin.

He loved when Regulus moaned into a kiss. Or when Regulus pulled a pillow over his face to muffle the sounds, or when he would bite James' shoulder to keep from making any noise. Or when they used a silencing charm and he made a lot of noise.

James loved everything about Regulus, his coy smile that turned soft when James placed a kiss on the tip of his nose, his always accessing eyes that turned half-lidded and unfocused whenever James touched him.

He loved the way Regulus seemed to melt into his arms, like it was physically difficult to hold himself up.

Because Merlin did James love to hold Regulus up.

He loved to hold him by his hair... by his legs wrapped around James' waist... by his throat... by his chest when James took him from behind-

James loved Regulus' hands, how long and slender his fingers were, his perfectly shaped nails that were always coated in black polish. He loved the way his hands wrapped around James. How his fingers looked pressing into the bed sheets.

He loved how his knuckles turned white from their grip on the rope that bound his wrists together. And gods would he spend hours staring at the marks his nails would leave on James' back.

James loved his scent, the way he smelled drove James feral. Sometimes it was deep and musky, the smell of sweat and dirt from quidditch practice that always meant Regulus' muscles were sore. (Which James had no problem helping him relax.)

Sometimes his scent was sweet and delicate, the smell of the perfume James had given him as a gift, it usually meant they were going someplace nice, (And James still had no problem tearing off those expensive clothes the moment they locked the door behind them)

Sometimes he smelled clean, like soap and coconut shampoo, this was usually straight after a shower, which meant James was most likely about to get very lucky.

James loved everything about him. The way he walked, hips swaying and chin held high. He loved the way he talked, no-nonsense in public but sexy and low in James' ear. He loved the way he dressed, always so fashionable and particular, leaving the more revealing clothes for James' eyes only.

James loved everything about Regulus.

And you would be greatly mislead to believe Regulus wasn't basking in every single second of his attention.

[neeeooon]

Hello again!! This is probably my 2nd request and please take your time on this, since you are probably busy.

But I would like to request the blue lock boys (Itoshi brothers, Reo, Kaiser, Nagi) realise they are falling in love. Like they are childhood friends and somehow they have a soft spot for the reader (like they put more effort into them, than they did for the others) but they did not realise it since they were still kids until they grew up realising they fell in love with their childhood best friend.

Thank you!!! Mwah 😘

—Stef

thank you sm for being patient ml MWAH

when they realize they’re falling in love

childhood bff bllk x gn!reader. fluff and angst, some of the boys (kaiser) refuse to accept their feelings

itoshi sae

-> you always meet up for lunch during your breaks. you got accepted for a exchange program in madrid the same year sae left to train with real, something you jokingly called fate

-> when you drop into your usual seat across from sae, already mid-rant about how you were chosen to lead an event at work, sae’s hit with an unusual feeling in his chest

-> you do this every day. sit with each other as he eats and you talk, but today feels different. your hair lays perfect. your eyes sparkle brighter. the light catches you and frames your features stunningly. something that leaves sae breathless and blushing

-> “sae? are you feeling alright?” you ask when you notice his warming face and reach other to press a palm to his forehead. “hm. you don’t feel feverish. is everything okay?”

-> he lightly bats your hand away and mumbles in reply before sliding the fries that came with his meal over to you, as usual. “fine. i’ve gotta go. text me when you leave.” and he’s gone before you can reply

-> sae leans against the locker room wall, staring off into space as he tries to force the sight of you from his mind. since when have you made him feel like this? and how can he make it stop

itoshi rin

-> he’s going through it. like, locked in his room with the curtains drawn tight type going through it

-> you, knowing your best friend, automatically assume the worst and worry. you text him more than you should, drop food off for him, and talk to him from the other side of the door. finally, he unlocks the door with a click and doesn’t say anything as you slip into his room

-> “how bad is it? on a scale from 1 to sae returning from spain.” his eyes glaze at your joke and you quickly apologize with an anxious laugh. “sorry.. wanna talk?”

-> “i love you.” rin says so suddenly it nearly knocks you off your feet. he isn’t the type to use his words affectionately, so his confession makes your heart swell. “aww, rin! i love you too.”

-> you watch as his jaw clenches. “no. i love you, y/n.” and when he finally meets your eyes, you get it. “oh.”

-> “don’t say anything,” he immediately begs as he squeezes a pillow to his chest. “you don’t have to say anything. i just needed to tell you. keeping it buried was burning a hole in me.” you ignore him and move to sit beside him on his bed. “that’s why you’ve been holed up in here?”

-> “… maybe. yes. shut up.” you catch his cheeks turning pink before rin pulls the pillow up to hide his face. it makes you laugh, which earns you a scandalized look. “i tell you i love you and you’re laughing.”

-> you laugh harder. “y/n!” “i’m sorry, i’m sorry! you just look so funny all flustered.” “you aren’t helping.” his grumbly tone makes you want to embrace him and never let go. “don’t be shy. and you know me well enough to know you’re stuck with me, buddy.”

-> “buddy-zoned,” he mumbles, horrified. “i’m ending it all.” “you’re so dramatic! don’t worry. i like you, too. maybe we can go on a date when you’re done hiding in your room like when we were kids~” “go away. tomorrow?” “let’s do it!”

mikage reo

-> reo grew up keeping people at a distance, especially his friends, because that’s how he was raised. make connections, network, but don’t get close enough to where they could ever hurt you

-> those rules don’t apply to you

-> he always knew you were special. reo isn’t afraid to be himself around you, as you radiate such warmth and comfort it’s hard for him to ever feel uncomfortable in your presence

-> but when you ask him to rate your outfit for a first date, he realizes just how special you are to him

-> “date?” he asks, failing to sound disinterested. you smile. “nothing serious, just some guy i met at work. he’s cute, though.” “cuter than me?” you can’t help but laugh when reo pokes his cheek to tease you. “no, i don’t think anyone’s cuter than you.”

-> your words shouldn’t affect him the way they do, but suddenly reo is standing in front of you. “if no one’s cuter than me, why go out with them? what if we went out instead?” you blink up at him and let out a nervous chuckle. “like a date?” “why not? we already know everything about each other. we already get along. we trust each other. we should go on a date.”

-> hearing reo say that after you’ve been crushing on him for years is almost too much, but you force yourself to nod. “l-let me text my date. you better not make me regret this, mikage.” reo loves the way you say his name. “i won’t.”

michael kaiser

-> he always had a soft spot for you, and kaiser hated when people would call you his weakness. so when he realizes that his childhood best friend might mean more to him than that… he’s not happy

-> he joined a new team to play soccer with, and though you aren’t allowed to watch him practice, you’re at his first game. when kaiser scores the first goal, he immediately searches the crowd for you. his smile falls when he catches himself wanting to run in your direction and drown in your praise

-> this isn’t normal, he tells himself. you’re his friend—only his friend. he shouldn’t be to desperate to hear your voice or feel your arms around him

-> kaiser avoids you after that. he doesn’t know how to process or accept his feelings for you, so he ignores them. at least he tries, as you make that difficult for him

-> “micha,” you call breathlessly, finally managing to catch him after a game. “what’s wrong with you? why are you being so distant?” kaiser hates the sad sound of your voice and how it makes his chest clench painfully

-> how can he explain that he’s in love with you, and he doesn’t know how to handle it? doesn’t how long it’s been since he’s had these feelings? doesn’t know what to do?

-> you fill his silence by stepping forward and taking his face between your hands. “i’m your friend, always. i’m here when you’re ready.”

nagi seishiro

-> stares as you from across the room as you walk past in a towel, comfortable enough with your childhood best friend to change in front of him. “oh.”

-> “sorry, did you say something?” you ask as you rummage through his closet for a shirt to wear. he turns his attention to the ceiling when you glance back at him. “mm, nothing.”

-> liking you is a hassle. it’s troublesome. if you don’t feel the same, then your friendship will change, and nagi doesn’t want anything to change, as he doesn’t want to rebuild his life without you

-> “nagi?” you ask when you catch him drifting off for the third time. “okay, clearly something’s bothering you. let it out. i’m all ears.”

-> he hums and debates which path is easier. if he keeps avoiding and lying to you, you’ll continue to bother him. if he tells you the truth, you might reject him. however, nagi knows you well enough to know you’d never leave him, not entirely, so he shrugs and says, “i have feelings for you.”

-> whatever you were going to say vanishes from your mind when his words hit your ears. you had the biggest crush on him in grade school, and while nagi always had a soft spot for you, your relationship never advanced. you assumed he didn’t like you back and tried to bury the feelings down, but hearing those five words from him had them rushing back so fast you felt dizzy and breathless

-> “you have feelings for me.” “yes. for a while now, i think.” “you’ve had feelings for me for a while.” “yeah.” “… well, it’s about time, you oblivious fool.”

[carnalcrows]

THREE'S A CROWD - THANOS

pairing: thanos x male reader

synopsis: Getting high in the bathroom during the games is definitely not a good way to pass time, but hey- you're too out of it to care.

content warnings: 18+, smoking weed, frotting, mentions of a threesome

word count: 0.6k

This was, without a doubt, a horrible idea.

And yet, here you were—half on Thanos’s lap in a cramped bathroom stall, eyes heavy-lidded and limbs feeling light as hell. The cheap-ass joint you’d both shared was still faintly burning in his fingers, the hazy scent of weed mixing with the smell of old tile and whatever cheap soap they stocked in this prison of a facility.

Thanos took one last drag, exhaling slow and lazy, before passing it back to you. His purple hair was a mess, his eyes low and dark, and he had the dumbest, cockiest smirk on his face.

"You’re staring," he murmured. His voice was lower than usual, rough around the edges.

"You’re ugly," you shot back automatically, taking a drag.

He snorted, eyes flicking to your lips as you exhaled the smoke in his face. His hands were already resting on your waist, but his grip tightened slightly, fingers digging into your shirt.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then you leaned in, slow, deliberate, lips barely brushing his. "What? You nervous?"

Thanos clicked his tongue. "Shut up."

And then he kissed you, rough and uncoordinated, like he had something to prove.

You grinned into it, tugging at his hair just to hear the little grunt he let out. His hands twitched on your waist, and god, he was holding on so tight. The kiss turned sloppy real quick, all heat and hands and desperation like neither of you had the patience for anything else.

"You—" Thanos broke off with a sharp inhale when you shifted against him. "Fuck, you’re—"

Outside, the bathroom was silent.

Inside? Just the sound of heavy breathing, quiet gasps, and the occasional creak of the stall door when you moved too much.

Without a word, Thanos pushed you off his lap, your ass hitting the ground with a light thug.

“Oi! What the fuck–” Your words are immediately silenced when he shimmies his pants down while still sitting on the closed toilet. His cock springs out, hard and leaking pre.

Oh

You got up carefully, trying your hardest not to make a sound. It would not be good if a guard walked in on the two of you. 

You tugged your pants down, cock springing out– before settling back down on his lap, so that both your dicks were almost touching.

“Maybe this isn’t a good idea–” He breaks off, eyes wide as you wrap one of your hands around both your cocks.

You teasingly dragged your hand up and down your lengths, your other hand soon joining in. Both your hands were pumping your cocks in a similar fashion, as Thanos’s grip on your waist tightened even more.

Your mouth practically latched onto his neck, sucking and biting at whatever skin you found exposed. His eyes scrunched shut, whatever state the weed gave him was slowly starting to disappear, replaced by the feeling of your hands on him, your mouth on him. He could feel you everywhere.

He buried his face in the crook of your neck as he came without warning, shuddering as his cock spurted on yours, giving you enough slick to get to your own release.

"You okay there?" you teased, dragging your lips down his jaw.

"Shut up," he gritted out, gripping your waist even tighter.

You barely had time to smirk before—

The stall door rattled.

You both froze.

Footsteps.

Silence.

Then—

The lock clicked.

The door cracked open, and a guard just stood there, red mask tilted slightly as he took in the absolute mess in front of him.

Your brain short-circuited.

Thanos, still half-dazed, just blinked up at him. "...Yo."

The guard looked left. Looked right.

Then?

He stepped inside and shut the stall behind him.

You stared. "Huh?"

Thanos just grinned. "Oh, this is gonna be fun."

© carnalcrows on tumblr. Please do not steal my works as I spend time, and I take genuine effort to do them.

[devilish-cherry]

ᨳ♡₊➳ how they react to you patting their head

ᨳ♡₊➳ feat. gojo, geto, nanami, choso, toji

ᨳ♡₊➳ crack, fluff

₊⊹. Satoru Gojo

You? Patting him? On his head?

Oh, you’ve done it now.

The moment your hand made contact with Gojo’s fluffy white hair, the man melted. Like, physically melted—sagging against you with the dramatic flair of a dying anime protagonist, hands clutching his chest like he had just been shot. Gojo thrives on validation, and you just gave him a gold-star experience without even realizing it.

He immediately plops his head back into your hand, full-body leaning into it like a Great Dane that doesn’t understand its own size. "More. Again. Do it again."

If you try to retract your hand, he will simply follow it. He is a pat-seeking missile. If necessary, he will crouch, lean, or—even worse—puppy eyes you.

"No, no, no. I like this. Please, continue." He leans his entire head into your palm, sighing dramatically.

He is so smug about it. He makes it so weird.

He closes his eyes, murmuring, "This is what I deserve. The strongest also deserves the strongest head pats."

You have created a monster.

Gojo weaponizes the head pats. He starts doing things just to earn them.

"I saved a kitten today."

"That kitten was fine, Satoru."

"I held open a door for an old lady."

"It was automatic."

"I didn’t commit war crimes today."

"…"

You give him a reluctant pat.

"Yay! I love positive reinforcement!"

₊⊹. Suguru Geto

The moment you pat him on the head, he freezes. His usually smug, smooth expression flickering through about sixteen different emotions at once. He wasn’t prepared for that.

Then, after a long pause, he tilts his head up, looking at you with lazy amusement. “Oh? You're bold today.”

Despite his composed exterior, you can tell he secretly loves it. He leans ever so slightly into the touch, acting like he’s doing you a favor by letting you do this.

“Hmm, I could get used to this…” he hums. If you stop too soon, he’ll give you a teasing look. "That’s all? I thought you had more in you." Smug, smug man. But if you go for another? You might just hear a tiny pleased hum escape him. And then he realizes it and immediately tries to play it off by fake coughing.

You have power over him now. Use it wisely.

₊⊹. Kento Nanami

You had been foolish.

You had let your instincts override common sense.

Because Nanami had just finished a long, grueling shift, and he looked so tired—shoulders heavy, sighing like an overworked single dad. And for some reason, your brain had gone: Pat him, he deserves it.

So you did.

And then you immediately wanted to enter witness protection.

Nanami froze. Entirely. His body went rigid, his hands stopped mid-air, and the slow, agonizing turn of his head toward you felt like a damn horror movie.

“…What,” he said, in a voice that made you reconsider every life decision, “was that?”

“A gesture of support,” you answered carefully. “And respect.”

Nanami stared at you for a long time. You were about to start saying your last prayers when, finally, finally, he sighed.

"…Just this once," he mutters, completely betraying himself.

₊⊹. Choso Kamo

Choso is like a cat who has never been pet before. Your hand lands on his head, fingers ruffling his dark locks, and this man absolutely freezes.

You did not expect this much of a reaction.

He just stands there, completely motionless, staring at you like you just introduced him to a fundamental human experience he did not know existed. His mouth moves like he’s trying to say something, but nothing comes out.

Finally, after a very long pause—

“…I see,” he mutters, nodding very slowly.

He does not elaborate.

Then he leaves.

He comes back the next day and awkwardly hovers near you, tilting his head forward just a little in your direction, waiting.

“…Do you want another head pat?” you finally ask.

“…I would not be opposed.”

If you pat him again? You might see him physically relax for the first time in forever. You are his comfort now.

₊⊹. Toji Fushiguro

The second your hand lands on Toji’s head, he reacts like you just insulted his entire bloodline.

"Oi. What do you think you’re doin'?" He glares at you, but you don’t miss the way his lips twitch slightly upward.

He leans into it. But he also refuses to let you know that he is enjoying this. His pride is on the line.

"You treating me like some kinda dog? Huh?" He teases, but he doesn’t move away.

And then—he does it back. This menace of a man head pats you right back, but way too aggressively. It’s not even a gentle pat—it’s a ruffling, noogie-level disaster.

If you complain? He smirks and shrugs. "What? Thought we were tradin’." Absolute menace. You are stuck in a head-pat war.

And if you dare stop first? He clicks his tongue, "Tch. Weak." and then just walks off like he didn’t just enjoy that entire interaction.

[short-honey-badger]

Red-Eyed Demon

Pairing: Luffy x Female Reader

Summary: Luffy has never really been interested in the sexual side of the relationship he shares with you. That is until he sees you watching him while he's in gear-5.

Tags: Smut, pussy drunk luffy, the sex happens. This man loves to eat, and that means you too

Luffy sees the way your cheeks flush, eyes wide and lip tucked between your teeth when he goes gear five. Sees the way your thighs rub together and your hands clench at your sides after he throws his head back and laughs. He's never had much interest in sex, but seeing you watching him with half-lidded eyes, Luffy has never needed you more than at that moment.

He is at your side in an instant, the guy who's ass he'd just kicked long forgotten in his sudden desire for you. Luffy watches you shiver as he looks down on you, lips stretched wide in a feral grin as he reaches for you.

"Cap-" You're cut off when he winds his arms around you, lifting you up, and you wrap your legs around his waist automatically face flushed with hot arousal.

"Sex. Now, _ " He demands with a laugh, and bends to press his face closer to yours, his red eyes taking in the way you squirm in his hold, "I'm hungry."

You can do nothing but nod, and then the two of you were speeding past the rest of the strawhats and to the room you shared with the captain, the door slamming shut behind the two of you. Nami shares a look with Zoro, tone in disbelief as they all turn as one to stare in the direction you and their captain disappeared, "Did... did that just happen?"

Inside the room, you are tossed on the bed, eyes wide and taking in your captain's white hair and the cloudy haze that seems to hover above him, gently bouncing this way and that. He is suddenly back in your face, and you gulp at seeing the hunger in those brilliant red eyes. Eyes to most would be eyes of a demon, but to you? Thye belonged to your captain, the man you had sworn yourself to.

"Hurry up, _," Luffy whines, and his hands are on your shirt, too impatient to deal with the buttons, so he just jerks it open, sending them flying around the room. Next are your pants, and he grins up at you when he sees that your underwear is damp, hand reaching forward to stroke his fingers along the fabric between you thighs. His fingers hook in the elastic, and he snaps the fabric with a twitch of his finger, sending them falling to the floor.

Luffy eyes you up like you are the most succulent dessert, red eyes wide as he pushes you up the bed and crawls forward, falling between your legs, his lips hovering just above your twitching cunt. His hands find your thighs and rack them up, stomach cramping in hot arousal when you watch him lean forward and breath you in, nose pressed into the thatch of hair just above your pussy.

"Smell so good, _. Makes my mouth water," your captain croons, and you shutter when he opens his mouth, hot saliva dripping from the tip of his tongue to land along your folds. You whine when he lunges forward, lips and tongue, a whirlwind of action that makes you whine and squirm where you are pinned under him. Your hands land in his hair, the white locks clutched between your fingers as you hold on for dear life.

Luffy eats you like a man starved, slick sounds echoing in the room as he sucks your clit, tongue shoving through your folds and probing at your entrance. Your stomach tenses, that tantalizing edge already so close. You flex your legs, but he just holds you open with ease.

"Cap, fuck, Lu-Luffy," you are a stuttering mess, eyes locked on the way his tongue delves in and out of your cunt, his face coated with slick and cloudy cream. Your captain is louder than you are, long groans and sounds of appreciation that make your cheeks flush and brow furrow.

"Lemme taste it, _," He growls against your pussy, voice rough and drunk on your arousal, "C'mon gimme, please."

His plea sends you over the edge, a breezy moan escaping your throat, and Luffy whines and groans under you as you cream against his tongue. He slurps and sucks your slick up with reckless abandon, hand clutched around your thighs. When he pulls away, your captain looks throughly debauched, red eyes glowing as he stares down at you.

"Gonna fuck you now, _," He says and you nod rapidly, eyes blown wide and cunt quivering in anticipation. You watch him shove down his shorts, a sharp breath leaving you when you catch sight of his cock.

It seems bigger than usual, and you can only blame the unique form that is gear five. You watch him take his cock in hand, wild grin on his face as he shuffles forward and slides the tip through your soaked folds, a look on sharp concentration on his face. Both of your eyes are pinned to the sight between your thighs, watching as Luffy presses forward, his cock disappearing inch by inch.

As impatient as ever, Luffy gives pause for but a second before he sets a brutal pace, hips snapping with a force that makes you howl, head thrown back and eyes clenched shut in ecstacy. He fucks you like he fights, rabid and fast paced, cock stretching your cunt like it was always meant to be there.

"Nooo, no, no, no, not yet," He bends forward, your legs going with him as he folds you into a mating press, his brow pressing against your own, eyes locked with yours, "Don't wanna come yet."

Grinning you clench around his cock, sucking him in deeper and making your captain curse colorfully into your ear, "Come inside, Luf, fill me up and we can go again."

Your words are what sends him over, a whine of your name spilling from his lips and you groan at the feeling of scorching cum flooding your cunt. But Luffy doesn't stop, his hips keep snapping, fucking his seed back into you as he pulls away with that wide, feral grin painting his face. You grin right back, one hand coming up to tangle in his hair to pull him into a quick kiss.

"Again, Again, Again," He chants against your lips, and you can only nod dumbly in agreement, knowing that you would be here for the foreseeable future, but truly, that was fine by you.

[alchemistc]

Once again I need to get off my ass and go work but instead all I'm thinking about is Them:

Buck's mostly got his breathing under control by the time he hears the side door slide open, and he adjusts his weight automatically, tips his chin as he straightens his spine, tugs at the bottom of his suit jacket like that will fix the wrinkles he'd made bending at the waist for the last ten minutes.

"Buck?"

He's turned away, thank god, so Tommy can't see the wince.

"I'm fine," he says, annoyed with himself and the world at large when it comes out wobbly. "Go back ins-." When he hears the door click shut again he takes a moment to hope Tommy's just left, again, but -

No such luck.

"That door locks from the inside," Buck murmurs, and tears his gaze away from the gentle expression on Tommy's face. There'd been a cardboard box wedged up in there by whatever line cook had been out here smoking when Buck burst through the doors, and the guy had left it with a warning about how insanely large this building was and how few doors along its perimeter were unlocked, and now the broken down box is somewhere beneath Tommy's left foot.

Tommy tries the door anyway.

It doesn't budge. "We could just call Eddie," Tommy says, and Buck feels the ire rise in his throat.

"Eddie's not here," he spits, and it feels like a knife under the ribs. Everyone fucking leaves, eventually. "Call your date, if you want. I'm walking."

Buck heaves himself up from his lean against the brick, takes two large strides to make it past Tommy and keeps going.

He should have known better than taking Bobby at his word that this stupid gala would be worth his time. So far he's dodged conversations about the curse of the 118, spent an unbearable five minutes smiling blandly at Gerrard before he could excuse himself, and tossed two numbers written on raffle tickets into the trash in his mad dash through the kitchens because apparently Tommy had been chosen as the rep for 217 and he looks fucking good in his suit, and he'd been pretty sure they'd be spending this Christmas together, until last month.

He's twenty yards down the alley when he hears footsteps catching up to him. Light, brisk - he's jogging to catch up and Buck doesn't want to deal with -

"Not my date," Tommy says, and Buck curses his own body for automatically slowing to allow him to catch up.

Buck snorts. "Okay." The guy was older - than Buck, at least. Grey around his temples, fat lips and clever eyes that caught Tommy's mid-sentence and sent them both into quiet hysterics.

"Buck, would you just -."

He's close enough to reach for Buck's arm, so Buck wrenches it away before he can make contact. "Don't call me that."

December twenty-third is one of those weird days where the world doesn't quite work the same. Traffic is heavier or lighter in weird places, people with nothing to do wander the streets or hole up in their homes making too much food and watching weird holiday movies, and even in LA it gets chilly enough at night to need a jacket. This one isn't doing shit to keep Buck warm, but the anger catching in his throat sure is.

"It's your name," Tommy says, exasperated.

"Not to you." Buck stops dead in his tracks, watches Tommy take another three steps before he realizes he's alone. When he turns, Buck doesn't allow himself to turn away from his gaze. Annoyance isn't a new look - Buck has tested the waters enough in six months to know intimately exactly how far he could push it before Tommy stopped indulging him.

He looks upset. Frustrated. Tired. Hot as fuck. Buck sort of wishes he'd do something about those first two.

Something other than walk away.

Tommy sighs. Runs a hand through his hair, and the sides aren't as high and tight anymore. There's a piece curling over the tip of his ear and Buck wants to tug at it, slide his fingers in there and tuck it back. "That was Sal," he says, and Buck flicks through the sadly small Rolodex of names Tommy has mentioned in the past. Another boundary Buck hadn't realized was a brick fucking wall in the way of getting to know his boyfriend.

Ex.

Sal. He'd been at the 118 with Gerrard, in the early days. Before Chim and Hen, before Bobby. He'd been the one to prompt Tommy into filing a complaint against Gerrard even though he'd been scared out of his mind to do it.

"I don't care."

He does care, is the problem. He cares so much. He's got a pile of fruit cakes and half a dozen pies sitting on his kitchen island right now that prove it. He can't seem to stop caring.

Tommy looks sceptical.

Buck brushes past him again, keeping his strides long. Tommy's the same height, but both literally and metaphorically he's always struggled to keep up when Buck had somewhere to be.

At least the panic attack has passed. Maybe he could take up running, as a cure all, instead of the weak ass recovery period he usually takes that involves him drinking a bottle of water and staring at the same spot on the wall until he sees stars.

So, fine. Tommy hadn't brought a date to the work function it was entirely possible Buck would be at six weeks after breaking up with him and disappearing into the damn wind. He'd bubbled Buck seven times that Buck knew of, and he hadn't brought a date.

Fine.

"I just wanted to make sure you were alright. You looked -."

Buck had watched Tommy wheeze with laughter and curl a hand around the dudes - Sal's - wrist and he'd felt like maybe he was gonna throw up. Like six months and the something he'd been working his way up to defining hadn't meant a damn thing. Like Tommy could just move on like he seemed to think Buck could.

"Doing great, Tommy. My best friend is moving to Texas and the man I thought I could -." Buck clears his throat. Shuffles sideways just a bit because Tommy is keeping pace now and his cologne is familiar and devastating. He doesn't have anything inside. Once he rounds this corner he could just order an Uber and go home.

There's nothing keeping him here.

"Eddie's moving?"

The no contact thing had extended to everyone at the 118, apparently. At least Buck wasn't alone in that.

Buck digs out his phone, slows his pace just enough to pull up the app he needs. He can feel Tommy's eyes burning a hole in the side of his head.

"Yeah, well. I'm getting used to people leaving at this point," he says, filling it with as much ire as he can. His voice doesn't wobble this time.

"Buck."

It's soft, this time, same inflection as when he'd cage Buck against a counter and lick into his mouth. "Don't worry about me, Tommy. You made it a point not to."

"That's not fair."

Buck couldn't care less. He's spent six weeks on a depression baking spiral and now he wants to go home and destroy every bit of baked goods he's made that are still left.

It only takes a few taps. They're surging prices, but that's not exactly a shocker.

He'd really thought the next time he saw Tommy he'd just be sad. Maybe he'd feel a little wistful about all the moments they'd shared that had meant something to Buck even if they hadn't meant the same to Tommy.

He wants to swing a fist, if he's being honest. He wouldn't. Not ever. But the desire is there and he hates it.

"Buck, could we just -."

"Stop calling me that!"

"I pay a mortgage, Evan!"

Buck can't remember Tommy ever raising his voice. It's - weird.

"I'm forty years old and I own a house and you asked me to move in to your loft after you told me you admired me." The emphasis isn't lost on him.

His ride is three minutes away.

"I got it the first time, Tommy. Haven't sucked enough cocks or done enough tests to know what I really want, so. Go enjoy your evening with Sal and -."

"That is not what I said." Cool, calm. Infuriating.

"Well that's what I got from it, so clearly we were never on the same page. I wanted a future with you and you've been eyeing the expiration date the whole time so -."

He's definitely not expecting Tommy's lips. But there they are, on his, and Buck's stumbling back, fully expecting the sharp crack of the brick at the back of his head as Tommy surges forward with him, only Tommy's hand curls around his skull at the last second and takes the brunt of the landing. His mouth opens on a groan and Buck licks up into it. Their noses clash and rather than shifting for better positioning they just press closer. Tommy's free hand finds the soft give of Buck's waist and his thigh finds purchase between Buck's legs and -

"You're willfully misunderstanding me," Tommy says, lips on Buck's jaw, heart pounding under Buck's hand, his breath ghosting along Buck's cheek.

"Never really gave me the opportunity for clarity," Buck bites back, and Tommy huffs, rolls his hips, tucks his forehead into the juncture of Buck's shoulder.

His pulse is pounding in his ears and there's a cloud of Tommy Tommy Tommy obscuring his senses.

"Do you still want that?"

Buck's phone dings in his hand.

His ride is here.

"Not if you're just gonna walk away again," Buck bites out, and shoves. Hard.

It barely moves Tommy, but it's enough to slip out of his grasp.

He doesn't glance behind to see if Tommy follows as he pulls at his suit jacket again and rounds the corner to try to catch - he eyes his phone - Sheri before she cancels the ride on him.

Doesn't stop him from hearing the footfalls behind him while he searches out the blue Honda Civic.

[amaranthineghost]

THE MIGHTY HAS FALLEN (BUT YOU'LL RISE AGAIN, LOVE) ( max verstappen. )

max verstappen x reader

after a tough race cut short, max pushes away any person around him, but not her. never her. she always picks up the pieces to put him back together.

authors note: I love max. I know he's not the self-deprecating typa guy, but in this, he is, OKAY. charles is after this <333

HE WAS A BOMB. the fuse getting shorter and shorter every minute that his patience was tested. everything around him seemed to irritate him more and more as he tried to keep himself from exploding, for pr's sake.

he just wanted to avoid the media all together, for obvious reasons, but he was contractually obligated to give his words to the journalists under the media tent. putting him under a microscope and asking questions that had an undertone of scrutiny in hopes of catching him break. he was close, but he wouldn’t.

it hadn’t even been a fault of his own, he rarely made those anymore. the car had caught fire, but not due to a mistake he had made, and even if it had been, he wouldn't have admitted it anyways. still he felt the guilt of his lack of performance, beating himself up after every question asked about his car and what had happened.

it was just stupid. the questions were stupid. the car was stupid. this whole race was stupid.

the pressure to perform, even in the best car on the grid, was high. despite his seat being secured for plenty of years to come, he still had expectations to meet and records to break.

it was obvious to everyone that max was hard on himself every time he didn't perform his best, his girlfriend especially noticing when she’d find him in his very luxurious driver's room sulking at even the slightest of a mistake made by him.

it didn't happen often, but when it did, she'd been there for him. he knew that.

he wanted nothing more than to crawl into a hole and never be seen again because world champions don't make stupid mistakes.

even if this hadn't been a mistake he made, he should've known. even if there was no possible way he could’ve, he should've.

he was raised to believe that he was only deserving if he had been first, that he was destined to fail after every second place or worse finish.

so it wasn't surprising when he thought he didn't deserve her. in comparison, or more like his eyes, she was simply perfect.

and she understood him, which not many people could because he wouldn't let anyone pick apart his brain like she did.

he locked his thoughts and feelings in the dark that shrouded his mind from early childhood trauma. he promised he would never let anyone see.

but he was never great at keeping such promises because it hadn't taken much for her to pick the lock to his brain. even though he wasn't ready to spill every detail of his upbringing to her, he trusted her.

and he didn't get to do that all too often.

the media had been brutal—he knew they would be—and yet it still crushed his mentality and faith in himself.

with his race suit around his waist despite having time to change beforehand, he walked through the paddock in shame at the early retirement.

it wasn't like this determined the outcome of his career because the next race, he'd be back on top. he didn't feel so sure of it though because all his thoughts were on this failure. what if he failed the next race?

what if he failed the whole season? what if he fails her?

unlikely, the people know, but he had so much confidence which had so easily crumbled when it got a little too hot. he wasn't sure of himself anymore.

anyone could see the turmoil bubbling underneath his skin, harsh waves crashing in the ocean of his blue eyes as he pushed past anyone and everyone.

the walk through the paddock was short, considering the red bull motorhome was the first of ten. max hastily entered through the automatic doors, skipping steps as he was eager to hide out in his driver's room.

he felt the eyes of the staff follow him down the hall until he disappeared quickly around the corner. he didn't want to be seen by anyone.

the door to his driver's room closed as fast as it was opened, but much louder. she heard the slam of the door echo down the hallway.

she didn't flinch, she just calmly greeted staff with smiles and left a bag of sweets on the table for them. she always brought something for the team, to celebrate every victory and despite this not being one, they still deserved it for working hard.

since she had gotten there not too long after him, she lingered around the lobby. she didn't want to be waiting around for him to show up and have him brush her off because he wasn't in the right headspace.

he would never mean to dismiss her, and she knew to give him at least a little time to himself to think and process things. she couldn't give him too much time though because she didn't want his self-deprecating thoughts to eat away at his confidence.

from what she analyzed from the staff and their demeanor, he'd probably caught them off guard when he slammed his door.

she wouldn't apologize for his behavior because she would make him do it when he cooled down.

so she hung around and made small talk with the sparse staff around to allow max a few minutes to himself before excusing herself down the hall.

she had a bomb to defuse after all.

the clack of her heels on the hard floors bounced off the walls, but she walked quietly enough so max didn't hear her coming. he knew she would though. he knew she would find him with his head in his hands, barely covered in sweat because he didn't race for more than three laps.

his face was still flush with disappointment though. he didn't want her to see him like this even though she was with him during his last disappointing race, but even though his singaporean grand prix finish wasn't great, at least he hadn't been out of the race.

max hadn't DNF’d in two years because he was simply just that good, and he still is. he just didn't feel like it.

his hands pressed so hard against his eyes, the blood vessels in them would have popped if he pushed any harder. he had taken off his red bull hat, he felt he didn't deserve the number one right now. it was thrown lazily onto the makeshift bed in his driver's room.

the room was practically silent, every so often interrupted by a deep sigh of disappointment that escaped his lips. he had sat there for a good couple or minutes, sulking.

when she reached his door, she held the bouquet of flowers she always got for him close to her body with one arm while she raised the other to knock. her hand only slightly hesitated before her fist made contact with the door and a few seconds later, she tried entering. it was locked, which was usual whenever he was brooding.

at first, when max heard the knock, he thought of all the people last on his list that he would want to see right now, but on the bottom of the list was the person he wanted to avoid the most right now.

his dad.

their relationship was rocky. he never supported max at any place unless it was on the very top of the podium, and even then max thought he looked unpleasant.

“go away,” was all max could mutter through his hands as his heart started to pick up the pace.

she sighed, shaking her head with a smile pulling at her lips, “max.” it was all she needed to say.

part of him didn't want to let her in, he didn't want her to see him like this, but he knew she was just as stubborn as him, if not more. he knew she would stand there all day if he didn't open the door to let her in.

and he would always let her in.

she heard the low creak of the sofa she could imagine him sitting on, but not his footsteps while he made his way to the door. she only knew he heard her when the lock clicked and the door slowly opened inwards to reveal the red-faced max verstappen.

she stood staring at him, her head tilted as she studied his face. he didn't move, he just watched her eyes dart around his appearance, and he felt himself getting hot under his fireproofs.

“are you going to let me in, verstappen?” she teased, a sly smile on her lips as she watched her boyfriend roll his eyes.

he scoffed, stepping aside, “don't call me that.”

“what?” she acted innocent, stepping into his driver's room with the fresh flowers, seeing the already prepped vase, “don't call you by your name?”

“you know what I mean.” though he tried to keep a straight face and act like he was still mad, he couldn't keep a smile from creeping onto his lips. she just had that effect.

she heard the door close and lock again as she took the wrapping off and placed the flowers in the vase. she shrugged at his words, her back still towards him, but she knew he had sat back down.

“you didn't have to get those,” he mumbled, “didn't win.”

she sighed, crumbling the wrapping in her hand and throwing it away before walking to where he sat. she stood in front of him as he looked up at her.

even with heels, he was still much taller than her and even though he was sitting, he reached barely below her chin.

she spread her arms to offer a hug to him, which he gratefully took, his arms snaking around the low of her hips. pressed against her chest, her arms wrapped around his head, running her fingers through his hair.

she felt him sigh against her skin, his eyes closing as they stayed like that for minutes without speaking. she felt him caress the bare skin of her thigh with his thumb.

when they finally pulled apart, his hands still laid firmly on her hips, his hair disheveled from the hug. she ran her hands through it to fix it and he only watched as she did so.

when she finally finished after only ten seconds because guy hair is a lot less complicated than women’s hair, he finally spoke up, “why are you dressed so uncomfortably?”

she was slightly taken aback, seeing as he was just moping about his race not even ten minutes ago and now commenting on her appearance. he only assumed she was uncomfortable, but unfortunately his assumption was correct.

“what do you mean?” she looked down at her attire, which isn't so different from the other wags that she hung out with.

his hand snuck around the back of her thigh and pulled up her leg, “I thought I told you to stop wearing heels, you always complain about them.”

“i’m fine,” she said, about to cross her arms, but her balance said otherwise so she settled them on his shoulders for support.

he gave her an incredulous look because every time she wore heels, without fail, she would complain less than an hour into wherever they were that she wanted to sit.

“okay, i admit i can't wait to get these things off,” she let out a deep breath, putting a hand on her hip, “but I'm supposed to be taking care of you.”

she said in his response to take the heels off her feet for her, a simple gesture really, but this was about him.

“do you want to talk about it?” she massaged his shoulders as he threw her heels to the other side of the small sofa.

“nothing to talk about,” he shrugged, “maybe I don't deserve being first.”

she pushed his head to look up at her, shaking her head, “you just don't realize how much you deserve, max. you're a world champion, a three-time one,” she reassured him, “you've won countless races, and you still have the entire season ahead of you. I know you want to, but you can't let one bad race define your season.”

“I know, you're right.” he bit the inside of his cheek as he thought deeply, “but I have to prove myself.”

“you've already done that plenty of times,” she shook his shoulders in emphasis, “besides you'll still lead the championship, unless charles gets p1, but you'll get it right back if that's the case.”

she was right. she always was, he never doubted her. he would never doubt her because she would never lie to him. she always backed up her answers by building up his ego and confidence back up so he was ready to fight it out on the track next race.

whether it took a couple of minutes or hours to bring his mood back up, she'd take her time in making him feel like the champion he was again.

she would take his phone from him, he didn't need to see the articles being written or the missing phone calls from his dad.

all he needed was her and she would always be there.

—

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proofread by @foreveralbon <333