#just. starting and failing over and over again to get somewhere

[luvelola]

simon riley x reader (written with black!reader in mind but has no mention of race or “y/n”.)

masterlist !

this was supposed to only be about dry humping but i got a little carried away…

cw: MINORS DNI!!, porn no plot, dry humping, oral (f and m receiving), breast play, mirror fingering, squirting, overstimulation, simon being vocal, and me trying to write in his accent and failing. this is the filthiest thing i’ve written

it starts with you in his lap.

soft light creeping through the window, your thighs on either side of his waist, his back leaned into the couch. your skin’s warm from sleep, shirt thin and riding up as you move against him. your shorts barely cover anything. his sweats are thick but not thick enough.

he’s already hard beneath you.

“hell,” he mutters, his voice low, groggy, still gritty with sleep. “sat on me for what, two minutes? already got me bricked up…”

you grin, shifting your hips deliberately. he groans. it’s deep—a guttural sound from somewhere in his chest—and his hands fly to your waist, squeezing like he’s trying not to lose it.

“you’re such a tease, sweetheart.”

“am i?” you whisper, rolling your hips again, slower now, dragging your soaked panties over the shape of him through both your clothes.

he grunts, then ducks down to your chest—mouth catching the hem of your shirt, dragging it up over your breasts. they spill out naturally, warm and heavy, nipples already tight. the second they’re exposed, his mouth is on you—licking over one, then sucking deep, lips sealing around your nipple while his tongue circles.

you moan softly, arching your back, grinding harder as he sucks harder—wet sounds echoing in the quiet room.

“god, simon…”

“yeah?” he pants, switching sides, mouth slick against your skin. “you like that? these fuckin’ tits… you know how crazy they drive me, don’t you?”

you can’t answer. not with the way he starts bucking up beneath you, cock dragging deliciously over your clit through all that fabric.

you’re both panting now.

he licks your nipple again—then bites gently, just enough to make your thighs tremble. his hands slide behind you, under the cotton of your shorts, grabbing your ass and pulling you forward.

you let out a soft cry as your clit presses perfectly against the ridge of his cock.

“fuckin’ hell,” he growls. “grind on it. go on, love—get yourself off.”

you obey. roll your hips hard. again. again.

and that’s when it gets filthy.

wetness spreads fast between your thighs. the fabric of your panties is ruined. your shorts are drenched. you can feel the shape of his cock, stiff and twitching, the head dragging exactly where you need it.

he’s not helping. just watching. panting. fingers bruising into your hips.

“jesus christ,” he hisses, voice shaking. “you’re so wet it’s soakin’ through… i can feel it, sweetheart…”

your moans turn breathy. frantic. legs shaking as you bounce, faster now, grinding your clit into the shape of him over and over and over until—

you fall apart.

you shake as you come, crying out against his mouth, your thighs clamped tight around his waist. your whole body jerks as you rut against him, humping like you’re possessed, still chasing every last ounce of it.

“oh—fuck—fuck, simon—!”

he grabs your tits again, both hands now, kneading them hard while he ruts up into you—

and then he’s gone.

he chokes, hips jerking beneath you. “shit, love—i’m comin’—fuckin’ comin’ in my fuckin’ pants—”

his head tips back. a raw moan tears from his throat as he ruts up once, twice, cock twitching, cum spilling in thick, hot pulses into his boxers.

you both sag.

soaked. clothes ruined. sweat clinging to your skin.

and then, after a beat—he leans forward, mouth back on your tits.

still licking. still sucking. like he never wants to stop.

“not done with you,” he mutters, breathless. “need to taste it.” and he carries you upstairs.

literally. carries—one arm under your thighs, the other behind your back.

when he sets you down, on the bed, directly in front of the mirror.

he sits behind you on the edge of the bed, legs spread. you’re between them, back against his chest, thighs parted. his arms curl around your waist. one hand moves under your shirt, squeezing gently. the other dips lower.

you lock eyes with your own reflection.

“look at yourself,” he says, voice rough in your ear as he moves lower to kiss behind your ear. “look how needy you are…”

you squirm when his hand moves higher up your shirt.

“so sensitive,” he murmurs, licking just below your ear. “clit’s probably still twitchin’. s’not enough, is it? want more?”

you nod. breathless. already aching.

his hand slips beneath your ruined shorts.

two fingers slide between your folds. hot. slick. soaking. you cry out when he rubs over your clit—slow at first, then with tight circles, steady pressure, drawing it all back up.

his other hand doesn’t leave your chest. not once.

he cups you. rolls your nipple between his fingers. pinches until you arch. his mouth finds your neck again, then your shoulder, and you can feel the heat in your belly building.

then—

he sinks two fingers inside and you clench, hard.

“oh god—oh god, simon—”

“yeah. fuckin’ perfect,” he groans, fingers thrusting deep, curling just right. “so fuckin’ tight. y’already came and you’re still pullin’ me in…”

he watches in the mirror. watches your face, your mouth, bouncing every time his hand moves. watches your legs start to tremble when he adds his thumb to your clit, circling fast now, faster, wetter.

your thighs start to twitch.

“you gonna make a mess for me, sweetheart?” he whispers, fingers pumping harder. “gonna soak my fuckin’ hand? come on. let go. let me have it…”

you break.

your back arches. mouth drops open. your whole body tenses, then jerks—

and then there’s wet heat gushing over his fingers.

your thighs clamp shut. slick drips down to the sheets. you’re still coming, still pulsing, and he just keeps going, fingering you through it, praising you the whole way.

and he whispers, voice reverent. “look at you. such a messy girl. did so good for me…”

you collapse against him.

shaking. gasping. soaked from breast to thigh. he wraps his arms around you, mouth still against your shoulder, fingers stroking gently between your legs as you try to catch your breath.

your legs are still trembling when you turn over your shoulder to lay simon down on the bed.

“…your turn.”

he shakes his head, breathless. “don’t need it, love.”

you smile slow.

“i know. but i want to.”

he hesitates—giving you the chance to straddle his thighs, fingers curling into the sheets.

“fuck’s sake…”

you reach for the waistband of his boxers, which are still wet from earlier. you peel them down slowly, watching as his cock springs free—thick, flushed, still half-hard but twitching at the sight of you.

“already came once in these,” you murmur, dragging your fingers along the base. “gonna come in my mouth now, baby?”

he lets out a choked laugh. “bloody hell, woman…”

you take your time.

you always do with him.

you stroke him first, slow and slick, your palm dragging over the wet head, smearing his precum down the shaft. he’s warm in your hand—hot, even—and growing harder with each pass.

“that’s it,” you whisper, leaning in to kiss his hip. “let me take care of you.”

“sweetheart…”

you kiss his tip.

then flatten your tongue and drag it up the length of him—slow, steady, from base to crown.

his whole body jerks.

“ah—shit—”

you wrap your lips around the head and suck softly, flicking your tongue against the underside, right where you know it makes him twitch. your hand pumps slow at the base, matching the rhythm of your mouth. you look up, meeting his eyes.

he’s already gone.

eyes half-lidded. lips parted. hands fisting in the sheets.

he groans. “mouth’s gonna kill me…”

you hum around him—just enough vibration to make his hips jump.

then you go deeper.

slowly. inch by inch, letting him feel the heat, the wetness, of your mouth swallowing him whole.

he groans. loud. raw.

you hollow your cheeks. bob gently, eyes locked to his, tongue swirling every time you pull back, then taking him down again—wet and hungry.

your hand moves faster.

your other hand lifts to his chest, then drags down to his hip, nails scraping gently along his skin. his thighs twitch. he lifts one hand to your head, not pushing, just gripping your curls while he pants through clenched teeth.

“you’re gonna make me come, love,” he mutters. “you want that? want me spillin’ down your fuckin’ throat?”

you moan again around him.

his grip tightens.

you pull off for just a moment, letting your lips rest against the tip, still stroking him, watching his face twist up with need.

“you taste so good, simon,” you murmur, kissing the tip, “so thick in my mouth…”

his head falls back with a groan.

“jesus christ.”

you go back down.

this time faster, wetter, spit dripping down your chin as you look up at him through your lashes.

“shit—look at you,” he groans. “takin’ me so good, love…”

you can tell he’s close.

his legs are tensing. his breath is stuttering. he starts to buck—slow, shallow thrusts of his hips into your mouth like he can’t help it.

you hold him steady with one hand, working the base, and suck harder.

“fuck—fuck—gonna come—“

his voice cracks.

and then it happens.

he grabs the back of your head with both hands, hips jerking up, cock twitching hard in your mouth as he spills down your throat in thick, pulsing ropes of come. you moan as you swallow, taking every drop, letting your lips stay wrapped tight around the head until he finally gasps:

“baby… enough, shit—i’ll lose my mind—”

you pull back, slow, licking your lips.

his chest is heaving. eyes glassy. one hand over his face, the other blindly reaching for you.

you climb back up to straddle his waist, kissing his chest, your slick thighs pressed to his hips.

he lowers his hand. looks at you.

smiles.

you lean down and kiss him. open-mouthed. slow, until you feel him so limp against your lips. by the time you look at him his eyes are closed and his already snoring.

a/n: mind you, i was listening to laufey while writing this, im not sane.

©luvelola. do not plagiarize or repost any of my work as your own.

[levanswrites]

troubled cure, for a troubled mind

pairing: eddie munson x reader

summary: “It’s called E.” He tilts the tin toward you. “MDMA, if you wanna get technical.”

He pauses, raising his brows.

“This is what you were asking about, right?”

warnings: first time drug use, underage substance use, slow burn, intense pining, first kiss, light angst, fluff

word count: 4.7k

A/N: spent the last week doing nothing but thinking and writing abt eddie munson b/c i finally got around to watching s4 of stranger things. so late to the party, i know.

The pizza bagels were burning.

Eddie swears under his breath, yanking the tray from the rickety oven and dropping it onto the stovetop with a loud clank. 

From across the kitchen island, you flinch.

He winces, then apologizes, both sounds muffled as he crouches to shut the oven door. Peeks his head back up to see you perched on one edge of his couch, legs bouncing, hands fidgeting in your lap—the same restless energy you had earlier that day, at the forest bench behind the field.

That version of you who had toed the dirt with your shoe: I just… Chrissy said you could… Looked around all paranoid and jittery, like you were nervous to even be near him, let alone ask for something stronger than weed. 

And still—you’d shown up.

Though now, in his trailer, you look like you might change your mind again.

He fills a glass at the sink and sets it on the coffee table in front of you. Your knee is nearly vibrating.

He wipes his hand on his jeans and stands back up, divot between his brows.  

“You, uh… you sure you’re ok?”

Your fingers are clenched tight over your knees, knuckles pale like you’re bracing for impact—or escape.

But then, a breath. Slow.

And when you look up, something steadier settles behind your eyes.

“Yeah, I’m good.”

“Well,” he blinks, nudging the glass toward you with two fingers, “First step is this. Hydrate. Golden rule of every good night.”

You pick it up with both hands, barely casting him a glance, and take a careful sip.

“Thanks.”

Eddie nods, flopping into the armchair across from you, letting the cushions swallow him whole.

The silence that follows isn’t heavy. Just… taut.

Like a wire pulled tight between two fence posts. 

And maybe he should’ve said no the first time you asked. Maybe he should’ve said something different earlier, back at the bench, when you kicked at the dirt and couldn’t quite look at him.

His leg bounces once. Then stills. 

That guilt—it never shouts. Just sits low in his gut, chewing at the lining.

Nope. Just can’t let it go. 

“Listen, can I uh…” He frowns, rubbing at the bridge of his nose like it might knock loose the right words. “Can I ask why you wanna do this?”

Your fingers tighten around the glass, knuckles going pale again.

“I mean,” He’s leaned forward now, elbows to knees. “You don’t exactly seem like a…”

He trails off, the rest catching in his throat.

Junkie. Loser. 

Freak. 

The words hover—ugly, too easy—and he forces them back down, eyes locking on your mouth instead. It opens, then closes, like the answer’s caught somewhere between your teeth.

You glance up, eyes unreadable but not cold. Just distant in a way that makes him desperate to know what’s underneath. Beneath the gloss of mascara and lingering scent of floral hairspray.

Still, you don’t give it up.

“I just… wanna see what it’s like.” You shrug. 

And he might’ve failed algebra twice before Ms. O’Donnell finally let him slide by with a mercy D, but—this? 

This he’s good at. 

This he’s been doing long before he ever started selling anything. Rich jocks. Burnouts. Townies.

Different stories. Same hollow-eyed ache.

He could read through them like water spots on a page. 

But with you?

He’s got nothing.

Aside from Chrissy, you’re the first girl he couldn’t pin down at a glance.

You’re quieter, even more elusive than her.

Because Chrissy had that sparkle—that first-row cheerleader, homecoming queen kind of shine. Queen of Hawkins High. Everyone knows Chrissy Cunningham.

But you—you aren’t like the schoolyard royalty and laundry-basket-shooters you hang around.

Careful. Smart. Untouchable in a whole different way.

And that’s worse. That’s harder.

He nods, slowly. Stirs in his chair and tries to convince himself that he’s convinced. 

Then: 

Churn. 

Nope. 

“Yeah, see—” He lets out a sharp sigh, twisting in his seat. Rubs hard on that scar above his brow, left over from when he’d tried to give himself a piercing: “—I just can’t in good conscience give you this stuff without like… knowing? You know, like what it’s for?”

You’re silent for a while, and then: 

“Do you ask everyone else why they want what they’re buying?” 

There's something sharp in your voice, there. In your gaze. 

And yeah. That hits. That cuts through the fog.

Eddie lets out a short breath. Finally—something. You’ve given him something.

“Well, no,” he quirks a smile, scratching the back of his neck—because, yeah, you might’ve gotten him a little with that. “But with other people, I usually don’t have to ask, so…”

You blink at him. Once. Then again.

Then you sigh—a slow, low rush of air that softens your whole posture. The mask slips a little with the sag of your shoulders.

“I just… I get in my head sometimes.” You twist the glass in your lap. “I thought it could help.”

It’s less than he hoped for. But enough.

“Okay.”

He turns, finally dipping into the space between the armrest and the cushion, where loose change and guitar picks go to die. Comes back with a small silver Altoids tin, scuffed at the corners, hinge a little crooked.

“I keep the good stuff close,” he grins, jiggling it, but you don’t smile.

He pops the lid with his thumb. Inside, a few round pills rest against the scratched metal—tiny, pale, each stamped with a heart.

“It’s called E.” He tilts the tin toward you. “MDMA, if you wanna get technical.”

He pauses, raising his brows.

“This is what you were asking about, right?”

Barely more than a rumor out here in hicktown Hawkins, but enough to make ears perk up in locker rooms and parking lots. The all-new party drug that makes you want to feel everything and touch everyone. 

Your eyes land on the pills and they flicker—not quite fear, but something adjacent.

“Yeah… I think so.”

He knows that look. It’s the same one he wears in the mirror when he’d hold something in his palm and wonder if it’d make him feel better or worse.

“Got this fresh from an old buddy up in Chicago,” he sighs, flicking a pill gently with his nail.

You nod, slow. “And it’s… safe?”

He gasps—sudden, dramatic—snapping the tin closed and clutching it tight to his chest.

“Wow. You think I’d sell you something dangerous?” He flails backward, tongue out, flopped against the back of the armchair like he’s been mortally struck. “You wound me.”

“No, I just…” You blink, startled, then almost smile. “Sorry?”

He grins, easing upright again. Looks back down at the tin and sniffles quietly. 

“Nah, it’s safe.” He murmurs, quieter. He’s only tried it twice, sure, but both times came up clean—no spiraling trips, no laced crap. Just warmth. Connection. The kind of high that softens edges instead of cutting them open.

“They call it the love drug,” he adds, picking one up to roll it between his thumb and forefinger. “I’s not like acid. Doesn’t mess with your head like that. Just… makes things feel good. Music sounds better. People, too.”

You grow still, but his level gaze finds your fingers twitching in your lap. Just once.  

And that ache in his gut returns. Low. Uncomfortable.

A long pause, then:

“There’s a party, right?” His voice dropping, because he knows he’s toeing a thin line, “…that’s why you wanted to buy tonight?”

You look up, fast. And for a second, he thinks he’s screwed it, gone too far. That flicker in your eyes, like a match trying not to catch. 

But then you nod. Press your lips together.

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” He dips his gaze, cracks the tin again with a little grin and pretends to count. “Well, I’ve only got enough for like… four, five people?”

You shake your head quickly. “No, it’s, it’s just for me.”

Figured.

The tin is strangely loud when he snaps it closed.

He slides one pill across the table between you. Halfway. 

“If you wanna try it,” he gestures, “I’d start with a half dose.”

A beat.

Then: “When’s the last time you ate?”

You blink cutely, then shake your head. 

“I don’t know—lunch, maybe?”

Eddie grins, bouncing off the armchair with a dramatic exhale. 

“Then you, my friend, have arrived just in time for the gourmet portion of the evening.”

Another twitch of a smile from you—small, but real. 

He jogs to the kitchen and comes back with a plateful of burnt pizza bagels. 

“I was nine, okay?”

Your laughter spills over the rim of the Shasta can, teeth clicking softly against the metal. You wave your hand like it’s nothing, like the story isn’t objectively ridiculous—but your eyes are bright now, and you’re actually laughing, so he’s calling it a win.

“And you faked rabies.”

You nod, completely serious. “Chewed up an Alka-Seltzer. Full commitment.”

He barks a laugh.

“You’re a menace,” he grins, biting down on the skull on his ring finger. “How’d I not know you back then?”

“I dunno,” you shrug, sly smile on your tongue. “Maybe you were too busy lighting things on fire behind the gym.”

He blinks, surprised. So you do remember him.

“Hey. Only twice.” He grins, pointing.

You roll your eyes, still smiling, and settle deeper into the couch. Shoulders dropped, legs tucked. 

He’s busy observing the way the streetlamp light flickers across your hair through the slatted blinds, when your gaze slides to the broken clock on the VCR.

Your smile falters.

“Shoot, what time is it?”

He squints at his wristwatch. “Uh, 9:30.”

Only a half hour ’til your little party. Your boyfriend, Andy Reynold’s party, to be exact. 

Well, you never actually use the word ‘boyfriend,’ but you also can’t hold eye contact when you talk about him, either.

Not like it matters, anyway. He’s pretty sure that whole group—Carver, Reynolds, the rest of Hawkins High’s Letterman mafia—are just dating each other in one endless ego-loop.

He looks over to find that you’ve gone still again. Back to perching, hands in your lap.

“Okay, so I should…” Your eyes flit to the white dot on the table. “I should take it now, right? Just so it’s… y’know. Working by then?” 

He straightens a little, blinking slow. Wonders what he should say. His head tilts just off-center, hair slipping into his face.

“I just…” you add, voice a little smaller. “I want you here when—if anything feels weird.”

That look. Wide-eyed. Bare.  

He swallows.

“Yeah, if you…” Nods once. Then again. “Sure, okay.”

A pause.

“How long?” you ask.

“Hm?”

“How long ‘til it… works?”

He scratches the back of his neck, shrugging. 

“Half an hour. Hour tops, depending on your stomach.”

You nod, steady now. Inhale. Exhale. 

Then you reach for the whole tablet.

“Whoa, hey—” He stops you gently, a smile ghosting his lips. 

Presses his nail into the heart and snaps it clean in two.

“Start with this,” Drops one into your palm, the other half still balanced in his hand. “See how it sits.”

You blink up at him one last time, then slip the pill past your lips.  

He watches, brows arched—at the way your face scrunches at the chemical taste, the way you desperately chase it with soda.

“Yeah,” he mutters, lips twitching, “they don’t exactly make ‘em in cherry.”

Then he leans back, drumming idly against the armrest. 

Thinks about the joint in his vest pocket, burning a hole through the denim.

His fingers twitch. 

“Hey,” He looks up with a loud grin, “You know how to play UNO?”

Eddie notices it long before you do.

He clocks it between turns, glancing sideways from where he’s migrated—no longer in the armchair but slouched on the other end of the couch, more than a cushion’s width and a sprawl of half-played cards between you.

You’re still in the same spot, but something’s changed.

One arm hooked loosely around a throw pillow. Sweater sleeve slipping down your shoulder. Your head tilted just so, resting against the back cushion.

Not fully surrendered, but close.

He tosses a yellow 4 onto the pile, watching the way your eyes drift around his living room, catching on the clutter—the mugs, the hats, the crooked posters, the tiny army of miniatures marching across every shelf.

“Do you live here alone?”

“With my uncle,” he mutters, scratching the side of his neck, rings glinting dull under the light. “He’s working nights lately, though, so it’s just me.”

A pause, then:

“Uno.”

“What? Aw, c’mon—again?”

You giggle, pupils dark and stretched like spilled ink. You drop a green 4 on the pile, fingers a little slower than before.

“Gotta keep up, Munson.”

He watches you—openly now. A little shameless.

Thinks about how many people must look at you all the time.

But no one watches.

“Hey, uh,” he murmurs after a beat, “If that stuff starts kicking in soon, you might feel warm. Floaty. Or, like… hyperaware of everything?” 

He crinkles the flimsy card edges in his palm. 

“That’s normal. But if anything feels bad, you tell me. Kay?”

You blink, pursing your lips, then nod. 

“Okay.”

He nods back. Pulls a new card from the deck. Doesn’t even look at it.

“I’m glad it’s you.”

He freezes, feeling something shift behind his ribs.

He blinks at the stack of cards in front of him, then glances up at you. 

“Alright,” he grins defeatedly. “Your turn. Finish me off, Ms. Rabies.”

You haven’t said anything in a while. 

But when he looks over, he notices warmth rising up your neck, blooming across your cheeks. And the sheen in your eyes—bright, glassy. 

Yep. The E had you riding high now. Soft, euphoric, buzzing gently beneath the skin.

You sigh quietly. 

“It’s kinda warm in here.”

“Yeah, that’s the stuff kicking in,” he murmurs, getting up. “One sec.”

Flicks on the small fan next to the TV and cracks the window behind the couch, letting in the early sounds of night—crickets, the whispers of dry grass, distant music from a trailer window. A dog barks. 

An easy draft slithers in, and the curtains flutter like breath.

When he turns back around, you’re watching him, pupils blown so big they almost swallow the pool of your eyes.

That open, wide-eyed look. 

“You’re really nice.”

He huffs out a smile, caught off guard. “I—uh. Thanks?”

“No, like…” You purse your lips, “You didn’t judge. Didn’t try to convince me or make it a thing. Just… let me be.”

He exhales, scratching at the back of his neck as he eases back down beside you. “Well, I think I’m like, the last person in Hawkins who gets to judge anyone else, so…”

Your head tilts—curious, genuine. 

“Why?”

He blinks slow, leaning back a touch.  

“Uhh,” Brows knit as he studies your earnest expression—not a hint of sarcasm in sight. 

A cursory glance at your surroundings would more than suffice as an answer, yet your eyes are only fixed on him.  

“I mean,” he shrugs, smiling, “I live in a glorified tin can with like, 200 mugs and a broken microwave? Been held back from graduating twice, so—” 

He laughs. 

“Not exactly in a position to judge.”

Your jaw shifts, tongue tracing the edge of your bottom lip in a slow drag.

Then you mutter, voice low and sticky:

"That’s the thing, though. You don’t pretend. Everyone else does."

You let out a soft breath, shaking your head and looking out through the half-open window. 

“You don’t… put on a show. Not like me. I’m like, ninety percent fake smiles at this point.”

A soft pause. The dog barks again somewhere outside. A voice shouts faintly in the distance.

This time, when you look back at him, your smile is different.

“Plus, I like your mugs.” You shrug, eyes flitting over to the collection on the far side of the wall. 

You lick your lips again. 

“Here.” He clears his throat, and reaches for the glass of water on the table, still nearly full.  

He swallows thickly as he watches you drink, like he’s the one with dry mouth. 

After that, you go quiet again for a while. 

The couch had you now—your spine curved, head tipped against the cushion as it swallows you whole. Eyes studying the ceiling, like the stucco texture is some kind of holy map only you can read.

And your fingers.

The way they drag along the edge of your jeans, catching and skating over seams. Trailing along the hem of your sweater, pluck at a little loose thread. 

You twirl it between your fingers like it’s a secret, like it’s talking back.

And your face—fuck. That slow-bloom softness, lips parted just slightly, a tiny crease between your brows that comes and goes like a tide.

Eddie doesn’t say anything. Just watches.

Then you let out a soft hum, the faintest sound in the back of your throat. 

He smiles, soft and unseen.

“Hey,” He whispers, cheeks pressed to his fist, blinking through the curtain of his hair. “You still with me?”

You hum again—low, distracted. Head still tipped upward. 

Then:

“Your ceiling’s moving.”

He grins, relieved.

“Yeah? What’s it saying?”

You tilt your head toward him, pupils blown wide, smile lazy and dream-slanted.

“Dunno yet. But I think it likes me.”

He laughs, leaning back, and you giggle—so easy, effortless, like you weren’t fighting it anymore. And god, he liked hearing that. Could’ve kept feeding you lines just to keep it going.

He watches you breathe in, slow and even.

“I keep thinking about the sky,” you murmur suddenly. “Is that weird?”

He blinks. “Nah. The sky’s a solid topic.”

“No, but like… I feel like I’m inside the sky.” Your head rolls back against the cushion. “Like it’s in here now.” Your finger slides over to a spot on your chest, right above your heart.

His throat tightens a little. Watches your finger for a second longer than he should. 

Then he shifts, folding his own hands over his lap, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling like he might be able to see through it too.

Then, after a long pause:

“I don’t want to go to the party tonight.”

Eddie blinks.

“Don’t think I’m ready to, you know… go there, with him.”

Him?

He doesn’t ask. Just tilts his head toward you, cheek pressing into scratchy fabric. 

You're rubbing over that spot on your chest, frowning. 

“I keep telling myself I should. Like it’s… the thing I’m supposed to do. Like it’d make me feel normal. Or good. Or something.”

You lower lip twitches.

“But I just keep feeling sick.”

You blink. Eyes glossy but steady.

“I dunno, I thought this stuff would make all that easier. Heard it was s’posed to make you… want, or whatever.”

It hits him, then, like a slow punch to the chest.

And he wants to say, That’s not what this is for. Or, You don’t need to be brave for something that isn’t right.

But you already know. 

So when your eyes meet his again—searching, unsure—he just smiles.

“Then fuck him,” he shrugs, “And I mean that in the anti-literal sense.”

And it anchors something deep in him, the way you laugh in response—sharp through your nose, soft at the edges. A real smile creeping in as you look back up at the ceiling.

A long pause. Heavy in a good way.  

Then, just barely audible:

“K.”

“C’mon, gorgeous, where are you…”

Eddie croons into a dusty stack of cassettes, shoved into a sagging cardboard box next to the TV. He’s crouched on his knees, elbows planted, brows furrowed—a man on a mission. The kind of mission that only makes sense when your skin’s still buzzing and you’ve got just enough time to chase the perfect song before the comedown sets in.

He flips through the collection, cracked plastic cases clicking under his touch, until his index finger lands on the one he’s been looking for—old, label half-peeled, probably dubbed over a dozen times.

“Yes. Found it,” he calls over his shoulder, triumphant, and jams it into his uncle’s battered boombox, pressing play. 

The soft whir of the tape rewinding. A second of static crackle.

Then it begins, the first few notes drifting out slow, warm, and low. Deep guitar, hushed vocals—something from his secret stash of ‘not metal but still fucking magical.’    

When he turns around, you’ve already slid off the couch and onto the floor, limbs flopped out, eyes fixed on the ceiling. 

He smiles, dropping down right beside you, body parallel to yours. Joins your gaze on the ceiling and lets himself drift in the same space. 

The song starts to weave around you like fog. Soft, sticky-sweet, old tape hiss woven between each note. Your arm feels close. Closer than before. The backs of your hands just shy of brushing where they lay side by side on the floor.

He lies like that for a while. 

Listening to the hush and haze of the tape—warped edges, gentle warble, every note stitched with the soft static of time—and wonders what it sounds like to you. 

If the music brushes your ribs like it does his,

If it stirs the same ache in your blood,

If it's drawing maps he’ll never get to see.

Then—he feels it.

The slightest twitch in your fingers. Just once. Barely anything. But his senses are lit up, stretched thin in that dreamy in-between state despite the fact that he’s completely sober, and somehow he knows. 

Doesn’t see it, just feels.

Like a pulse. Then still again.

He keeps his hand exactly where it is. Palm to the ceiling, not reaching. Just open.

And then—

You move again.

Slow, like you’re thinking through every inch, crawling closer and closer. 

The side of your hand brushes his, barely there, and then your pinky moves—climbing onto his thumb, curling over it tentatively, like a cat settling into a warm lap. Testing weight. Seeking stillness.

And then the rest of your fingers follow, one by one, slow as breath, until your hand settles against his—

Palm to palm, not laced together. Just touching.

His throat goes dry. Not in the holy-shit-she’s-touching-me kind of way. No, this isn’t a move.

This is you anchoring.

He shifts, just enough to clasp his fingers between yours. Fills in the gaps and settles.

You exhale.

And it sounds like relief.

He’s pretty sure he blacks out for a good minute or two.

Silence so thick it swallows the music and the steady hammer of his heart.

Then, a whisper—something like his name—floats up from beneath him.

Your fingers squeeze his, curling around the back of his hand.

“Is this okay?”

He turns his head—slow, drawn—to find you watching him. He barely nods, the rough carpet scratching his right ear, your hair tickling warmly against his cheek. 

You roll a little closer, breaths mingling—shoulders press, knees graze.

The scent of floral hairspray, cherry lip gloss—all pretty and done up for the party you missed. 

Then he realizes you’re staring at his lips.  

Not subtly. Not accidentally.

Intense enough to burn a hole through him. 

And before he can make a sound, you lean in.

And he—

He just lets you.

Doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. 

Just closes his eyes the second he feels your breath against his lips. 

The kiss is almost chaste—barely there, a whisper of a thing—yet it sears behind his eyes like the afterimage of the sun. Bright. Burning. Eternal.

And he thinks it has to be you. The way you glow. 

With your flushed cheeks and trembling hands and the ridiculous way your soul still shines through all your careful armor.

You pull back a second later, though it feels like hours, and exhale a small, stunned laugh against his lips, a happy little sigh that makes him want to die.

Or melt.

Or explode.

Or sink straight through the floor and burn alive in eternal damnation, because that’s where he’s falling—straight down.

Down through the cheap floorboards, through the cracked linoleum and worn carpet of his piece-of-shit trailer, straight to the molten core. Down, down, all the way to Nessus—the ninth layer— where the fire burns clean and nothing escapes the pull of its lord. 

Fuck—he’s so far gone and he’s not even high on anything. 

That thing writhes low in his stomach again, curling in on itself, and twists.

Inviting a pretty girl over to his place, late at night, for drugs she’s never even seen before. Kissing her on the dirty floor of his trailer, like he’s some cliché with bad intentions.

But then—

You open your eyes.

Long after he’s opened his.

And your smile—that quiet, blissed-out curve of it—sends something crashing through him.

Your head tips back against the carpet, your hair spilling like light around your shoulders.

You mumble something about how much you love this song, letting your eyes slip shut as you turn your head toward the ceiling.

He stares up at the rusty-white overhead of his trailer, and thinks about the sky. 

It hits in small shifts.

Still soft, still close—but quieter. Only the low whir of the tape spinning in silence, long after the B-side’s ended.

He swallows. Scratches at his jaw.

“You feelin’ okay?” he asks, voice low, trying not to spook it.

You give him a delayed nod. 

“Yeah. Just…” You trail off. Sigh through your nose. “Feels weird now.”

He nods.

“Yeah. That’s normal. It fades out kinda slow.”

He shifts onto his side, props himself up on one elbow.

Glances at his wrist—past midnight. 

“It’s late, I could, uh…” He stands slowly, bones cracking like he’s twice his age. Offers you a hand. “If you want, I could drive you home. Or… wherever you’re going.”

“Home’s fine,” you say eventually, slipping your hand in his. “If that’s okay.”

“Sure.”

“I’ve got gum if you want it,” he calls out, moving to the clutter near the sink while you stretch out your limbs. “Helps with the jaw thing.”

The clock on the microwave’s still frozen—3:17.

You blink. “Jaw thing?”

“Some people clench while coming down. Not always, but… y’know. Just in case.”

You take the gum—spearmint, probably stale. He shrugs his jacket off the hook, and tosses you your bag.  

Neither of you talk much on the drive.

He keeps glancing over, just to make sure you’re still breathing easy.

You stare out the window as streetlights flicker past, gold stripes cutting through the dark.

When he pulls up at your curb—headlights painting lazy arcs across your front walk—neither of you move to open the door. 

Something crinkles beside him and he turns to watch you fish out a handful of bills from your sweater pocket, pushing them awkwardly across the console. 

“For the…” You trail off, unable to meet his eyes. 

He gives you a look. “Don’t worry about it,” he says, folding the bills gently back in your fist. “Consider it a… friend discount.”

A protest starts, then dies. You close your hand around the money and hold it until your knuckles grow white.

With one hand on the doorframe, you look back:

“Hey, Eddie?”

“Yeah?” He glances over, rings cutting into his fingers where he clutches the wheel. 

“Thanks for…” You step back, hand sliding down the chipped paint and returning to your side. “Y’know.”

He grins, shooting you a wink. 

“Anytime, Rabies.”

Back outside his trailer, Eddie stands in the patchy yard, head tipped back, the air thick with cut grass and trailer-park gasoline.

Above him, the sky drapes over him like velvet—deep indigo, a thousand pinhole stars clinging in wild clusters. 

He stays like that for a while, jaw tight, hands in his pockets.

He stares up at the endless stretch of night, and thinks about you.

A/N: I had fun writing eddie for the first time! also went down a rabbit hole researching ecstasy + the 80s lol. lmk ur thoughts! comments and reblogs are always appreciated :)

[tomatenverspachtler]

WHAT IF..

They both die at the end.

Thomas had to keep newt alive for as long as possible,which was difficult because of how ridiculously accepting newt was with dying. He dragged him through the burning city to a more quiet, ‘peaceful’ area. Newt collapsing, Thomas hearing Teresa’s message to him.

As Newt slowly got up, Thomas worried. Before suddenly seeing the blackened eyes, his heart dropping. The crank that was once his friend now fighting him, attacking him with all energy left in his body and obviously the flare spilling more into his blood by the minute. Newt got on top of him,long gone to the virus. Thomas panting, desperately trying to get the knife off of his chest that Newt was so eager to stab into him. Thomas tried everything, he couldn’t die yet, same went for his friend. Screaming when the knife dig into his skin slowly. Thankfully pushing the boy off of him, Turning onto his stomach as he tried to crawl on his knees to somehow get to safety since Newt was getting more dangerous by the second.. failing to get on his knees as he kept falling down, accidentally twisting—or even breaking his ankle in the fight, whatever it was,he couldn’t get up. He dragged himself little until suddenly feeling the sharp pain in his back that made him gasp so deep he could choke on the air in his throat—he had been stabbed.

Slowly slipping onto the floor again after all those attempts of getting up, after finally reaching his hand out for safety— he was doomed and so was Newt.. Thomas’s eyes teared up from the amount of pain he was in, a knife in the spine not necessarily a thing to easily recover from, tears running down his cheeks already. Shakily, lowering his head to rest on the ground, letting out dry huff as the taste of blood hit his mouth. He thought letting death just take over him instead of fighting it would be easier and it felt like it was but it was more horrible by the fact that he couldn’t actually hear his thoughts then. Not his body pumping with adrenaline trying to survive. He thought about Newt, when he first met him. Alby introducing the two. Having no idea that this boy would be the causing of his death someday. He would miss Minho,Brenda,Gally..Teresa..even Newt, Jorge and Aris too.

He didn’t even have time to close his eyes as his life began to pass away.

The Crank beside him just watched, having crawled to him last second to do the killing, just ..laying there now. Everything quiet for a moment before the bombs went off again in the background. He got on his knees and just looked at Thomas’s lifeless body for what felt like a long time. Shaking. His eyes starting to water. He started to quietly sob to himself,muttering random stuff,crank noises, “Tommy” slipping out of his mouth every once in a while. He looked at the blood splattered onto the knife,it going all the way up to his hand. There was still Newt somewhere in there.If only the cure had come on time. He didn’t blame anyone tho, this was his doing..All his fault. Thomas was dead because of him. Dropping the knife,

He reached over to get Thomas’s gun out of its holster. Reloading it with the last bit of human knowledge he had and pointing it at the side of his head slowly.

what if… during the scene of newt’s death (book or movie verse, whatever) thomas is trying so hard to keep newt alive while newt is losing himself to the flare and eventually, when he’s almost completely out of sanity and they are fighting, newt ends up killing thomas. and then- and then he snaps out of it and notices what he’s done and starts screaming and crying while covered in thomas’ blood and gets the gun and kills himself, his body falling right next to thomas’ on the floor… what if?

idk if there’s a fic for this already but i’d kill for it rn i swear…. pls if someone has something close to this recommend it. to me. now.

[gushhyyy]

Dear Angela

ꨄ Apryl finally meets the man of her dreams, and he’s everything she could ever want. Except hers, she’s over the going missing without contact for days the random pops ups and fucking her back into his arms only to leave again eventually. She’s sick of it and it’s now or never.

Modern!au Elijah“smoke” Moore

I hope y’all like it I’m kinda nervous P.S PLAY THE SONG AS YOU START READING. Like, comment, feedback welcome

Another night, in the same bed, with the worst man Angela had ever met. In all her twenty-four years, she had never felt anything close to hatred, no, not this strong. Daddy was right, life isn’t fair. My mind shouldn’t be this heavy. He’s just scrambled my brains whilst chilling my body with the sweetest words to have ever been strung in a sentence.

As I lay on my back, Elias somewhere else for the moment, like always. Maybe it’s the dreams I’ve dreamt the longest that keep my mind dócil. Maybe six years ago I would’ve had the sense to die where I stand, with meaning. She would’ve never accepted this.

I won’t.

His footsteps slipped behind my thoughts. I barely felt his gentlest hands to be rid of any trace of us. It would bring a smile to the devil’s lips, such a lie. I’ve imagined what our children look like. Whose smile would go to who. Who would look most alike the other. A cruel morning sometime last week, I had a dream I’d given life to beautiful children. That same morning’s feel washed over again as I woke, reaching for my babies, for my husband.

The one I’d never get to have. No, I could.

“Why are you making that face?” he spoke, breaking my barrier between mind and reality. His accent deep, almost as deep as his beautiful dimples, as he pondered with a raised brow.

The moonlight hitting my face. My eyes were sure to well with tears, but that’s just who I am. The way Father God made me.

That was the night I’d last prayed to Him. I’ll apologize later. My gown pooling over where my knees and calves meet as I kneeled. Eyes squished as tight as they could be without causing those little floaty things that seemed to be falling with beautiful color.

“Oh Father God, please tell me where my babies are.

Oh Father, I felt you in my heart when he and I are near.

Dear Father, why must my tribulations be so plentiful, shedding my being as your plan carries out.

I love him, but I owe myself a deed.”

The floor was an unforgiving place.

“Baby!” He was suddenly sitting in front of me, gripping my hands. I couldn’t help but angle my head to match my confusion.

Just humming in response, looking down at our hands. His hands. His strong arms, the ones I know were more than responsible for the pain of a few people. The arms I wanted nothing more than to climb in, climb on, and under. Letting go of my hands and turning me to face him.

“Are you okay, baby?” A ping in my chest hit me. The concern in his voice hit me. The small cracking in his voice. The way the moonlight hits his eyes. His gaze is evermore of a child’s inner sparkle.

“Am I ever going to be your girlfriend?” A telling silence as his features twitched, reaching for me before pulling back a little.

“Am I ever going to be your wife?” I puzzled.

“The mother of your children?” I contained myself once more before I started to feel the tears.

“Your anything?” I paused, gasping as I started to grasp myself, who I was and how I failed myself. I thought I would never, ever ask any man these questions. I was always my mother’s biggest critic when it came to this kind of thing. Older folk don’t have sayings for nothing, and I didn’t understand how it could possibly get to that point until it was me.

A rite of passage, if I’m taking accountability.

The pain of not knowing, and feeling your heart further away than you ever imagined.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked, his hand releasing my chin and grabbing into me. Standing up, knowing he’d follow me into his doom if I walked far enough. I didn’t want him to chase me or to prove his loyalty. I wanted the grandest prize of them all, him.

“Doing what?”

“Crying, please stop, you know how I hate when you cry,” he pleaded from behind me as I faced the wall.

“Then answer my question so you don’t have to see it. I don’t mean to cause a scene or to cry, but I need to know,” I gritted. If I saw him now, in his broad glory, knowing he was only clad in his boxer shorts.

“I love you, Angela!” He crept, trying to sway me.

“Stop it! Answer me!”

“You know I can’t.” He let go, placing his head on the back of my head, back to chest. His arms finally encasing me.

It felt so good. Like a little girl’s first bedtime dream about her prince.

“Why?” I cried harder now. My eyes were clouded, and my heart heavy as I cried into what I saw, darkness. My eyes were sure to be puffy, my face red. I was most beautiful that way. My momma said.

“What good am I as a husband, as a fiancé, or a boyfriend if I can’t give you what you want the most? Myself. Angel, I couldn’t burden you like that.” I knew from how deep his face was in my hair that he was crying.

“You as you are is all I want. I don’t want anything else.” He quickly turned me around.

“But you deserve better.” He slightly raised his voice. He marched over to his bedroom closet where I knew his safe was. He stood broad when he came back, two thick stacks of blues in his shaky hands.

“Here, Angela, take it,” he held it out to me. My jaw dropped. I knew he had money, but to have so much he’d blow it on something that wouldn’t happen. He wanted me to go.

He was letting me go. He thought I’d take the money. He wouldn’t know me at all to think I’d run away with full pockets.

“I’m not going anywhere. I just want to love you,” I said, reaching for his wrists, to pull him close to me. He stepped back, dropping the money on the bed.

“At least leave here with something,” he said before leaving. “I’m sorry, Angela, that your dreams won’t come true. Not with me. I do love you, I just, I couldn’t do that. I’ve known nothing but violence and hustling, and it’s all I’ve got left. Because of the choices that I’ve made, I don’t deserve a reward, after all that I’ve let the darkness do with everyone behind.”

He paused, throwing on a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie.

“It wouldn’t be fair. I wasn’t capable then, and I’m probably not now,” he finished, kissing me gently. I felt his tears hit my chest as he grabbed his keys and left.

“What did you lose that was so precious? You can tell me all about it, and I’ll try to understand. We can still be together,” I said, hoping he stalled for a moment to listen.

I would’ve never understood an ache like that. How much I missed that last breath I took before my entire heart broke, and all I would continue to do is gasp for air in between the light and dark of blinking away tears.

You never truly understand until it happens to you.

[lpmurphy]

Begin Again

<- Previous

Summary: It had been thirty years since his truck tires rolled out of her drive for the last time. Even longer since the day his locker door slammed shut beside hers and marked the beginning of Jack Abbot. Beth had never expected it to end. Never expected to live a lifetime with only the ghost of the boy who promised her one together. She never expected to see him again. Until that curtain flung open, and there he was. And just like that, Jack Abbot began again.

Notes: jack abbot/single mom!ofc, reunited high school sweethearts, second chance romance, slow (emphasis on the SLOW) burn, seriously it's slow, ofc’s daughter is a teenage gen z menace and we love her for it, angst/longing/yearning to the max, hurt/comfort, author is just an english teacher with no medical background, eventual smut, jack and ofc are emotionally constipated idiots

Word Count: 8,845

Read on AO3 (Up to Chapter 15!)

Chapter Nine: Operation: Wallet Drop

Phase One had been straightforward enough. Not her most brilliant scheme, but not her sloppiest either. Honestly, it was pretty solid for something she pulled out of her ass in an ER. The plan: casually leave Mom’s wallet somewhere Jack would definitely find it, complete with her drivers license that oh so conveniently displayed her exact address. Then, wait, and hope Hoodie Guy didn’t get to it first.

But from the way Mom’s breath caught when she opened the door, Abby knew that the right guy found it. Operation Wallet Drop was a success. Screw Honors Society. This was probably the most accomplished Abby had ever felt in her entire life. 

Alright. Time for Phase Two: Get Him Through the Door. 

Abby peeked over the back of the couch, watching the front door without totally giving herself away. Atlas pranced in little circles around Jack, sniffing his legs like a drug dog who just found a Scarface-level mountain of cocaine while Mom gripped the doorframe like it was keeping her upright. Neither of them spoke for a long minute, which Abby found very dramatic, but whatever. Doing her best not to look like she was full-on surveillance van eavesdropping, she turned down New Girl just enough to hear Mom sputter like her brain was rebooting.

“Hi,” her mom said, the soft way she said it sounding like she was choking on her own breath.

“Hi,” Jack echoed, shifting like he wasn’t sure if he was trespassing.

“What are you doing here?” her mom asked, and Abby winced. A little too sharp, Mom. C’mon. Ugh, someone save this woman from herself before she goes full Nick Miller and gives up on men and starts growing tomatoes.

Jack didn’t seem to mind. He held up the wallet and gave it a wiggle. “Thought you might need this.”

“Oh, God,” her mom said with a soft gasp and a shaky laugh. “Shit. I didn’t even notice that was gone. Thank you.” 

Mom reached for the wallet. Her fingers hesitated just long enough that Abby clocked it, but not long enough for Jack to notice. Maybe. Jack shrugged a little too casually for someone who changed clothes and detoured across town after a twelve hour shift just to loiter on their porch.

“Dana found it on the counter after you left,” he said. “Robby was gonna bring it by, but I was already heading this way, so…”

Uh-huh. Sure you were, Abby thought. She smirked from her perch on the couch. Liar. You just didn’t want Hoodie Guy to get to her first. You wanted to see her. And now you have. And now you’re standing there like a sad, hopeful golden retriever just waiting to be let inside.

Her mom smiled, the kind she tried to suppress and totally failed at. “You could’ve just put it in my locker.”

“I could’ve,” Jack agreed easily, like he wasn’t hanging on every breath of this conversation, and tucked his hands in his pockets. “Just figured I’d get it to you before you canceled all your credit cards.”

That got her. A little laugh, quiet and warm, but Jack smiled for it the same way he had her snort-laugh. Abby grinned. Yes. Good. Good. Laugh more. Mom nodded and pulled her cardigan tight before crossing her arms. “Yeah. That would’ve been a nightmare.”

Oh, whatever. Jack didn’t swing by to save her from logging into her bank account and clicking three buttons. That was bullshit and they all knew it. And Abby was so here for it. Now, if only her mom would do something besides just hovering in the doorway. Invite him in! Execute Phase Two! Come on, you beautiful stupid idiot! Literally get out of your own way!

But Mom didn’t invite him in. Abby puffed a sigh through her nose. That’s it. They got ten more seconds, and then she was going in.

Jack didn’t leave, and Mom didn’t close the door. Instead, they just stood there; two emotionally repressed idiots marinating in three decades worth of unresolved tension like that was a totally normal thing to do on a Saturday evening. Jack shifted his stance and glanced past her like he was trying not to look like he was casing the joint.

“Nice place,” he said, tilting his head toward the house like he hadn’t been staring at it for the past thirty seconds.

Abby rubbed her face. Oh my god, dude. Lame . Old people flirting is so boring.

“You guys been here long?”

Jesus Christ, someone make a flippin’ move. This feels like an episode of the Golden Bachelor.

Mom nodded, her hands tightening in the sleeves of her cardigan. “Um, thanks. We moved in after we left Boston back in 2017.”

Oh my god, Mom, he literally does not care what year we moved into the house. He’s lingering. God, was there a single brain cell between the two of them? Invite him in, you dumb, dumb bitch. 

He leaned his shoulder against the doorframe, dropping one hand low enough for Atlas to nose at his fingers. “What made you leave Boston?”

Mom shrugged. “Oh, you know… I wanted to get Abby closer to everyone, and I got offered a chief attending position at Mercy. Better pay, better benefits, two hours from my parents.” A soft laugh. “It felt like the right call.”

Jack nodded. “Makes sense.”

And… that was it. Conversation dead. He was still leaning in the doorway like he lived there, and Mom was still just standing there like she didn’t know she could invite him inside without a notarized affidavit from God. C’mon, Mom. Invite him in. He obviously wants to or he would’ve handed you the wallet and bolted. Do you not see him? Do you not see yourself ?

Abby narrowed her eyes, then pinched the bridge of her nose, shaking her head. These two were useless. Just vibes and history and not a single ounce of game between the two of them. Good Lord, Atty was making more of a move on Jack than her mom was. 

Clowns. Just clown behavior all around. The circus was in town, and it was right there on her front porch.

Fine. If no one else was going to do anything about it, she would. Phase Two was happening whether they liked it or not.

Abby rolled onto her knees, wincing a little as a sharp pain lit up her leg. Worth it though. She leaned over the back of the couch just enough to be fully visible from the front door.

“Who’s here?” she called, all bright-eyed innocence like she hadn’t been spying on this emotional dumpster fire for the past five minutes. And, oh my god, crazy, wow. Could it be? Say it ain’t so. As I live and breathe… “Doctor Mullet!”

Jack laughed through his nose, one corner of his mouth twitching up. “Hey, kid.”

Mom flinched like she forgot she wasn’t alone. “Abby, don’t—”

“What are you doing here?” Abby interrupted, propping her chin on her arms. Come on, Baker. Really sell it. You definitely haven’t been here the whole time. Atlas boofed once and kept nosing at Jack’s pockets.

“Your mom left her wallet behind at the hospital, figured I’d bring it by.” Then, as if realizing he sounded way too eager about a thirty-minute round trip, he added, “I was in the neighborhood anyway.”

Abby arched one skeptical brow so hard it practically detached from her face like a cartoon character. Sure you were. She could count on one hand the number of people who just happened to be “in the neighborhood” of the like, most disgustingly suburban street in all of Squirrel Hill after dark, and most of them were DoorDash drivers or serial killers. Jack didn’t have a pizza box or a ski mask, so… yeah. Not buying it. Nice try.

“Oh my god, that’s crazy. Mom never forgets her wallet. Good thing you found it before some total lunatic did and tried to, like, steal her identity and open sixteen credit cards in her name,” Abby continued. Good thing I planted it exactly where you would find it. “That would’ve been a disaster.”

Mom made a strangled noise that might’ve been a laugh or a death rattle and shot her a look. Abby rolled her eyes so hard that she swore they clicked. Oh, get over yourself, Elizabeth. 

But Jack only chuckled. “It’s no problem.”

No problem, he says, as he lingers in the doorway like he’s waiting for a handwritten invitation and a red carpet. Abby stared at him. Then at her mom. Then back at him.

Phase Two, you magnificent disaster people. Phase. Freaking. Two. Commencing now.

Abby pushed off the couch and stood, limping just enough to elicit sympathy if anyone was paying attention; not that either of them were. They were too busy fidgeting and stealing glances like this was some painfully slow Austen adaptation. She padded barefoot toward the door like a woman on a mission.

“Anyway,” she said, brushing past her mom like she wasn’t doing reconnaissance for a covert operation of her own making. “Mom just finished making dinner. You should come eat with us!”

You would have thought she threw a live grenade between the two of them. Mom opened her mouth to object. Jack looked startled, like he hadn’t even considered that was an option.

Come on. Don’t blow this, you two. We’re so close to Phase Three.

They hesitated, because of course they did. Abby could practically hear the gears grinding in their mutually repressed brains.

Mom opened her mouth at the exact same moment Jack said, “I should probably—”

“You don’t have to—”

They both stopped. Jack gave a half-laugh. “Sorry, I didn’t—”

“No, it’s okay, I was just saying—”

Fools.

“I don’t want to intrude,” Jack said.

“You wouldn’t be,” Mom added at the same time.

Oh my god. Somebody sedate me. This brutal.

Another pause. They blinked at each other.

Jack gestured vaguely behind him. “I should probably get going, though.”

Mom nodded way too fast. “Right, yes, of course—”

Jesus Christ. And they let you two morons be doctors? Does she have to do everything in this house?

“Oh, come on. You’re already here,” Abby threw in for good measure. She would not let these two blow this. She was too invested. “And Mom always makes, like, way too much. Right, Mom?”

Damn. If looks could kill, Mom would have struck her dead right there. Before Abby could metaphorically poke them with a stick again, they launched into another round of rambled buffoonery.

“But—unless you—”

“I mean, if it’s not a bother—”

“You absolutely do not have to,” Mom said, breathless, like she was yanking on the emergency brake of her own heart. “Please don’t feel like you have to just because she asked.”

Jack paused and took a long breath before he spoke again. “No. I’d… like to,” he said softly.

Mom froze. “Oh,” she breathed. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Jack echoed.

Okay, Abby thought, resisting the urge to fist-pump in slow motion . Okay, okay, okay. Let’s fucking go. She smiled sweetly and gestured toward the entryway like she was the maître d’ at an exclusive, very emotionally complicated restaurant.

“See? Look at that. It’s giving healthy communication.” She turned to Jack, all plausible deniability and carefully crafted bullshit. “Come on in, Doctor Mullet.”

He stepped through the door and gave a quiet “Thanks,” before crouching to greet Atlas, who immediately lost his mind with joy. Oh, you are so very welcome, Doctor Mullet. You don’t know the half of it yet.

Mom closed the door behind him and looked like she might either pass out or throw up. Possibly both. Abby just grinned. Performance of a lifetime, honestly. Someone should call Hollywood after her little stint at the door. It was Oscar-worthy, really. Meryl Streep who? Never heard of her.

Abby knew the second Jack crossed the threshold into the entryway and Atlas launched himself into a full-body wiggle attack that she had exactly five seconds to enjoy this victory before Mom’s wrath found her.

Four seconds.

Three.

And… there it was.

The Look.

From the glare that was currently burning a hole straight through her skull as Jack stepped past Mom into the house, Abby gathered that maybe, just maybe, her mother did not appreciate the success of Phase Two quite as much as she did.

Jack didn’t notice, of course. He was too busy getting absolutely wrecked by Atlas, who launched a full-scale nose-first assault on his kneecaps like a dog who had never seen a man before and had decided this one was now his soulmate.

Mom, however, noticed. Oh, she noticed everything. She didn’t say a word, but her jaw tightened, and her eyes cut sideways to Abby with all the warmth of a Siberian winter.

Abby smiled sweetly. Mom narrowed her eyes and lifted one hand without even looking at her, signing in sharp, annoyed strokes:

I know what you’re doing, you little monster.

Abby clutched her chest, offended. Moi?

She signed back, I have no idea what you’re talking about, Mommy Dearest. I’m just using good manners like you taught me, with a flutter of her fingers that somehow managed to look both angelic and smug at the same time. Mom’s sign back was not as dainty. It was quite rude, actually. But she let it slide.

Mom’s glare deepened as Jack stood to his full height, stepping fully inside the living room while trying not to be tripped by his new Velcro dog best friend. Abby could feel the second-hand embarrassment radiating off her like heat from a toaster oven. She was fairly certain she could fry an egg on the heat of Mom’s full-body blush alone.

Yeah, yeah. She got it. She was pissed.

But Abby knew, just knew, that she wasn’t mad that he was here. No, no. She was mad that he was here while she was in her Adam Sandler clothes.

But her little long lost boyfriend hadn’t been able to take his eyes off of her since she opened the door. So… Pop off, Adam Sandler.

Atlas ended up being her saving grace before Mom could fully light her ass up in ASL.

Jack straightened up with a final pat to Atlas’s side. Atlas immediately took offense, huffing a dramatic whine and bumping his big Lego-brick head into Jack’s legs. Mom caught him by the collar just in time, her fingers curling gently around it before he could knock the guy over.

“Sorry,” she muttered, tugging him back. “He forgets how big he is. He thinks that he’s a lap dog most days.”

“That’s alright,” Jack said, crouching again to meet the dog’s insistent whines with a few solid head scritches. “He’s just saying hello, aren’t ya, big guy?”

Abby let out a small, pleased hum. Dog person and he had a stupid voice he reserved for animals? She could go ahead and check that off the Not a Total Garbage Person list.

Doctor Mullet: 1. Hoodie Guy: 0. He gave off cat dad energy anyway. And she was allergic to cats, so. Sucks to suck, Hoodie Guy and your unconfirmed cat.

Atlas melted under the ear rubs and leaned his full weight into Jack, one hind leg twitching like a stuck motor. Jack grinned at the reaction and kept scratching. Mom tried not to smile, but Abby caught it; just the barest tug at the corner of her mouth. She must have been checking off the list too, though she’d never admit it.

“Oh, congratulations,” Mom said dryly, arms crossing again. “You’ve just guaranteed yourself a shadow for the night.”

Jack chuckled, unbothered. “I’ve had worse. What’s this big guy’s name?”

“That’s Atlas,” Abby chimed in, giving his head a quick pat. “Mom named him after the—”

“The Titan, right?” Jack looked up, then shifted his gaze to Mom. “That’s the one who held up the sky, yeah? Or am I remembering it wrong?”

Mom nodded once and her expression softened, just barely. “No, that’s…that’s right.”

Jack looked back up at Abby, looking rather pleased with himself over what was absolutely not his recollection of a few old stories. He gave Atlas a few more firm pats against his side like he was checking for ripeness. God, why do all middle-aged white guys pet dogs like that? It’s weirdly aggressive. But, Atty didn’t seem to mind.

“Your mom always had a thing for Greek mythology,” Jack added casually. “Probably told me the same stories a million times when we were your age.”

Mom’s mouth twitched again just barely. But this time, she didn’t fight the smile off quite as fast. Surely, that wasn’t the only thing she had a thing for. Abby raised an eyebrow, watching the faint, startled little shift in her mom’s posture that dropped her shoulders a little.

Well, well, well. Doctor Mullet came armed with nostalgia. Good. Keep reminiscing. 

Abby flopped over the arm of the couch in a dramatic heap. It usually earned a pointed look from Mom, which she got, but she ignored it. There was no time for Mom Looks. She had maybe five minutes before Phase Three of this forced dinner really kicked in. She needed to prepare while she still could. She opened Spotify and scrolled with purpose. Where was it? She swore she saved that playlist on the drive home…

“She wanted to name me Andromeda,” Abby said, without looking up. “My dad said no. Thank God.”

Jack let out a low laugh. “Why am I not surprised?”

Abby smiled to herself and stopped scrolling. She didn’t need to look at him to know he was glancing toward Mom. She could hear it in his tone; the soft dip into something nostalgic, like he’d just been handed a piece of the past wrapped in tinfoil and still warm.

Abby smiled down at her screen, satisfaction blooming in her chest. Ah! There it is! She stopped her scrolling and tapped into the playlist. Now, to listen and wait. She made herself look busy while she scrolled through the playlist, adding songs to her queue like she was trying to crack a code. 

Jack straightened up again when Atty decided he’d had enough attention, not because Abby had quietly patted the side of the couch to call him over and remove the sixty-pound roadblock from this absolute car wreck. Atty lumbered over and hopped up onto the couch beside her, curled up, and sighed contently when Abby kissed his nose. Well done, old man. You played your part beautifully. 

There was a moment of quiet that felt like another person in the room before Mom spoke.

“So…” she said softly, “The Leanne Baker rule, huh?”

Abby tilted her head with a little shrug; she wouldn’t necessarily bring Grandma up while trying to flirt, but Mom was at least trying. Abby moved I Love You, I’m Sorry higher up on the queue. No. Too on the nose. Delete. Crap, what songs do old people like? Think, Abby, think. 

Jack let out a soft chuckle that seemed way too fond for something as trivial as Grandma’s no-scrubs-in-the-house rule, but it was something. Something was good. Keep the somethings coming.

“Thought I’d give it a try,” he said. 

“Yeah? How’s it working for you?”

Another long pause. “Not sure yet.”

Abby almost shot up at the quiet way Jack murmured out the words, but she kept herself glued to the seat. That had nothing to do with scrubs. That was way too much murmuring for it to be about scrubs. Something was happening and she was missing it. She subtly sat up straighter, shifting just enough to get a better look without tipping them off and caught the tail end of Mom smiling and—wait, was she blushing? Aw. Gross. Do it again.

Jack returned Mom’s smile, eyes scanning over her again before they flicked toward the entryway. Specifically, to the jacket on the hook. It was Mom’s old denim one that she always wore. The one Abby was pretty sure had predated her by at least a decade and a half and Mom had on in every formative memory Abby had. Soft at the seams, patched in two places, and old enough to legally drink. She once asked Mom why she didn’t just donate it, and she didn’t answer. Just sat there and looked at it the same way Jack looked at it now. His gaze lingered just a second too long. His jaw tightened just barely. Not enough to be obvious, not enough that anyone would notice.

Except Abby noticed. Because Abby noticed everything. She didn’t say anything though, the same way Mom didn’t say anything when she also saw him look at it and immediately pretended she hadn’t.

God. The two of them were like watching a cold war play out in real-time, only with more yearning and fewer treaties. Tragic.

Mom cleared her throat and looked away, scanning the living room with the wild-eyed urgency of someone trying to clean up a crime scene after the cops were already knocking. Mom moved through the room like she was trying to erase all evidence that they lived here. She started scooping up shoes, fluffing pillows, folding a blanket that had been crumpled in the same corner of the couch for three days.

“Sorry about the mess,” she said over her shoulder, too breezy to be believable. “It usually doesn’t look like this.”

“Why are you lying?” Abby replied without looking up from her phone. “It literally always looks like this.”

“Abby.”

“Oh no, God forbid people know we sit.”

Jack chuckled, but the glare Mom shot her could have incinerated small villages. Abby met it with a serene, exaggerated smile and an innocent flutter of her lashes, still draped dramatically across the couch like a sassy Renaissance cherub. Was pissing Mom off on purpose always this fun? She should do it more often. Not that she didn’t already, but she should do it more.

“Get your stuff off the table, please,” Mom said tightly, now fluffing a pillow with more force than necessary.

Before Abby could move, or offer another sarcastic retort, Jack was already stepping toward the table.

“I got it,” he said. “She should sit.”

Mom opened her mouth to protest. “You really don’t have—”

“She’s the one with the broken leg,” Jack interjected, already gathering shopping bags and tucking loose articles of clothing into them. “I can handle a few bags.”

“Wow, chivalry isn’t dead after all,” Abby mumbled, fighting a smile when Jack snorted softly.

Mom hovered for a moment, like she might insist again out of sheer indignance, but Jack gave her a half-smile as he as snagged a Nike bag off the table. “Really, Beth. It’s fine.”

Mom hesitated, and then relented with a soft exhale and a hand brushing lightly against his arm. “Thanks.” Abby clocked it. The arm touch. The smile that almost made it to her mom’s eyes. The casual gratitude.

Ladies and gentlemen: first physical contact has entered the chat.

Mom turned towards the kitchen, mumbling something about plates and getting him something to drink. Abby grinned to herself and turned her attention to her phone. Her playlist was ready. Stage set. Vibes calibrated. Phase Three: Forced Dinner was on the horizon. The trap was set. All she had to do now was let them walk into it.

“Jesus,” Jack said, eyeing the haul spread across the table that remained after his hands were already full. “You two leave anything for the rest of the mall, or was this a full-scale raid?”

“Blame the child,” Beth called from the kitchen, her voice light but stretched thin. “Apparently, nothing from last year is acceptable anymore. It’s an annual affair.”

“I’m incredibly spoiled,” Abby chimed in, not looking up from her phone. She tapped to another song. Who the fuck is Jewel? Is that a band or a person? Whatever. It didn’t matter; it came out in ‘95, so to the playlist it went. She added the song to the queue. “That’s why I behave like this.”

Jack let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Where do you want all of this, House?”

She didn’t answer right away. She was waiting. Listening. The current song was seconds from ending, and when it did, she flicked her phone’s Bluetooth on, booted Mom off the Alexa, and hit play on her playlist. The music shifted, louder now, echoing in from the kitchen speaker. There. Mood set.

“Stairs is fine,” she said flatly, feigning boredom.

“Copy that.”

Jack turned, arms full, but something on the table snagged his attention. He bent slightly, eyes catching on the beat-up hardcover with post-it flags sticking out like feathers that was her AP history assignment. He picked it up, turning it over with a curious raise of his brow.

“Didn’t think your mom was much of a nonfiction reader.”

Abby didn’t look up from her phone. “She’s not. That’s mine. Mom only reads the same two books on repeat like she’s in some kind of sci-fi Groundhog Day.”

Jack turned the book over in his hand and smirked. “Let me guess. Dune and Foundation until the spine disintegrates?”

“That was one time, Jack!” Beth called from the kitchen, with that specific tone that meant she was trying not to be mad about being rightfully accused. “And I read more than just those two books, Abigail.”

Abby looked up then, rolling her eyes before she called back. “The sequels of those books don’t count, Mom.”

Jack bit back a laugh as he looked to Abby with a conspiratorial shake of his head. “It was more than one time,” he told her, reading the back of the book before he set it down.

Mom reappeared in the kitchen doorway with a clean plate in hand and a look that could only be described as resigned maternal indignation. “You two keep making fun of me,” she said, gesturing between them with the plate. She tried to glare, but her lips twitched, “but I’ll have you both know that Asimov was a—”

“Genius,” Abby and Jack said together, already groaning. They shared a sidelong glance and Jack gave her an exaggerated roll of his eyes before he stepped away from the table. Abby smirked. She had to admit, he was growing on her. Asshole respects asshole, Doctor Mullet. 

Abby raised a hand in mock solemnity. “The father of modern science fiction. We know. We’ve all been blessed by the gospel of Beth.”

“So, The Battle of the Bulge, huh?” Jack asked, clearly trying to win back a few Mom Points with a subject change. Smart. 

He nodded toward the book as he came back in for another round of her stuff, moving through the room like he’d lived there for years. It was weirdly domestic, but Abby knew what he was doing; this wasn’t just helpful. He was trying to impress Mom, obviously. Playing the part of the good little helper for her injured kid like he might earn a gold star. And sure, it was a little transparent. But it was also… weirdly kind of sweet. From the way Mom peeked in from the kitchen just as Jack leaned casually on the back of the couch, Abby figured she thought so too. 

“Is that for school?” he asked.

Abby didn’t look at him right away. She dropped her phone to her chest, thumb hovering over the pause button of the playlist she was carefully orchestrating in the background. Operation: Wallet Drop’s third phase had officially begun from the sound of plates clinking in the kitchen, and Phase Three was delicate work. Timing was key, and so was the careful song progression from wistful to yearning that she was building brick by brick. It was totally going to ruin her algorithm, but that was a sacrifice she was willing to make.

“AP U.S. History,” she said with a sigh. “I have to finish it and write an essay about whether the Allied success was more about military strategy or environmental factors.”

Jack lit up like someone had just dared him to mansplain politely. “Oh, strategy all the way. If it hadn’t been for the 101st’s stand at Bastogne and Patton sending the Third Army to—”

“Oh my God, you would know that off the top of your head,” Abby interrupted, laughing as she shook her head and picked her phone back up.

Jack straightened slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” she said with a little shrug. “You just look like a guy who knows a lot about World War Two.”

Jack gave her a long look, like he couldn’t decide if he’d just been complimented or insulted. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“You’re an old white dude,” Abby said without looking up from her phone. “Of course you have a weird fascination with one of the World Wars. It’s, like, a genetic trait.”

“I’m not that old,” Jack said indignantly. “I’m the same age as your mom.”

“Yeah, and you both predate the Internet. You’re practically ancient,” Abby muttered, adding Landslide to the playlist and bumping it higher in the queue.

“And I do not have a ‘weird fascination’,” Jack continued, ignoring the slander. “I just find it incredibly interesting how the Allies were able to—”

“Lame,” Abby said flatly. “Please, finish that sentence. You’re just proving me right.”

“Abby,” Mom called from the kitchen, in that half-warning, half-worn-out mom voice. “Leave him alone.”

Jack chuckled under his breath, victorious, and Abby rolled her eyes. “Thought school hadn’t started yet?”

“It hasn’t,” Abby said, quickly scanning over her lyrical cultivation a final time. She nodded slightly in approval; brick by brick, baby. “It’s summer work.”

“Really? They give you work over the summer now? They never did that when I was in school.”

“They did, Jack,” Mom called from the kitchen, dry as ever. “I just did all of it for you while we were at work.”

Jack blinked, then let out a short laugh. “That’s what you were doing up there?”

“I didn’t just spend my whole shift flirting with you, Jack. Some of us were actually working.”

Abby snorted. Something settled over Jack that lived somewhere between getting got and quiet recollection. A crash of dishes pulled his attention toward the kitchen. “Need help in there?”

“Nope,” Mom said almost way too quickly. She waved a hand toward the table without turning around. “You two sit down. It’s already done.”

Jack hovered for a second like he might ignore that and step in anyway, but eventually relented. Abby shifted to get up from the couch, tucking her phone beside her. Jack moved first, already a step ahead and reaching out without thinking. He offered a hand, casual and matter-of-fact. Abby rolled her eyes before she took it and used it to steady herself as she stood, more out of a desire not to be in pain than anything else. You could take a doctor out of the hospital, but you apparently couldn’t stop them from treating everything like a team lift.

He let go as soon as she was upright, already turning toward the table like it didn’t mean anything, but Abby noticed the way her mom did too, glancing up just in time to catch the tail end of it before quickly looking away again. 

Mom was already setting plates by the time they made it to the table. Abby plopped into her seat, still rearranging her playlist like it was a bomb she was defusing. Mom set Jack’s plate down first, then turned toward Abby with a pointed look.

“Phone away,” she said, eyes flicking down to the tabletop. “You know the rule.”

Abby sighed but obeyed, tucking it screen-down next to her plate. She was done anyway. Landslide was queued up next. Right on schedule.

As Mom leaned over to hand Abby her plate, her free hand landed lightly on Jack’s shoulder for balance. It was completely absent, totally automatic. Until it wasn’t. Abby fought the squeak of meddling delight that sat in her throat.

Two touches?! Two??

Jack definitely noticed. Abby caught the flicker of something like surprise on his face, though it felt a little too soft around the edges. And then Mom seemed to realize it, too. She pulled her hand back like she’d just touched an open flame, her cheeks burning pink. 

“Sorry,” she mumbled, already turning away, disappearing into the kitchen again under the flimsy excuse of retrieving her own plate.

Abby bit the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning. Two touches. Two . And Mom had flinched like she’d been caught red-handed. Mom stepped into the kitchen just as the opening notes of Landslide drifted in. She paused, just for a breath, then picked up her plate like it hadn’t shaken her.

Bingo. Abby smirked. What’s wrong, Mom? Are you afraid of changes? Too bad.

Emotional trap set, bait taken, and snap . Her plan was going better than expected. Damn, she was good. People were going to study this operation some day. This was the romantic feat of the century.

She settled in her seat and glanced across the table, just in time to catch Jack eyeing the doorway where Mom had vanished, but he didn’t pick up his fork. Didn’t move for his drink. Just sat there, patiently, like he was waiting for something. She would have found it entirely strange if she hadn’t been doing it too. He didn’t start eating until Mom returned and sat down beside him. Abby hid her smile with a forkful of pasta. Grandpa would like that. That was always his rule; he didn’t eat until Grandma sat down. 

Doctor Mullet: 2. Hoodie Guy: zilch. 

Then—nothing.

Nobody spoke for what felt like decades.

Painful, aching silence. The kind that made Abby suddenly hyper-aware of how loud her own breathing was. And chewing. Though, Jack didn’t chew nearly as obnoxiously as Ed had, so that was another point on the scoreboard in his favor.

She glanced between them. God. These two were so emotionally constipated.

Fine. If they weren’t going to talk, she’d just have to be the laxative.

She grimaced. Okay. She didn’t love that metaphor. She’d revisit it later.

“Jack told me Grandpa gave you a speeding ticket,” Abby said casually, twirling her fork into her pasta like this was just polite dinner talk. “I thought you said you’d never been pulled over before?”

Beth shot a look up at Jack, who kept his eyes forward, looking at Abby like she’d just accused him of murder. “Did he now?”

Jack let out a soft groan. “Christ, kid. Are you going to at least slow the bus down before you throw me under it?”

“I cannot believe Grandpa never told me that,” Abby said, eyes wide with delighted betrayal. “I begged him for embarrassing stories about you when I lived with them. Begged. And I got absolutely nothing about his perfect doctor daughter. Finally, someone pulls the veil back on Elizabeth Baker!”

Jack chuckled under his breath. Abby caught the way his expression shifted, just briefly, at the word lived before he recovered.

Mom made a sound that was mostly exasperation and maybe just a little bit amused. “Did Jack also mention that I wasn’t actually speeding, and that Grandpa clocked me while he was driving in the opposite direction?”

Jack snorted. “You’re still selling yourself that?”

“I’m not selling anything!” Mom shot back, her words stumbling into a laugh. “I was not speeding.”

“You drove like a bat outta hell, Baker.”

“Hmm,” Mom said, a little smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Pretty sure that was you. I was a great driver. Still am.”

Abby leaned back in her chair, quietly pleased. Call her MiraLAX, because things were finally moving.

Jack gestured with his glass, not even trying to hide his grin. “If you were such a great driver, Baker, then what happened with Atkinson’s car?”

Beth’s fork froze halfway to her mouth, shooting daggers up at Jack who just kept smiling. “Do not tell her that one.”

“Oh my god, tell me, ” Abby said, practically vibrating with glee. Forcing her mom into a weird dinner with a guy she obviously still had a thing for and Abby got embarrassing stories about her out of it too? Jackpot. This was better than anything she imagined on the drive home from the hospital.

“Alright,” Jack said, leaning back like he’d just been handed a mic. “High school. School parking lot's empty. Your mom was still there for cheer practice or some shit–.”

“It was debate team practice.”

Jack side-eyed her with a smirk. “Oh, excuse me. Debate practice; like you needed any help with that. Thanks for interrupting, nerd. Anyway, there’s only one car parked anywhere nearby. The vice principal’s sedan, just sitting there, minding its own business in the row behind your mom. Probably four spots down. And your mom, Queen of Spatial Awareness, throws it in reverse and just—wham. Right into it.”

Mom groaned and dropped her face into her hands, but she was already laughing. “That is not how it happened.”

“Oh, it absolutely is,” Jack said, nudging her with his elbow. “There was one car to avoid and you managed to hit it.”

Mom gave his arm a light swat. Oop. Touch three. “He was parked too far forward!”

“Oh, cut the shit, Baker. You didn’t even look, ” Jack said, laughing. “You just slammed it into reverse and hoped God was watching for you.”

“I was sixteen!” she protested, sitting up straight, wine glass in hand. “And I did look!”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “Sure. Looked directly through it.”

Mom shook her head, but her smile tugged wider, real now. She took a sip of wine, her elbow still resting against Jack’s. Neither of them jumped away from each other like they had on Touch #2. So… Touch #4? Kind of? Abby watched them continue to bicker, though there was zero bite to it. Her mother’s cheeks were pink and glowing, and Jack hadn’t stopped looking at her since the story started. Abby didn’t even care that she wasn’t getting a word in anymore. She was counting it. Touch #4.

There we go. Now we’re talkin’. Let’s go for five, folks. Keep walking down memory lane.

The laughter settled into a warm hum around the table until the song on the kitchen speaker changed. It started slow, just a few low guitar chords and a female voice that sounded like she was singing directly into a diary. Abby didn’t recognize it, but the vibe shift was instant.

Both Mom and Jack went still. Not dramatically, not all at once, but their postures subtly straightened. Jack’s hand, which had just been gesturing with his fork, suddenly became very invested in corralling a lone penne across his plate. Mom took a long sip of wine and avoided everyone’s eyes… except Jack’s. For a fraction of a second, her gaze flicked sideways.

Jack looked up. Not directly at her, exactly. Just…vaguely in her direction; like he was pretending to be more at the photo hanging beside her, the one of Mom in her denim jacket holding Abby as a baby at the Garden of the Gods, like maybe it had just become the most fascinating thing in the room. But his jaw shifted just enough to betray something.

Interesting.

Abby blinked, curiosity flaring. Okay, what was that? Something happened. Now what? And why? And how can it happen, like, six more times tonight?

She slowly slid her phone toward her, eyes still on the two people across the table now very invested in not looking at each other, and checked the screen.

Jewel – “You Were Meant For Me.”

Abby raised an eyebrow. Noted. Thanks, Jewel. The band or person. Whatever you are. She pushed her phone aside, lifted her fork, and made no comment as Jack cleared his throat and Mom took another drink; this time, a far bigger one.

Jack cleared his throat and finally looked at Mom. “Didn’t know you moved back home. How long were you with your folks?”

“She didn’t. Just me,” Abby said, twirling her fork. “I stayed with Grandma and Grandpa while Mom was in New York during the pandemic.”

Jack looked over, eyebrows lifted the way people usually did when Abby dropped that little nugget of humble-brag on them. “Shit… You went? When?”

Mom gave a small nod. “Right at the start of everything. Just for four months. March to June.”

“Where were you?”

“Brooklyn,” she said. “One of my girlfriends from med school works at Methodist. They needed people, so I went on a deployment contract and stayed with her. It was…” 

Mom went quiet, and Abby immediately regretted bringing it up. She didn’t talk much about New York. It was like she didn’t have the words for that time, like the story had hardened into silence. 

Abby remembered the FaceTime calls. The ones from the hospital break room where respirator marks curled around a smile that never really looked like hers. She always said she was fine, even though her eyes always looked like she was crying. That everything was fine. That she couldn’t wait to take Abby there when it was all over before she’d change the subject and ask Abby what she had done with her grandparents that day.

“I’m glad I went,” she said finally. 

Jack’s eyes were already on her, but he didn’t say anything.  He didn’t nod. Didn’t smile. Just kept looking at her in that quiet way that said he got it. Like he remembered the kind of person she was. Like maybe he had never forgotten.

Abby felt the strange prickle of something private happening in front of her, like she wasn’t meant to be there for this part, but also wouldn’t have missed it for anything. She was finally getting to the good part. Yes, Doctor Mullet. Look at my amazing, selfless, gorgeous mom. Look at what you missed out on. Keep looking at her like you don’t want to miss anything else.

Mom finally glanced over at Jack, just briefly, then back down at her plate. Abby could’ve sworn she was holding her breath.

“That sounds like you,” he said softly. “You were always like that.”

“Like what?”

“Brave.”

Oh damn. Should she excuse herself? She felt like she needed to. Especially when Mom’s eyes dropped to her plate, away from Jack’s gaze. Was this a moment? Were they having a moment? Oh my god, this is a moment. This was better than the Jewel-the-band-or-person thing. Maybe she should humble-brag about Mom more often if it meant handsome doctors looked at her like they were in an episode of Bridgerton.

Atlas padded over to the table and plopped onto his butt beside her, his head resting in her lap and tail thumping against the hardwood like a heartbeat. Abby leaned back into her chair and absently scratched his head, listening to Jack ask Mom a question about New York—and suddenly, the conversation she’d had to drag out of them started back up without a hitch.

You’re very welcome, idiots.

She wasn’t even sure when she stopped being a participant in the conversation. One second she was pulling teeth to get someone to say something, and the next, she needed to interject less and less, like she was being gently phased out. A guest star in a bottle episode.

They were talking. Like, actually talking. About Mom’s med school days in San Francisco and how she toured the Lucasfilm lobby, like, three times and drove five hours to Redwood National Park so she could walk through Endor (because of course she did). About Jack’s first deployment. Their residency horror stories. Story after story, back and forth like they’d rehearsed this in a different lifetime. She could’ve sworn she saw Mom’s posture relax. Jack’s eyes soften. At one point, they both laughed at the same time, and it wasn’t even awkward or mismatched; it was in sync. And adorable. How dare they.

It was like watching two planets slowly drift back into the same orbit, and Abby was just out here in the cold with her pasta and questions. She didn’t mind. Not one bit.

She watched Mom rest her chin on her fist, a slow, quiet smile tugging at the corners of her mouth as Jack gestured through another story, clearly enjoying whatever part of it Abby had missed. And he kept glancing at her mom in that quiet, unwavering way, like she was a book he used to know by heart and hadn’t realized how badly he’d missed rereading.

There wasn’t anything happening happening. Not technically. But it also felt like something was . Just not for her, but for something that lived in the spaces between their words, in glances and pauses and the exact way her mom tucked her hair behind her ear when she thought no one was looking.

But what she really paid attention to, more than the stories, the laughter, even the way Mom smiled, was the way Jack watched her.

It wasn’t obvious. Well, it was obvious. But not in a flashing-lights-and-arrows kind of way. It was quiet. Careful. Like he didn’t want to look too long but couldn’t help himself. Like he was checking for something; damage, distance, an opening. And every now and then, when Mom wasn’t looking, he’d just… settle. Like seeing her again undid something in him the same it seemed to in Mom.

And maybe that’s what scared Abby the most.

Because Mom wasn’t going to say anything if it had. She never did. She was good at that, letting people think that she didn’t need anyone. Letting people think that she was fine. Letting Abby think she was fine. And, okay, maybe she was fine. Maybe she did like her nights alone on the couch with a glass of wine and Law and Order: SVU and her true crime podcasts and her books she’s read a million times. Maybe alone was better. But maybe being alone had just started to feel easier than hoping for something else. Maybe alone was easier than being left. Abby knew what it was like to be left, too, and what it was like to pretend it didn’t matter. It wasn’t better. It wasn’t easier. 

Her mom had done that for a long time. She said she was fine—always just fine—with that shrug like she didn’t want to talk about it anymore. But at least she had Abby. She had someone to eat dinner with, and to remind her to eat after the hard shifts. Someone to sit with on the couch when it rained and the power went out. Someone to say goodnight to. Abby had always been the one person who made it feel less lonely; who made the house a little fuller, the quiet a little softer.

But soon she’d be leaving. College. Dorms. A new life. Now Mom would only have that over summers and holidays until college became med school and med school became residency and a life that would no longer orbit around this house. Soon, it would be just Mom again. Alone. 

She hated the thought of her mom coming home to an empty house. A too-quiet living room. A TV left on just for the sound of it. She’d say that she didn’t mind. She’d say that it was good for Abby, that she was proud, that she liked the quiet. But Abby knew better. Mom had already spent too many years filling silences no one else heard. Her mom was good at being alone, but that didn’t mean Abby wanted her to be. She shouldn’t have to be. And from the way Mom looked at Jack? She didn’t want to be lonely anymore either. Not really. 

So, call it what you want. Matchmaking, manipulation, emotional sabotage. She didn’t care. She was going to make this happen. Whatever it took until these two dumbasses figured it out themselves.

She was going to Parent Trap the shit out of this.

…Wait. Was it still considered a Parent Trap if only one of them was your actual parent, the other was her high school ex-boyfriend, and you didn’t have a secret twin?

Whatever. Semantics.

She was going to Kinda-Parent Trap the shit out of this.

[odysseys-blood]

its funny when ppl have expectations for you and you just feel lost and like ur not really supposed to be here but u have no clue where you should be either

[parasite-core]

Ok this could be very interesting. I have too many OCs to think of every combination, so I’ll just go with what I think would make the most interesting changes.

Roland and Mau: Both ended up in an orphanage at a young age, but Roland was in Westcrown in infernal Cheliax, while Mau was in Riddleport. Riddleport still isn’t a nice place, but it is SIGNIFICANTLY better than Westcrown. Roland probably wouldn’t have been adopted by Mau’s mothers, because they specifically took in children with disabilities that made them unlikely to be adopted otherwise. He might have been adopted by the people who adopted Mau’s brother though, which I’ve always imagined would turn out to be pirates or thieves picking up suggestible new recruits. Mau on the other hand would not have the means to run away from the Westcrown orphanage and successfully survive on the streets due to his bad leg. So unfortunately there’s a high likelihood he would either age out of the system and fall through the cracks, or more likely be adopted by a diabolist needing a sacrifice.

Calio and Ileark: Ok this one’s going to be long. So assuming they have the same biological parents and just got switched somehow, this one would be unusual. Because Ileark’s birth mother is the goddess of nightmares, so even if he was switched with Calio she’d still have no problem doing exactly the same thing to Ileark she did in his canonical past. So the only real difference for Ileark would be that he was raised in Irrisen with regular innkeeper parents until Alazhra started shadowing him. He wouldn’t have the knowledge of Desnan teachings to draw him towards travel, and knowing Calio’s parents they would try to take him away to somewhere else in the hopes of keeping him safe, which obviously would fail. I suspect eventually without running to protect people, there would start being actual deaths associated with Alazhra’s continued presence. Without Desna’s teachings to hold onto to remain strong and to not pile blame on himself, I think he’d feel more monstrous about being a changeling, even though Calio’s parents would be just as accepting and loving as Ileark’s canon family. But being raised by generally good people with sound morals, I think there’s still a chance Ileark would deny Alazhra’s path for him, although he’d probably have to think about it a lot more, and depending on circumstances there’s definitely a higher chance he *might* agree to become the new Alazhra. On the other hand, Calio would be raised by Desnans in a sleepy little town, and never went through the ritual done to him by some of Elvanna’s agents. He’d still have been born with the darkness in Irrisen inside him, and he would probably still be a difficult child, but he would have a lot less of a path forward towards perceived greatness. I think he’d still feel drawn somewhere by his ties to Irrisen, but without knowing he was from there I don’t think he’d ever figure out where he felt he wanted to go. He might actually go on a Desnan pilgrimage as an excuse to travel and try to find what’s calling him, but even if he were to make it to Irrisen, he’d be there at a different place and time, so chances are he’d never die, get raised, become the Grimm Rider, die again, get amnesia, and help save the world. At most he might have ended up dead, but without Keisuke he’d stay that way.

The other option is if their birth parents were switched as well. In that case, Ileark would grow up in Irrisen. Unless he also was born with the darkness in him, there would be no reason for the Winter Witches to target him, and so his family wouldn’t move to Ustalav to escape. Ileark would have an extremely normal life and probably take over the family business as an innkeeper. Calio, though. He is not the sort to run. He would probably try to confront Alazhra, even as a teen. I’m not sure how that would go. But ultimately if he were eventually given the chance to become the new Alazhra like Ileark, he would jump at the chance for power. He would revel in being god of nightmares and night hags.

Umbrolus and Draven: One of these two got the short end of the stick in this swap and it isn’t Draven. Technically speaking if they were swapped at birth, Draven would have been raised by Umbrolus’ birth parents who abandoned him as a baby, since Draven isn’t a tiefling so they wouldn’t have abandoned her. But that’s no fun, so I’m switching them when Umbrolus was found abandoned by Aethervox. If Draven were raised by Aethervox, she wouldn’t have grown up thinking she was a dragon, unlike Umber, because she is very obviously not a dragon. She would have had her gender revelation at a much younger age growing up with a non-binary dragon parent. She also probably wouldn’t have become particularly religious, definitely not a fervent follower of Iomedae. She’d probably have left home younger than Umbrolus, and would have travelled around Cheliax. Honestly I’m not 100% sure she wouldn’t have become an Asmodeus worshipper while traveling, I could see this version of Draven finding a certain appeal to his stringently lawful doctrine.

On the other hand…poor Umbrolus. Assuming Draven’s family was still tortured and killed by Jerribeth despite Umber not having Draven’s cursed luck, then Umbrolus would end up severely changed from the big puppy he normally is. He’d be raised in the local temple of Iomedae like Draven was, but instead of aiming to become a warpriest and try to protect others from having their lives torn apart by demons, Umbrolus would become an avenging knight. He would be solely focused on killing as many demons as possible until he dies himself. You know I based part of Draven’s backstory on Berserk, but if Umbrolus were in her place he’d be WAY more like Guts than Draven ever was.

if two of your ocs ended up being switched at birth, how different would they be?

[stagefoureddiediaz]

Something something about us being shown Eddie developing his cooking skills before buck - that were shown Eddie being able to cook a full meal (and bake) before were shown Buck doing the same thing. And something something about that foreshadowing Eddie having his full feelings realisation before buck.

Eddie’s cooking skills are on display in 5x11 outside looking in when he cooks dinner for buck Chris and Taylor - and he’s baked cupcakes for desert as well.

But we don’t actually get shown buck cooking a full meal until the 6x01 lasagne. He’s only got as far as breakfast foods when he makes Maddie an omelet in 2x04 stuck but we don’t get shown him actively cooking again until he makes the lasagne.

After that its hit and miss on the cooking and baking front for buck - burnt lasagne in a 7 and I’m assuming his baking isnt that great in 8x07 by the way Chim has one bite and then pushes the loaf away before he masters the ziti, garlic bread etc in 807 and then later the scones in 8x08.

[mwphisto]

LaDs Men and Some of Their Kinks

Includes: Xavier, Rafayel, Zayne, Sylus, and Caleb x implied female reader (separate of course)

Warning, this post includes: somnophila, dacryphilia, brat taming, scent kink, squirting, masturbation, master/pet play, spitting, cockwarming, and more.

A/N: I finished all of my work for university! Now I just have a final presentation next week (which I already did), and then I'll have earned my bachelor's degree! Now I can do some celebratory smutty writing to get back into the swing of things :)

Xavier

Somnophilia is high up there on Xavier's list, but not because he wants to use your body while you sleep. No, Xavier wants you to use him while he is somewhere far off in dreamland. He really wants to wake up to you with his cock down your throat. Even better? He's positive he'd cum on the spot if he woke up to you riding him.

Mutual Masturbation could send Xavier into a frenzy. He loves watching you pleasure yourself, especially when your eyes are glued to the way his fist pumps up and down his length. But he can never truly handle it for long, losing his composure before either of you can make yourselves cum. You're just too cute for him to resist.

Outdoor sex is right up Xavi's alley, though it really should count as he loves fucking you on his balcony. Xavier is quite accustomed to falling asleep in the cozy paradise he has put together on his balcony. Which means, it's also well equipped for him to fuck you stupid. Maybe it's the thrill of someone hearing, perhaps even seeing, or maybe his need to make sure everyone knows you are his (looking at you, Charlie). Regardless, he's rather fond of making you his.

Rafayel

Master / Pet had started off as a joke, almost an inside joke between the two of you after Ebb day had passed. Then, slowly, the joking terms of "pet" and "master" made their way into your intimacy. It didn't matter who donned what role; it just depended on the mood and perhaps even the situation that led both of you to the bed.

Squirting, Rafayel is utterly addicted to it. The first time he got you to cum that intensely, he ended up cumming himself. The lemurian isn't satisfied anymore if he doesn't end up soaked in your juices. He'll go as far as to ensure you are well hydrated before making any moves. This man has done his research, and so far it hasn't failed him.

You're his real-life canvas. Rafayel was shocked that you agreed the first time he asked the question. You had shamelessly stripped for him, nothing but a pair of panties clinging to your ass and hips. Your skin was his canvas, and the gentle, cool strokes of the paintbrush had goosebumps erupting across your arms. He didn't think it was possible to fall more in love with you than he already was, nor did he think it was possible to crave you as badly as he did when he dragged the paint-slick brush over the swell of your tits.

Zayne

Brat-taming just comes naturally for Zayne. Lucky for him, being a brat just happens to be second nature for you. Cool, calm, collected Zayne being pushed to his limits over and over again until he finally cracks. It's the outcome you've been craving from your stoic lover. And once you got it - ass cheeks bruised and your entire lower half being so sore that you're limping - you find that you're utterly addicted. Good thing your lover is on the same page.

Quickies in public spaces are a guilty pleasure. Everyone always expects Zayne to be so good, to follow the rules. Stepping out of line is far more addictive than being the goody two-shoes he's been his whole life. Having you half undressed, speared on his cock while your back is pressed into his desk? Your tits bouncing as you ride him in the front seat of his sports car? Fingering you while you sit beside each other in a dimly lit and crowded restaurant? He's on cloud nine.

Recording your little escapades had been the outcome at the end of the spiral. A spiral you started one evening as you bounced yourself stupid on Zayne's cock, the legs of the couch creaking under your efforts. You were being bratty, and he hadn't quite crossed the threshold yet to feel comfortable putting you in your place. Testing your limits, you had reached for your phone and began taking pictures of you and him as you ground down on his dick. Faces flushed and eyes glossy, Zayne still had those selfies on his phone, under a special album only he could see.

Sylus

Dacryphilia caught Sylus by surprise. He didn't realize how badly it would turn him on until you were choking on his cock with fat streams of tears flowing down your cheeks. You looked like such a mess, so utterly destroyed and he hadn't even gotten into that sweet pussy yet. Bless him, he came before he could warn you, too entranced by your sobbing face and mouth full of his dick to speak.

Cockwarming you has been Sylus' favorite activity besides getting to love you so thoroughly it left you breathless. He wants to be close to you, as close as his body could get and as close as you'd allow. Even on nights when you two haven't made love, he'll ask you rather shyly if he can slip it in. Much to his pleasure, you always let him, especially since you know he sleeps much better when he gets to hold you close... inside and out for that matter.

Sex toys are not off limits for Sylus, honestly, he quite enjoys them. He's well aware of his capabilities and, in turn, he is well aware of his limitations. He can finger fuck you until you're crying, sure. But shoving a vibrating dildo in that pretty little cunt is far more amusing to him. He gets off on having the control, watching your entire body tremble from vibrations so intense that nothing he could do himself would ever get close to replicating. His trick is that you don't get any access to the toys he uses on you. They are his use only, taken out just to drive you mad before he gives you what he really wants. You genuinely have no idea where your lover hides them afterwards.

Caleb

Spitting but not in a way you'd think. Caleb wants you to spit in his mouth, on his dick, use it as extra lubricant. Doesn't mean Caleb will deny you if you ask him to spit on or in you, but god does he crave the feeling of your saliva coating his tongue. He wants to devour you whole, in any way he can, spit included.

Power play is right up his alley. As long as you are consenting, Caleb will go to whatever extreme you desire. It could be as simple as using "yes, sir" or "yes, ma'am" or as complicated as full-on BDSM with safe words and real leather, cuffs, gags, and paddles. Whatever you're willing to give him to fulfill the fantasies, the colonel is willing to accept, and never once will he complain.

A big ole scent kink, he can't help it, you just smell so utterly addicting, it drives him insane. Your shampoo, your body wash, your perfume, your sweat, your arousal. You name it, if it's something on or from you, Caleb will probably love it. You didn't realize it started with your worn panties, ones he stole from the hamper after you would hop in the shower. Caleb was a pervert for it, and he knew it damn well, but it didn't stop him from fucking his fist while inhaling the heady scent of your dirty panties.

[iloveacaibowls111]

𝜗𝜚 ‧₊˚ ⊹

18+ MDNI, smut

dilf!toji wants a kid pt. 2

you don’t move.

can’t, really.

not with the way your breath is still caught somewhere in your chest, skin hot where toji just kissed you, where his palms were wrapped around you like he owned every inch. and god, you don’t even need to look down to know your robe is a mess - half-slipped off your shoulder, loosely tied at your waist, the heat of his body still lingering like static.

from the kitchen, you hear cereal being poured with the chaos only a toddler can summon. clinks. sloshes. maybe a plastic spoon hitting the ground.

toji’s already out the door, heavy-footed and shirtless, muttering something like “gimme a sec, bud” while grabbing the milk from the fridge.

it gives you just enough time to almost pull yourself together.

almost.

because two minutes later, he’s back - and he means business.

he doesn’t say a word. just closes the bedroom door behind him with a soft click, strides over to you like a man possessed, and then he’s on you again.

“been thinkin’ about this all morning,” he rasps, one knee pressing between your thighs as he walks you backward toward the bed. “you on the rug like that, bein’ all sweet with him…”

his hands are already undoing your robe, slipping it off your arms, letting it pool onto the floor like it never mattered. you’re left bare in front of him, flushed and aching, and the way he looks at you - almost feral - makes your knees almost give out.

toji catches you with a low grunt, arms solid as steel around your waist.

“i mean it,” he mutters, dragging his lips along your collarbone. “you’re killin’ me.”

he lifts you again, like you weigh nothing and this time lays you out across the bed. slow, almost careful. but there’s nothing gentle about the way he settles between your legs, dragging his mouth down your sternum, over the swell of your chest.

you let out a shaky breath, thighs twitching as his hand trails up to your breast, palm warm and broad and desperate.

“toji-” you gasp when he flicks your nipple with his tongue, followed by a greedy suck that sends sparks down your spine.

his voice is wrecked when he pulls back, thumb dragging over the damp mark he left behind. “should’ve locked the damn door.”

you let out a shaky laugh, hand curling in his hair. “you’re the one who left it open.”

“yeah, and i’m about to do a whole lot more if you keep lookin’ like that.” his mouth returns to your skin, kissing a path down your belly - slow, aching, possessive.

and then you feel it: his fingers brushing between your legs, groaning when he feels how wet you already are.

“…fuck,” he mutters, burying his face in the crook of your thigh for a moment like he’s overwhelmed. “you’re so perfect, doll.”

his fingers slip in with ease, thick and precise, curling at just the right spot as he watches your mouth fall open and listens to your soft whimpers. he keeps you on the edge - pushing, pulling, teasing. his name falls from your lips over and over, half-pleas, half-prayers.

just when as you feel that familiar coil in your stomach about to come undone around his hand.

just when you’re gasping, about to come undone around his hand, he pulls away.

“not yet, baby,” he says, voice tight with restraint. “wanna feel you around me when you cum.”

he strips out of his sweatpants fast, like they offended him, and you get your first look at how hard he’s been this whole time - cock flushed, leaking, twitching at the tip as he lines himself up with a low groan.

“i should take my time,” he murmurs, rubbing the head of his length against your soaked folds. “but I need you too much, doll.”

when he finally pushes his cock in - thick and deep - the stretch burning in the best way. the pure size never fails to reduce you to a moaning mess. 

you grab at his back, nails digging in as he bottoms out, voice catching on a soft, “toji-“

“shh,” he says, his forehead pressed to yours. “i got you.”

and then he starts moving - slow at first, rolling his hips deep until your eyes flutter shut, then faster, harder, chasing the way your breath stutters every time he hits just right.

when you felt his tip hit that one spot. the one that makes everything in your mind go blank. you let out a sweetened whimper as he says “ahh, there it is.”

you’re a mess under him. head thrown back. hair fanned across the pillow. his name tumbling from your lips like it’s the only thing you know.

“feel that?” he pants, hand pressing down on her stomach where there is a slight outline of his cock.”you take me so damn good. you really must want to be a mommy again.”

every thrust is rougher, needier, but still full of something tender - like he’s trying to give you something, not just take.

“gonna give you another baby,” he says lowly, voice breaking against your ear. “you want that, don’t you?”

you can’t even answer. you were too fucked out at this point.

you could just manage to nod, gasping, legs wrapping tight around him like instinct.

and that’s it for him. he groans your name - growls it, really - and leans down to kiss you hard, hips jerking as he spills his cum inside you with a low, broken sound.

he keeps moving even after, slower now, riding it out, brushing kisses across your cheeks and jaw while your bodies tremble together.

finally, he stills - sweaty, panting, arms caging you in like he never wants to let you go.

“you good?” he murmurs, brushing a thumb over your cheek.

you smile dazedly, still catching your breath. “…next time, we’re going to need more time.”

right on cue-

“mom! dad! the cereal’s too soggy now!”

toji groans against your chest. “i swear this kid is pickier than gordon ramsay.”

“i know,” you say, grinning. “but right now, you’re on milk duty.”

A/N: Sorry guys this is kinda cheeks because this is really rushed

part one here

[lvrsfilm]

Lieutenant Simon Riley has a favorite nurse. She's sweet as sugar and polite, stitching up every bloodied soldier with gentle words and touches so light they barely feel the push and pull of the suturing. Appreciative, whether they return the soft conversation or not. He likes the way she floats around the medical wing, the way she smiles softly at everyone, even him. He's sure she knows what he's been doing, but she isn't stopping him, so he assumes she doesn't mind.

Every morning, without fail she gets up and comes into the wing in a different colored pair of scrubs. A new color every day, never the same one twice in a week. She sits at the front desk or at another station somewhere around and sips a can of ginger ale through a straw, pretending she doesn't see Simon's eyes on her while she works.

"Wha's it t'day?" Simon says gruffly as he approaches her, bypassing the other nurses almost completely. "Blackberry," She says softly, looking up at him and displaying the can. He takes a look at her scrubs, and of course, they're a dark purple, matching the can. It suits her, he thinks. Not an obnoxious shade, one that matches her skin tone well. "Good?" He asks her, like he always does. "Not my favorite,' she says as she sets the can back down. He hums lowly in reply as his eyes linger on the fabric of her scrubs, the way the cloth dips over her soft curves.

"You hurt?" She asks him cheekily, "Or just taken an interest in the medical field?" He grunts, pulling his eyes away from her scrubs and meeting her own. "Nae," He says lowly. "Just passing by," he adds, shoving his gloved hands into his pockets to keep from touching her. Or reaching out to smooth out a wrinkle in her clothing, or tucking some of her hair behind her ear.

He doesn't know what else to say, wanting to keep her attention on him. "Suits ya," He ends up saying softly, trying to sound as gruff as possible, but his eyes are trained on hers, his hazel eyes staring into her own irises. "The purple." He grumbles, cursing inwardly because why is he acting like he's never spoken to a pretty bird before?

"Thank you, Lieutenant." She says sweetly, a nice red tinting the apples of her cheeks. Simon shifts his weight from one foot to the other, unsure what to say next. Small talk hasn't ever been his strong suit, but walking away feels wrong, like cutting a thread that’s barely started to weave.

"You sure you're alright?" she asks again, but this time there's something softer in her voice. A note of genuine curiosity, her hands stilling on her keyboard. "You don’t usually linger this long."

He scowls—not at her, but at himself for being so obvious. "Dinnae know I was bein’ timed," he mutters, stuffing his hands deeper into his pockets.

She chuckles, the sound low and warm. "You’re not. Just... noticed, is all." Her gaze flicks over him, quick and subtle, like she’s trying to piece him together without openly prying. She's familiar with Simon, knows how private he is. "Busy morning?"

He shrugs. "Same as usual. Training, Paperwork."

Her lips quirk upward in a faint smile, but there’s a shadow of worry behind her eyes. "Sounds like you could use a break."

"Aye," he says gruffly, a hand leaving his pocket to scratch at the base of his balaclava. "Reckon this is it."

Her smile softens at that, and for a moment, neither of them speaks. There’s a weight in the air, something unspoken that presses against his chest, and hers. He wants to say more, to keep her talking, but the words are tangled up in his throat.

"Y’know," she says after a pause, "I think purple might actually suit you too."

His brows furrow softly, squinting at her a bit behind the mask, and for a split second, he wonders if she’s teasing him. But her expression is sincere, her eyes glinting with a quiet kind of amusement.

"Me?" he scoffs, shaking his head. "Don’t reckon that’s in regulation."

She shrugs lightly, leaning against the desk. "Wouldn’t hurt to try. Maybe a mask or something. Just a little color." There’s a playful glint in her eyes now, and he feels the corner of his mouth twitch despite himself.

"Don’t think I’d pull it off," he mutters, though there’s a faint warmth creeping up his neck, hidden by the black fabric.

"I disagree," she says softly, and the weight of her gaze feels heavier than before. He looks at her then, really looks, and finds himself rooted to the spot.

"You always this cheeky with the patients?" he grumbles, trying to mask the fact that she’s gotten under his skin.

"Only the ones who hover around the nurses' station without a good excuse," she quips, her smile widening just a fraction. "But I don’t mind. You’re welcome anytime, Lieutenant."

His heart gives a traitorous thump at her words, but he swallows it down and grunts in reply. "I’ll hold ya to that," he says, his voice rougher than he intends.

As he turns to leave, her voice calls him back again, soft and lilting. "Oh, and Simon?"

He stops dead in his tracks. She’s never used his name before. Slowly, he turns his head to glance at her, his hazel eyes locking onto hers.

"Next time," she says, lifting her can of ginger ale in a mock toast, "you could at least bring one of these to share."

His lips twitch into something dangerously close to a smile. "Aye," he murmurs, his voice low. "I’ll see what I can do."

And as he walks out of the wing, he finds himself already wondering what color she’ll be wearing tomorrow.

[landologged]

GG, Norris

Pairing: lando × gf!reader

Genre: graphic smut, oral sex (m → f) under a desk ;), semi‑public/twitch risk, brat‑taming, dom!lando & mouthy reader, humiliation kink, breeding talk, dirty talk, possessive behaviour, consensual power play, established relationship

Description: Lando’s been a gremlin all day—yanking your hoodie strings, tossing socks, and chirping over you every chance he gets. When he goes live, you crawl beneath the rig and silence him with your mouth while thousands watch none the wiser. He tries to keep composure; you dismantle it. Stream ends, revenge flips to punishment, and somewhere between the threats and the afterglow he whispers the kind of promise that could ruin you in the best way.

notes: im not sorry, word count is 5k

Lando’s been insufferable all day—mouthing off with that cocky little smirk like he doesn’t deserve to be dropkicked down a flight of stairs. He kept poking at you—tugging your hoodie drawstring when you were mid-sip of coffee, talking over you just to mimic your voice, tossing socks at you from across the room like some feral child. And now, the little shit’s live on Twitch, backlit in RGB glow like some overgrown gamer gremlin, laughing with Max like they’re both not moments away from divine punishment.

You slink past his racing rig and stupid ergonomic chair, a silent predator in sweats and a tank top that’s just a bit too tight. The headset muffles the rest of the world for him—he doesn’t notice the shift in weight behind his desk, doesn’t register the flicker of your eyes or the deliberate arch of your brow as you crawl under the desk like you own the fucking thing. 

Max is saying something idiotic through the tinny headset—Lando’s wheezing, practically giggling, “Nahhh mate, I’d still smoke you even if you had DRS in bed.”

Instead of answering, you let your hand drift down, slow and mean, gliding from your own knee across the dark stretch of space beneath the desk until your fingertips graze his leg. He doesn't flinch—yet—too caught up in his smug little monologue to clock the shift. But then your palm flattens against the inside of his thigh, deliberate, claiming. Warmth bleeds through the cotton like ink in water, slow and spreading, and you dig in just enough to let him know you’re not here to be cute.  The laughter catches in his throat mid-sentence. His voice jumps a full octave, cracking like a teenager's as he fumbles, tries to swallow the noise back before Max notices– which he fails.

Max pauses. “What was that?”

Lando’s legs stiffen beneath your hand. You feel the tension coil all the way up to his hip, a ripple of sheer panic trying to mask the unmistakable pulse already starting to throb under your fingers. His joggers do little to hide the way he’s swelling, thickening, betraying every ounce of self-control he thought he had.

“Uh—a hiccup.” Lando's laugh is sudden and high-pitched, edged with panic. His hand instinctively drops to his lap but stops short, unsure what to do with it. “I think I’m choking—on water. Gimme a sec.”

You hum, low and deliberate, a sound more vibration than voice, letting it roll up from your chest and sink straight into the fabric between his legs. Your mouth opens against the outline of him, plush lips parting just enough to press—not a kiss, not quite. Just heat. You drag your mouth along the length of him through his joggers, every inch a slow, possessive claim, like you’re mapping him out for future destruction. Tongue sliding flat, letting the fabric soak it up, just damp enough to cling to the shape of him.

His cock twitches, eager and betrayed, shifting under the thin material like it’s trying to reach you, to meet you halfway. You don’t speed up. Oh no, you slow down, mouthing him like he’s a lollipop you’re too mean to unwrap. Teeth graze, barely, just enough for nerves to spark awake and skin to goosebump beneath the cotton. The heat of your breath sinks in like a bruise, and when you do it again—open-mouthed, tongue curling under the head through the joggers like you’re licking sugar off the skin of an apple—he breaks. His breath punches out in a strangled hitch, hips jolting forward like the instinct’s not even his own. His legs tense around you, thighs stiffening against your shoulders, not to push you away, never that—but to brace, to survive whatever the fuck this is turning into.

You can feel the way he’s trying to keep still, failing spectacularly. The way his knees tremble just slightly, muscles locking like a man standing on the edge of something deep and slick and inevitable. And you haven’t even gotten his pants down yet.

“...You good?” Max again.

“Y-Yeah. Yeah, just—hydrate or die-drate, innit?” His accent falters on the last syllable as you tug his waistband down, just enough. Just enough for your nails to dig in a little, for your lips to ghost over skin that’s already twitching with anticipation.

You look up, watching his face from the shadows beneath the desk, the glow from the monitor painting him in sinful outlines—blue along his jaw, red flickering in his eyes like he’s caught fire from the inside. His lips are parted, plush and trembling, his tongue darting out to wet them like that’ll help him speak normally through the chaos boiling in his bloodstream. His eyes are glassy, lashes fluttering fast, and his jaw is clenched so tight you can see the tension twitch at the hinge, like he's physically holding himself together with spit and prayer.

He’s trying to look normal—like this is still just a stream, just banter, like he isn’t seconds from sliding out of his own skin. But he’s fucking awful at it. That smug little posture is gone, replaced with a boy unraveling in real time, held together by a desk and a prayer and your mouth hovering dangerously close to the one thing he absolutely cannot control.

He mutes himself with a frantic click of the hotkey.

“Are you fucking serious right now?” he hisses, voice low, shredded, already fraying at the edges. His breath fans hot over his mic. 

You smirk against him. “Keep playing, Norris.”

Then you sink your mouth around him, slow and possessive, and he keens—silent, jaw clenched hard as his head drops back against the chair.

Yeah. He’s not making it out of this stream alive.

You hollow your cheeks, tongue dragging slow and deliberate—like you’ve got all the time in the world and none of it belongs to him. Lando’s hips twitch, one foot knocking into the desk leg with a soft thud that rattles his fancy mic arm. Panic flashes across his face, barely contained, the kind that screams this is the best and worst idea we’ve ever had and I’m gonna cum in thirty seconds and Max is gonna hear it live.

“You alright, bro?” Max’s voice filters through the headset again, casual, cruelly unaware.

“Yup. Peachy.” Lando’s voice is an octave too high. “Just, stretching.”

“Sounded like your desk kicked back, mate.”

You almost laugh, the sound curling at the back of your throat, smothered by the weight of him on your tongue. He’s heavy, twitching, a pulse stuttering beneath the sensitive skin you're dragging your mouth along with surgical precision. But there's no room for giggles—not when he’s splintering in your hands like this, breaking down second by second.

His grip on the armrests is brutal, white-knuckled like the chair might fly off into orbit if he doesn’t anchor himself. Fingers twitching, veins standing out on the backs of his hands like cords about to snap. He looks like he’s bracing for a fucking crash landing, every muscle drawn tight, thighs trembling against your shoulders, breath locked high in his chest like he's afraid if he exhales, he’ll cum right there.

And his neck—oh, his fucking neck. It's flushed, blooming red like spilled wine, the color crawling up from beneath the loose collar of his hoodie and painting its way up the column of his throat to his jawline, delicate and obscene. Like someone hit him with shame and turned the heat to maximum. It’s arousal in high-def, the kind that leaves no mystery—just raw, visual confession. Every time your mouth moves, the flush deepens, his head tips back a little more, and you can see the exact moment he forgets what his own name is.

He unmutes for a second—rookie mistake. “So yeah, like, turn three’s actually—” inhale, hiss, muted again.

Your teeth graze just enough to make his whole body jolt. You can feel the curse bubbling in his throat but he swallows it back with the desperation of a man on the brink. He’s trying to look normal, trying to hold a conversation while his girlfriend is under the desk sucking the literal soul out of him. You feel the curse rise up in his throat, bubbling hot and mean behind clenched teeth. But he swallows it—forces it down with the kind of restraint that hurts to watch. He’s holding onto that last shred of composure like it’s a lifeline, trying to sit still, trying to keep talking, keep nodding, keep pretending this is just another stream.

You see it all—feel it all. The twitch of his stomach, the locked tension in his knees, the way his chest is rising faster than before like he’s run a lap with his mic still on. He’s dying. Glorious, twitching, overstimmed death-by-girlfriend, right there on Twitch dot TV.

Max is talking about tire strategies now. You could not care less.

Lando’s trembling like a leaf in a wind tunnel, one hand inching under the desk like maybe, maybe he can tap out, call a time-out, beg for mercy. But you swat his hand away, sink deeper onto him, and he fucking chokes.

You let up, just a little, lips slick, your voice hushed and syrupy sweet. “Something wrong, babe?”

“Y—You’re gonna be the death of me.”

You grin up at him. “Good. Maybe Max’ll do your eulogy.”

And then you go back down, faster this time, twisting your wrist just enough to make him arch off the chair like he’s been tasered. His breathing’s fucked—shallow, staccato, gasping like he’s drowning in it. Every exhale sounds like it costs him something, punched out in ragged little hiccups, broken up by the frantic clench of his abs as he tries—fails—to keep still. His thighs are shaking now, twitching against your shoulders, his hips stuttering forward helplessly every time your throat flexes around him.

You feel him throb against your tongue, thick and twitching, precum slicking the back of your throat as he tips further into sensory collapse. He’s close. Too close. He knows it. You know it. His body’s already betraying him, every nerve lighting up like someone tripped the emergency alarm.

He mutes again—fingers slapping the hotkey with blind desperation—and croaks out a whisper through clenched teeth, like he’s physically fighting his own orgasm just to speak. “You’re actually evil. You’re—fuck—this is—oh my god.”

Your nails dig into the skin above his knees. You want him to feel every inch of it. Humiliated. Helpless. Falling apart on stream with that good-boy face, talking strategy with Max while your mouth is swallowing his soul inch by inch. He wanted to be smug. Wanted to sass. So, he got what he deserved, streaming in front of thousands with that innocent little “I’m just gaming, guys” voice while his cock’s buried in your throat and his world’s turning to static.

Max keeps talking.

Lando continues spiraling. You, however, keep going, until his legs are trembling like Bambi’s on ice, until he clamps a fist over his own mouth and stifles a moan that might have gotten him permanently banned off Twitch.

“Fuck—fuck, I’m gonna—”

You don't stop. Of course you don't. His thighs are tensing around you like a vice, breath coming in ragged, clipped gasps, and all you do is suck harder—deeper. You flatten your tongue, hollow your cheeks, twist your wrist at the base just enough to grind against that sweet spot, right where your lips meet your hand, and that's it. 

His whole body seizes. One sharp inhale—then silence. His jaw drops open, eyes wide and glassy, pupils blown to hell, and the only sound he manages is this strangled, high-pitched gasp like his entire soul is getting yanked out through his dick.

He comes hard. Violently. No buildup left, no warning, no cool-off—just one catastrophic surge that hits so fast it nearly knocks his headset clean off. The mic light’s still blinking red, but it's not picking up anything coherent—just the wet, broken gasps of a man short-circuiting live on stream. His hips buck once, twice, a desperate, instinctive jerk that punches him further down your throat. His hand scrabbles at the edge of the desk like he's trying to grip onto reality. He doesn’t make a sound—and that silence is deafening.

You feel it—every pulse, every twitch, the thick, hot spurt flooding your mouth like his body’s trying to drain itself in one brutal release. You swallow around it, greedy and unrelenting, and he whimpers. Honest to god, a full-body shiver rips through him, like you just unplugged something vital and he’ll never reboot the same again.

When it's over, he slumps. Muted. Boneless. Useless.

“…You okay, Lando?” Max asks.

Lando clears his throat. “Just finished.”

There’s a pause.

“…The race?” Max says, confused.

Lando closes his eyes. “Yeah. That.”

You lick your lips and crawl back out from under the desk, smug as hell, like you didn’t just commit several crimes beneath the camera frame. You lean in, peck his cheek, and whisper, “Next time, don’t throw your sock at me.”

He exhales like he’s seen god. Or you. Same thing, really.

He shuts down the stream like he’s defusing a bomb—mouse click too loud, movements too stiff, the awkward silence after Max’s “alright, catch you later, bruv” hanging in the room like smoke. The second OBS fades out and the little red dot of "Live" disappears from the corner of his screen, Lando leans back in the chair with the slowness of someone trying very, very hard not to look like he just got soul-snatched under his own desk on the main stage of the internet.

His head rolls toward you.

That look of ungodly levels of boyish spite. The kind that comes from being publicly humbled in the most private way possible.

“You think you’re funny, huh?” he says, voice rough, lazy, dragging over gravel and sin. His eyes track you like you’re prey. “Think you’re clever, crawling under my desk like that, nearly got me banned.”

You smile. Innocent. Shrug like, what, me?

And that’s apparently the wrong answer. Lando stands up so fast his chair screeches against the floor, and you don’t even have time to register the chaos before his fingers are digging into your hips and he’s spinning you around, walking you back, back, back until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the bed and—

You drop like a rock.

He follows, covering you in one smooth motion like a storm front rolling in, all hot breath and twitchy hands and revenge written across his grin.

“You wanna be a brat?” he murmurs, eyes half-lidded, already undoing the hoodie you stole from his closet like he’s got a personal vendetta against it. “Then you’re going to get treated like one.”

“You’re so dramatic,” you tease, breath hitching as he peels the hoodie off and tosses it somewhere across the room like it insulted his whole bloodline.

“I’m a victim, actually.” He pins your wrists down, pushes his knee between your thighs and forces them apart, slow and deliberate. “Live on camera. Absolutely violated. Twitch chat saw me ascend.”

“They only saw your face.”

“And you saw god. So now it’s your turn.”

You try to sass something back—I already did the work or you’re welcome or something equally stupid—but he cuts you off with a kiss that’s all teeth and tongue, no finesse, just need—raw and immediate. He bites your bottom lip hard enough to make you gasp, then chases that sound into your mouth like he’s trying to steal it. It’s messy, greedy, spit-slicked and heady, full of consequences you feel before you even fully register them. His tongue slides against yours, fast, dirty, dominant, like he’s fucking your mouth just to shut you up.

Your thoughts scatter like coins dropped down a storm drain. You barely register the way his hands move until they’re already on you—fingers sliding down your arms in a slow drag that makes your skin light up, trailing heat to your wrists, your sides, your hips. Then he grips. Not gentle. Claiming. Thumbs digging in just above the curve of your ass, yanking you into place with an ease that makes your breath stutter.

He adjusts your body like you’re just a piece of the equation he’s solving. Angles your legs wider. Tilts your pelvis. Lines your hips with his like a weapon locking into its holster. Every motion says mine. Every shift says you’re not getting away.

“No escaping this one,” he mutters against your mouth, already rutting into you like the world’s ending and it’s somehow your fault. “Gonna make you fucking feel it.”

And then he’s rutting into you, grinding hard, slow, mean, the thick line of his cock dragging against you through too much fabric, not nearly enough friction. His hips roll like he’s trying to fuck the regret out of you before he’s even inside, like it’s your fault the world’s on fire and he’s the only one allowed to burn you down.

His hand slides down between you like he’s tuning a high-stakes radio, all intent and zero patience, fingers greedy as sin and twice as confident. He doesn’t hesitate, just slides them under the waistband like he owns the access, the privilege—and fuck, he finds it instantly. Wet. Soaked. You feel the shift in him the moment he registers it—his whole expression flickering into something darker, meaner, more satisfied.

“Ohhh,” he purrs, dragging the word out like he’s tasting it, that fucking grin spreading across his face like oil in water. A menace. A brat. A smug little demon who just found gold under your panties. “Look who’s not so innocent now, huh?”

You scowl up at him, even though it takes everything in you not to arch into the touch. Your breath catches the moment his fingers glide between your folds, slow and maddening, like he’s just checking inventory. Like he’s confirming, with smug fingers and a smirk, that you’re soaked through and so goddamn ready it’s embarrassing.

“I was innocent,” you snap, biting the inside of your cheek to hold composure, “until you started acting like a fucking gremlin all day.”

He doesn't even blink—just grins wider, proud and wicked. “I am a gremlin,” he says, dipping just the tip of one finger in, a slow, cruel tease that makes your thighs twitch. His eyes are locked on yours, watching every flicker of reaction with sick delight, like this is his favorite game and he’s already ten moves ahead. “But you—you crawled under the desk, babe. You woke the demon up. You knew what you were doing.”

“I was avenging myself. It was emotional warfare.”

He laughs—really laughs, head tossed back for a second before he looks down again, still grinning but now it's dark, calculated. “Yeah? We’ll see about that, darling.”

And then he pushes in—two fingers, deep and sudden, no warning, no teasing, just a hard, unapologetic thrust that knocks the air right out of your lungs. The stretch is immediate, obscene, that thick press opening you up so fast your body has no time to think, only react. You gasp, sharp and strangled, hips jerking up into his hand like you’ve been electrocuted. Your nails sink into his arm on instinct, clutching like he’s the only solid thing keeping you from short-circuiting completely. Muscles flutter around his fingers, slick and clenching, already threatening to pull him deeper, to take more, even as your brain tries to catch the fuck up.

“Oh—fuck—Lando—”

“That's the one.” He curls his fingers just so, smirking down at you like a man who just found nuclear launch codes in his back pocket. “You sound so much cuter when you’re not trying to be a little shit.”

You shoot him a glare, trying to form something savage and witty to bite back with, but all that comes out is a broken whimper as he starts pumping his fingers in and out, fast, obscene, squelching sounds already filling the room like he’s making a fucking smoothie with you. You slap a hand over your mouth, scandalized.

“Oh no you don’t,” he growls, grabbing your wrist and pinning it beside your head. “You made me suffer silently on stream. Now you’re gonna sing for me.”

“Y-You’re insane,” you pant, legs spreading wider without meaning to, traitorous body arching off the bed into his hand like a slutty heat-seeking missile.

“Yeah,” he agrees easily, thumb flicking your clit now in tight, fast circles, the way he knows makes you go from sassy to needing an exorcism in under thirty seconds. “You made me come so hard I hit a Windows error sound. You don’t get to talk shit.”

You try. You really try to keep up the banter, to sass something, anything—but he thrusts his fingers in deeper, and your voice cracks into a moan that embarrasses you on a spiritual level. Like the neighbors are gonna know kind of level.

“Thaaaat’s better,” he murmurs, face hovering just over yours, warm breath brushing your cheek. “That’s my good girl. What happened to all that backtalk, huh?”

You hiss through your teeth, grinding against his hand now like a bitch in heat, shameless. “Y-You’re cheating—using your—skills—”

He chuckles, so cocky it hurts. “Uh-huh.”

He pulls his fingers out just as your legs start shaking, cruel bastard that he is, and you let out a noise that could get you arrested in three countries. He sucks those fingers into his mouth, exaggerated, obscene, humming like you’re fine wine and he’s a connoisseur.

Then he’s sliding his boxers down, slow and casual like he’s got all the time in the world—like his cock isn’t flushed dark and aching, already rock fucking hard, already glistening at the tip with precome that beads thick and lazy along the curve of him. It bobs up against his stomach as the fabric clears it, twitching with every heartbeat, a full display of just how wrecked he still is and just how far from finished.

You can’t stop staring. Can’t help it. The way he’s thick and veiny, that curve you know too well, the flushed red of his tip already wet enough to make your mouth water—it’s mean, the way your body reacts without permission, clenching tight like it’s starving for him. Your thighs shift, instinctual and desperate, a slow rub for friction he hasn't even allowed yet.

“What?” he says, tone light, mock-innocent, voice still gravel from groaning your name minutes ago. His hand wraps around the base of his cock and gives it a lazy stroke, slow enough to show off, smearing his own slick over the shaft while his eyes dare you to break. “You gonna apologize yet?”

He punctuates it with a little flick of his wrist—just enough to make a drop of precome slide down the underside, thick and slow.

“Never,” you spit. “Die mad about it.”

Your voice is sharp, but your cunt is soaked, needy, betraying every ounce of sass with a slick heat that clings to him as he shifts closer. He just laughs—low, smug, dangerous—like he’s already decided you’ll be swallowing those words in moans.

Then he lines himself up. His hand wraps around the base of his cock, guiding it down between your thighs with excruciating slowness. The head drags along your folds, thick and pulsing, smearing you open with the kind of pressure that makes your back arch off the bed on reflex. It’s not even in yet—not really—but your whole body shudders, already anticipating the stretch, the slide, the ruin.

“Oh,” he grins, cockhead nudging your soaked entrance, hips rolling forward just enough to catch—not push, not yet, just press. That dangerous little tease of what's coming. “I plan to.”

And he grinds it there, circling slow, obscene, just enough to coat himself in you. Just enough to make your breath stutter and your legs fall open wider, helplessly, hungrily, like your body’s given up on pride entirely. Your clit’s aching from the friction, nerves lighting up with every teasing pass of his swollen tip.

He watches you squirm beneath him, his grin sharpening like a blade. “Hope you’re ready to scream that apology when I’m buried in your guts.”

And then—he pushes.

Slow.

So fucking slow. Not even a thrust—just pressure, the barest push of the head breaching you, thick and deliberate, like he’s forcing your body to recognize him all over again. Like he’s marking every nerve ending with the stretch. Your mouth drops open but nothing comes out—just breath. Just need.

He’s watching your face the whole time, drinking in every flicker of it—your brows twitching, lips parting, that helpless little tremble that crawls up your spine when your body realizes what’s happening. That he’s really doing this. Slow-fucking you like a punishment. Not to be kind. To hurt you in the best fucking way.

The head of his cock pops past the tight ring of resistance, and your whole body jolts like a live wire’s been jammed up your spine. He hisses through his teeth at the way you clench, how fucking wet you are, how you grip him like you don’t want him to leave.

“Ohhh, f-fuck—look at that,” he groans, barely able to speak through the pressure. “She’s pulling me in already. What a fucking slut.”

Then he sinks in another inch—slow, torturous, dragging the thick weight of him against walls already fluttering in anticipation. You gasp, toes curling, nails digging into the sheets like you can anchor yourself to something, anything, before he breaks you. Every ridge, every vein along his shaft feels like it’s scraping against your sanity in slow-motion.

“God, you're tight,” he growls, voice frayed at the edges, forehead resting against yours now, sweat already gathering at his hairline. “You feel that? Every inch, baby. You asked for this.”

And still—he doesn’t thrust.

He feeds it to you, inch by aching inch, until you're stretched wide, stuffed full, practically shaking beneath him. Your cunt spasms around him, greedy and desperate, and the noise you make—high, cracked, needy—goes straight to his fucking ego.

“Fuck, you’re gonna break,” he whispers, voice all grit and glory. “Should I make it worse?”

And then—he slams forward.

One brutal thrust, all the way in, balls flush against you, the sound of skin meeting skin loud and filthy as it echoes through the room. Your scream is instant. He grins like the devil who just cashed a bet.

“Good,” he growls, pulling back just enough before hammering in again, harder. “Let’s see how long you last.”

Your scream barely fades before he’s thrusting again, harder this time, fucking you with that brutal rhythm that says he’s not pacing himself—he’s taking you. His cock slams into you again and again, thick and slick and relentless, dragging a fresh cry out of your throat every time his hips smack against yours.

And he’s talking now—low, filthy, breathless filth right into your ear, every word rough and ragged and soaked in something feral.

“Fuck—you feel that?” he grits out, his hips stuttering just enough to grind that thick cockhead right up against your cervix. “You’re milking me. Gonna make me come in you like it’s fucking biological.”

You claw at his back, eyes rolling, mind fogged with nothing but sensation—his cock splitting you open, heavy balls smacking your ass, every thrust punching your thoughts out through your mouth in gasped curses and broken moans.

He grabs your jaw, forces your gaze back to him. Eyes locked.

“Nah—look at me,” he pants, sweat dripping from his temple, lips wet, voice shaking. “Gonna make you mine for real.”

Then his grip tightens, hand splayed wide over your lower belly like he’s feeling himself from the outside, like he wants to watch his cock bulge under your skin.

“Gonna breed you,” he snarls. “Fuck a baby into you. You hear me?”

You whimper, thighs locked around his hips, cunt spasming around him like your body’s already begging for it—please, fill me, mark me, ruin me.

“I’ll fucking marry you,” he groans, burying himself to the hilt, holding there, twitching deep inside you. “Swear to god. Put a ring on your finger and a kid in your belly.”

Then he pulls back and pounds in again—once, twice, three savage thrusts—wet, deep, loud—and you feel it, that telltale twitch, that low growl in his chest, the way his abs seize against your stomach.

He’s close.

“Gonna fucking fill you up,” he growls, voice raw, ragged, forehead pressed to yours. “You’ll feel it for days—my cum dripping down your thighs, stuck so deep inside you, it’s not going anywhere.”

And then—he breaks.

One final thrust, deep, forced so far into you your legs snap around him and your body locks down, clenching tight—

He roars your name, hips jerking, cock buried deep as he comes—thick, hot, endless. Spurting in waves, flooding your pussy with so much cum you feel it seeping out around him, warm and filthy and perfect.

“Fuckfuckfuck—take it, take all of it,” he groans, shivering against you, cock still twitching, still pumping as he rides it out, thrusting slow and shallow, like he’s grinding his claim into your womb.

His body trembles above yours, slick skin clinging, muscle taut then gone soft as he slumps forward, breath crashing into the crook of your neck. Not all the way gone, not yet—he gives one last lazy grind, a roll of his hips that makes you twitch and sigh against him, the pressure just enough to drag a whimper from your throat.

The comedown hits you both like a sucker punch made of glitter and gravity—one second he’s practically growling into your throat, the next he’s collapsed on top of you like a glorified space heater, sweaty, heavy, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like “fuckin’ deserved that, didn’t I…”

You wheeze under his weight. “You’re crushing me, Norris.”

“I’m post-orgasmic and vulnerable. Be gentle.”

“You just tried to breed me like a feral raccoon.”

“Yeah but emotionally?” he slurs, nuzzling his cheek into your collarbone like he’s recharging. “I’m a soft boy inside.”

You groan and reach up to push his sweat-damp curls out of his face. “Yeah, yeah, you are.”

[sixeyesonathiel]

satoru is absolutely the type to impulsively fuck you on the porch swing.

not in a creepy neighbor-watching kind of way—he’d blindfold the whole damn street if he had to—but in a he can’t stand being more than a foot away from you for longer than five minutes kind of way.

and it’s way worse when you’re out here like this: sunk into the old swing in that thin, slinky sundress that makes him want to misbehave, bare legs stretched out and catching the late afternoon light, your damp hair clinging to your neck because you just stepped out of the shower, all soft skin and slow blinking eyes and a hum stuck in your throat like you don’t know you’re slowly killing him.

you’re sunshine and heat and temptation in its purest form, and the only thing in the world he ever wants to look at again. he’s fucked in the head for you, and it only gets worse the longer he stares.

it starts with a glance. always does. then he’s sitting beside you, thigh pressed to yours, a hand draped lazily over the back of the swing like he’s not already burning with the need to touch you. he’s close, too close, but not nearly close enough for his liking.

and when you stretch, when the hem of that little dress rides up just a bit too high and he catches the barest flash of your inner thigh—he’s gone. cooked. fried. already turning toward you, eyes heavy, smirk lazy. his fingers slide along your skin like they’re remembering it from every lifetime before this one.

he’s a menace but he’s your menace, all long limbs and too-blue eyes and a grin that means trouble and good times and absolutely no self-control.

“you know,” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear, warm breath making you shiver, “i do have a technique for opening those legs.”

you smack his chest with a gasp that’s more amused than offended, trying to glare at him but failing because he’s already pulling you into his lap, coaxing your thighs to part as you straddle him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. like this is where you both belong.

the swing creaks under the shift, wood groaning in protest, but he doesn’t care. not even a little. all he sees is the way your breath hitches when his fingers trail up under your dress, how your lashes flutter when he mouths at your neck, tongue hot and greedy and reverent, like he’s praying with every kiss.

his hands are all over you, palms rough on your waist, thumbs brushing beneath the swell of your breasts like he’s worshipping. like you’re the altar and he’s the faithful, here to kneel. your skin, warm from the sun, tastes like salt and summer and something that belongs to him. he bites down lightly on your shoulder just to feel you jolt. just to feel you cling, your fingers curling in his hair with a gasp.

“satoru, someone could—”

“then let ’em learn something,” he breathes, one hand slipping under your panties, two fingers finding your slick like he’s been waiting for this all day. (he has. he always is.)

he draws soft circles, teasing, slow, watching your face tilt up toward the sky as your hips grind down instinctively. he knows every twitch, every gasp, every soft moan you try to swallow down. god, you make the prettiest sounds when you think no one’s listening. like sighs pulled from somewhere deep in your soul.

he’s hard, throbbing through his boxers, desperate for friction. when you rock against him, he groans into your shoulder, practically whining. he always gets like this with you—like he’s starved. like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to earth. you moan his name, and he swears it’s the closest thing to religion he’s ever felt. holy. grounding. addicting.

he fucks you like he’s obsessed because he is, not fast but deep, slow and grounding, like he needs to carve the shape of you into his memory again and again. like this is the only way to exist. your thighs tremble around him, and he kisses you stupid through the whole thing, open-mouthed and messy, tongue licking into your mouth like he’s drinking you in. hands gripping your ass to keep you flush against him as the swing creaks with every thrust. every movement heavy with heat and want and all the ways he needs you. worships you.

and after everything he’s panting into your shoulder, still inside you, arms locked around your waist like he can’t stand the idea of letting you go. like letting go means the world might end. he sways the swing with one foot, kisses your temple, murmurs, “you’re the best thing i’ve ever come home to.”

as if he didn’t just absolutely ruin the porch furniture. as if you didn’t let him. wanted him to.

as if he’s not already thinking about round two. or dragging you back inside. or building a porch fence tomorrow. or hell, just buying a new swing entirely—reinforced this time. just so he can do it again. safer. slower. longer. louder. with snacks after. because you know he’s bringing fruit and water like a menace.

[suhtorus]

mama's day... again? gojo satoru

fluff ‐ parents au. ₊˚⊹ ᰔ non sorcerers au, slice of life, mom!reader, unnamed 5 and 2yo sons, 8-month-old daughter. a little late, i knoooow u.u

i remember getting this idea back in november, and i can't believe it's been over six months since i started posting these ( ˊo̴̶̷̤ ̫ o̴̶̷̤ˋ)

little sunshines au

it's a no-school day.

it's the weekend.

so, your eldest can't help but groan when satoru shakes him awake. he's allowed to sleep more on no-school days. why is their dad waking them up so early!?

"guys, c'mon. it's mama's day," your husband's hushed words and beaming smile are met with identical mini copies of his own features, their scowling little faces only making him grin wider.

"again?" your toddler's blue eyes seem to burn a hole through satoru's forehead. "when's mochi day?"

"soon."

"when?"

satoru closes his eyes and breathes in. it's too early for him to lose his cool, and he can't have the kids start the day with tears. not today.

"after mama's day. so, if you want your gifts, you have to help papa."

the two boys happily follow after their dad like baby ducklings.

—

there's a rustle followed by incoherent mumbling—incoherent to others, at least.

because to the trained ear of a mother, it's clear how your son mumbles a string of c'mon, c'mon, c'mon in distress.

your eyes open just in time as your toddler knocks over the candle on your bedside table, struggling with the flower bouquet (which is considerably bigger than him).

"hey, you."

it takes almost ten minutes for your husband to realize he's missing a little duckling, rushing to look for his whereabouts once he remembers he has two sons, not one.

"mochi," he whisper-shouts, stressed out already. he enters your shared bedroom, looking at the floor for that white tuft of hair crawled somewhere under the furniture. "mochi, what's taking you– oh, no."

drapped on top of you, gently held in your arms, lies your son as he tells you about mochi day.

"–gifts and fishies, mama!"

you chuckle at his enthusiasm, basking in the warmth of the duvet and your toddler nuzzled in your arms, the familiar baby scent still lingering on his skin.

"hey," your husband nervously interrupts, walking further into the room until he's right next to your side of the bed. "good morning, gorgeous."

his kiss on your lips is short and adoring, his lips pulling up into a gentle smile.

"i caught you guys," you can't help but smile cheekily at his failed attempt to surprise you. "where are my other two babies? you better not left them unsupervised–"

"no, 'course not. be right back! you–" he grabs your toddler from your arms. "–are coming with me."

—

a few minutes later, the door of your bedroom opens, and your baby girl walks in with the help of her dad.

"oh my– is that my sweet little baby?"

your coos earn you an excited squeal from your daughter as soon as her eyes notice you. your husband gently holds her hands as she walks towards you, stumbling over her tiny feet before satoru lifts her up and settles her on the bed with you.

right behind him is your toddler.

"for you, mama."

you take the small box from his hands, ready to bring him up on the bed with you, "thank you, baby."

"hold the kisses. there's more, remember?" satoru reminds your son, and he nods, rushing out of the room before you can even demand a kiss on the cheek.

your two boys walk back in carrying a gift bag—a huge one. after a brief struggle to place it on the bed, both boys huff heavily before smiling proudly at each other.

"what do you say?" satoru tries to give your youngest son a cue, which he obviously misses.

"thank you!"

you can't help but chuckle at his proud little grin, his older brother shaking his head next to him.

"no, mochi. the other thing." your son corrects his baby brother.

"happy birthday?"

"happy mother's day, my angel."

both your husband and son give up, sighing as the toddler now looks confused and utterly lost.

satoru swiftly launches each kid onto the bed before joining as well, needing the cuddles after a hectic morning.

[sooniebby]

The idea of a singer being a stalker instead of them being stalked is something that needs to explored more. Bonus, if the person being stalked isn’t particularly scared about it.

More specifically, the stalker being the reader. Bottom male reader.

A reader who’s always been watching his classmate since junior high school (middle school). The classmate wasn’t anyone special to others, average grades with average looks.

But you didn’t mind, him being average meant you didn’t have to fight for his attention. It was small things, just paying attention to his favorite foods and leaving them in his shoe locker.

Then slowly it blossomed. You made sure he got home safe. You found out what cram school he visited and made sure to leave snacks for him, can’t study on an empty stomach!

Increasingly, you noticed he began to get a bit paranoid, always looking behind himself. But he never made any effort to report you to the police or anything. Even when his friend suggested it at first, he practically shot it down fast.

However, after graduating to senior high school, you soon realized he wasn’t paranoid over you. He was getting bullied.

It didn’t take you long to handle it. Despite being a loner and a bit on the shorter side compared to the bully. There’s nothing a bully can do against castration. It’s quite easy to incapacitate someone who drinks a lot.

After, you expected him to act the same. And while he did—you noticed that he would look over at you in class. The first time it happened you practically had a panic attack and ran out of the classroom. He’s never looked at you at all despite the two of your being in the same class for four years straight.

You briefly wondered if he knew. Certainly acting like that would’ve confirmed his suspicions.

Luckily for you—he seemed to never look your way again. You’d know, you spend most of the day staring at him. When you finally graduated, you couldn’t be happy at all.

You’d failed to get into the university he applied to. Maybe you should’ve paid more attention to school. You were about to just come up with a back up plan when your sister said she wanted to go somewhere with you.

Just your luck, she tricked you in attending an audition at a music competition. You and her used to sing a lot as kids but you had stopped to focus on him. Of course, the devil was out to get you when you both managed to last until the final round.

Privacy wasn’t a thing for you after that. Your sister persuaded you to get signed at a company. Your parents as well since you technically had nothing else going for you—you did fail the exam for each college you tried at. (That was a lie, you had only applied to one)

Before you didn’t need to dress up to stalk him. You were pretty average as well—but now people recognized you. Especially because the company loved to advertise you as a “emo boy.” You took offense to that—just wearing black didn’t make you an emo.

But in any case, you had to start wearing clothes you wouldn’t be caught dead in. Watching him was harder this time… because he was surprising popular at his university. Everyone talked to him more often and invited him to hang out.

You didn’t understand, he didn’t change how he looked. In any case, you thought he was handsome first. You had dibs. It was getting increasingly difficult to just standby as men and women flirted with him.

Then your worst nightmare happened—he had a date. You stalked it, of course. Dressed in a bright pink shirt with white pants. Hair styled nicely compared to the mess you usually kept it. People really didn’t recognize you when you actually put effort into your looks.

You played with your knife as you watched them chat at the table across from you. The blade was too dull for your liking. Though you had only really used it to castrate that guy. And maybe… to scare off a few people in high school… but you’d never kill—seemed pointless.

As the date finally ended, you were pleased to see him turn down the girl’s offer to come to her place. You watched in satisfaction as she walked away dejectedly. She’s a pretty girl, she’ll find someone else.

You were too busy watching that you hadn’t even noticed someone behind you.

“I almost didn’t recognize you.”

Your body froze. You couldn’t move at all. A laugh left him as he tapped your shoulder.

“Are you going to run away again? I didn’t think you’d still stalk me after becoming a singer. You’re…”

You expected him to cuss you out but to your shock he said.

“Dedicated. Really dedicated. It’s cute.”

“A…what?” You whispered, slowly turning around to face him.

He was smiling at you. Smiling as if he was talking to a friend and not his stalker for over seven years. Was he insane?

Well you weren’t one to talk.

“Cute. I’m glad you didn’t run away this time. Here, gimme your LINE ID.” He said, pulling out his phone. You could only stare at him as he waved his phone. “C’mon, I’m speaking Japanese, yeah?”

“I… wait… are you—? Don’t you know I’ve been stalking you for almost eight years?”

“Mhm.”

“And that I almost followed you to your university? It wasn’t even a university I wanted to go, i don’t even know what I wanted, only if it had you.”

“Yeah.”

“Are you listening to me? I castrated a guy for you.”

“So that’s what you did… he wouldn’t tell me what happened at all,” he muttered, effectively ignoring everything else you did.

“….I followed you on a date, why aren’t you…” you couldn’t help yourself and grabbed his shirt, shaking him a bit. “This can’t be real. Why aren’t you scared?”

“You’re telling me things I already know.” He gazed down at you, his hand reached up and grasped the back of your head. “Why would I be scared if I liked it all?”

You blinked just as he kissed your cheek, a wide grin on his lips.

“You’ve watched me for this long,” he whispered, his hand slowly reaching down to grab your chin as he forced you to look up at him.

“But didn’t seem to notice that I was watching you too, (Name)-Chan.”

I’m bored so I made this longer than necessary. I always thought the idea of someone always having known they’re being stalked—making it easier for their stalker to learn stuff about them. That’s what he’s implying, btw. He didn’t stalk you, he just always noticed when you were watching him.

Reader isn’t a reliable narrator.

Tag list: @the-ultimate-librarian @tehyunnie @iwishtobeacrow @chill-guy-but-cooler @star-3214 @remdayz @mello-life25 @kiiyoooo @ofclyde @cherry-blossoms-187 @smellwell @euthymiko @rhetorical-conscience @tomoeroi @love-kha1 @secretivemessenger @mooncarvers-world @bensontrechic @yuzuukix @anchoredphoenix @roi-henri-xxii @m00n-b4b3 @ning1e

[luna-azzurra]

Romance List Prompts

Forced Proximity “Oops, There’s Only One Bed” & Other Nightmares (aka: trapped together, forced to talk, and now I’m noticing your eyelashes??)

✧ They hate each other. Of course they do. But now they’re snowed in at the same remote cabin. One bed. No signal. Nowhere to run from each other or their feelings. ✧ They barely know each other, just enough to be annoyed in passing. Then they get stuck between floors, in the dark, and suddenly all the things they don’t say become impossible to ignore. ✧ They agree to a long-haul drive for mutual convenience. Cue broken-down car, sketchy motel, and sharing snacks like it’s an act of war. By night two, they’re sleeping back-to-back and trying not to notice how quiet it gets when the other person isn’t talking. ✧ They’re both responsible for watching someone else's pet/kid/home. They bicker like divorced parents. They bond over chaos. And somewhere between late-night takeout and arguing over dishes, they accidentally become something like a couple.

Forbidden Romance “We Shouldn’t, But God We Want To” (aka: slow burn with a side of inner turmoil)

✧ They were raised to hate each other. But then they meet, outside the context, outside the war, and start to realize they’re not what they were taught. And it wrecks them both. ✧ They’re assigned to protect someone who is completely off limits. Flirting is forbidden. Feelings are dangerous. And yet? Every glance feels like a confession they can’t afford to say out loud. ✧ Teacher/Instructor x Student, but make it ethical and age-appropriate. It’s a short-term class, a writing retreat, a combat training course. The power dynamic is there, but so is the connection. They try to keep it professional. They fail. Beautifully. ✧ Best Friend’s Sibling... They’re off limits. Point blank. But the tension? The tension is screaming. Especially when the best friend keeps leaving them alone together, completely unaware.

 Grumpy x Sunshine “Why Are You Like This?” (aka: emotionally constipated x aggressively full of feelings)

✧ Roommates from Opposite Vibes... One’s all color-coded calendars and 7AM smoothies. The other hasn’t done laundry in three weeks and growls before coffee. They clash. But one rainy day, the sunshine one leaves soup on the grump’s desk with a dumb little smiley note. It breaks them. ✧ Coffee Shop Owner x Frequent Customer... Grump runs the quiet, broody café. Sunshine comes in every morning with messy hair and too much enthusiasm. The barista rolls their eyes, but they always remember their order. Always. ✧ Hired for the Same Job. Grump is practical. Sunshine is chaotic. They’re forced to collaborate. The tension is delicious. Especially when the sunshine one starts to get under the grump’s skin and into their heart. ✧ They're on a team. The world is ending. The sunshine one makes jokes to stay sane. The grump one acts like they don’t care, until the sunshine one gets hurt. Then suddenly they’re soft, scared, and furious about it.

 Extra Angst & Emotional Damage For the Writers Who Like to Hurt (and Heal)

✧ “You Remembered?” They thought the other didn’t care. They’re used to being forgotten. But then, in the quiet, the other person says something, something small, something specific, and it hits like a train. ✧ “I Would’ve Picked You Every Time” They lost each other once. Circumstances. Timing. Fear. Years later, they meet again. And this time? This time the truth comes out. And it’s raw, and ugly, and healing. ✧ “Don’t Look at Me Like That” They’re breaking. Mid-fight. Mid-confession. One of them cracks and says the thing they swore they wouldn’t say. The other just looks at them soft, wide-eyed and it’s too much. ✧ “I Never Stopped Loving You” Classic. Heart-shattering. Should only be used when you want your readers to cry at 2AM while whispering “why did you do this to me”.