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jackabbotsfakeleg · 2 months ago

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As Above, So Below I Chapter 2- Phantom

Synopsis: Two attendings, one new psychologist working both the day and night shifts on a rotation. You could have sworn you heard both of them call “dibs,” and you’re more than willing to entertain the both of them. Pairing: Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x Fem!Reader and Jack Abbot x Fem!Reader Word count: 5.7k Warnings: Talk of mental illness and other psychological things, violence, dark humor, and some smut :) 18+, MDNI A/N: I couldn’t decide between Robby and Abbot, so I present you with BOTH. Chapter 1 I Chapter 3

Tag list is open! @loud-mouph @dark-twisted-and-mechanical-mind @thebumbqueen @emilia-the-artist @boldlyherdream @felicisimor @eugene-emt-roe @i-mushi @andabuttonnose @moonlightmvrvel @miss-me-jack @dantemorenatalie @qardasngan @agreeewrites @aloudplace @painment @artsymaddie @d1n3e @damnitsthings

Chapter 2 – Phantom

"All of me is dark blue Picture you just dancing Dancing in your old room Damn it's such a bad view Cause it's hard to attract you Got me so dark blue"

Your back story is not one for the ages. But there were times, while you were still naïve to the world, when it certainly felt that way.

Times where it felt infinite, like the first time you read “The Perks of Being a Wallflower” and rode through the Fort Pitt Tunnel in the back of a pickup truck feeling hopeful and yet so, suffocatingly sad that the world was so big and beautiful, and you had barely even touched a small part of it.

Times that it felt messy, and cold, and plagued with the sentimental pain and wonder of the human existence, knowing that death comes for us all, but that it wasn’t something to be feared, only welcomed when the time was right.

Times when it felt like life wasn’t just passing you by like a train you hoped to be on, like you were wanted, and needed by people who made you believe that they loved you; that they held their breath for you and your success.

Most of the time, it just felt raw and somehow shameful, like you were constantly asking for forgiveness instead of permission, and like you were destined for all of it, as some sort of punishment. And yet, you loved it all the same.

Your history taught you how to be honest with yourself, that this is the only universe you will ever get to exist in and to look for the light even in the darkest hour. Taught you perseverance to seek and demand the truth even when it’s difficult and hidden. Taught you how to miss people more than you will ever love them and to find comfort in solace--that objects and people are not memories and that you don’t need one to have the other.

When you left home for graduate school, you left with the optimism that you could make it right, and honest, and good. And it was, until you discovered that monsters are real, and they look just like people.

The assault barely lasted minutes. The pain—white, hot, lightning striking behind your ribs. The voice at the base of your spine, quiet and relentless, telling you not to fight back, that it would only make things worse. His face—familiar and contorted in determination, eyes absent of compassion. His body—on top of yours, pinning you down, trying to send you through the floor. The blood--warm and wet, pooling under you, staining everything it touched. The sound left your throat was one you didn’t recognize—guttural and desperate—a sound resulting in vocal fold hemorrhages and the taste of blood. When you tried to recall the events later, you could have sworn it was the body alarm that alerted staff. But when you watched back the footage, it was your piercing screams.

It's that sound that drives you out of a nightmare and back to reality—chest heaving, throat tight, heart racing. Light peers into your bedroom through the leaves of the trees outside, extending itself over your restless body. You roll over onto your stomach, grimacing at your phone, 5:00 glowing bright green, the same color as the Nyquil you gladly swallowed last night to submerge yourself into liquid unconscious – best sleep you ever had, without a cold. The nightmares and the chronic pain have been largely manageable, but on some nights, they leave you nauseous and begging for dreamless sleep.

You get up early enough to walk to work, and every day is the same lesson in futility. You’re supposed to keep moving, keep exercising, keep regaining strength. But your hips ache and the muscles in your mid back on the same side as your injury lock up, and you take the same 15-minute break on the same park bench along the way—pretending to take a call so you can focus on something other than the tears burning your eyes and the room spinning. Work was the perfect distraction, and regardless of the physical pain you gladly welcomed the long shifts.

For the first week or two, it felt like most of the ED staff were avoiding you- out of habit. If you work in a place long enough where you’re expected to take on the role of several departments, you forget it’s not the norm. And when help finally arrives, it’s hard to relinquish control. It wasn’t intentional, and it wasn’t that there wasn’t a need for mental health services, but it still felt quite foreign to you—you were used to being busy and needed. No one knew how to approach you, or what cases required psychology over psychiatry. Nurses and medical students avoided coming to you before consulting with an attending, and residents continued to page for consults over the phone to psychiatry, forgetting that you existed. You didn't blame them, as the look on their faces when you showed up to a patient room were usually looks of relief that they no longer had to talk to them about their feelings.

But when the rushes died down, or there was a minute or two to breathe, staff were at your door, asking you to join them for lunch, a cigarette break, the after-shift dive bar escapade, and you welcomed the feeling of being invited. There’s something exciting about a room of people who hasn’t heard your screams on the news.

Robby and Abbot were different— spent a lot of time alone, or with each other on the roof; the consequence of experiencing years of secondary trauma without ever talking about it. It had to haunt them, the lives lost in this building, the burden of the guilt and shame not theirs to carry. And for some reason, the ebb and flow with these two had you in a fucking chokehold. You craved their attention with every glance and every quick-witted remark. You wanted them to like you, to need you, to want you. And in return, you wanted to know everything about them—if they smoked cigarettes after a long day, what books they read, what their homes smelled like, the music they liked, what they sounded like in private-- if they thought about you for a single solitary second.

“Those two have a soft spot for you, Robby and Abbot,” Dana had pointed out to you, while the two of you were alone at the nurses’ desk, “It’s been a minute since they weren't the most interesting thing about this place. And it doesn't hurt that you’re cute.”

“Yeah, they tell you that?” You raise an eyebrow at her. She doesn’t answer, just shrugs her shoulders while picking up another chart to pretend to look at, “Dana, do they ask about me?”

“You’re a mystery--a dark horse, and you’re playing hard to get.” She smiles, “Of course they ask about you. Why? You interested?”

“That obvious?" There's no point in lying to a woman who practically raised you. You spent more nights at her house with your best friend than your own growing up. But the last thing you need is for her to play matchmaker or give them any hints that you’re vying for their attention.

"Not at all." She shook her head, "Just be careful. They have quite the habit of getting whatever they want."

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t feel the gravitational pull from the two men who gave you the time of day, made you feel seen, and referred endearingly to the three of you as “the adults,”—a nod to not needing supervised, and not needing to speak about medical bullshit around them. Abbot had said it in jest, “the adults are talking” when a medical student had tried to interrupt a completely off-topic conversation between the three of you, and it stuck. They took every opportunity to match your sense of humor and push the boundaries during shift change-- the only time the three of you fully crossed paths – like two supportive, incredibly attractive work husbands, who you also wanted to see naked.

"Did it ever occur to the two of you" Abbot makes a comment as he and Robby approach the nurse’s desk, finally finished rounding with each other, both leaning on the desk on their forearms in front of you, "That we're more fucked up than the patients?”

“It’s the years of compounded trauma that I’m guessing the two of you refuse to process or talk about” you nod, smiling sweetly at them “Or did you expect me to believe that you both love working in the ER because it makes you feel hip and young”

"Ageism isn't tolerated here, baby" Abbot shakes his head, "and I’ll go straight to Gloria.”

Baby. Say it again, and this time like you mean it.

“Last time I checked, we’re not that much older than you," Robby adds, turning to Abbot for a confirmatory nod, before turning his attention back to you, "and before you let that go to your head, we asked Dana."

"You two, asking about little old me? I'm both amused and flattered to take up occupancy in your heads." A hand to your chest, sarcastically clutching your proverbial pearls, watching the two of them roll their eyes, “What else did you ask her about?”

“Seems like you like occupying that space,” Robby barely misses a beat, wearing an expression of vague amusement, "Only the important stuff. Age, blood type, deep dark secrets,"

“Are you flirting with me Dr. Robinavitch?” his eyes meet yours when you ask, winking at you, “You asked about the tattoos too, didn’t you?

"Yeah, I’ve got 20 dollars on you having a tramp stamp, and Robby’s got 20 dollars on a back piece” Abbot retorts, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, “and a tongue piercing in college.”

“Boys, you have no imagination whatsoever” you walk behind the two of them, placing your hand on each of their shoulders, and lower your voice just loud enough for the two of them to hear, “it was my nipples in college.”

You squeeze their shoulders, hearing the air leave their lungs like a punch to the gut, Abbot stifling a giggle.

“You really are trouble” Abbot retorts, both grinning like schoolboys, “how’d we get so lucky?”

"I could ask myself the same thing" you turn on your heels, headed to the elevator, their eyes following you the entire way, “I’ve got a meeting, but I’ll be back by noon for any consults. Try to keep your minds off the piercings.”

“Come get a beer with us after work,” Abbot calls out to you, “It’s my day off, and you can’t leave us hanging like that, it’s just rude.”

“If you're buying. But I'll need more than one beer if you want to see them,” you smile sweetly at the two of them as the door to the elevator closes. You lean your head against the elevator wall –please, please, let me get what I want.

By the time you make it back to down to your office, it’s after noon and the only thing standing in your way of a long-awaited lunch break, is a smug looking Robby waiting outside your door, those warm, brown puppy-dog eyes lighting up when notices you walking towards him, coffee in hand.

“I come bearing gifts” Robby holds up the coffee, extending it to you, waiting for a proverbial pat on the back and a thank you, “I promise the order is right. I also asked Dana about that.”

“You really did ask about the important stuff,” you take it from his hand, eyes narrowing towards him, “sounds like a bribe though. A much needed and greatly appreciated bribe. What do you want? A consult? A back massage? Come in, have a seat, close the door.”

You open the door to your office, and he slides his arm between you and the door to hold it open for you, towering over you as he follows you into your office, door closing behind him. For the first time all morning, you're met with silence. Must be a first for him too, as he leans against the door, eyes closed, appreciating the lack of noise, "I fucking love that sound. And a massage, huh? you offer that to all your patients?"

When you turn back to him, he's got this look on his face of pure amusement, like this is new for him, and like he's proud of himself for the quick comeback, and subsequently your reaction. He didn't have to bring you coffee and he sure as shit didn't have to ask Dana for your order

"My brother in Christ, this really is the nicest thing anyone has done for me all day,” the first taste of coffee hits, "And no, I only offer it to tall, dark and handsome trauma-ridden attendings who know my coffee order. Turn around.”

You motion for him to spin around, and you watch him hesitate.

"You don't...I didn't. Fuck you’re hard to read.” He tries to backtrack, eyes searching your face to see where your head is at. The last thing he needs is to take this too far, or the wrong way. It’s endearing.

"Jesus Michael, relax.” His face softens when you say his name, like he likes the way it sounds coming out of your mouth, “I’m not offering to blow you in my office, or explore your prison wallet, just turn around, and take off your hoodie,”

You put your hands on his shoulders, ushering him to turn around to face the door, “Permission to touch you in a non-sexual way.”

“Granted,” he confirms, apprehensive. He takes off his hoodie, still unsure of your next move, and tosses it on the couch. You return one hand to his shoulder, thumb of your opposite moving just below his shoulder blade. His body is warm, muscles tight and rigid and you take a moment of silence to appreciate the man in front of you—the goosebumps on the back of his neck, the tattoo ink on his bicep, hidden by his shirt sleeve. You'll remember to ask him about that later. You trace your thumb along his shoulder blade and press firmly into the muscle just underneath. And like everyone else, in the history of the world who has experienced this exact pressure for the first time, you feel his entire body relax against your hands.

"Fuckkkk,” It’s low and drawn out, shoulders slumped, his head falling to rest against the door, and your breath catches in your throat at the sound of him. So that’s what he sounds like when he’s into it. Noted.

“See? Just carrying around years of trauma,” you chuckle, bringing your mouth close to his ear, pressing even harder, “And Michael, if you can teach me how to run the psych department as smoothly as you run this ED, I’ll do whatever you want.”

The moment it leaves your mouth, you briefly panic, your hands leaving his shoulder, and you instinctively take a step back, “Fuck, I’m sorry. I made it weird.”

He turns towards you and leans his back against the door, arms folded across his chest, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He likes watching you panic, “That felt fucking amazing. And no, not at all. You had me practically begging for it.”

He doesn’t notice the flush of your cheeks, or if he does, he doesn’t take the bait to embarrass you any further.

“I did, however, come to see if you had time to sign off on an involuntary hospitalization” He adds, back to the professional bullshit like it never even happened. Then again, he didn't need to bring you coffee for you to do your job. “Meet me outside of two in five minutes?”

“Absolutely,” you nod, downing the rest of your drink, “I’ll be right there.”

"And Wheeler,” He opens the door, turning back to you momentarily, lowering his voice, “Whatever I want? My kind of girl.”

He doesn’t let you respond, nor does he stick around for your reaction. The blood rushes to your face as the door shuts and you're left standing in the middle of your office, skin burning, cheeks red, the air sucked out of your lungs. Who’s fucking hard to read now?

The end of the shift comes quickly, after back-to-back consults, an inpatient hospitalization, and several therapy contacts. You get the chance to be needed, albeit during a crisis. And you're really fucking good at it.

The thing about crisis work is that it makes you soft—allows you to meet someone where they’re at on the worst day of their life and show them empathy. When you tell them it’s okay to feel this way, it’s almost like you’re reminding yourself. Pain, Like John Green wrote so eloquently, demands to be felt. And you'd argue that it also deserves to be shared—the weight of it distributed.

By the time you’re done documenting, Robby isn’t anywhere to be found, and you feel a familiar sense of defeat in the pit of your stomach. Maybe the extended invitation for a beer wasn’t an actual invitation, just a knee jerk reaction to your earlier comments. You make your way out to the ambulance bay, searching your bag for your air pods. Nothing some elder emo bullshit won’t fix.

“There you are,” Robby’s voice calls out to you, relieved, like he’d been waiting the whole time, and you turn to find him leaning against the wall, sunglasses on, bag slung across his shoulder, “thought maybe you bolted.”

“And miss the opportunity for a free drink? Never.” You play it off as if you weren’t about to go home and drink yourself into a coma for being so naïve. He motions you to follow him off hospital grounds, and the two of you walk mostly in silence, taking in the last bit of daylight that you rarely get to see. The day is all noise—beeping machines, staff asking questions, patients yelling. This silence is welcomed. He looks over at you a few times during the walk, and by the looks of it, he’s working up your limp in his head—a real doctor thing to do. You’ll tell him about it eventually, in all its glory.

Abbot’s waiting outside of the bar, in jeans and a leather jacket. He looks good, a smug look on his face when he sees the two of you approaching, “The adults are here”

“And ready to drink, brother” Robby slaps his hand against Abbot’s back as you follow the two of them inside.

It’s a shitty dive bar—one you’ve been too, and puked in, plenty of times in college. It’s loud, full of undergrad kids practically buzzing with energy and undamaged livers. Abbot leads the way to the bar and orders the three of you Yuengling- a Pennsylvania staple. It feels foreign being back here, but familiar—the air humid, someone playing Hot Line Bling on TouchTunes, the faint smell of vomit. Someone touches the small of your back to pass you, and the room tilts briefly, a cold sweat washing over you. You grip the beer bottle tightly between your fingers, and down the liquid inside, an old habit mixed with a trauma response. When you set the empty bottle on the bar, your hands shaking, you’re met with looks of shock and awe from Abbot and Robby.

“Can we get the fuck out of here?” You mean to ask like it’s not a big deal, like you're not on the verge of panic attack from a stranger brushing up against your scars, but it comes out as more of a plea to the two of them.

"Absolutely," Abbot picks up on the tone of your voice and the fact that your hands are clenched into fists at your sides, and nods to Robby, "Beer and pizza at your place?"

"Read my mind," He replies, "Although, let the record reflect I'm still young and hip enough for this place."

It's a two-block walk to his fancy upper-level condo, with a fire escape perfect for late night cigarettes and contemplating the universe. The interior is beautiful. Dark exposed brick but full of natural light and just far enough away from the city to be quiet. He definitely hired someone to design this place, judging by the leather furniture, hanging art, and antique lighting. It smells like sandalwood and tobacco, like an expensive candle you burn only on your worst days. You put the beers in his fridge, like you've been doing it your entire life, and take stock of the take out containers lining the shelves, a mental note to bring him some of your own leftovers. Men love a woman who can heat up frozen food. Abbot turns on the TV and puts on hockey; something non-threatening to ease the awkwardness of a first encounter.

“We really fucking suck” He chuckles, as he and Robby take a seat on the couch. But you can't stop looking around. His refrigerator is crushed with magnets of places that he's presumably been, probably with an ex who probably bought these magnets. He's got all-clad pans he's probably never used, and a gallery wall full of hand drawn Pittsburgh landmarks. He's so put together, a real adult right in front of you. You realize you've been invading the privacy of his home for probably more minutes than you were cognizant of, and grab three beers from the fridge, walking towards them.

You hand them both a beer and take a seat on the arm of the couch, hesitant to encroach on their best fucking friendship. They talk about sports, patients, residents, the weather, the scrubs they wear, the bars they go to, the shit they’ve seen.

“Come on, you” Robby pats the cushion between the two of them, and you oblige, taking a seat between the two of them, their knees touching yours.

It feels comfortable, being with them, like you’ve done it a thousand times before. Something about the absence of expectations reminds you of home—a feeling you’ve searched for since you left.

“Okay I have to know” Abbot starts, setting his beer down, “Are you always as full of shit as you are at work? It’s fucking criminal how funny you are.”

“You know how you guys are all silent and broody because of trauma? I’m funny because of trauma.” You admit, “less dangerous than diving off the roof.”

“And the questionable boundaries?” He continues, raising an eyebrow at you

“Prison” you exhale, rubbing a hand over your face. “It’s a different world in prison. You see more dicks by 8am than most people see in a week, and the fucking insults. Someone told me I had a quarterback’s ass one time and I’m still trying to decide if it’s a compliment. You just get used to the inappropriate jokes and comments. I’m sorry if I made it weird.”

“I fucking love it” Robby laughs, he leans back against the couch, “and believe me, as long as you don’t call me fruitcake or cocksucker while handcuffed to a wheelchair, we’re good.”

The three of you drink beer and eat pizza and watch hockey. They’re impressed at your knowledge and affinity for yelling at the refs, and you can’t stop giggling at the two of them bickering back and forth like best friends about their favorite teams. You stand up to head to the bathroom but the alcohol rushes to your head, and the room sways.

“Careful” Robby’s hands reach out to steady you, his hands unintentionally sliding under your shirt, hands warm against your skin, “a bit of a lightweight?”

The feeling reminds you of why you’re here. The unspoken chemistry, the push and pull of two men who look at you like you’re interesting and worth something.

“Guilty” the room rights itself and you thank him for the assistance, “haven’t had a drink in 12 weeks.”

When you come back, the game is still on, but their eyes are on you. Abbot’s still on the couch but Robby’s leaning against the kitchen counter. You make your way past Robby to his record collection. They don’t say a word, just watch you trace your fingers along his record collection, finding the record with the saddest energy; you’re a beacon for darkness and they don’t even know it. You pull out Bon Iver’s self-titled record, and turn on the record player, the sound of “Perth” filling the room.

“So” you turn around, both still looking at you, trying to gauge your next move. They’re used to being in control and you’re used to causing chaos wherever you go, “Is this thing platonic?”

The confidence is 10% you, 90% alcohol, and it surprises you how smoothly the words come out of your mouth. Neither of them speak, but they look at each other, exchanging some silent words in looks that you hope to one day come to recognize.

“Or have I been reading the room wrong?” You speak up, trying to squash the silence, “because it feels weird for me to be here, a little bit drunk, putting on your sad boy records, if we’re not going to address it”

“Definitely not platonic” Abbot speaks first, a smile on his face, “We’re absolutely smitten with you.”

“And what about you?” your eyes move to Robby, waiting patiently at the kitchen counter. He bites the side of his thumb and narrows his eyes at you.

“Already told you that you’re my kind of girl” he references the conversation from earlier, rubbing a hand behind his neck, a blush spreading across his cheeks, “but we know nothing about you.”

He’s not wrong. You haven’t given them anything to work with other than inappropriate jokes and some implied sexual advances. You’re good at keeping others at arms’ length, only pulling back the curtain far enough to know you superficially—to avoid scaring them away. But this feels different, safer, honest.

“What do you want to know?” You reclaim your seat on the couch, patting the spot next to you for Robby to sit, “I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

“How old are you?” Abbot starts

“Thirty-five.”

“What’s your story? How’d you get here?” Robby asks

“I grew up here, in Shadyside actually. Got into psychology after I couldn’t pass organic chemistry. Thought I’d never leave this place, actually” you share, “I love it with my whole heart, and I’ve always missed it, but the relationship I have with my family is difficult, and it began to feel suffocating, so I moved away for a job in a maximum-security prison. Grew to love a different place, with different people.”

“That job must have been really hard,” Abbot counters, “I can’t imagine the shit you’ve seen.”

“I’ve always felt empathy and understanding and compassion and thought that maybe it would be a good challenge,” You sighed, “but I learned very quickly that the only thing separating us from inmates were the bars on the door. And it’s fucking hard to be part of that system that sets people up for failure”

“I’ll fucking drink to that” Robby adds, “You never settled down there?”

“Unfortunately, I’m still painfully single. Never married. No kids, one cat,” you concede, “The tattoos and piercings probably didn’t help.”

These fucking tattoos,” Abbot groans, frustrated that you still haven’t put your money where your mouth is, “You ever going to show us or should we just talk about it some more?”

“Remind me, which one of you has back piece?” You stand up between the two of them, pulling your t-shirt up over your head, exposing an entire black and white floral back piece connecting to the floral sleeve running down your arm, “got it in grad school. I believe one of you owes the other 20 dollars.”

Before you can pull the shirt back down, your surprised by the feeling of both of their hands on your back, fingers tracing the scars on your skin. You haven’t had the confidence to look at it, but the way you hear the breath catch in their throats, as doctors, solidifies the fact that it probably looks as bad as it feels. “Barely missed your spinal cord,” Robby’s fingers trace down your spine, and you shiver against his hands. They take stock of what’s in front of them, the way your skin twists and scars and warps the design of the ink, “Jesus, Y/N what the fuck happened?”

“One of my patients stabbed me with a sharpened toothbrush, at nine in the morning, on an uneventful Tuesday.” You pull your shirt down, their hands breaking contact with your skin, and turn to face them, “But that’s a story for a different day, boys. And I don’t want to ruin the mood.”

“The mood, she says,” Robby shakes his head in disbelief, picking up his beer to take another sip.

“Listen, I’m happy to share my deep dark secrets with the two of you” You take the beer out of his hand before he can set it back down, finishing what’s left, “but if this is not platonic, and both of your dicks get hard when you think about me, and you want to fuck, then let’s talk logistics.”

This will be the turning point in your relationship.

“Logistics, huh?” Abbot raises an eyebrow, both trying to wrap their heads around the words coming out of your mouth, “I’ve never been one to say no to having fun.”

You take a step so that you’re in front of him, legs on either side of his knees. You lean forward, your hands finding the muscles between his neck and shoulder, squeezing. He welcomes the action, a smile on his face like he’s settling in for what’s about to happen, his expression changing as your put your knee on either side of his hips, straddling him on the couch, hands moving to his chest,

“Oh, okay,” He breathes.

You’re careful to rest your weight on your knees, only touching him with your hands. “Yeah, Jack, Logistics,” your mouth to his ear. His hands grip the sides of the cushion underneath him, and you hear him exhale slowly, “How do you feel about fucking the same girl as your best friend?”

“I mean I prefer to fuck alone, with him not in the same room” he chuckles, an effort at distraction, “But I don’t mind sharing.” You briefly look to Robby, who’s watching your movements, hands clenched into fists beside him as he tries to ground himself. His eyes meet yours, dark, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. This is definitely turning him on.

You lean back to look at Jack, your weight shifting, fully sitting on his lap “Any other ground rules?”

Your fingers trace his jaw, down his neck, to his arm, wrapping your fingers around his biceps, and you can feel his skin shiver underneath your fingertips.

“I don’t want to know what the two of you are doing, and the same goes for him.” He looks you in the eye, his hands sliding up your thighs to your hips, “and we make a schedule. You’re mine on nights, his on days.”

Mine. His.

“Fair enough, Jack.” his eyes move to your lips, watching the way his name comes out of your mouth. You feel him tilt his hips underneath you, your breath catching in your throat, and his fingers grip your hips tightly, holding you against him. You press your lips to the pulse point beneath his jaw, his heart racing beneath his skin, and as you stand up, he lets out a frustrated groan at the loss of contact.

You turn to Robby, climbing over him so that you’re standing in between his legs. He looks up at you, waiting to see if he’s about to get the Jack Abbot treatment.

“Michael,” you say sweetly, kneeling down between his legs, reaching out to slide your hands under his shirt. His skin is warm, as your hands slide over his stomach and up to his chest, “What about you?” He squeezes his eyes shut, mouth open, sharply inhaling, “Look at me, Michael”

He opens his eyes and sees you kneeling in front of him, cheeks flushed.

“I want this to be fun,” he says as you slide your hands up his thighs, swallowing hard, “And I want to know everything about you. What you like, what you don’t. And we don’t tell anyone at work. ”

“Deal,” You tilt your head, fingers tracing the waist of his jeans, “and we definitely don’t tell anyone at work.”

“Good girl” his voice is low, and it makes your entire body vibrate. He leans forward and reaches out, his hand wrapping itself around your throat gently, before running his thumb along your bottom lip. You open your mouth wide enough for his thumb to slip between your lips, your tongue swirling around the tip of his thumb, eliciting a groan from his mouth, hips instinctively lifting off the couch, “Jesus Christ.”

You stand up and take a seat between the two of them, both still breathing heavily, and you pat both of their knees with your hands.

“This is strictly for fun, we don’t share stories, and we don’t tell anyone at work. If this stops being fun, or if either of you don’t want to do this, we stop. No questions asked, no hard feelings.” You confirm, “got it?”

They both nod, swallowing hard.

“Good. And we start now. I’m on days for three more shifts,” You look over at Abbot, “and Robby’s got the day off tomorrow. So, unfortunately, Jack, you gotta go.”

“You’re a lucky man, brother” He takes a moment to compose himself before standing up, “I’m just going to go home and take a cold shower. Looking forward to the night shift, Wheeler.”

“Goodnight, Jack.” You blow a kiss towards him as he exits the apartment, turning your attention back to Robby as the door closes.

“I’m all yours.”

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urdreamydoodles · 3 months ago

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MARVEL COMICS CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

You kiss them when they least expect it

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Thor, Loki, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Bucky Barnes, Matthew Murdock, Frank Castle, Bullseye, Marc Spector, Taskmaster, Johnny Storm, Reed Richards, Ben Grimm, Susan Storm, Felicia Hardy, Stephen Strange, Namor, Johnny Blaze, Eddie Brock / Venom, T'Challa, Elektra Natchios, Muse, Victor von Doom, Peter Quill & Nova

Reply to anon: As promised...your little Catholic boy. I spend my days writing to keep my mind off my surgery. I'm a really anxious person, so I have to fill my head with my pleasures (my fandoms). So the requests will come out quickly, I'm happy and you're happy... win win. Thank you for all your requests and support. LOVE YOU GUYS SO MUCH ♡

Peter Parker

- Peter Parker has been kissed before. He has known the warmth of affection, the giddy rush of young love, the slow ache of something deeper. But nothing—nothing—could have prepared him for the moment your lips press against his, sudden and unannounced, shattering the rhythm of his thoughts like a lightning strike in the middle of a quiet night. His brain short-circuits instantly.

- His body reacts before his mind does, his breath catching, fingers twitching as if unsure whether to hold you or simply let himself drown in the moment. There is a fleeting second of hesitation, a half-formed thought that this must be some kind of dream, some cruel trick played by the universe. But your warmth is real, your presence undeniable. The city fades around him, the constant hum of responsibility momentarily silenced beneath the press of your lips.

- When you finally pull away, Peter blinks—once, twice—like he’s trying to process what just happened. Then, without warning, his face erupts into a deep crimson flush, spreading down to his neck like wildfire. “Oh,” he breathes out, voice slightly strangled. “Okay. Cool. That was… um. Wow.” He rubs the back of his neck, a nervous chuckle escaping him. “Was that, like, a scientific experiment? Because if so, I volunteer for more data collection.”

- Despite the awkward attempt at humor, his hands are still trembling, his pupils blown wide with something raw and unspoken. And then, after a moment of hesitation, his fingers curl around yours, his grip steady despite the lingering nerves. “But, uh… just so we’re clear,” he murmurs, voice softer now, more certain, “if you ever wanna do that again, you won’t have to catch me off guard next time.”

Tony Stark

- Tony Stark has spent a lifetime mastering control. He anticipates every possible scenario, every variable, every consequence. His mind is a constant whirlwind of calculations, solutions, contingencies. But when you kiss him—when you seize the moment and steal his breath away with no warning, no preamble—his mind goes completely, utterly blank. For the first time in years, there is no plan. No exit strategy. Just you.

- His body reacts on instinct, hands coming up to grasp your waist, a sharp inhale against your lips. But it’s not just the physical contact that undoes him—it’s the fact that you did it at all. That you, beautiful and untouchable in a way he never dared to hope for, have chosen him in this moment, with no ulterior motive, no expectation. It is not a conquest. It is not a game. It is real. And Tony Stark has never known how to handle real.

- When you finally break away, his lips are still parted, his usually sharp tongue momentarily silenced. Then, ever so slowly, a grin tugs at the corners of his mouth, something dangerous and delighted and entirely Tony. “Well, well,” he muses, his voice a low hum. “That was unexpected. Not that I’m complaining, of course.” He tilts his head, eyes gleaming with mischief. “But, uh, you might wanna be careful, sweetheart. You kiss me like that, and I might just start thinking you like me.”

- And yet, beneath the bravado, there is something softer, something unspoken in the way his fingers linger against your skin, in the way his expression shifts—just for a fraction of a second—into something almost reverent. Because the truth is, he is already lost. And if you kissed him again, he wouldn’t just let you—he’d make damn sure you never stopped.

Steve Rogers

- Steve Rogers is used to the world moving too fast around him. Time slips through his fingers like sand, people come and go like ghosts, and every moment is a reminder of just how much he has lost. But when you kiss him—when you break through the steady, predictable rhythm of his days with something as sudden and undeniable as your lips against his—it is the first time in a long, long while that he feels truly, absolutely present.

- He freezes at first, caught between instinct and shock, but it lasts only a second. Then, without thinking, his hands find your waist, steadying you both as though the moment itself is something fragile, something sacred. His heart is hammering against his ribs, a deep, resounding drumbeat that he swears you must be able to hear. And when he finally exhales, it is not out of hesitation—but out of something else. Something like surrender.

- When you pull back, his blue eyes are searching, tracing your face with an intensity that makes your breath hitch. He doesn’t speak at first, doesn’t joke or tease or stumble over his words. Instead, he simply watches you, memorizing every detail of the moment, committing it to memory as if he is afraid it will slip away. And then, at last, he lets out a quiet, almost incredulous chuckle. “You really do like keeping me on my toes, don’t you?”

- But there is warmth in his voice, something gentle and unshaken. And then, after a moment, he does something you don’t expect—he leans in again, slower this time, deliberate. His lips brush against yours, and this time, he is the one who takes control. And when he pulls away, his hand lingers at the back of your neck, his thumb tracing slow, absentminded patterns against your skin. “Just so you know,” he murmurs, a small smile playing at his lips, “next time, I won’t let you take me by surprise.”

Thor

- Thor Odinson has been kissed before. He has known the passion of warriors, the devotion of gods, the fleeting tenderness of mortals who looked upon him with awe. And yet, when you kiss him—when you press your lips against his without hesitation, without prelude—it is not reverence that he feels, nor expectation. It is something deeper, something that sinks into his very bones. It is you.

- There is a moment of stillness, as if the entire world holds its breath. Then, with a deep, rumbling exhale, he reacts—not with hesitation, not with shock, but with the full force of a man who has never done anything by halves. His arms wrap around you, pulling you flush against him, his grip firm yet careful, as if you are something both fierce and fragile, something he is terrified of losing.

- When you pull back, he does not release you immediately. His forehead rests against yours, his breath warm against your skin, and for a moment, he simply exists in the aftermath of what you have done. Then, with a slow, wolfish grin, he pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes bright with something unmistakably pleased. “Ah,” he rumbles, his voice thick with amusement, “so the battle has begun, then?”

- And before you can question him, before you can even think, he leans in once more—this time with purpose, with certainty. His lips claim yours in a way that is both a challenge and an offering, a promise and a declaration. And when he finally pulls away, his fingers trail down your spine, his grip unwavering. “A warning, my beloved,” he murmurs, eyes gleaming. “You have started something you may not wish to finish.” But the way he holds you—the way his touch lingers, possessive and warm—tells you that, in truth, he is hoping you never do.

Loki

- Loki is a creature of calculation, of control wrapped in silver-tongued deception. He reads people like poetry, anticipates betrayals before they are spoken, dissects affections before they can wound him. But when your lips find his—without warning, without preamble—it is the first time in centuries that someone has truly caught him off guard. His breath halts, body rigid, as if the universe itself has shifted beneath him.

- He does not pull away. He does not return it immediately, either. Instead, he remains perfectly still, sharp eyes searching yours with an intensity that borders on dangerous. You can almost hear the gears turning in his mind, the war between disbelief and hunger, between skepticism and the undeniable thrill of being wanted without agenda. And then, ever so slowly, the corner of his mouth curls, something dark and pleased blooming in his expression. “Interesting,” he muses, voice velvet-smooth, though there is an unmistakable edge of breathlessness beneath it.

- When you move to step back, he does not allow it. A hand—cool, firm, deceptively gentle—curls around your wrist, anchoring you in place. “You think you can best me in my own game, little one?” he murmurs, amusement dripping from every syllable. “That you can steal a kiss and escape unscathed?” His voice is teasing, but there is something else beneath it—something raw, something aching, something that trembles on the edge of longing.

- And then, with a slow, deliberate certainty, he leans in once more. This time, there is no hesitation, no caution. His lips claim yours in a way that is both challenge and surrender, fire and ice melting together in something neither of you can quite name. And when he finally pulls away, his thumb traces the edge of your jaw, his smirk lazy yet predatory. “You are playing a dangerous game, darling,” he whispers. “And I do hope you intend to see it through.”

Clint Barton

- Clint Barton has been trained to anticipate the unexpected. He is a man who survives on instinct, who sees what others miss, who never lets his guard down—not truly. But when you kiss him, when you press your lips against his without warning, without prelude, it is the first time in years that someone has managed to slip past his defenses. And it floors him.

- His breath stutters, muscles tensing as if expecting some kind of punchline, some cruel joke at his expense. But then—then—your hands brush against his jaw, gentle, grounding, real. And suddenly, the world feels quieter. The weight of it all—the missions, the past, the scars that never quite fade—momentarily lifts, leaving nothing but the steady, warm press of your mouth against his. And for once, he lets himself sink into it.

- When you finally pull away, he blinks as if shaking off a haze, lips parted in something like disbelief. And then, ever so slowly, a grin spreads across his face—lazy, crooked, entirely Clint. “Well, damn,” he breathes out, a chuckle escaping him. “Gonna be honest, didn’t see that one coming.” He tilts his head, eyes alight with mischief. “You always go around ambushing guys like this, or am I just special?”

- But there is something softer beneath the teasing, something unspoken in the way his fingers linger near yours, as if debating whether to pull you back in. And then, with a quiet exhale, he murmurs, “Not that I’m complaining, but—maybe next time, give a guy some warning?” He smirks. “Or don’t. I kinda like the element of surprise.”

Natasha Romanoff

- Natasha Romanoff is not a woman who is easily caught off guard. She is control, precision, danger wrapped in elegance. She anticipates every move before it happens, never allows herself to be vulnerable, never lets anyone too close. But when you kiss her—without warning, without calculation—it is the one scenario she never saw coming.

- Her body tenses immediately, years of instinct screaming at her to assess the threat, to react. But then—then—your lips linger, warm and unhurried, and something in her falters. There is no ulterior motive, no expectation, no game being played. Just you. And that, more than anything, leaves her shaken. She does not kiss you back, not at first. She is too busy deciphering why—why you would do this, why she doesn’t hate it, why the world suddenly feels too small with you this close.

- When you pull away, she does not speak. Instead, she tilts her head, studying you with an unreadable expression, emerald eyes scanning your face as if searching for an answer you have not yet spoken. And then, at last, a small smirk tugs at the corner of her lips. “Brave,” she murmurs, voice smooth, almost amused. “Reckless, but brave.” But there is something else in her gaze—something uncertain, something hesitant. As if she is not quite sure what to do with the warmth still lingering on her lips.

- Then, before you can respond, she steps closer, closing the space between you. There is no hesitation this time, no calculation—just the slow, deliberate press of her mouth against yours. And when she finally pulls away, her voice is softer, quieter. “Don’t do that unless you mean it,” she warns. But the way her fingers trail against your wrist, the way her breath lingers against your skin, tells you that she is hoping—just this once—that you do.

Bucky Barnes

- Bucky Barnes is a man who flinches at softness. He does not know how to accept kindness without suspicion, does not know how to be wanted without expectation. He has spent years being used, being controlled, being nothing more than a weapon to be wielded. But when you kiss him—when you press your lips against his without warning—it is the first time in a long, long while that he is simply Bucky.

- His entire body stiffens at first, muscles coiled as if expecting an attack, a trap, a trick. But then your hands brush against him—gentle, grounding, real—and something in him cracks. His breath shudders against your lips, something raw and unspoken trembling just beneath the surface. And for the first time in years, he allows himself to be held instead of holding himself together.

- When you pull away, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. His expression is unreadable, blue eyes stormy with something you can’t quite decipher. And then, ever so slowly, he exhales. “Why?” The word is quiet, hesitant, as if he doesn’t believe he deserves the answer. As if he is bracing himself for you to tell him it was a mistake. But you don’t. You just look at him, and that alone is enough to undo him.

- And then, after a long moment, his fingers brush against yours, tentative, uncertain. “Do it again,” he murmurs, the words barely audible. But when you do—when you kiss him once more, slow and patient and real—his hands finally come up to hold you, steady and warm and home. And this time, he doesn’t let you pull away.

Matthew Murdock

- Matthew Murdock is a man who lives in anticipation. Every breath, every footstep, every heartbeat in his vicinity is accounted for, cataloged, expected. He senses things before they happen, navigates the unseen with the certainty of someone who has never truly been blind. But he does not sense this. The moment your lips press against his, his world—usually so finely attuned—stutters. For the first time in a long time, Matt is truly caught off guard.

- His breath hitches, his fingers twitch at his sides, and for a brief moment, he is frozen in place. The taste of you lingers—warmth and surprise and something maddeningly sweet. His senses flood with you, and it is overwhelming in the best and worst way. His pulse is erratic, his mind a mess of tangled thoughts. He has fought the devil inside himself for so long, denied himself softness, pushed away love because it only ever ends in ruin. And yet, here you are. Kissing him.

- When you pull back, he exhales shakily, his lips parting as if to speak, but no words come. Instead, his hand finds you—fingertips ghosting over your cheek, as if to make certain you are real. His voice, when he finally manages to use it, is quiet, reverent. “You shouldn’t do things like that,” he murmurs, but there is no conviction in his words, no true protest. Only the lingering tremor of someone who wants—desperately, deeply—but does not know if he is allowed to have.

- And then, as if unable to resist the temptation you have placed before him, he leans in. His kiss is not hasty, not fevered, but something far more dangerous—slow, deliberate, inevitable. It is an unspoken confession, a quiet surrender, a promise that he may not be ready to put into words. But his hands find your waist, his lips press deeper into yours, and the way he sighs against your mouth tells you all you need to know.

Frank Castle

- Frank Castle has lost too much to believe in second chances. Love is a thing he buried alongside his family, a thing he does not touch, does not deserve. He is a man made of violence, of war and grief and cold, unrelenting vengeance. He does not get soft things. So when you kiss him—when you, in all your warmth, in all your reckless beauty, dare to press your lips to his—he does not know what to do with it.

- His entire body goes still, as if the world has caught fire and he is standing in the center of the blaze, unscathed but bewildered. He does not pull away. He does not push you back. He simply exists in the moment, feeling something that is not rage, not pain, not the gnawing emptiness that has been his only companion for years. The taste of you lingers—something achingly sweet against the bitterness of his own existence.

- When you finally step back, he exhales sharply, his breath uneven, his jaw clenched. His eyes—dark, stormy, battle-hardened—lock onto yours, searching, questioning. He wants to tell you this is a mistake. That people who get close to him only end up hurt, that his hands are meant for killing, not holding. But he doesn’t say it. Because for the first time in a long, long time, he does not want to push something away.

- Instead, his fingers curl at his sides, his voice low, rough. “You sure you wanna be doin’ that?” It’s not a warning—it’s an invitation. A chance to walk away before he inevitably ruins you the way he ruins everything else. But when you don’t—when you meet his gaze and kiss him again, slower this time, softer—his resolve cracks, and he kisses you back with something that is almost desperate, almost alive.

Bullseye (Lester)

- Bullseye is used to taking. He takes lives, takes power, takes anything he wants because no one can stop him. He is a monster, and he knows it—embraces it. There is nothing good in him. Nothing worth saving. And yet, you—beautiful, foolish, unafraid—have the audacity to kiss him as if he is anything but ruin incarnate.

- The moment your lips meet his, something snaps in him. His instincts scream at him to turn this into a game, to take control, to make you regret ever thinking you could surprise him. But for once, he does not move. He lets himself feel it. The warmth of you, the softness, the maddening contrast of something so pure against the corruption that coats his soul like tar. It is unexpected, undeserved, and utterly intoxicating.

- When you pull away, his smirk is slow, sharp-edged, dangerous. His eyes—dark and gleaming with something predatory—drag over your face like he’s memorizing every detail, committing your recklessness to memory. “Well, damn,” he drawls, voice slick with amusement. “Didn’t know you had it in you, sweetheart.” His fingers ghost over his lips as if testing whether the sensation was real or just some twisted hallucination.

- And then, with a sudden, startling speed, he moves. One hand grips the back of your neck, the other pressing against your waist, and before you can react, he’s kissing you back. But this—this is something else entirely. It is wild, chaotic, consuming. A warning, a promise, a claim. And when he finally pulls away, grinning like the devil himself, he murmurs, “Hope you know what you just started.”

Marc Spector

- Marc Spector is used to ghosts. His past, his mistakes, his fractured mind—he carries them all like shadows that never fade. He does not trust happiness, does not trust peace, because both have been ripped from him too many times to count. And love? Love is not something that belongs to men like him. But then there is you. And then there is this. Your lips against his, unannounced, unexpected, real.

- The first sensation is shock. Not fear, not rejection—just shock. His mind, always a battlefield of shifting identities and whispered voices, goes silent for one aching, beautiful moment. The warmth of your mouth, the way you lean into him with no hesitation, no fear—it is something foreign, something he does not know how to hold. And yet, he wants to. God help him, he wants to.

- When you pull back, his breath is unsteady, his hands curled into fists at his sides as if fighting the urge to pull you back in. His eyes—haunted, desperate, yearning—flicker between you and the ground, as if struggling to find something solid to anchor himself. “You shouldn’t…” His voice is raw, broken. “You shouldn’t do that.” But there is no weight behind the words, no real protest. Just the quiet, trembling confession of a man who does not believe he deserves to be touched with kindness.

- And then, with a slow exhale, he makes a choice. His hand—scarred, trembling—reaches for yours, fingers brushing tentatively before curling around them. He does not pull you close, does not claim you the way others might. Instead, he simply holds on. A silent plea, a fragile hope. And when he finally kisses you back, it is not with hunger, not with dominance—but with something far more dangerous. Need.

Taskmaster (Tony Masters)

- Taskmaster survives by reading people before they can act. He sees a shift in weight, a flicker of intent, the smallest twitch of a muscle, and he knows what comes next. It’s how he wins fights, how he predicts every move before it happens. But not this. Not you. He doesn’t see it coming when your lips press against his, a ghost of warmth against the cold edge of a man who has spent his life being untouchable.

- His entire body stiffens, instincts roaring at him to react, to counter, to do something—but he doesn’t. His mind, trained to memorize, analyze, replicate, suddenly falters. He can mimic a thousand fighting styles, anticipate attacks from the best in the world, but he has no defense for the softness of your mouth, the way you kiss him like he is something more than a weapon. And it unsettles him.

- When you pull back, his hands twitch at his sides, fingers flexing as if searching for the right response. His mask hides his face, but you can feel the way he’s staring at you, the sharp intensity of a man trying to process something he can’t categorize. “The hell was that for?” he finally mutters, his voice low, rough—gravel scraped over steel. But there is no anger, no mockery. Just a quiet, dangerous curiosity.

- And then, something shifts. A decision made. He moves faster than thought, a gloved hand catching your wrist, pulling you in before you can slip away. And when he kisses you back, it is not soft, not hesitant. It is sharp-edged and confident, like a man reclaiming control over the one thing that has ever caught him off guard. You wanted to surprise him? Fine. But now, he’s the one in charge.

Johnny Storm

- Johnny Storm burns hot—always has, always will. A fire that never quite settles, never dims. He is loud and reckless and bright, and he wears his confidence like a second skin. But beneath it all, there is something deeper, something hidden behind smirks and easy laughter. And it is that something that flickers the moment you kiss him.

- At first, he doesn’t process it. One second he’s talking, maybe making some cocky remark, and the next—your lips are on his. His brain short-circuits. Johnny Storm, king of comebacks, has absolutely nothing to say. There’s just heat, not from his flames but from the rush of you, the sudden realization that this thing he’s been pretending not to feel is very, very real.

- When you pull back, he blinks—once, twice—before a slow, almost disbelieving grin spreads across his face. “Damn,” he exhales, voice a little breathless, a little stunned. And then, because he is who he is, he recovers. “If you wanted a piece of me, sweetheart, all you had to do was ask.” But his voice wavers slightly at the end, betraying the fact that he is not nearly as unaffected as he wants to seem.

- And then, before you can say anything, he moves. A hand curling around your waist, pulling you flush against him as he crashes his lips back to yours, kissing you with the full force of his fire—burning, consuming, alive. Because Johnny Storm never does anything halfway, and now that he knows what you taste like, he is never going to pretend he doesn’t want more.

Reed Richards

- Reed Richards lives in a world of equations. He understands the mechanics of the universe, the fabric of reality, the infinite complexities of time and space. But there are some things even he cannot predict. Some things he cannot quantify. You are one of those things. And when you kiss him, it is a complete and utter anomaly.

- His breath stills, his mind goes blank—something that has not happened in years. He can usually calculate the likelihood of an event before it occurs, but this? This wasn’t factored into his reality. His hands hover in the air, as if unsure of the proper response, as if the laws of physics themselves have momentarily escaped him.

- When you step back, he does not move immediately. He is frozen, recalibrating, processing. Then, slowly, his lips part, and a quiet, stunned “Oh” escapes him—soft, unguarded. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, as if needing a moment to refocus. “That was… unexpected.” His voice holds no rejection, only fascination, as if he has just witnessed a scientific miracle.

- And then, something shifts. His hand reaches for yours—not hasty, not desperate, but careful, deliberate. His eyes meet yours, and for the first time in a long while, Reed Richards abandons calculations in favor of instinct. When he kisses you again, it is slow, exploratory, like a man learning a new language and savoring every syllable.

Ben Grimm

- Ben Grimm does not get soft things. He does not get stolen kisses or tender touches or the kind of love that isn’t weighed down by pity. He is The Thing. A man made of stone, of battle and loss, of aching loneliness that he never speaks of. And yet, here you are. Kissing him. As if he is not a monster. As if he is just a man.

- He stiffens, his whole body locking up. His heart—too big, too hopeful despite everything—stumbles in his chest. He has dreamed of things like this before, but dreams are cruel, and reality is harsher. He expects you to pull away, to realize what you’ve done, to see him and regret it. But you don’t. You don’t. And that, more than the kiss itself, threatens to undo him.

- When you finally step back, his throat works around words he can’t quite form, holding the weight of years spent convincing himself he doesn’t get to have this. His massive hands twitch at his sides, as if afraid to reach for something too fragile, too precious. “You… you sure about that?” There is doubt in his tone, not because he doesn’t want you, but because he doesn’t know how to believe you’d want him.

- But when you step closer again, pressing your hands against the solid breadth of his chest, when you tilt your head up and kiss him again, slow and sure and certain, something in him cracks. A deep, shuddering breath escapes him, and his massive arms finally—finally—come around you, pulling you close. And when he kisses you back, it is hesitant at first, reverent. But then it deepens, something raw and aching in the way he holds you, like a man who has been starved of love for far too long.

Susan Storm

- Susan Storm is a woman of grace, of careful composure, of quiet strength that bends but never breaks. She is a leader, a protector, a force of nature wrapped in silk. And yet, for all her brilliance, for all her ability to phase in and out of sight, she does not see you coming. Not when you step close. Not when your fingers graze her cheek. Not when your lips press against hers in a kiss that is as sudden as it is soft.

- Her breath stills, caught between the moment and the impossible realization of what it means. Her mind races—was she blind to this? Had she misread the signs, the weight of your glances, the unspoken words hovering between you for so long? But all thoughts unravel when she feels the warmth of your lips, the unguarded tenderness of it. She has spent her life holding herself steady, but now—now she is the one being unraveled.

- When you finally pull back, she blinks, slow and breathless, a flush creeping up her neck. “Oh,” she murmurs, a small, almost disbelieving smile tugging at the corner of her lips. A rare moment where she is not Susan Storm, the poised and polished heroine, but simply a woman standing before someone who has just shaken her world.

- And then, that moment of surprise shifts into something else—something warmer, something braver. Her fingers find your wrist, curling around it in a silent request. She meets your gaze, eyes shining with something unreadable, something soft. And when she kisses you again, it is no longer hesitation, no longer surprise—it is intention, steady and sure, as if she has made up her mind that this—you—is something she does not want to let go.

Felicia Hardy

- Felicia Hardy is a woman who dances on the edge of danger, who thrives in stolen moments and the rush of risk. She is a thief, a phantom in the night, a creature made of silver laughter and sharp edges. She knows the art of seduction, the game of push and pull, and yet—when you kiss her, it is not part of the game. It is not calculated, not played for leverage. And that is what stops her dead in her tracks.

- Her lips part against yours, a stunned exhale slipping free. For the first time in a long, long time, Felicia Hardy is caught off guard. She is used to controlling the moment, to being the one who sets the pace, who dictates the terms. But this—this—feels like something stolen from her. And she doesn’t know if she wants to steal it back, or if she wants to let herself fall.

- When you pull away, her signature smirk wavers, something uncertain flickering behind those sharp, clever eyes. “Well, well,” she purrs, but there’s a breathlessness to it, a vulnerability beneath the velvet tone. “Didn’t know you had it in you.” A tease, a cover. But her fingers twitch at her sides, as if resisting the urge to reach for you, to pull you back in, to demand more.

- And then, as if making a silent decision, she moves. She closes the space between you with a sharp, deliberate kind of grace, tilting her head with the confidence of a woman who has decided to play a game she was not expecting—but one she suddenly wants to win. When she kisses you again, it is slow, languid, laced with amusement and hunger, as if savoring the way you are the one who caught her off guard for once.

Stephen Strange

- Stephen Strange is a man of logic, of precision, of control honed by years of discipline. He bends reality to his will, commands forces beyond human comprehension, and yet—he is utterly unprepared for the moment your lips press against his.

- His body locks up, his breath caught between disbelief and something deeper, something dangerously close to longing. He does not move at first, too caught in the sheer absurdity of it. He has faced cosmic horrors, rewritten fate itself, but he cannot seem to process the feeling of your touch, the warmth of your mouth against his own.

- When you step back, he blinks, slow and calculating, as if searching for some rational explanation. “That was… unexpected,” he says at last, his voice measured but carrying the faintest waver. He looks at you as though you are a paradox he cannot solve, an anomaly in his carefully structured existence.

- And then, after a long pause, his lips curl in something resembling amusement, a rare, genuine softness breaking through the rigid control. “I suppose,” he murmurs, stepping closer, voice dropping to something almost dangerous, almost reverent, “it would only be fair if I returned the favor.” And when he kisses you again, it is with the deliberation of a man who refuses to leave anything to chance.

Namor

- Namor is not a man accustomed to surprise. He is a king, a warrior, a god walking among mortals. He has stood against empires, defied the heavens, and shaped history with his own hands. But when you kiss him—you, with your infuriating defiance and your breathtaking boldness—he is, for the first time in centuries, at a complete and utter loss.

- His entire body tenses, as if bracing for an attack rather than an act of tenderness. And yet, despite his initial shock, despite the sheer audacity of you, he does not pull away. He does not stop you. Instead, his sharp, piercing eyes darken, a slow and simmering heat curling beneath his ribs—dangerous, unrelenting.

- When you finally part, he does not speak immediately. He simply looks at you, gaze heavy with something unreadable. And then, after a moment, his lips curl—not in anger, but in something far more unsettling. Amusement. Interest. Challenge. “You are either very brave,” he murmurs, voice rich and edged with something unmistakably possessive, “or very foolish.”

- And then, before you can respond, before you can think to retreat, he moves. His hands—strong, unyielding—catch your wrist, his body closing the space between you with the effortless command of a king reclaiming what is his. And when he kisses you again, it is not a question. It is a declaration, a silent vow that whatever game you have started, he will be the one to finish.

Johnny Blaze

- Fire and damnation have clung to Johnny Blaze for as long as he can remember. He is a man marked by hellfire, by a fate he never asked for, by the weight of every soul he has ever sent screaming into the dark. He does not expect kindness, not really, not from anyone. And yet, when you kiss him—suddenly, without warning, like a spark catching dry earth—he is stunned into absolute stillness.

- The scent of smoke and leather clings to him, the remnants of something infernal lurking beneath his skin, but you do not hesitate. Your lips are warm, soft, a stark contrast to the cold edges of his existence. He has faced demons, outrun the devil himself, but this? This simple, quiet moment? It terrifies him in a way nothing else ever has.

- He exhales sharply when you pull back, as if he’s just come up for air after drowning. His blue eyes burn like embers, searching your face as if trying to understand what the hell just happened. His throat works around words he doesn’t know how to say, his fingers twitching at his sides like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t trust himself to. “You don’t wanna do that,” he finally mutters, voice rough with something dangerously close to longing.

- But when you tilt your head, when you don’t flinch, don’t pull away, don’t fear him—something in him cracks. His jaw clenches, his hands curl into fists, and then, finally, finally, he lets himself move. He grabs the back of your neck with a touch that is both possessive and reverent, and when he kisses you again, it is with the desperation of a man who has spent too many years in the dark, suddenly blinded by the light.

Eddie Brock / Venom

- Eddie Brock is a man who has lost too much, fought too hard, and learned to trust too little. He is rough around the edges, worn down by anger and regret, always bracing for the moment when the world inevitably turns against him. He is not used to gentleness—not from others, and certainly not for himself. And so, when you kiss him, when you press your lips against his like it is the most natural thing in the world, his brain short-circuits entirely.

- His first instinct is to pull back, to question, to doubt. But Venom—Venom is faster. The symbiote rumbles in amusement, in approval, wrapping around Eddie’s ribs like a second heartbeat. "We like this one," the alien purrs inside his mind, and Eddie swears under his breath because of course Venom would be delighted by this.

- “You’re—” Eddie starts, but stops himself, dragging a hand down his face like he’s trying to physically shove down the confusion. He shakes his head, glancing at you with something that is half bewilderment, half hunger. He wants to say something cocky, something to brush it off, but all that comes out is a breathless, “What the hell was that for?”

- And then Venom moves, slick tendrils curling around his shoulders, shifting his posture. "Kiss her back, Eddie," the symbiote urges, a wicked, knowing grin in his voice. And—God help him—Eddie does. He surges forward, his grip strong, his kiss a mixture of frustration and want, like he’s fighting against how much he needs this, how much he needs you. And when he finally breaks away, his breath is ragged, his pupils blown wide. Shit.

T’Challa

- T’Challa is not a man who is easily surprised. He is a king, a warrior, a strategist who sees every angle before the game even begins. His mind is always ten steps ahead, his composure an unshakable force of nature. And yet—when you kiss him, when you step close without prelude or warning, tilting your chin up to press your lips to his—he is caught entirely off guard.

- His breath hitches, just slightly, so small a reaction that most would not catch it. But you are not most. You are you, and you notice the way his body stills, the way his fingers twitch at his sides as if warring with the impulse to pull you closer. His heartbeat is steady, measured, but beneath the surface—oh, beneath the surface, you have sent ripples through a man who does not bend easily.

- When you part from him, his dark eyes study your face with a sharpness that borders on unreadable. “You are bold,” he says, but there is no admonishment in his tone—only observation, only something deeply considering. His gaze is heavy, knowing, like he has already unraveled every reason why you did it. And yet, for all his brilliance, there is one question left unanswered.

- And so, after a pause, he tilts his head ever so slightly, a slow, deliberate movement. “Was that a challenge?” The words are a whisper, rich and silken, spoken against your lips as he closes the space between you once more. His kiss is not hurried, not desperate—it is a promise, a declaration, a reminder that T’Challa does nothing without intention. And you? You have just become something he intends to keep.

Elektra Natchios

- Elektra moves like a shadow, like a blade cutting through the dark, like something that cannot be held for long. She is sharp edges and silken danger, a whisper of death wrapped in a dancer’s grace. She does not trust easily. She does not love easily. And yet, when you kiss her—fast, sudden, without warning—she does not push you away. No. She freezes, her entire body tensed, not out of resistance, but because she did not see it coming.

- For a woman who has spent her life reading people like open books, you have just managed to turn a page she did not anticipate. Her lips part against yours, not in invitation but in sheer, startled stillness. The moment you step back, her gaze is already piercing into you, unreadable and electric, the air between you charged with something taut and dangerous.

- “That,” she breathes, eyes narrowing just slightly, “was foolish.” But the way she says it—it is not a warning, not truly. It is curiosity, the ghost of something far more wicked lurking beneath the surface. She watches you like a cat watching its prey, her fingers twitching at her sides, as if deciding whether to draw a weapon or pull you back in.

- And then, just as quickly, just as effortlessly, she moves. Her hand catches your wrist, yanking you forward with a force that is not violent but possessive. And when she kisses you this time, it is not hesitation—it is fire and fury, a battle won with the curl of her fingers at your nape, the press of her body against yours. If this is a game, you have just signed yourself into a war. And Elektra Natchios? She never loses.

Muse

- Muse does not feel things the way others do. Art consumes him, violence is his language, and the world is nothing but a blank canvas begging to be marred. He has wandered through blood-soaked streets and carved poetry into walls with trembling hands, but this—this sudden kiss, this moment where your lips press against his without prelude or warning—is something entirely new.

- He does not flinch. He does not gasp. He does not react in any way that might be considered human. Instead, he listens. To the way your breath hitches. To the way your heartbeat stumbles in your chest. To the way the world stills around him, just for a moment, like existence itself is waiting to see what he will do next. And oh, how he loves the weight of expectation.

- When you finally pull back, his blind eyes remain locked onto you, empty and unreadable, yet somehow knowing. His lips part—not in surprise, but in something closer to fascination. “Beautiful,” he murmurs, the word almost a sigh, almost a prayer. “Do it again.” It is not a request. It is not a plea. It is a command wrapped in velvet, spoken like a secret only you were meant to hear.

- And when you hesitate, when you wonder if it is wise, if it is safe, he simply tilts his head, his smile carving itself into his face like a brushstroke on an unfinished painting. His fingers ghost over your jaw, not quite touching, not yet. “I wonder,” he muses, voice lilting with something dangerous, something close to reverence, “how many shades of red I could pull from your lips alone.”

Victor von Doom

- Victor von Doom does not tolerate surprises. His mind is a kingdom unto itself, a fortress built upon knowledge and control. There is no action he takes that is not calculated, no movement that is not deliberate. And yet—when you kiss him, when you dare to step into his space and press your lips against his without permission, without warning—it is the one moment he does not anticipate.

- His body tenses, not in shock but in something colder, something unreadable. There is steel in his stance, in the way his fingers curl ever so slightly at his sides. For one impossibly long second, the world feels as if it has stopped, as if the very air around you is waiting for his verdict. And then, his hands rise—not to push you away, but to cup your face with the precision of a sculptor, as if he is considering whether to keep this moment or cast it aside.

- “Foolish,” he murmurs, though his grip does not loosen. His green eyes burn into yours, heavy with something unreadable, something vast. “You mistake me for a man who yields to impulse.” But you can feel it—the faint tremor beneath his touch, the war waging behind his gaze. You have shaken something in him. Something he does not have words for.

- And then, Doom decides. His grip tightens just slightly, his gaze darkens, and when he leans in, it is not hesitant. It is not uncertain. No, Victor von Doom does not do anything halfway. His lips capture yours with the finality of a ruler taking his throne, with the weight of a choice made, a fate sealed. And when he pulls away, he exhales sharply, as if he has allowed himself one moment of indulgence—and nothing more. “You are either very bold,” he muses, voice quiet, “or very foolish.” And then, after a pause, after a second’s hesitation— “Perhaps both.”

Peter Quill

- Peter Quill has been kissed before. By strangers in bars, by lovers who knew better, by the lingering ghosts of memories he refuses to let go of. But this—this kiss, your kiss—catches him completely off guard.

- He is mid-sentence, probably saying something ridiculous, something cocky, something meant to make you roll your eyes—and then, suddenly, your lips are on his, stealing the words right from his mouth. His brain short-circuits so violently that for a full second, he just stands there, hands hovering awkwardly like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

- And then, like a delayed reaction, like an aftershock, he grins. A slow, lazy, completely obnoxious grin that spreads across his face like wildfire. “Well, damn,” he breathes, blinking at you like he’s just been hit by a starship. “If I knew that’s how you felt, I would’ve shut up ages ago.”

- But then—just when you think he’ll ruin it with another joke—he tugs you forward, his fingers curling around your waist with an easy kind of confidence. And when he kisses you this time, it is deeper, slower, like he’s savoring it, like he means it. And maybe, just maybe, Peter Quill has finally found something—someone—worth holding onto.

Nova (Richard Rider)

- Richard Rider has been through hell. He has seen galaxies burn, has carried the weight of worlds on his shoulders, has fought and bled and lost more than he can put into words. He is tired. He is so tired. And yet—when you kiss him, when you pull him down from the weight of the cosmos and remind him of something as simple, as human as this—he forgets, just for a moment, how heavy the universe feels.

- His breath stutters. His entire body tenses, like he’s waiting for something to go wrong, like he’s bracing for an impact that never comes. He has been hurt before, has been broken in ways that no amount of power can fix, and yet—this is different. You are different.

- “I—” he starts, but the words get lost somewhere between his lips and yours. He laughs, but it’s not the cocky, confident sound most people expect from him. It’s breathless, unsure. He runs a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “Didn’t see that coming.” But the way he looks at you—the way his blue eyes soften, the way his fingers twitch like he wants to reach for you and doesn’t know if he should—tells you that maybe, just maybe, he’s glad you caught him off guard.

- And then, slowly, hesitantly, he steps closer. He cups your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones with a gentleness that feels at odds with the battles he’s fought, with the wars he’s survived. And when he kisses you again, it is not hurried, not rushed. It is quiet. It is careful. It is real. Because for the first time in a long, long time—Richard Rider is not fighting. He is simply here. With you.

1K notes · View notes

mrspiastri · 3 months ago

Text

✩ first and last 🦢

pairing: lando norris x reader

cw: fluff, first time relationships

wc: 3.6k words

an: thank you to @castofstrangerthings for the req! i couldn’t directly respond to it for some reason so here! also i know you asked for oscar but this just felt so apt for lando i had to!! :p

For Y/N, dating wasn’t really something at the forefront of her mind. After hearing horror stories of all the crazy boyfriends her friends had to endure since middle school, she was more than content remaining celibate.

This continued throughout her schooling days, where she never bothered to start dating. And it was a big help to her cause that no boys ever made a move on her.

It wasn’t that she was unattractive, nor was it her personality. She was well-known throughout her school, and the teachers liked her too. She had a few male friends as well, and while they enjoyed hanging out, she was never asked out by even one of them.

So, she was the butt of her friends' lighthearted jokes about how she was the only one graduating high school without ever having a boyfriend, kissing someone, or even being romantically interested in a man. Hell, she hadn’t even been on a date before!

Y/N much preferred it this way—'more men, more problems' was her belief in life. However, this changed when she went to university.

She and Lando Norris met on the same day of orientation, both eager to join their uni’s debate team. After being seated next to each other for almost an hour during auditions, they were called in to debate each other on the topic of whether the ‘male loneliness epidemic’ was real. Much to her chagrin, Y/N had to argue for the motion.

That very debate was the foundation of their friendship, and now, in junior year, the pair remained closer than ever.

🪻🪻🪻

Being raised in a family with a wonderful mother and two sisters really sets a man up for success in the dating world. Lando was always in demand, his alluring and charming personality combined with his ravishing good looks and mild-mannered ways leading to girls constantly trying their luck with him.

At every party, every ten or so minutes, he was either being snogged by a pretty blonde or comparing hand sizes with a striking brunette.

He always admired Y/N’s commitment to being single, knowing her feelings towards the dating scene in today’s world. And somewhere along the line, his admiration for her changed to awe, and from awe, it evolved into emotions he never thought he’d ever feel for her.

After spending the better half of the past two years stuck by her side, with the third one beginning a few weeks ago, he found himself falling headfirst for Y/N and all her quirks and dynamics.

He had found it very difficult to admit it to himself that he fancied her, but on a random Tuesday morning, as she was wallowing over the waffles running out at breakfast, it hit him like a lightning bolt:

He had the biggest, fattest, most irrepressible crush on his best friend.

He had seen her for the first time when they were just freshly turned 18-year-olds, sniggering over the terrible chairs they had to sit on while waiting their turn for auditions. He was there when she was upset over not being able to sign up for a class she was desperate to take in her first semester.

He giggled while she almost keeled over after taking her first-ever shot of tequila at a sorority party at Kappa Alpha Theta, and he was the one who held her hair up while she threw up into a toilet bowl, rubbing her back soothingly as she moaned over how she would never touch alcohol again.

So how was someone supposed to continue being best friends with the girl he was falling for faster than a meteor hurling through space?

To him, the answer was simple: dropping simple but subtle hints to make his intentions known.

🪻🪻🪻

The hints had started small, but now they were practically glaring neon signs. At least, to everyone except Y/N.

Lando had tried everything to make his feelings clear. He was always touching her, always standing closer than necessary, always finding ways to bring her into his space. He carried her books when she complained they were too heavy, sent her good morning texts every single day, and even learned the complicated coffee order she had been too embarrassed to repeat for him.

But nothing seemed to get through to her. And what made it worse was that everyone around them began noticing the change.

“Okay, but seriously,” her roommate drawled one afternoon as they sat in the campus café. “Are you guys, like, together-together?”

Y/N snorted, picking at her croissant. “What? No.”

Her roommate raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “So you’re telling me your best friend, who, by the way, has turned down every single girl who’s tried to ask him out in the last six months, just happens to buy you coffee every morning, keeps your favorite hoodie in his car in case you get cold, and practically looks like he’s in love every time he stares at you for more than five seconds?”

Lando, sitting beside Y/N, didn’t even pretend to be embarrassed. He just leaned back in his chair, an amused smirk tugging at his lips as he watched her flounder for an answer.

“He’s just—” Y/N shook her head, laughing lightly. “That’s just how he is. Lando’s nice to everyone.”

Her friend scoffed. “Yeah, but he’s not doing any of that for me. Or anyone else.”

Lando chuckled, reaching out to tuck a stray piece of hair behind Y/N’s ear. The gesture was so natural, so casual, that she barely even registered it, except for the way her heart suddenly felt like it was trying to break a world record for fastest beats per minute.

“I mean, I could start buying you coffee every morning,” he mused, tilting his head at the girl in front of them. “But I think Y/N might get jealous.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, laughing. “Oh, please.”

But internally? She was spiralling.

Because the idea of Lando doing these things for someone else, buying their favorite drinks, remembering their order, keeping a hoodie for them, made her stomach twist in a way she didn’t want to analyze too closely.

And it wasn’t just her roommate who had questioned them, either. At a party the previous weekend, they had been standing by the drinks table when a guy in their Stats class had wandered over, glancing between them with an appraising look.

“You two are dating, right?” he asked, casually pouring himself a drink.

Y/N choked on her own sip of beer. “What? No.”

He blinked. “Huh. Could’ve fooled me.”

She laughed it off, brushing the idea away as she always did, but Lando, who had been leaning against the table beside her, hand warm on the small of her back, had simply raised an eyebrow, amused.

🪻🪻🪻

Over the course of midterms week, Y/N was seconds away from throwing her laptop out the nearest window and dramatically declaring herself an academic failure.

She had spent hours buried in notes, highlighting until her fingers cramped, and yet nothing was sticking. Her brain was mush. Her body was tense. Her stress levels were at an all-time high.

Meanwhile. Lando, sitting across from her in their usual library spot, looked annoyingly unbothered.

“How are you so calm?” she groaned, dropping her head onto her open textbook.

Lando smirked, stretching his arms behind his head like he wasn’t on the verge of multiple deadlines. “Because one of us needs to be. And let’s be honest, it was never gonna be you.”

She shot him a glare that had absolutely no bite to it. “You’re supposed to be suffering with me.

“I am,” he said, eyes twinkling with amusement. “I just look better doing it.”

She huffed dramatically, rubbing her temples. “I’m so close to losing my mind.”

That was apparently enough for Lando to intervene. Without a word, he stood up and walked over to her side of the table, nudging her chair back slightly before physically turning it so she was facing him. Before she could protest, he crouched down in front of her, settling his hands on her knees.

Y/N stopped breathing.

“Peach,” he murmured, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles over her bare skin. “You need a break.”

Her brain stuttered at the nickname, and she knew exactly what he was referencing. It began in the winter break of freshman year, after a visit to Y/N’s house.

Her mom had been all too eager to embarrass her, flipping through old photo albums until she landed on the picture, one of baby Y/N, no older than two, sitting in a tiny plastic chair in her backyard, absolutely covered in peach juice.

There were peach slices in her chubby fists, sticky residue all over her cheeks, and a look of pure, unfiltered joy on her face as she devoured the fruit like it was the best thing in the world.

Lando had lost it.

“No way,” he had laughed, taking a picture of the photo for future blackmail. “You were a menace.”

“I was a child,” Y/N had huffed, cheeks burning as she tried (and failed) to snatch the album from him.

Her mom had only made it worse, recounting how Y/N had been obsessed with peaches, demanding them at every meal and managing to make a colossal mess every single time.

And that is where ‘Peach’ originated from.

She barely managed to remember that moment, when she felt Lando’s warm hands trailing up and down her thighs, fingers grazing the hem of her shorts.

“I can’t take a break,” she whispered, voice embarrassingly shaky.

“You can,” he said, firm but soft, his grip tightening slightly. “And you will. Because if you stress yourself into a breakdown, who’s gonna remind me when all my assignments are due?”

Y/N would have laughed, if she wasn’t mentally losing it at the way his hands lingered on her thighs, his touch burning and grounding.

“Five minutes,” he coaxed, voice a low hum. “Let me take care of you, yeah?”

She swore she blacked out for a moment.

Because what the FUCK?

When did he get so touchy? And why did he have to sound like that? Like he was saying something completely normal but making it sound criminally intimate?

“I…” She swallowed hard, eyes darting anywhere but his face. “I don’t know how to turn my brain off.”

Lando sighed, standing back up—but instead of moving away, he settled behind her chair, placing his hands on her shoulders and squeezing gently.

“Then let me do it for you.” And holy shit.

The moment his hands started kneading into her muscles, Y/N melted.

His thumbs dug into the tense spots at the base of her neck, slow and deliberate, like he was unraveling her stress with his hands alone. His fingers pressed into the tight knots in her shoulders, rubbing small, soothing circles that sent a shiver down her spine.

“Fuck,” she muttered, eyes fluttering shut before she could stop herself.

Lando chuckled behind her. “That good, huh?”

She wanted to be embarrassed, but she was too far gone to care. His touch was ridiculously good, and for the first time all week, she felt her body relax.

“That’s it,” he murmured, voice low as he leaned down slightly, his breath warm against the side of her face. “Just breathe, sweetheart.”

She absolutely did not breathe.

Instead, she sat there, skin burning, heart racing, mind spiraling at the fact that her best friend was currently massaging her like it was the most normal thing in the world.

And then, because Lando loved making her suffer, he let his fingers slide up, brushing lightly against the sensitive skin of her neck before tracing back down her shoulders.

Y/N jumped.

Lando laughed, his voice right in her ear. “Ticklish?”

“N-no,” she lied, gripping the edges of her chair so tight her knuckles turned white.

“Mm,” he hummed, clearly amused. He gave her shoulders one last squeeze before finally stepping back. “Feel better?”

No. Absolutely not. She felt like she needed to go outside and scream into the void.

But she nodded anyway, avoiding his gaze like her life depended on it.

“Good.” Lando ruffled her hair, grinning. “Now let’s get back to work before you have a full-on breakdown.”

Y/N didn’t have a breakdown over midterms. But she did have one over the realization that she was so fucking screwed.

After hell week, she locked herself in her dorm room, trying to make sense of the past few weeks. For almost 3 months, Lando had been inciting the most out of the blue emotions in Y/N.

He had changed. But it didn’t mean anything.

He had always been tactile, affectionate. He had always been protective, always made her feel like she mattered. It was just who he was.

The problem was, she had started to want it. To crave the warmth of his palm on her thigh when he absentmindedly reached for her during study sessions. To hear the way he murmured "Night, Peach," like it was something soft and fragile and theirs.

And she hated herself for it. Because Lando didn’t like her. Because if he did, if any of this meant something to him, surely he would have said something by now.

Right?

So she did what she had always done.

She laughed when their friends teased them about how they acted like a couple. She rolled her eyes when people assumed they were together. She ignored the way her heart ached every time he pulled away, convinced herself she was imagining the way he looked at her sometimes, like he saw through everything.

Because no matter how much she was falling for him, Lando wasn’t falling for her.

And she just had to live with it.

🪻🪻🪻

From the very first time she visited his home in Bristol, Lando’s parents had welcomed her like she was one of their own. His sisters had immediately pulled her into their group, and his mum and dad never let her leave without offering her enough food to last a month.

So when his parents insisted she come home with him for the semester break, she hadn’t even thought to say no.

Now, sitting in his childhood bedroom, cross-legged on his bed as she flipped through an old photo album his dad had pulled out, she was glad she had agreed.

The photos were a goldmine, including one showing a 6 year old Lando, gap-toothed and grinning, covered in dirt from head to toe after what was probably an ill-advised adventure outside.

“You were so tiny,” she teased, laughing as she held up a picture of him pouting dramatically in a blazer and a pair of trousers that were slightly too big on him.

Lando, who had been sitting beside her, propped up on his elbow, rolled his eyes. “Not anymore I’m not,” he winked at her.

She huffed out a laugh, turning back to the photo. But his gaze lingered on her a beat longer than usual.

Y/N felt it, felt the weight of it, the same way she always did when he looked at her like that. Like she was something worth looking at.

The air between them had been charged for weeks now, the space they usually occupied so comfortably together feeling too small, like something unspoken was pressing against the edges.

She ignored it. She always ignored it.

Because no matter how much she overthought his touches, his lingering stares, the way he felt different lately, she couldn’t let herself believe it meant anything.

But Lando?

He had just about had enough.

He had tried subtlety. He had tried patience. But it had become painfully clear that Y/N, his oblivious best friend, was never going to realize what was right in front of her. So he decided, right then and there, that he was done waiting.

He sat up, closing the photo album in her lap and ignoring the small noise of protest she made. She blinked up at him in confusion, and God, how had he gone so long without kissing her?

“I can’t do this anymore.” His voice was quiet, firm.

Y/N frowned. “Do what?”

Lando inhaled sharply. “This. The hints, the waiting, hoping you’ll get it, I can’t anymore.”

She stared at him, brows furrowing in confusion, and it made him want to scream.

He reached out, cupping her jaw with one hand, his thumb brushing against her cheek in the softest way possible.

Y/N froze.

“I like you,” he said, the words steady and clear. “I like you in a way that isn’t just friendly, in a way that makes me want to pull you close every time I see you.”

“I like you in a way that makes it physically impossible for me to look at you and not think about how badly I want to be yours.”

Y/N’s breath hitched, her pulse roaring in her ears. “You’re joking,” she said weakly.

Lando let out a soft, frustrated laugh, shaking his head. “No, Peach. I’m not joking. I’m telling you, finally telling you, that I’ve wanted you for so long, and I can’t keep pretending I don’t.”

Her brain stalled.

Every moment she had overthought suddenly flashed through her mind, the lingering touches, the way he always called her Peach like it was something sacred, the way he had never once left her side, had never once let her doubt that he would be there.

And now, here he was, saying the thing she had never let herself believe. Her silence stretched between them, and for the first time in a long time, Lando looked uncertain.

His hand, still resting against her jaw, twitched slightly, like he was afraid she was going to pull away.

“Say something,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

“I—” She swallowed hard, trying to piece together a coherent thought. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Then don’t say anything.”

And before she could overthink it, before she could let herself spiral into a million reasons why this couldn’t be real, Lando leaned in and kissed her.

It was soft at first, a question rather than a demand. His lips brushed against hers hesitantly, like he was giving her a chance to pull away.

She didn’t.

Instead, she melted, her hands finding his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric like it was the only thing grounding her.

That was all Lando needed.

His other hand found her waist, tugging her closer until there was no space left between them. The kiss deepened, slow and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world to make up for the moments they had wasted.

When they finally pulled apart, Y/N’s heart was hammering, her head spinning. Lando rested his forehead against hers, his breath warm against her lips.

“Please tell me you know what to say,” he murmured, a teasing lilt to his voice.

Y/N let out a breathless laugh, shaking her head. “Yeah, I think I have an idea.”

“Good.” Lando grinned, pressing another soft kiss to the corner of her mouth. “Took you long enough.”

🪻🪻🪻

It had been almost a year since that night at his family home in Bristol, since he had finally given up on the hints and just told her. Since he had kissed her like he had been waiting his whole life to do it. Since she had stopped pretending she wasn’t completely, irreversibly his.

Now, they were curled up on his bed in his off-campus apartment, the soft glow of morning slipping through the blinds. Lando was still half-asleep, his face buried in the crook of her neck, arms wrapped around her like he had no intention of letting go.

“You’re staring,” he murmured, voice thick with sleep.

Y/N smiled, running her fingers through his curls. “Am not.”

Lando huffed out a laugh, pulling her impossibly closer. “Liar.”

“Lando.”

He hummed, still fixated on her in his arms. “Yeah, Peach?”

She smiled. The nickname had never gone away.

She stretched out on the bed, letting her cheek rest against the pillow as she watched him. “Did you know you’re my first in everything?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Everything?”

“Everything,” she confirmed, biting her lip. “First kiss, first boyfriend, first person I’ve ever said ‘I love you’ to…” She paused, eyes twinkling. “And, you know. First in other ways.”

Lando smirked. “I’m very aware, sweetheart.”

Her face burned, but she refused to look away. “You’re my first everything. It’s kind of unfair, don’t you think?”

His fingers reached out to her, brushing them over her flushed cheek. “You’re my first real everything too, you know,” he murmured, voice softer now.

She blinked up at him. “Really?”

Lando nodded, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “First girl I’ve ever been completely gone for.”

A kiss on her cheek. “First person I’ve ever loved.”

Another kiss, this time to her nose. “First person I never want to lose.”

Y/N’s heart swelled. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him impossibly closer to her. He laughed, letting her hold him close as he buried his face in her neck, his arms slipping around her waist like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I love you,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to his curls.

Lando tightened his hold on her, his lips brushing against her collarbone as he murmured, “I love you more, Peach.”

And she believed it, because if there was one thing she knew for certain, it was that Lando Norris was her first in everything.

And if she was lucky, he’d also be her last.

i’m going to be so honest i started writing this at like 11 something pm and finished by around 2 am. and i only proof read like maybe the first few scenes and then i gave up bc i genuinely feel so sleepy rn, but yes here you go my geeks ^_^

#lando norris #lando norris x reader #lando norris x you #lando norris x y/n #lando norris fluff #lando norris fic #f1 driver x reader #f1 fluff #f1 requests #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #ln4 x reader #ln4 fic #ln4 fluff

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nexysworld · 2 months ago

Text

Summary: You accidentally call the hottest professor on campus Daddy. Total slip of the tongue—nerves, exhaustion, whatever! At least, that’s what you tell yourself. Unfortunately that same professor can't seem to let it go.

Pairing: Professor!Satoru Gojo x Fem! Reader Tags: NSFW, Smut, Power Imbalance, professor x student relationship, cream pie, Unprotected Sex, Daddy Kink, spanking, mild Dubcon, Wordcount: 3.6k

Note: This is dedicated to the wonderful @dollfacefantasy. <3

𝙰𝚜𝚔 𝙱𝚘𝚡 • 𝙰𝙾3 • 𝙼𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚜 & 𝙼𝚘𝚛𝚎

The idle tapping of keys and scribbling of notes was all you could focus on. Midterms had been brutal, even for the easiest classes, leaving you an overstimulated, exhausted mess. All you wanted was to go home and sleep.

With drooping eyelids, you tried to make out the equations on the board, wondering—not for the first time—why the hell you thought taking an 8 a.m. class with Professor Satoru Gojo was even remotely a good idea. The man never shut up, spouting every thought that popped into his head, whether it related to the lesson or not. Worse, he was strict as hell when it came to grading and gave out more homework than any other professor. He’d mark you for any and every technical error he could. Semantics? He was the king of them.

And yet, he was the most popular professor at the university. Students practically lined up just for the chance to talk to him.

Why?

Because he was hot.

You weren’t any better—jumping on the opportunity to take his class the moment your advisor suggested it. And yeah, he really was as attractive as everyone said. You hadn’t noticed it much at first, too focused on your studies and making sure you passed.

But now? Now, in your half-conscious state, hand going numb as it propped up your head, you found yourself zoning in on him. He was all shaggy silver hair, the unruly spikes bouncing with his overly animated movements. His blue eyes—only half-hidden behind those thick black sunglasses—that glinted with mischief. His button-up was undone just enough to be distracting, sleeves shoved past his elbows, chalk tapping against the board at an almost inhuman speed. The white undershirt clung just right, and you knew there was a lean, gym physique hiding under there.

And that voice.

That perfect blend of hubris and sarcasm made even the dullest topics weirdly entertaining. The constant teasing, the smug witticisms—they should’ve been irritating. But instead, they just sounded way too good falling off his lips.

Your imagination drifted, slipping past the appropriate as your dreary eyes began to shut on their own. Your head floated off into a fantasy…

Until his voice cut through it like a lightning strike on a sunny day.

“Alright, who wants to solve this?” Gojo’s voice rang out, irritatingly cheerful.

Silence. No one was dumb enough to volunteer this early in the morning.

“How about you, sleepyhead?” he singsonged, striding across the room until he was uncomfortably close to your vicinity.

Your half-conscious brain barely registered that someone was speaking to you, dredging up an automated response.

“Uh…what?”

Satoru grinned. “Solve the equation, silly.” He tapped the chalk against the desk a few times before pointing behind him at the board.

Your brain—still half-in fantasyland and woefully unprepared to function under pressure—short-circuited. Before you could stop yourself, the words tumbled out:

“Yes, Daddy.”

The silence was deafening. You could hear your own heartbeat thrumming in your ears, counting the seconds as they passed.

Someone choked on their coffee. A few others barely stifled laughter.

Gojo froze. Then, slowly, a devilish grin stretched across his face, adjusting his sunglasses allowing them to slide down the bridge of his nose.

“Oh?” His voice dripped with amusement. “Did you just—? Well, that’s a first.”

Your soul left your body.

“I—I meant Professor! Professor Gojo!”

“Nah, nah, you can’t take it back now. You sounded pretty confident.”

You wanted to die. Right here, right now. But of course, Gojo wasn’t done. He propped his chin on his hand, leaning way too close.

“You know, I always had the feeling I was the favorite Professor, but this really confirms it.”

“Please, just let me do the question,” you begged, desperate for a change of subject. You could feel the eyes of the entire class burning into you, like a spotlight had opened from the heavens. You only wished you could manifest a cartoon hole in the floor instead.

“Alright, alright,” he finally relented, straightening up and turning back toward the board. “Let’s focus, everyone. But—” he cast a glance over his shoulder, smirking, “if anyone else feels the need to work through their daddy issues or nap in my class, just know you’ll be joining your friend here for office hours. Extra credit mandatory.”

His voice was uncharacteristically serious when he spoke those last words, making your stomach flip. Then, just as quickly, he slipped right back into his usual tone. “Or maybe I’ll just refer you to my buddy in the psych department.” He tapped the chalk against the board, already writing out a new equation, having given up on the first. “I hear he loves a good case study.”

Laughter erupted.

You buried your face in your hands.

Being assigned to Gojo’s office hours as a punishment for sleeping and then subsequently calling him Daddy? That had to be illegal. Or at least against some ethical code. Then again, you were pretty sure they didn’t cover “verbal humiliation and unintentional kinks” in the student handbook, but here you were anyway, making the walk of shame to his office.

Anxiety had been twisting you apart since the incident, not giving you the chance to focus on anything the rest of the day beyond the horrible humiliation you’d be suffering the rest of your college life. The idea of now being in a confined space with the very same professor had you nauseous.

All you could do was hope—beg, pray, manifest—that he’d be professional. Maybe hand you some extracurricular worksheet or a math problem set and let you go in peace.

“Right on time,” Gojo said, leaning forward on his desk. His voice dripped with amusement, and the smile stretching across his face was so smug it bordered on evil. “I admire punctuality.”

You stifled a groan and dropped into the farthest chair across from him without looking at him. “Can we just get this over with?”

“Straight to business?” he clicked his tongue. “Cold. I thought we had something special,” he teased. “I can respect it though.” he slid a blank paper across the table along with a shitty yellow pencil—the cheap kind you’d get from the dollar store. You stared at it, before finally meeting his gaze.

“You going to make me write lines or something?”

“Not quite. I want you to write an essay on your feelings.”

“…you’re a math teacher.”

“Professor,” he corrected. “Let’s use the right titles. We wouldn’t want any casual slip-ups like earlier.”

“Ok well…I can do this at home. Can’t I just turn it in to you tomorrow?”

“Nice try,” he said, leaning back and kicking his feet up on the desk. “But this is a punishment. Office hours are mandatory when you call your professor Daddy mid-lecture and then pass out like we’re in daycare.”

His words dredged up some existential dread at the memory. “It was a slip! I was half-asleep…”

“Mmhm.” He was chuckling now. “It’s fine. I’m flattered, really. Just didn’t expect math to bring out someone’s kinky awakening. But that’s what college is for, I guess.”

You opened your mouth to quip something back at him, but the words caught in your throat. When you finally met his gaze, unhidden by the sunglasses he normally wore—you saw it. It was uncanny, unlocking some mental paranoia, like he already had your next 10 moves planned.

“Will you quit staring? It’s like you’re enjoying my humiliation. Just…let me write the essay in peace.” Normally you’d never have the nerve to be so bold with authority, but given your slip up early and the fact your humiliation couldn’t get any worse, it had you emboldened. You were white knuckling the pencil, fairly sure it would snap under your grip any moment.

“You’re not exactly making it easy not to,” he replied, tilting his head. “You’re flustered, it’s cute. Ah whoops, guess I’m not supposed to say that, am I?”

“I’m mortified, actually.”

“Even cuter.”

His words had your whole face flushed, the feverish embarrassment burning down to your shoulders. It throws you off kilter completely. Was he flirting with you? No way, it had to just be some sick way for him to mock you. The essay felt like an insurmountable task, the blank paper mocking you as well daring you to put something on the page.

You started scribbling something onto the paper, trying to keep your focus away from him—away from the tension in the air. But every time your pencil moved, you could feel his eyes on you. Watching. You made a mental note to report him after this.

“What kind of essay even is this?” you asked, unable to handle the silence. “Feelings? About what?”

“About me, obviously,” he said without missing a beat. “Or how about the shame and complicated emotions tied up in calling your professor ‘Daddy’ in front of the entire 8AM lecture hall. Plenty of material there.”

“That’s—” you started, but couldn’t even finish the sentence without dying a little inside. “Why do you keep having to bring it up? It’s not funny.”

“It’s kind of funny,” Gojo said. “I mean, I’ve had students call me all sorts of things—sensei, sir, even boss once, which was weird—but never that.” His voice dipped lower. “Never daddy.”

The pencil lead snapped under the pressure of your hand, digging a hole into the paper and leaving a mark on the wood beneath.

He whistled, clearly amused. “Wow, strong grip. You always this tense, or is it just me?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Too late. I’m already blushing.”

Not wanting to feed into whatever the hell was happening, you decided it was in your best interest to not reply. Instead, you sharpened the pencil and focused again on the essay scribbling nonsense onto the page to at least look productive. At the very least you hoped he would just get bored enough to let you go without reading it. He could yell at you tomorrow for bullshitting, or better yet, you both could have a chat in the Dean’s office.

Unfortunately, Satoru Gojo didn’t like being ignored.

“I bet,” he started, spinning a pen between his fingers, his expensive looking wristwatch jangling with the movement, “if I asked you to say it again, you’d do it.”

Your eyes shot up to him, but he didn’t give you the chance to reply as he continued. “It’s probably just sitting right there on the tip of your tongue. Ready to slip out again, given the chance.”

“Why are you doing this? Is this how you treat all your students?”

“Nope,” he replied lazily. “Just the ones who blush so pretty when I tease them.”

You gawked at him, unable to form a single cohesive thought. You should have walked out after telling him off. Reported him the second your foot hit the doorway. Instead, you didn’t move, held in place by an invisible force.

He took that opportunity to close the distance between you by leaning over the desk, invading your personal space. Your senses processed the too-rich cologne and the mishmashed hues of white and blue that made up his form. His thumb ran over your bottom lip. “You want me to stop?”

“I uhmm…uh,” you responded, barely coherent.

“Not much of an answer. Really gotta work on those listening skills, sweetheart. Tell ya what, let’s make it easier.” He brushed his nose against your jaw, making you swallow air. “If you don’t want this, say ‘Professor.’ Loud and clear and I’ll stop. But if you do…I wanna hear you call me Daddy again.”

You couldn’t remember what it was like to speak, electricity ran through every nerve, dancing beneath your skin. Maybe a more sober version of yourself would have been smart enough to reject him. But he was so close and so tempting.

“…Daddy,” you whispered, so quiet not even a fly on the wall would’ve heard the word.

“Good girl.”

The praise made you giddy, like a pampered puppy. In a second his lips were connected to yours. They were warm, far softer than expected and a little sticky from the chapstick he always wore.

He cradled your jaw, tilting your head to deepen the kiss as he leaned further over the desk. The forgotten essay paper slipping off the desk and falling to the floor, the pencil clattering along with it. Your fingers gripped the chair arms like a lifeline, keeping you grounded.

He pulled back just enough to let you breathe. If he was as affected as you were, it didn’t show. His lips brushed against yours again as he spoke. “Still with me, sweetheart?”

You nodded, dazed, lips tingling. You wondered if he could hear how loud your heartbeat was in the silence of his office.

He chuckled, low and evil. “Then be a good girl again and go lock the door.”

Without hesitation you slipped out of the chair and despite your wobbly legs, managed to make your way over, pulling the shade over the window and clicking the press-on lock. When you turned around he was back in his chair, patting the desk in front of him. “Hop up.”

The wood was too hard and uncomfortable against your thighs, but you ignored it—far too focused on the man sitting beneath you. His slacks were tenting with his own arousal, spiky locks of snow wilder than usual.

His hands found your hips, fingers hooking into the waistband of your bottoms. “You look nervous. Having second thoughts?”

You shook your head quickly—too quickly.

“Words, sweetheart,” he chided.

“N-no, I’m fine.”

“You’re fine what?” He pressed, white brow raised.

“I’m fine, Daddy,” you replied, the word making you burn with embarrassment all over again.

“That’s what I like to hear,” he said, letting his fingers tug the fabric down. You lifted your hips and kicked off your shoes to help him with his task. The frigid air of the office felt strange against your bareness, intensifying the growing need between your legs.

“Now, just so we’re clear,” he began. “This is still punishment...so rude of you to fall asleep in my class, after I work hard to keep it interesting.” Lithe fingers found their way between your legs and before you could question what he meant, he gave a light slap to your exposed pussy.

You gasped, more in surprise than pain, your thighs instinctively pressing together. He smirked, clearly enjoying your reaction as his hand pressed against your thigh to spread them again. He stood so he could catch your lips in another kiss, two fingers dragging through your folds, stopping only to rub soft circles around your clit.

“Bend over for me,” he commanded, pulling back. He helped you slide off the desk, letting you bend over the oakwood, leaving your lower half spread and exposed to him. You couldn’t believe you were doing this, or how good that agonizing sense of humiliation felt. He stood behind you, silent for a moment—long enough for the anticipation to start chewing at your nerves.

“Look at you,” he spoke, voice laced with amusement. “Didn’t even hesitate to listen.”

You couldn’t see him, but you heard the sound of his chair before feeling his warm breath on your most sensitive lips.

“Beautiful even down here,” he whistled again. You throbbed with aroused anticipation. His hand came down against your bare bottom, the sound of skin striking skin echoed in the small room before the blooming sting set in. It wasn’t unbearable, in fact, you were surprised that you liked the way it felt. Then his hand came down again, striking your other cheek, making you yelp.

“I’m not hearing any apologies,” he teased, as he pressed a kiss to your reddened skin before spanking you again.

“A-ah, I’m sorry f-for falling asleep,” you squeaked.

“Mmm I think that apology is missing something,” he added, marveling at the handprints forming against your skin.

“‘M sorry D-daddy.”

“That’s better.” He gave you one last slap, lighter than the others. “So wet already too, fuck.” He groaned, delving in and dragging his tongue against your clit, swirling the tip around it. Your brain went blank—only able to focus on the heat he was pulling from your core with the pink muscle. The sounds were wet and sloppy. He ate you out shamelessly, barely taking a break to even breathe.

His hands gripped your plush cheeks, spreading them to get more leverage.

Your toes curled, moaning as you resisted the urge to grind back against his face—somehow still trying to keep some level of self-preservation. Even still, you couldn’t remember if anyone had ever been this good, unraveling you so fast it gave you whiplash.

Two fingers pumped inside of you, pressing against that inner most sensitive spot. Between that and his mouth sucking your clit, you came undone, legs kicking out as spots peppered your vision.

“D-daddy, daddy n-no more,” you whined as he continued to tease you.

He pulled away, giving you a moment to collect yourself. By the sound of his own panting, it was clear he was now equally as worked up. The metal of his belt clanked behind you and he groaned.

“Damn, you’re seriously hot.” You heard drawers opening and closing behind you. “You on the pill, sweetheart? ‘Cause I don’t think I’ve got any condoms on me—oops.”

“Yes,” you replied, pushing yourself up. He spun you to face him, pulling you down into his lap. His button up had been discarded, leaving only the white undershirt. By his arms alone you could tell you had been right in assuming he was secretly fit, and curiously you wanted to know what else was underneath.

His cock was free, pressing against his clothed stomach—pale with an angrily flushed tip, perfectly sized—it made your mouth water with want.

Daringly, your hand came up to the cotton fabric and tugged on it. He got the hint, slipping it over his head and tossing it to the floor. He was all lean muscle and angles.

“Your turn,” he grinned, fingers hooking into your top. “Don’t leave me all exposed and bashful now.”

You lifted your arms, letting him slide your shirt off. He managed to catch your bra with it, both items tossed somewhere in the small office room. His inhumanly blue eyes were fixated on your chest, hands coming to massage them between his hands. You squirmed in his lap, earning a moan in return.

“You want me to fuck you?” He asked plainly, and the sinfulness of the words had you worked up again.

“Yes, please.”

“Ask me properly.”

“Please Daddy, I want you to fuck me.”

In a swift motion he had you flat against the desk again, his shaft rubbing through your wet folds a few times before sliding in. The stretch was delicious, making you feel full instantly. Your arms wrapped around him, legs around his waist, clinging to him as he rocked his hips into you. Every thrust was quick and rough but tantalizing. His mouth found yours as you devolved into a mess of sloppy kisses as his hips continued to meet the skin of your ass and thighs.

“Feels so good Daddy,” you moaned, head falling back. “So big…”

“Shit, you take it so well,” he praised. “Good…fucking…girl…” he groaned, changing the pace. His thrusts were faster but more shallow, no longer pulling all the way out each time—preferring to stay buried in you. When his movements lost their rhythm, he came with a shudder, sucking the skin on your collar bone, forming a purple mark.

He pulled back when he was done, catching his own breath—a sight to behold, panting above you, white bits of hair sticking to his forehead. His eyes were lidded, shadowed by thick white lashes. You wondered how many people had been lucky enough to see this.

Without thinking, you pulled him back down into a kiss. He obliged your desires, returning the affection, until there was a knock at the door.

“Satoru, are you still here this late? If so—” the sound of professor Geto’s voice rang through the door freezing you beneath the older man.

As if sensing your panic, Gojo laughed quietly and held a finger up to his lips before motioning for you to get dressed.

“Suguru, hey, still here. Guess I must’ve passed out at my desk. Hold up, give me a sec,” he replied before hastily zipping his pants, and feeling around the floor for his own shirt.

“Wait 5 minutes, once I’m out the door. Then you can sneak out past me,” he said, quickly buttoning his wrinkled shirt and batting his hair.

You nodded, half-dressed, working to pull your top back on.

Gojo made his way to the door, slipping out as he greeted his fellow professor. Before the two of them walked off, you swore you heard Geto mention something about an “interesting choice of nap partner, Satoru.” Not willing to stick around and deal with the consequences, you followed his instructions—waiting five minutes until the voices faded, then quickly gathering your things and slipping down the hall.

Your phone buzzed, an unknown number flashing on the screen. You opened the message once outside:

‘Sorry for cutting it short, but don’t worry about Suguru. He’s not about to rat me out. Just… don’t fall asleep again unless you’re begging for Daddy to give you round two. 😉’

You groaned at the text but found yourself already typing a reply. You weren’t sure how far you wanted to take this, but you definitely weren’t planning on letting it end now.

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