#now that their relationship and feelings are out in the open

[diyahatnight]

How they ask for sex

Xavier, Rafayel, Zayne, Sylus, Caleb x gn!reader (Separately)

Warnings: Suggestive, sexual themes, established relationships, minors DNI, 18+

AN: Sorry if any of them are ooc.

Word count: 5.8k

Xavier

Xavier would be the type to tell you straight up, or at least hint at it. They wouldn’t be subtle hints either, he’d be straight up with his hints and make suggestive comments that on the surface don’t seem inappropriate, but most definitely are. Though before he ever gets to say anything, his body always speaks before his mouth.

You and Xavier were laid up in bed together, him behind you spooning you. He held you close to his body, arms tightly wrapped around your waist. He was holding you this close because—right before you both got into bed—you tried to kick him out of your apartment. As a joke, of course. But now he's making sure you can’t sneak away from him.

You assumed he was asleep while you mindlessly scrolled on your phone. Initially, he was sleep, but he had an oh-so-delicious dream about you that woke him right on up. You felt him shift behind you and assuming he was now awake, you spoke to him.

“Are you okay baby?” You asked… but no response. You shrugged it off and continued to scroll on your phone. After a couple minutes, you felt him shift behind you once again, this time pulling you impossibly closer, like he was trying to get in your skin. Or… your clothes.

Xavier waited a bit before loosening his arms around your waist and trailing them lower, finally slipping his hands beneath your shirt. He then pressed his body against your own and that’s when you felt something hard press against your backside. Xavier was rock hard and he wasn’t hiding it, he wanted you to know so you’d do something about it.

“Xav-” You choked out, before he cut you off. “You know, Honey, I’m quite hungry right now, but there’s something specific I’d like to eat and i’m not sure if I can have it.”

Xavier didn’t wait for a response before he started to kiss your neck and caress your body underneath your shirt. You let out a soft hum and bathed in the feeling of his touches before speaking.

“And what exactly are you craving right now Xavie?” He paused his kisses for a moment, before sticking out his tongue and swiping a quick lick from your shoulder to your jawline, and then sucking the area for a bit to leave a nice pretty hickey.

“This food is one of a kind…” Xavier started as he nibbled on your shoulder. “There’s only one in the whole world, you can’t get it anywhere else.”

Xavier started to explain the food he was craving and he described you in explicit detail before saying, “And I’m afraid I need a taste of this food or my hunger won’t be subsided.”

You hummed once again and then softly said, “There’s definitely something we can do about that.” You felt Xavier’s smile on your shoulder and he let’s go of you before getting up and climbing over your body, moving you to lay on your back.

Xavier spreads your legs and settled between them, moving them to rest around his hips. He turned off your phone that’s been sitting there, replaying the same video over and over since he started, and he sat it on your night stand. He leaned down into your neck and whispered into your ear.

“I hope you’re prepared, Honey. Because it’s going to be a longgg night. I’m not letting you go until I’ve had my fill—again, and again." He said before attacking your neck.

Rafayel

I feel like Rafayel wouldn’t be the type to ask you straight up to smash. He’d be a little too flustered to say anything. He expects you to know when he wants to have you. You know him so well right? So read him like an open book. Rafayel is soooo obvious when he wants to have sex.

You and Rafayel went out on a date to the beach. He wanted to collect a bunch of seashells for you and make you something special. But after not even five minutes, the rain started pouring down.

You two were still a twenty-minute walk from your apartment, but you didn’t feel like listening to your fishy complain about walking in the rain. So, you suggested that you both stay at a nearby hotel for the night.

The nearest hotel was a three-minute walk, which he was fine with, even though he complained a bit. You paid for one hotel room for both of you, with one bed and Rafayel thought that this day couldn’t get any better.

After settling into the room, Rafayel told you, “Hey cutie, I’m going to take a quick shower.” He winked as he said it and made his way to the bathroom, hoping you’d follow him. Instead, you told him you’d be back. He turned to you with an offended look on his face.

“What do you mean, you’ll be back?” he asked as if you just told him you ruined one of his paintings.

“I’m just going to the store down the street to get us some clothes to sleep in, I won’t be gone for long.” You said with confusion evident in your voice and a tilt to your head.

For some odd reason he looked even more offended “So you’re saying that you don’t want to bathe with the love of your life?” he scoffed.

You rolled your eyes, “Rafayel I did not say that.” You folded your arms, “Do you or do you not want warm clothes to sleep in?”

“Fine, hurry up.” He said as he shooed you off. You sighed as you walked out of the hotel door, closing it behind you. The two of you had just gotten here and he was already being a brat. He’s gonna get it when you get back.

After a bit, you returned to the hotel room with a bag of clothes and entered the bathroom. Rafayel was standing there in a towel, letting the shower water warm up.

“Took you long enough,” he said with his back turned to you. You rolled your eyes as you put the bag down and started to get undressed. “Rafayel, I was gone for five minutes.” Rafayel took off his towel and stepped into the shower, “Yeah five minutes too long.”

Rafayel watched you get undressed and then step into the shower with him. He turned his back towards you and grabbed a rag, putting soap in it, and began cleaning his body. He didn’t say a thing to you nor did he even offer to help clean your back. He’s usually sassy on the regular, but today in particular he’s being more bratty about simple things.

After the shower, the two of you stood in the hotel room in your towels. You offered to put lotion on Rafayel’s body and he declined. With a sigh, you tossed the lotion on the bed and approached him with your arms folded.

“Alright, what’s your problem Rafayel?” He folded his arms too and turned his head the other way. “I have no problem,” he said matter-of-factly.

Your arms unfolded, and you traced your hand down his torso while quietly speaking, “Come on, baby, you know I know you better than that.” Rafayel grabbed your wrist and guided it lower, letting you feel his hardness press insistently against his towel — practically begging to be let free.

“Well obviously you don’t know me enough, cutie,” he said as he turned his head back to you to watch your hand. You started to rub him a bit while he guided your hand.

“Aw, baby why didn’t you tell me sooner?” you said, while he let out soft sighs at the friction, simultaneously softly grinding his hardness against your hand.

“Well… now you know.” He said as he backed you up until you fell back onto the bed.

Zayne

Like Rafayel, Zayne doesn’t say anything at all. He usually just waits until you feel like you want to smash because he likes to please. But if he’s feeling extra needy and you’re not, you can tell by the way he gets super touchy. When he feels like it’s been a while since he bent you over, he’ll be a little extra clingy, like an extra shadow, but he’s subtle about it. He makes it just the perfect amount of obvious so you’d at least get the hint.

After a long day at work, Zayne returned home, putting all his stuff down, taking off his jacket, and slipping off his shoes. As he walked further into the house, he spotted you sitting on his couch watching TV and that brought a faint smile to his face.

The night prior, you had spent the night, and in the morning while he was getting ready for work, he suggested that you should spend the day at his house since you have the day off. He’d love to see your face first thing when he gets home, your face makes his day.

Zayne sat on the couch beside you, and before you could even turn and hug him, he pulled you into a hug, burying his face in your hair taking in your scent. He sat there for a minute just breathing you in like you were his lifeline —the very thing that kept him going. Oh, he loved your scent so much… It turned him on after a long day.

He sat there for a long while before you shifted and spoke, “You okay Zayne?” He didn’t respond immediately and lifted his head and pressed a kiss to your forehead and murmured, “Just fine.”

You shrugged it off and pointed to the kitchen, “Well, I made you dinner, you should go eat. It’s in the microwave.” He nodded to your words, before pressing a couple more kisses to your cheek and jawline before getting up.

He returned with the plate of food and sat beside you again, closer this time. He rested his hand on your thigh as he ate, slightly gripping the inner part every once in a while.

After he ate, he put the empty plate down on the coffee table and then brought your legs up to rest across his lap. He caressed and massaged your legs before speaking, “Must have had a long day, you need time to relax.”

You giggled. “Baby, I’ve been relaxing all day.” He hummed, “Mmm, as you should.” his words came out in almost a whisper.

Zayne’s eyes remained solely on those pretty legs of yours, his eyes sometimes trailing up the rest of your body. He continued to massage your legs until he felt your calf accidentally rub against his hardness. The feeling made him shudder and he abruptly stood up.

“I’m going to go shower,” he said, leaving before you could even say anything to him.

Thirty minutes later, he quietly returned, sneaking up behind you on the couch and wrapping his strong arms around your neck. He buried his head into your neck breathing in your scent once again — the sensation traveling straight down to his core.

He started to rub your shoulders, fighting everything in his being to trail his hands down your shirt and caress your chest. Instead, he settled with massaging your collar bones.

“Zayne are you sure you’re alright?” you asked him once again, you knew there was something wrong with him. Still, he didn't answer.

He started to kiss your neck and you felt the couch start to softly rock — he was grinding his hardness into the couch. Soft moans and sighs escaped him, right in your ear.

And finally, he let it out, with a soft audible moan, “Please… I need you so bad.”

Sylus

Would be the type to tell you straight up that he wants to fold you like a pretzel and make sweet, sweet love to you. But instead, he gets a thrill out of making you guess that he wants to smash, and then he twists the narrative and makes you beg for it instead.

There was a little festival going on and you and Sylus were out together. The two of you walked side by side while he watched you with a smirk pointed out different stalls. You wanted to buy little trinkets, play different games, try different foods, etc, etc. You were definitely in your element and that brought a smile to his face.

Even though it made him happy to see you happy, seeing you so giddy turned him on oh so much. It was so endearing, so much so that he was ready to take you to an alley and have his way with you there. But he decided that on this fine Saturday afternoon, he’ll keep it cute for the time being.

You had strayed away from him, trying one of the games at a stall and he approached you from behind, wrapping an arm around your waist and watching what you were doing over your shoulder.

“Having fun, Kitten?” He asked as his hand slightly squeezed your waist and he pulled you a little bit closer to him. He watched you nod your head as you played the game and that made him smile.

After you played the game, you showed him the prize that you won, it was a cute little cat plushy and you wanted to give it to him. He gladly took it from you, when he grabbed it his hand slightly grazed yours, and he realized that you were quite warm. He brought your hand up to his lips and pressed a soft kiss to the palm of it.

“Your body temperature is quite high, would you like some ice cream?” he nodded to the ice cream stand not too far away. When you said yes he led you to the stand.

While in line at the ice cream stand, he let you order while he stood directly behind you. You felt him push his body up against you and you turned your head back at him.

“Sylus why are you so close?” You asked, your expression quizzical. He had a sly smirk on his face, “Whatever do you mean Kitten?” he said, but as he did so, he ground his hips against the cleft of your backside and he looked around like he was confused.

“Sylus what the hell-” “Your ice cream is ready.” He cut you off, pointing at the guy holding out your ice cream to you. You scowled at him, before accepting the ice cream from the guy and thanking him, then Sylus paid.

The two of you sat on a bench while you enjoyed your ice cream and he rested his hand on your inner thigh. You felt him keep his hand up every once in a while and you ignored it. Things go away when you ignore them— allegedly.

Sylus noticed that you had ice cream spilling down your forearm and instead of being a normal person and grabbed a napkin. He brought your forearm up to his mouth and sensually licked up the melted ice cream while holding eye contact.

You watched him with your mouth agape and your eyes widened when his lips sealed around the tip of your ring finger, to get the last bit of melted ice cream off. He also noticed the bit of ice cream you had on the corner of your mouth and he leaned in to lap that up too.

You popped him with your hand and he sat back with a smile, oh was he ready to eat you whole. But to his dismay, you turned your back on him, though his smile never faltered.

Later that evening, both of you returned to your apartment. He slipped off his shoes and watched you with a hungry gaze as you took off your jacket. Without warning he walked up to you, pinning you to the side of your couch. He started to kiss your neck, leaving a nice hickey.

“Do you know what I want to do right now, Kitten?” he asked, his breath hot against your shoulder. You shuddered at the feeling and spoke, “What is it Sylus?”

And that’s when he just let go and walked away to the kitchen to wash his hands. You were confused, you were so sure that you and him were about to get down and dirty on the couch, but he just… walked away? You followed him to the kitchen, closing the fridge door on him as he was about to grab a bottle of water after washing his hands.

“What the hell was that, Sylus?!” you scoffed. “What are you talking about?” he said seemingly unbothered. You frowned at him and folded your arms before speaking again. “You can’t just... do that and walk away.”

Sylus smirked when he heard you say that, and he slowly approached you, backing you up against the fridge. “What do you want from me, baby. Tell me, I’m all ears,” he said as his eyes raked over your face, he was ready to pounce, but he was waiting for you.

“Just… please Sylus, don’t do this to me,” you said, but in an instant, you were picked up and placed on the kitchen counter.

“I thought you’d never ask,” he started as he began to slide off your shirt. “You know closed mouths don’t get fed, Kitten.”

Caleb

I actually don’t know how Caleb would ask for sex. I feel like he’d say it straight up but he’d mainly wait for the natural progression of sex to happen. When he’s feeling needy, he’s going to kiss you like he needs you oh so desperately and then let everything else smooth sail. (I will be feeding into pantie sniffer Caleb allegations.)

Caleb was over at your apartment fixing a plumbing issue that you’ve been having for the past couple of days. Yeah, you could’ve fixed it yourself but you loved seeing Caleb play big provider man… it turned you on. So you saved something that he can fix, just so you can watch.

After fixing the plumbing issue, he came into your room to let you know that the issue has been solved, “Hey, Pip. The issue has been fixed, your sink should be working just fine now.”

Aw, he fixed it too fast, you were just wondering if you should go out there while he lies on his back, working under your sink and ride him, for moral support… of course.

You sat up off the bed with a sigh, “Thank you for your hard work Caleb, are you thirsty?” you said, as you got up and walked your way to the kitchen and he followed you.

“If you’re offering, then yeah — I am,” he said, all too giddy.

As you got to the kitchen, you opened the cabinet and reached for a glass. Caleb’s eyes locked on your midsection — the way your shirt slightly rose, exposing your pretty skin to his hungry gaze.

The shorts you wore sat low on your hips, and when your shirt lifted just a bit more, he caught a perfect glimpse of your panties.

Freshly worn panties… mmm perfect for a sniff, he thought. He knows you smell delish, good enough to eat. His mind started to drift, daydreaming, wondering if you’d let him smell your panties while they were on you.

His nose pressed against your mound getting a good whiff, while fighting the urge to lick. Oh, the things he would do for that right now.

“Earth to Caleb,” you called out to him, waving a hand in his face. “Oh sorry, Pip Squeak, I was just thinking about how… nice the sun is today,” he said, subtly angling himself so you wouldn’t notice he was completely hard from his daydream.

Curse those stupid tight pants he decided to wear today. He knows how much you like his butt, so when you called him to come fix your sink, he put on the tightest pair he owned to make it look extra plump for you.

You nodded at his response and poured both him and you a glass of apple juice. He took his with a quiet “thank you” and looked around awkwardly as he sipped it.

Then his eyes landed on you once again, and widened the moment he saw a drip of apple juice trickle down your face and chin. He swallowed hard holding back a moan at the sight and the way his hardness jumped in his pants.

He choked on his drink and immediately you turned to him, grabbing a napkin, putting down your drink, and cleaning his face. “Oh my gosh, Caleb are you okay?” you asked concerned as you cleaned juice off his face. All he did was nod in response.

“Let’s go shower, babe,” you said, as you led him to the bathroom by his arm. While in the bathroom you started the shower and then turned to Caleb to help him remove his clothes. He immediately stopped you and told you that he could take care of it.

You shrugged your shoulders and undressed yourself then hopped in the shower. After a couple of minutes, he joined you and you noticed that he was (attempting), to cover himself and you raised a brow.

“Why are you covering up? You act like I’ve never seen before,” you said with a smirk on your face. A pink hue dusted his cheeks, and he changed the subject: “Would you like me to help you clean yourself?”

You said sure and passed him your rag after pumping soap into it. He took it and began cleaning you up. After a bit of time, it started to feel like he was just fondling you, well he definitely was.

“Caleb, what are you-” he cut you off by smashing his lips with yours, dropping your rag to the floor. He kissed you like a man starved and that he needed this to survive.

Caleb picked you up, wrapping your legs around his hips as he pressed your back against the glass door of the shower. He started to grind his thick hard on against your tummy, moaning into your mouth as the heat between you built.

Absolutely no words needed. You know what he wants…

[thesewordsareallihavetogive]

Yell at Me - Dr. Jack Abbot x resident!reader

Summary: 2.7k words. You never expected your attending to suddenly end your years-long secret fling without warning. Now you’re both dealing with the fallout.

Warnings: 18+ content. No explicit smut, but mdni anyway please. Age gap. Lots of colorful language lmao. Angst, angst, and more angst. Miscommunication (I hate it). Yearning. Trust the process and stick around to the end pls

a/n: I was listening to “undressed” by sombr in the shower last night and the lyrics “I don't want the children of another man / To have the eyes of the girl I won't forget” are now imprinted in my brain. I wrote this during the commercial breaks of last night’s episode of Love Island USA and this morning. Enjoy!

Master list | Divider credit!

The Pitt feels sterile and cold at this time of night. It’s slow. Quiet, even. But no one dares to utter the words. Not even Doctor Shen—not after the absolute reaming Doctor Ellis dealt him once the Pitt Fest dust settled. There’s enough action to keep you from falling asleep, but there’s enough lulls to allow you time to talk with your coworkers while you wait for imaging and lab results to come back for your patients.

Even on nights like tonight, Doctor Abbot doesn’t join in on the drama. But, he hears bits and pieces of the hospital’s gossip in passing. He’s not intentionally eavesdropping in the clean utility room, but he could pick your voice out in the loudest crowd and spot your face in any room. The L-shape of the closet prevents you from noticing him quietly gathering supplies while you gossip at a low volume with another resident at the other end, hidden from view.

“We’ve gone on a couple dates,” you admit to your fellow R4. Abbot can hear the smile in your voice and it makes him pause. After working in trauma medicine for years, he has a stomach of steel. But the insinuation of your admission makes him queasy.

He didn’t have any right to feel any type of way—he knew that.  You were never exclusive, it’s been months since you fooled around together, and he was the one who ended things. But it still hurt.

Abbot recognizes the other R4’s voice as Doctor Ellis. Your next words hit him like a sucker punch in the gut. He swallows heavily around the lump in his throat. He knows he should stop listening, should leave, but he can't move from where his feet are planted.

“I don’t know!” you say giddily when Ellis asks you if it’s anything serious. “I’m honestly not sure if I like him that much. Maybe he’ll grow on me. A slow-burn, if you will.” Ellis deadpans at that. You’ve been seeing this guy for a month and haven’t progressed beyond I think he’s kinda cute ish.

It didn’t compare even slightly to the feverish passion you felt for Abbot. Not that Ellis knew that. Nobody knew about your… situation. Whatever odd iteration of a relationship you shared with Jack existed beyond the bounds of a definition or term besides “it’s complicated.” Moreover, not that your feelings for your attending mattered. He’d never want you like that, he’d made that very clear the same night you were about to open up about your true feelings for him.

It was like Abbot could sense a shift in the air that night. Like he could feel your heart beating just for him.

“I don’t think we should do this anymore.” The words left his mouth simply and short. It sounded smooth, a sharp contrast from the grating feeling clawing up his throat. Abbot couldn’t meet your eyes when he said it.

You pulled his bed sheet to cover your exposed chest. He spent that night—and countless other nights—leaving his mark on hidden parts of you, worshipping your breasts like they were the only altar he believed in.

“What?” you asked, lips parted in shock. Your post orgasmic haze was abruptly broken as a sinking feeling settled in your chest. Certainly you must’ve heard him wrong, you thought. You hoped.

But he doubled down. He repeated his words. This time, he willed himself to meet your eyes. His face was stoney, like he’d already detached and distanced himself. Jack was a horrible liar, but he was putting on an Oscar-worthy performance.

You didn’t argue. You didn’t fight or press for any more details. You just nodded around the lump in your throat.

You got out of his bed, taking the sheet with you, wrapped around your vulnerable frame. You couldn’t bear for him to see you naked, bare just for him, ever again.

The clothes you wore over to his apartment with the sole intention of him peeling them off your body were scattered across his bedroom floor. Your leggings, his t-shirt, his hoodie. You pulled the leggings on slowly and didn’t rush. You had to move slowly to prevent the tears weighing on your lower lashes from pouring down your face. Maybe it was pride, or spite, or hurt, or maybe all three, but you refused to let him see you cry.

You let your eyes drift around Jack’s room. You’d spent dozens of nights there in his arms, in his shower, on his counters and couch and lap, but you knew then it was the last time you’d ever see his bedroom. You’re not sure why you did it, one last thorough scan of the room, committing it as a masochistic memory.

Abbot watched you silently. He had since pulled on his own sweatpants, remaining shirtless. Even then, you couldn’t resist him. The attending had just rejected you in the cruelest way possible, and you still couldn’t steal your eyes from his defined chest.

You left his clothes on the floor and padded over to his dresser, the one he’d cleaned out a drawer for you in. You pulled on a dark shirt, thinking that maybe the fabric would hide the heavy tears you knew you’d shed on the drive home, and grabbed the rest of your belongings from the drawer. Whatever you couldn’t carry in your arms, you cut as a loss.

“Goodbye, Doctor Abbot,” you said in his hallway outside the door, bordering on apathetic. You didn’t have the energy to say it through gritted teeth.

‘Doctor Abbot’ was reserved for the Pitt. You never called him by his professional title outside of work, and you hadn’t for a while. You were respectful and professional at the hospital, but at home? In his bed? He was Jack to you.

Now, you looked at him like he was about to be no one to you.

You stood just beyond the threshold, another one you knew you’d never cross again. Jack had the decency to walk you to the door, even though it killed him to do so. When his eyes finally met your face, he saw the tears you couldn’t hold back, heavy in your eyes but not yet spilled. He saw how you bit your lip to keep it from trembling.

You left without ceremony. Jack stood in his open doorway for a while, watching your form retreat until you turned the corner and were gone from his view. He could hear blood rushing in his ears and he became acutely aware of his involuntary, erratic inhales and shaky exhales. The sobs wracked your body the second your car door was shut. It probably wasn’t safe for you to drive home with tears blurring your vision and your rib cage on the verge of cracking open, but you had little regard for anything in that moment.

Hours later, you laid in your bed staring at the ceiling. A world apart, Abbot was doing the same in his apartment that felt cold without you in it.

The next shift, you put anything Jack had left at your apartment over the past couple of years; hoodies, sweatpants, socks and underwear that you wore more often than he did in his locker. Part of him wanted you to keep it all. He liked knowing that your soft skin was wrapped up in his clothes. But you couldn’t bear to look at them, much less wear any of it, knowing how he tossed you aside after years together, albeit in secret.

None of it mattered now.

Doctor Abbot is roughly pulled back to the present when your next words stop him cold.

“But he seems like good Dad material,” you shrug and Ellis raises her eyebrows. You’re a woman of science, so you know your eggs aren’t drying up anytime soon, but that doesn’t mean you don’t still feel the pressure to think about the future, to family plan. Jack hears ringing in his ears, like he’s back overseas again and he’s narrowly escaped an explosion.

You had talked about what you wanted in the future in between pillow talk with Jack. A white picket fence, two or three kids, and an SUV, but definitely not a minivan. But it was always hypothetical, or so he thought. Jack didn’t know about the locked list in your notes app; he didn’t know that “Jack” was listed as one of the names under the “baby names for boys” heading. The goals you shared with him softly in bed were always maybes, none of which specifically included Jack.

But now? The mere thought of another man’s children with your eyes? The ones that haunted him for months—every time he closed his eyes or met your gaze from across the room in a trauma bay—that he was sure he’d never forget? It made him sick in a way he hadn’t felt since that night months ago.

Abbot didn’t realize how tight his white knuckle grip was until the saline flush’s wrapper popped in his hand from the pressure.

He doesn’t pause for any time to think, he just acts, as if on instinct.

He rounds the corner with purpose, making you blush as you realize he’d probably heard at least part of your conversation.

“Would you excuse us please, I need to show Doctor YLN something.” He grabs your hand and pulls you away from the conversation, not waiting for Doctor Ellis’s response. He’s tugging you in the opposite direction of patient rooms, moving so swiftly through the hallways that you struggle to get your bearings.

“Jack, what- Doctor Abbot, I mean, where are we going?” you ask flustered, startled by his interruption and sudden behavior.

Your question is answered when he tests the door handle of an on-call room, just beyond any areas of regular foot traffic, before ushering you both inside. The resolute click of the door’s lock sounds like a bullet echoing in the empty room.

“What the hell are you doing?” You’re beyond confused. It dawns on you that this is the first time you and Abbot have been alone since he kicked you out in the middle of the night with no remorse.

“Don’t go out with him.” Jack’s jaw is set tight and his chest moves unsteady as he looks, no, stares into your soul.

“What?”

“Don’t go out on a date with him.” The command sounds like a plea. Jack spits the word him with vitriol, though it’s not directed at you.

“Jack-” you start, but Abbot interrupts you by saying your name. Any edge in his tone is gone. He realizes it’s the first time he’s been able to call you by your first name in months.

“Please.” He’s begging. The motherfucker actually has the audacity to beg you to do anything, as if he wasn’t the one that threw you out like trash.

“No.” Your face set seriously, hardening and bordering on cold, only held back by the white hot rage you felt. You had slowly started to patch up your broken heart in past few months and Jack was dangerously close to undoing all that work.

“You made it incredibly clear that you don’t want any future with me, so you don’t get to be upset, or feel anything when I move on. When I try to have a life outside of this hospital.” You poke his firm chest and quickly recoil at the spark you feel when you come in contact with him for the first time in too long.

It’s fair. Jack knows that.

You’re upset and it’s manifesting in anger. Anger that Abbot deserves to have unleashed upon him. It’s long overdue. You never really got to hash it out—you just went straight to clocking in for your shifts, ignoring the energy drinks he left in your locker as a pathetic peace offering and promptly throwing them in the garbage until Doctor Abbot had spent well over a hundred dollars on your preferred caffeine, and only speaking to him when absolutely necessary.

Doctor Abbot’s face twists like he’s in pain. His jaw moves like he’s fighting the words falling from his lips.

“I still care about you,” he admits lowly. You scoff.

“That’s fucking rich.” Laughter bubbles past your lips, but there’s no humor in it. Behind the locked on-call room door, any semblance of professionalism is gone. Abbot doesn’t dare reprimand you for your colorful language.

But he’s only human, and your reaction gets a rise out of him.

“You think I wanted to end… this?” Abbot is exasperated and waves a head between your tense bodies, tight with frustration. He comes up short for a term to describe the relationship that evaded labels.

Another scoff.

“Well, you explicitly told me you didn’t want me anymore while I was naked in your fucking bed, so yeah, I’d say you absolutely wanted to end our… situation,” you spit, also struggling to define your years-long arrangement with your attending.

The heels of Jack’s palms are pressed against his tightly shut eyes, like he’s trying to will away a migraine or Myrna. He mumbles something you can’t hear. You’ve long since run out of patience and grace, not that you had much in the first place.

“Spit it out, Jack. I’ve got patients to see. I don’t have time for your fucking mumbling.” A rage burns in you that Abbot has never witnessed, much less been on the receiving end of.

Maybe you’re just being mean now, but maybe you just don’t care. The love you had for Jack never really left. It just… atrophied. Then turned bitter and black and blue, like a bruise that never goes away.

Abbot punched the damn bruise.

“I did it to protect you!” Abbot shouts, no longer caring whether or not the four walls are soundproof. His graying curls are tousled and he’s got a wild look in his eyes. His heart is damn near beating out of his chest. Jack feels like a powder keg and you’re standing over him with a tank of gasoline and a lighter.

Your eyes narrow. Now he’s really pissing you off.

“Protect me?” you seethe. “When the hell did I ever ask you to do that?” Your hands are flying wildly as you talk. You’re glad the on-call rooms don’t have windows.

Abbot presses his lips into a thin line. You didn’t ask. You never asked for anything, always giving to others until you didn’t have anything left for yourself. But Jack wanted to give you the world.

He admires how hardworking you are. You outpace everyone in your cohort by far, but Doctor Abbot knew if anyone found out about your relationship they’d just assumed you slept your way through residency. But that couldn’t be further from the truth. Abbot is harder on you than any of the other students because he knows how much potential you hold. Hell, there were some days he thought you were a better doctor than him. Nobody gets to be the top candidate for the newest junior attending position without working their ass off.

He made the decision to break things off—to save your career—so you wouldn’t have to.

He cut it off, and broke both of your hearts in the process, so that you could focus on your career and secure your well-earned spot as a junior attending. Without distractions. Without Jack.

Abbot’s mind is going a million miles an hour. He doesn’t realize all his racing thoughts had spilled out loud until he looks at you.

Silent. Dumbfounded. Still.

Your hands rest by your side, tense. Like they don’t know what to do if they’re not waving through the air, your anger and passion directed at your current mentor, former lover, and eternal pain in your ass.

The silence breaks when both of your pagers beep simultaneously. An incoming trauma alert is announced over the hospital’s PA system.

There was still a sharpness to you, but some of it had softened around the edges. The fire in your eyes when Jack held your stare with his was less of a glare now.

“We are not done talking. You are going to buy me breakfast and we’re going to talk this out like fucking adults, Jack,” you point at him with squinted eyes before turning on your heel. You don’t hold the door open for the attending, but you let it swing wide enough so that it won’t hit him on his way out.

“Yes, Doctor.” Abbot agrees, following your lead back into the belly of the Pitt. He places his palm on the small of your back on instinct. When you don’t pull away, Jack feels hopeful for the first time in months.

a/n: blah blah blah then they have nasty explosive amazing makeup sex. The end.

edit: here's part 2! Call Out My Name

REBLOGS AND COMMENTS ARE APPRECIATED!

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[sajaboyscumdump]

his horns | smut! romance saja x reader

minors dni— established relationship; you play with your boyfriend’s horns, not knowing it’s an erogenous zone for sajas.

-

it started as a joke.

you were lounging on the couch, his head in your lap, both of you half-watching some random show on the screen. his eyes were closed, arms crossed behind his head, expression peaceful—relaxed in the way only romance could be when he trusted you enough to let his guard down.

and there they were. his horns. dark, smooth, curved slightly back. they always caught the light in a way that made them look polished, almost beautiful.

you’d always been curious.

so you reached up—half out of boredom, half out of instinct—and lightly ran your fingers along the base of one.

you expected a snarky comment, maybe a lazy eye-roll.

instead, romance shuddered.

his whole body tensed beneath you, muscles tightening like a string pulled taut. his eyes snapped open, pupils blown wide.

“don’t,” he said sharply.

you froze. “shit—sorry. did that hurt?”

he swallowed hard, jaw clenched. “no. it didn’t hurt.”

“…then what—”

“they’re… sensitive,” he muttered, voice rough now, lower. “really fucking sensitive.”

you blinked. then blinked again.

a slow, wicked smile spread across your lips. “oh.”

romance glared up at you. “don’t you dare.”

but it was too late.

your fingers went back, gentler now—trailing along the ridges, circling near the base, watching the way his breath hitched and his hips shifted just slightly beneath you. his eyes fluttered closed again, but it wasn’t peaceful this time. it was restrained.

“fuck, baby—” he hissed, biting his lip. “you keep doing that and i’m gonna lose it.”

“lose what?” you teased, voice soft and innocent as you rubbed small circles just behind the base of his left horn.

he groaned—a deep, needy sound—and before you could blink, he was sitting up and grabbing your wrist.

"you really wanna do this right now?" his voice was low, dangerous. excited.

you stared up at him, eyes wide. “maybe.”

his lips crashed into yours before you could say another word, tongue sweeping into your mouth with a hunger that was anything but playful. he pressed you down onto the couch, his hands everywhere—your waist, your thighs, your chest—touching you like a man who was barely holding himself together.

“you don’t get it,” he growled into your neck.

“you touch my horns like that, it’s like stroking my cock. it drives me crazy.”

your body lit up at that, hips already grinding against his thigh as his words sank in.

he tugged your shirt off, hands fumbling slightly from urgency, then stripped himself fast, until his bare chest was pressed against yours and you could feel every inch of his arousal hot and hard between your thighs.

“gonna show you what you started,” he growled.

he slid down your body, spreading your legs with practiced ease, and licked a slow, deliberate stripe between your folds. you cried out, fingers gripping the couch cushions as his tongue circled your clit, then plunged inside you with maddening precision.

he didn’t stop—didn’t give you room to breathe—he just devoured you, like he needed to taste every inch to come back to himself.

you were already trembling when he pulled back, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand and looking at you like he was ready to ruin you.

“turn around,” he said, voice almost hoarse. “hands on the backrest.”

you obeyed, breathless, presenting yourself to him, your ass in the air and your thighs slick. he lined himself up behind you, one hand gripping your waist while the other reached up—slow, deliberate—and guided your hand back to his horn.

“keep touching it,” he growled. “don’t stop.”

you wrapped your fingers around the base again, rubbing gently as he slammed into you from behind.

you both moaned—him from the dual stimulation, you from the sudden, perfect stretch. he fucked you hard, fast, relentless—his cock dragging along your walls with every punishing thrust, while you moaned his name into the cushions.

“just like that,” he groaned. “keep stroking—fuck, baby, you’re squeezing me so tight—”

you were close. the angle, the pace, the sounds—everything hit at once, and you came with a cry, legs shaking as your orgasm tore through you.

romance wasn’t far behind. with your fingers still stroking his horn, he cursed and buried himself deep, spilling inside you with a desperate moan, his body jerking as he held your hips tightly.

when you both finally collapsed, tangled and breathless, he pulled you into his lap, chest still heaving.

“never letting you touch my horns again,” he muttered.

you smirked, satisfied and flushed. “liar.”

he grinned despite himself. “you got me.”

-

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[lazysoulwriter]

the glasses - pedro pascal ── .✦

requested! thank you. content: explicit smut, established relationship, riding, slight dom/sub dynamics, pet names (mi amor, baby), he keeps the glasses on

He’s in the armchair, legs spread, laptop balanced on one thigh, wearing those glasses — the thin ones, with dark frames and just enough slouch to make him look like a hot professor who’s very close to losing his mind.

You watch him from the doorway.

Button-up half undone, sleeves rolled. Hair messy from running his fingers through it. Reading something on the screen with his lips parted and brow furrowed.

“You look like a wet dream,” you mutter, already walking over.

He looks up, smirking. “I thought you were in bed.”

You swing a leg over his lap and settle down, slowly, ass nestled into his thighs. His hands fly to your hips like muscle memory.

“I was waiting for you,” you murmur, kissing the corner of his mouth. “But then you started looking like that.”

He tilts his head. “Like what?”

“Like someone I need to ride.”

Pedro exhales hard through his nose. “Mi amor…”

You grind forward just enough to feel the shift in his breathing.

“I’m not even hard yet.”

“You’re getting there.”

And oh, he is.

Especially when you start kissing down his neck, undoing the rest of his buttons while he grips your waist like he’s trying to remember how to breathe.

“Keep the glasses on,” you whisper, eyes locked on his.

He licks his lips, cock twitching beneath you. “Yeah?”

“Mhm. Want you to see real clear who you're fucking, baby.”

He groans. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You drag his briefs down just enough. Line yourself up. Sink onto him slow — so slow, letting the stretch pull a moan from both your throats.

He’s panting now. Hands trembling on your thighs. His head falls back slightly and you see it — the lenses sliding down his nose, catching the light as he looks at you from under them, completely gone.

You roll your hips.

He gasps. “Fuck—just like that, baby.”

You kiss him messily. Keep riding him at that torturously slow pace, letting your body take what it wants while he watches every second.

“You’re so fucking hot,” he whispers. “Can’t think straight with you like this. Just wanna let you use me.”

You moan, squeezing around him. His fingers tighten.

“Feels so good, mi amor. So good. Fuck—look at you. Taking it so well.”

Your forehead touches his. His glasses are crooked now. His mouth is open. And when you grind down a little harder, he whimpers.

You smile.

“Still wanna work, professor?”

He groans. “You’re gonna make me come just like this.”

You nod, riding harder now. “Yeah, baby. Wanna feel it.”

It doesn’t take long. He lets go with a ragged moan, face buried in your neck, hands gripping you like he’s about to fall apart.

You follow right after — a sharp gasp and a shake, clinging to him as the tension breaks all at once.

Then, quiet. The sound of your breath slowing. His arms wrapped around you. Glasses still on.

He kisses your shoulder.

“…Next time,” he murmurs, still dazed, “I’m wearing the glasses to bed.”

You giggle, blissed out and barely coherent. “Can’t wait, slutty librarian.”

---

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

[wrotebymii]

MAYBE ITS ME?… | Date Everything x gn!reader

Summary: You aren’t sure why but almost every dateable hates you and you’re starting to wonder if you’re the problem.

Warning: I’m a little sad due to my seasonal depression so you get this! Angst, social anxiety, socially awkward, very self deprecating Doug is working over time. Not edited.

It’s driving you and all the objects in your home up the wall. You aren’t sure why but almost everyone hates you.

Everyone from Lux, and Rebel to Rainey, Betty, Dunk, Hoove, Kopi, Keyes, hell even Celia can’t look you in the eye due to the overwhelming complaints she’s been getting!

The nail in the coffin was getting thrown out of the Breaker Box club, you still can feel the shock in your arm when Volt grabbed you out the door. You were shaking and starring wide eyed at the breaker closet that Doug surely would’ve appeared if Reggie didn’t.

You couldn’t hear him, lost in your own thoughts when you cut off his passive aggressive pity party for you by…taking the dateviators off.

It still had charge left but you felt so tired. You don’t know what you were doing wrong, maybe you came off too strong or said something that was hurtful despite you just trying to fit in. Similar to what Tony said in his workshops.

Changed to fit what you thought they’d want in love or even friendship. Though, it doesn’t matter now cause almost all of your household objects hate your guts.

You curled in your spot, head tucked in your knees with your eyes peering over to stare at the glasses you held by the frame with your pointer and thumb tipping it up and down.

Maybe the hacker guy that gave you these would take them back, or maybe you can return them to David without getting accused and arrested by the government?

You just know one thing…

You don’t want to put them back on.

You tried to got back to your mundane life before realizing that everything around you is alive. But it started to make you paranoid and self conscious. Like you couldn’t live in your comfort space anymore.

You swore to Sam that the water was hot one second then cold then hot again, the coffee didn’t taste as good, you tripping on air, zapping yourself when you plugged a charger in, the food going spoiled even though you got it a day ago, the piano playing loud keys randomly, your white clothes getting stained right out of the wash, and now your comfort blanket wasn’t feeling so comforting.

You’ve had it.

One night you were laidback on the now springy uncomfortable bed, venting to Sam about how you need to get out of the house—she offered you her place for the time being. Understanding about your weird struggling relationships.

However. Out of all the people you’ve made hate you, one still remained the same throughout it all and never inconvenienced you.

Dorian. His friendship status didn’t waver at any moment of your—very fast—conversations. He found you rather interesting…respectable. When you met the firt time with Skylar he knew you’d try to get along with everyone, knew how you’d change yourself even to get everyone to like you. You were kind, thoughtful, and a little pathetic but in a charming way.

Currently, he thinks he needs to initiate the conversation this time.

You were shuffling through Dirk clothes when you heard Sam’s car honk outside. Quickly you stuff your luggage with things you knew weren’t sentient and rushed downstairs and opened the door.

Or well…tried too. Each time you turn the top lock then the bottom it shuts again. With a frustrate groan you knock your head on the front of the door, a hand still on the knob.

“Open, Dorian…” You whisper, you mind reeling in the fact that you might’ve made even Dorian upset with you. You try to open it. You curse loudly when he it doesn’t budge

You turn on your heel, leaving the luggage there as you head to your office, opening the junk drawer Jerry and searching for those fucking glasses. It was in the far back with a little dust on them. You put them on, walking pass Skylar trying to warily greet you and straight to Dorian at the front door.

He’s in his typical pose. Arms folded and chest pushed up with a ‘taking no shits’ expression. It reminds you of a conversation you had with him where you said he’d make a great bodyguard or bouncer if he were human. He had cracked a tiny smile and said that just being a door for this house was enough.

“Dorian-“

“Don’ say nothing. Let me speak.” He says, you tsk and roll you eyes but don’t say anything else.

“I don’ think you running away from your home is a good idea fro-“ You wave a hand stopping him.

“They all hate me”

“Not all-“

“Then they likely will” You voice is stern, but there’s a sadness laced in the words. He doesn’t respond to that letting you rant.

“I’m over feeling like trash in my own damn house. I need to leave, so open!” You yell, you don’t care if you’re being watched by Sam from outside or anyone from the living room.

“It’s dangerous out ther-“

“It’s better than here.” There’s a long pause.

“You’know…” Dorian starts as you’re about to take off the glasses, you glance at him. “If it means an’thing—I think we’re still friends.”

The confession makes you want to sob but you grit your teeth, look ahead at Sam’s vehicle.

“Respectfully, Dorian…I wish I never got these glasses…”

Your words stung but he doesn’t show it. You know being angry with him will likely end the same as it did with everyone else, but he remains still for a moment longer then steps aside. Letting you leave.

You toss the dateviator somewhere and walk away. Dorian closes, staring blankly at the glasses that landed in the middle of the walkway. He ignores the whispering in every room—some confusion, some even cheering

He huffs bitterly, arms still crossed and up against his chest. Dorian is ever in balance and composed, he takes his job serious and to not let any detractions get to him. However, this situation is getting out of hand even for him. He’ll have to get an appointment with Mayor Celia layer, but for now he regains his position and awaits your arrival.

How ever long that would be.

[barnesonly]

Yearning

bucky barnes x reader

summary: you and bucky have been together for a while now, but haven’t had sex yet—he’s insecure, afraid he forgot how. but one night, things finally happen…

word count: 5,6k

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI. fluff to smut, insecure!bucky, established relationship, curse words, age difference, dirty talk, praise, oral (f receiving), PiV, unprotected sex.

Bucky Barnes is a man out of time, and you’re reminded of it every single day.

Sometimes it’s the obvious things—like how he still squints at his phone as if the apps might leap off the screen and bite him, or how he physically recoils every time you say the word “TikTok.” Sometimes it’s subtler—like the way he insists on walking on the outside of the sidewalk, or how he always opens doors for you without thinking, like muscle memory trained from another era.

And then there are the flowers.

Almost every day, without fail, a small, lovingly picked bouquet appears on your kitchen counter. Sometimes they’re store-bought, sometimes hand-picked from wherever he was that day. Always with a little handwritten note tucked beneath the stems. He never says much about it—just a casual “these made me think of you” and a kiss to your temple. But the habit is so consistent it’s become its own kind of love language.

You’re dating Bucky fucking Barnes and that still feels unreal sometimes.

He’s grumpy. He’s anxious. He has whole decades of trauma stacked inside him like old, worn-out newspapers.

But he also loves you. Deeply. Devotedly. You can see it in the smallest things—the way his hand always finds yours under the table, or how he tenses any time someone looks at you the wrong way. He still doesn’t sleep through the night, but when he does sleep, it’s usually best when you’re wrapped around him.

You’ve been together for a while now. Long enough to fall into a rhythm. Long enough to know what makes him tick, what makes him laugh. Long enough to feel the unspoken ache between you both.

Because there’s one thing you haven’t done yet.

Sex.

You’ve talked about it—briefly, carefully—but Bucky always brushes it off. Not with rejection, but hesitation. You know he wants to… you can feel that he does. But he’s scared. Scared he’s forgotten how. Scared he won’t be good at it anymore. Scared of what might surface, or what might go wrong.

You’d never pressure him. Never.

But god, you want him. Not just the sex—though, yeah, definitely that—but him. His body, his trust, his pleasure. You want him to feel good. You want him to feel wanted.

You’ve started to think he’s almost ready.

You don’t say it aloud. You don’t want to spook him. But there’s a shift in him lately—like maybe he’s starting to believe he deserves this. Deserves you.

Still, you remember the last time you two got close.

It was a quiet night, nothing special. The two of you were curled up on the couch, some half-watched movie playing in the background. You’d ended up in his lap, legs straddling his thighs, your fingers twisted into his hair, your mouths tangled in a kiss that had gone from sweet to hungry in seconds.

He was so warm beneath you, so solid. His hands rested on your waist like he didn’t trust himself to move them, like he was afraid of holding on too tightly. You could feel him, hard through his sweats, pressing up against your center—and the way his breath caught every time you shifted your hips only made you want him more.

You kissed him like he was the last good thing in the world. And he kissed you back like he believed it.

But then—just as your fingers slipped beneath the hem of his shirt, just as he let out this low, needy sound in the back of his throat—he pulled away.

Not all at once. Slowly. Like it hurt him to stop.

“Babe…” he murmured, his forehead resting against yours. His voice was hoarse, his chest rising and falling like he’d just run a mile. “I’m… I’m sorry. I can’t. Not yet.”

You didn’t sigh. Didn’t roll your eyes or pull away. You just cupped his cheek and smiled at him—soft and sure and full of love.

“No worries, Bucky,” you whispered, brushing your thumb across his cheekbone. “You know I love you, right?”

He nodded, and god, the look in his eyes… like he couldn’t understand how someone like you could be so patient. So kind.

You shifted, slowly climbing off his lap, careful not to make it feel like rejection. Just giving him space. You tucked yourself beside him on the couch, your knee still brushing his, your presence still close. You didn’t say anything right away.

He let out a long sigh and dragged a hand down his face. The other stayed loosely resting on his thigh, still balled into a fist like he was holding something back.

“I just…” he started, voice rough. “I’m scared I’ll fuck this up. Or that I’ll hurt you.”

Your heart cracked a little, but you stayed quiet, letting him speak. He rarely did. Not like this.

He leaned his head back against the couch cushion, eyes on the ceiling like he couldn’t bear to look at you. “I used to be such a charmer in the ’40s, y’know? Smooth talker. Confident. I had moves.”

You huffed a tiny laugh, not mocking—just warm. “I believe it.”

He glanced at you then, barely a flicker, and smiled faintly.

“But now?” he said, the smile dropping. “Now I feel like I’ve forgotten how to even… touch someone the right way. Hell, half the time I’m afraid to want anything too much, ‘cause what if I screw it up? What if I mess you up?”

His jaw tensed. You could see the war in his mind, the echo of every cruel thing that’s ever been drilled into him—by Hydra, by time, by the weight of his own past.

You reached over, took his hand, gently pried open his fingers from that tight fist and laced them with yours.

“Bucky,” you said, soft but sure, “you’re not going to hurt me.”

He swallowed hard, eyes still on your joined hands.

“And you’re not gonna mess anything up. Okay? Wanting something doesn’t make you dangerous. It makes you human.”

He didn’t answer right away. You let the silence settle around you both. Not awkward. Just… honest.

“I want to make you feel good,” he finally said, his voice barely above a whisper now. “I want you to feel… Safe. Loved.”

He turned his head toward you. His eyes were glassy, a little overwhelmed, but you could see it—the crack of light breaking through all the fear.

“I do feel loved,” you said quietly. “Every day.”

You squeezed his hand, just once, then let go so you could reach up and cradle his jaw instead—thumb brushing lightly along the edge of his cheekbone.

Then you leaned in and kissed him.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t hungry or needy. It was soft. Steady. Like a quiet promise whispered between two heartbeats. He kissed you back like he was still learning how, but already knew it by heart.

When you pulled back, your foreheads touched, your noses brushing, the air between you thick with unsaid things.

“I love you,” he murmured, like he didn’t even mean to say it aloud. “I don’t think I ever really understood what love felt like until you.”

Your breath caught a little, chest tightening.

He kept going, voice rough and low. “You’ve made my life feel like… a life again. Like I’m not just surviving. I didn’t think I’d get to have this. I didn’t think I deserved to. But then you came along and you just—god, sweetheart, you gave me something I never thought I’d have again.”

You felt yourself melting, your heart a puddle in your chest. His hand came up to rest on your thigh, not to start anything, not to take—it just landed there like he needed to touch you, to feel that you were real.

You leaned your head against his shoulder and sighed dramatically. “Jesus Christ, Barnes. You trying to make me cry?”

A breath of a laugh escaped him.

You tilted your head to grin at him. “You say one more sweet thing and I’m gonna have to marry you and sign up for bridge night at the senior center.”

He huffed a laugh, and that shy little smile of his—god, it destroyed you.

“I mean it,” he said quietly, “even if you joke your way out of it.”

You reached over, cupped his cheek again. “I know you do,” you whispered. “And I love you back, you old fossil.”

He laughed for real that time—head tilted back, the kind of laugh that cracked through all the walls he’d built. And it made you smile so big your cheeks ached.

That memory still sits warm in your chest—etched there like sunlight caught in glass.

You think about it sometimes. The weight of him beneath you, the kiss that lingered on your lips for hours after, the way his voice cracked when he told you what you meant to him. How you called him a fossil to hide the way your heart was splitting open inside your ribcage.

And now?

Now you’re in the kitchen with him, barefoot and sleepy-eyed on a Sunday morning. The radio’s playing something soft and old—something he probably heard first on vinyl. You’re standing at the stove, flipping pancakes while he hovers beside you, clearly pretending not to be watching them like a hawk.

He’s wearing a T-shirt that’s faded to hell and a pair of sweats low on his hips. You’ve got one of his flannels buttoned over your pajamas. The sleeves are way too long. He tried to roll them up for you earlier but got distracted kissing your shoulder halfway through.

Domestic bliss, Barnes-style.

You pass him the next pancake on the stack and bump his hip with yours.

“You’re lucky I love you,” you say. “Because these pancakes are borderline tragic.”

“They’re not tragic,” he replies, grinning as he takes a bite. “They’re… rustic.”

You give him a look.

He shrugs, chewing. “I like ‘em a little burnt. Adds character.”

You snort and turn back to the pan.

There’s a pause—quiet but easy—until his voice breaks it again. Low. Soft.

“I wanna marry you one day, you know?”

The spatula freezes in your hand.

You blink, heart skipping, and glance over your shoulder at him.

He’s looking at you like he’s thinking about saying it again, just to make sure you heard him right. His eyes are clear. Calm. No panic. No second-guessing. Just… love. Simple and steady.

“I mean it,” he says. “I don’t know when. I’m not gonna rush it. But I do. I think about it all the time.”

You stare at him for a second, and then your lips stretch into the stupidest, softest smile.

You turn back to the stove and flip the pancake onto the plate.

“Well, good,” you say. “Because if you didn’t marry me, I’d have to haunt you for eternity. Like, aggressively. I’d knock shit off your shelves.”

He chuckles behind you, then steps closer, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind. His lips brush your temple.

“You already haunt me,” he murmurs. “Just… in a really nice way.”

His arms stay wrapped around you for a long moment after he says it—forehead resting against the side of your head, his body warm against your back. The scent of syrup and coffee hangs in the air, but all you can feel is him.

„I think I’m ready, doll.” He continues, firmly and with determination in his voice.

You set the spatula down gently, not because you’re finished cooking but because suddenly—this is more important.

You turn in his arms, hands slipping up his chest, feeling the slow, steady beat of his heart under your palms. His eyes meet yours. They’re soft. Honest. A little nervous. But not afraid.

“You know we don’t have to,” you say, voice quiet. “Not today. Not ever, if you’re not ready. I love you exactly like this.”

His hands come up to cradle your face—gentle, almost reverent. His thumb traces your cheek.

“I know,” he says, and there’s a flicker of something in his eyes. That old ache, the one that never quite leaves. But it’s softer now. “But I want to.”

Your breath catches.

“I’ve been scared for a long time,” he admits. “Scared that I’d mess this up, or hurt you, or—hell, that I wouldn’t remember how to be with someone like that. But the truth is… I think I just didn’t believe I deserved that kind of love.”

You swallow, eyes stinging.

“And now?” you whisper.

“Now I do,” he says. “Because of you.”

He leans in and kisses you then—slow, deep, tender. No hesitation. No trembling hands. Just Bucky. All of him.

When he pulls back, you’re already smiling, breathless and dazed.

“God,” you murmur, forehead pressed to his, “you say stuff like that and I get why girls in the 40s were all over you.”

He grins, a little crooked. “Yeah, well… guess I’ve still got it.”

“Barely,” you tease. “You made a grunting noise getting off the couch last night.”

He groans. “Why would you bring that up now?”

“Because I love you,” you say sweetly.

He’s laughing when he kisses you again—and this time, his hands wander a little. One settles at your lower back, pulling you closer. The other slides into your hair, gentle but firm.

The kiss deepens, lazy but loaded, and it starts to hum between you—want. Warm and steady and mutual.

His lips trail to your jaw, barely there kisses—soft, unhurried.

But then he pauses, nose brushing your cheek. His voice is low, warm, still a little breathless from the kiss. “Let me take you out tonight, huh?”

You blink, pulling back slightly to look at him. “Yeah?”

He nods. “Someplace nice. Fancy. White tablecloths, cloth napkins, the whole deal. I’ll put on that stupid tie you like, even if it’s choking me the whole night.”

Your heart squeezes.

“Bucky…”

He brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, thumb trailing down your jaw. His gaze is steady now, sure. “I wanna do this right,” he murmurs. “You’re my girl. A lady. You should be treated like one.”

God, you’re melting.

You’re not sure if it’s the way he says it—like it’s the most obvious thing in the world—or the way he’s looking at you, like he’s already undressing you in his mind but still wants to kiss your hand first and open every damn door along the way.

“Okay,” you whisper, your smile blooming full and wide. “Yeah. I’d love that.”

His grin is all boyish charm now—relieved, excited, maybe even a little smug. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, looping your arms around his neck. “Only if I get to wear something ridiculous and make you all flustered.”

His brows lift, amused. “Doll, you could show up in a trash bag and I’d still forget how to breathe.”

You laugh, full and bright, leaning in to press a kiss to his cheek. He catches you before you pull away, stealing another kiss—this one slower, deeper. Like he’s already thinking about later. About what this night could be.

You pull back just enough to whisper, “You’re gonna spoil me, Bucky Barnes.”

His lips curve as he presses his forehead to yours.

“That’s the plan, sweetheart.”

———

The restaurant is dimly lit and elegant, all low murmurs and soft clinks of silverware. Candlelight dances on the white tablecloth between you, casting gold on Bucky’s jaw—strong, clean-shaven, way too handsome for a man who claims he “doesn’t clean up well.”

He does. He really, really does.

That tie he promised to wear? Yeah, it’s perfectly knotted, navy blue to match his eyes. And the sleeves of his button-up? Rolled just enough to show a hint of his forearms.

And Bucky?

Bucky’s a goner.

He’s been staring at you since you walked into the room. Like, actually speechless. The moment you stepped out of the bedroom tonight in your dress—tight in all the right places, maybe a little backless, maybe with a slit high enough to kill a man—he made a sound. A tiny, quiet, reverent “fuck” that he probably didn’t mean to say out loud.

You’d just smiled and said, “Told you I’d make you flustered.”

Now, over an hour into dinner, he still hasn’t recovered.

“You cold, doll?” he asks, already sliding his hand across the table toward yours.

You shake your head. “Nope. Perfectly warm.”

He nods, but his hand doesn’t go back to his wine glass. It lingers, then slowly drifts down… under the table.

And then you feel it—his palm resting gently on your bare thigh. Not groping. Not demanding. Just there. Warm. Intentional.

Your eyes flick to him, and he’s sipping his drink like he didn’t just set your entire bloodstream on fire.

“You know,” you murmur, leaning slightly over your plate, “this is a very respectable restaurant, Sergeant Barnes.”

He doesn’t flinch. Just gives you a slow, easy smile. Then leans in slightly, voice a notch lower now—just for you.

„I told you, I used to be a charmer.” He shrugs.

His thumb strokes slow circles against your skin, just above your knee now. It’s not obscene. Not yet. But it’s loaded. And the heat in his eyes tells you everything—he’s ready.

Maybe not to take you home and rip your clothes off (well… maybe that too), but to have you. Finally. Properly. To show you how much he wants you in every possible way.

And god, you’ve never felt so desired. Or so fucking loved.

———

The ride home is quiet.

Not tense. Not awkward. Just… charged. The kind of silence that hums under your skin, thick with everything that didn’t need to be said at dinner. Your hand rests on his thigh, his knuckles grazing your knee as he drives, and the whole way back you can feel his gaze flicking to you at every red light.

When he parks in front of your building, he kills the engine and just sits there a second. One hand on the steering wheel. The other finding yours.

He doesn’t say anything—he just looks at you.

And you nod.

Yeah. You’re ready, too.

Inside, everything is soft.

You kick off your shoes. He hangs up his coat. His tie is already loosened, and there’s a flush to his cheeks that’s not from the wine—it’s from you.

He steps toward you slowly, like he’s afraid if he rushes, you’ll vanish.

But you don’t. You stay right there.

And when his hands come up to rest gently on your waist, you melt into him without hesitation.

His voice is low, quiet. “You sure?”

You nod again, reaching up to cup his face. “I’m sure.”

He exhales, almost like relief. Like he’s been holding his breath for months and finally—finally—he can let go.

Then he kisses you.

God, it’s different now. It’s not frantic or messy. It’s not lust without thought.

It’s slow. Deep. He kisses you like he’s mapping your mouth, relearning how to love someone through touch. His hands stay respectful, still at your waist, not drifting, not rushing. Just there.

You kiss him back, soft and patient, running your fingers through his hair. He shudders when you tug gently—just enough to pull a little sound from him, something low in his chest that makes your knees wobble.

He pulls back, barely, and rests his forehead against yours.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” he murmurs.

“I know,” you whisper. “Me too.”

His hands finally move then—one gliding up your back, the other brushing along your jaw. His metal fingers are warm from your skin, and when they graze your cheek, you lean into them like instinct.

“I wanna take my time,” he says, voice hoarse now. “Wanna make you feel good. Wanna make sure you know how much I—how much you mean to me.”

Your heart stutters.

“You do,” you whisper. “You already do.”

But you let him show you anyway.

He leans down, kisses your neck—slow and reverent—and then he starts walking you backward, one step at a time, toward the bedroom.

Your back hits the edge of the bed and Bucky pauses there, standing in front of you, breathing a little harder than he should be for someone who’s only kissed you.

But it’s not nerves anymore. Not fear. It’s want.

“C’mere,” you whisper, your fingers curling into the front of his shirt.

He steps in closer. Between your knees now. His hands find your thighs again, thumbs brushing along the fabric of your dress as if he’s still memorizing the shape of you.

He eases you back onto the bed like you’re made of glass—slow, steady, never breaking eye contact. His body follows, covering yours without pressing you down, one arm braced beside your head, the other tracing the line of your hip with reverence.

He kisses you again, slower than before. Softer. Less lips, more mouths—open and warm and lingering. You part your legs to cradle him, and the sigh that falls from his lips ghosts across your cheek like a prayer.

His skin is hot against yours. Muscle and scar and heat. You run your hands down his back, memorizing every dip, every edge. He shivers at your touch, exhales into your mouth like he’s trying not to fall apart just from being this close.

His fingers reach up to your shoulder, brushing the strap of your dress aside, and he looks at you like he’s asking for permission without even saying a word.

You nod once.

So he slips the strap down. Then the other. His touch is featherlight—almost hesitant—but his hands don’t tremble this time.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, voice barely more than a breath.

Your chest rises with the compliment. It’s not the first time he’s said it—but something about this moment… the way his eyes are locked on you, the way he swallows hard like he’s overwhelmed just seeing you… it hits different.

He tugs your dress down slowly, letting it fall to your waist, then lower, until you’re sitting there in nothing but your bra and panties. The air between you shifts—warmer now, heavier.

His hands brush your arms, your waist, your hips—everywhere but the places you want them most. But you let him go at his pace. You want him to feel in control.

“Can I…” he starts, fingers ghosting over your bra strap, “…take this off?”

You nod again. “Yeah. Please.”

So he does. Gently. Carefully. Like he’s unwrapping something precious.

When your bra falls away, his breath catches.

“Jesus,” he whispers, eyes roaming your chest like he’s never seen anything so perfect.

When he undresses you fully, he does it slowly, dragging fabric down your legs with both hands, his metal fingers brushing over your skin with a tenderness that almost makes you ache.

You lift your hands to the hem of his shirt. “Your turn, Sergeant.”

He huffs a breath, a little grin twitching at the corner of his mouth. “Yes, ma’am.”

You pull his shirt over his head, revealing the planes of his chest, the lines of scars, the metal arm, the years carved into him. You trace your fingers over the dog tags that still hang around his neck.

His skin is hot against yours. Muscle and scar and heat. You run your hands down his back, memorizing every dip, every edge. He shivers at your touch, exhales into your mouth like he’s trying not to fall apart just from being this close. His dog tags clink as they fall between you, cold against your bare skin.

He kisses you again, and this time when he settles between your thighs, you feel him fully—heavy and hard, pressing against you.

He settles there like he belongs there—shoulders broad between your thighs, hands gentle on your hips as he lowers himself, eyes never leaving yours.

Then he speaks—low, reverent.

“Let me taste you first, sweetheart. Make you feel good.”

And god, you don’t even have the breath to respond. You just nod, breath hitching, thighs already trembling beneath his touch.

He kisses the inside of your knee first. Then the other. Trails his lips upward, slow, soft, maddening. You can feel the warmth of his breath long before his mouth finds you—feel it ghost over your skin, spreading goosebumps down your spine.

His hands stay firm on your thighs, holding you open, holding you still. But his touch is tender, steady. There’s nothing rushed in the way he moves. Like he’s unwrapping something sacred.

And when his mouth finally finds you—lips parting, tongue tasting—

You gasp.

Quiet, breathy, uncontrollable. Your fingers twist in the sheets, one hand reaching instinctively for him. He groans against you when you thread your fingers into his hair, and the sound of it vibrates straight through you.

He’s slow at first. Careful. Testing. Tasting.

Learning you.

But he’s good at learning.

He watches you, listens to your breath, the way your body reacts—what makes your hips jerk, what makes your thighs tighten around his shoulders. His tongue strokes long and slow, then soft flicks, and when he hears the change in your breathing—there, that’s what makes your voice break—he stays right there.

He moans again, deeper this time, and the way he grips your hips tightens just slightly. Like he can’t take it. Like he’s the one unraveling just from the way you taste, the way you sound.

The dog tags still hang from his neck, cool against your skin. His hair’s messy from your fingers, jaw flexing as he works, as he buries his face deeper into you like a man starved.

And all you can do is feel.

The rise of pleasure. The way it blooms low and hot and thick in your belly. The burn of it, the ache. Every stroke of his tongue makes it worse. Makes it better.

Your thighs begin to tremble. Your back arches.

And still, he doesn’t stop.

He devours you.

Not greedily. Worshipfully.

Like he’s not just tasting you—he’s loving you with his mouth. Showing you just how deeply he means it.

And when you finally come—soft and shaking, moaning into your hand, thighs trembling around his head—he stays with you. Rides it out. Holds you through it.

He only pulls away when your body begins to relax beneath him, when your hand goes soft in his hair, when your breath evens out in his ears.

Then he rises slowly, kisses your inner thigh once more, then your stomach, your ribs, your chest.

He kisses you like he’s grounding you.

And when he finally reaches your lips again, he just hovers there, noses brushing.

You smile.

He smiles back—soft, flushed, eyes dark with affection and want.

And then, finally, finally, he settles between your legs again—not to taste you this time, but to be with you. To love you. Completely.

His mouth brushes yours—soft, almost shy. But the hand that cups your face? That’s steady. Grounded. He strokes your cheek with his thumb like he’s feeling it all through his fingertips.

Your legs wrap around his hips without thinking.

And when his hips settle against yours, when you feel the hard press of him, your breath hitches all over again.

He groans quietly—deep in his throat. The sound of it is raw. Barely controlled.

You reach between you, fingertips ghosting over his length. He shudders—actually shudders—and buries his face in your neck like he’s ashamed of how badly he wants this. Wants you.

You guide him to you.

And he pauses. Just for a second.

His forehead presses to yours and his voice, when it finally breaks the silence, is low and hoarse.

“…You okay?”

You nod. Whisper, “Yes.”

When Bucky sinks into you, it’s slow—but the depth? It knocks the air from your lungs.

He presses in all the way, until you feel him everywhere, and he stays there for a second—deep, thick, pulsing inside you while his breath stutters against your mouth.

Your mouth parts. His name catches in your throat. The stretch is deep and full and perfect, and for a moment, all either of you can do is feel.

He stills at the bottom, buried inside you completely. His eyes flutter shut, jaw clenched, like he’s trying not to lose it already.

Then he pulls back just a a little.

You moan into his shoulder. Fingers gripping the sheets. He groans, too—but it’s quiet, choked, like it costs him to keep this slow.

You’re soaked. Warm and clenching around him. And he groans when you tighten, like the feel of you is almost too much.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice shaking. “You feel… baby, you feel so good.”

His hips roll—smooth and deliberate—and you arch beneath him with a soft moan. He starts to move then, slow but filthy, every thrust long and deep, like he wants to stay inside you as long as he can.

His hand grips your thigh, pulling it higher around his waist. The shift makes his next thrust hit deeper—you gasp, and Bucky curses low into your neck.

“Shit, that’s it,” he groans. “That’s my girl. Just like that.”

The sounds between you are quiet but thick—breath and skin and need. The soft slap of his hips against yours. The low whimper you didn’t mean to let out when he hits that spot just right.

Your nails scrape his back, your heels press into him, needing more—more of his heat, his weight, the drag of him pulling out and sliding right back in, making you stretch and flutter and lose your rhythm

He makes you feel it—every thrust, every stroke, every trembling inhale.

You wrap your legs tighter around him, tilt your hips up, chasing the friction, and his rhythm stutters.

He’s panting now, buried in your chest, hips moving in slow, punishing strokes that leave you trembling.

Every sound you make—every whimper, gasp, broken moan—he drinks it in like it’s what keeps him going.

His hand finds yours above your head. He laces your fingers together. Holds you there.

Grounds himself in you.

“You’re takin’ me so fuckin’ good, sweetheart,” he mutters, voice all grit and heat, “so tight around me, fuck—feels like I’m gonna lose my fuckin’ mind.”

You can’t even speak.

Just nod. Moan. Cling to him.

Your body is burning, slick and hot and aching for release again, and he knows. He feels the way you tighten, the way you start chasing his thrusts, hips rolling up against him.

His pace stutters. Picks up. Just a little. Just enough.

“Gonna cum for me?” he pants, his lips at your jaw, his hand slipping between your bodies to rub tight, messy circles over your clit. “Yeah? Gonna fall apart on my cock, baby?”

You cry out—soft and desperate—and he loves it. Groans low, grinding into you just right, fucking you through it as your walls flutter and clench, dragging him toward the edge with you.

“You’re so perfect,” he rasps, right against your ear, hips snapping a little harder now. “So fuckin’ perfect, holy shit—”

You’re spiraling again, thighs shaking, breath hitching—

And then you break.

Your whole body arches off the bed as you cum around him, gasping his name, your nails digging into his back.

He chokes on a moan and buries himself deep.

And follows you with a shudder that rocks through him—his hips stalling, cock twitching inside you as he spills with a low, broken growl.

“Fuck—oh my god, baby—”

He holds you tight through it. Hand in your hair. Face in your neck. Heart pounding against yours.

You’re still tangled up in each other, the sheets barely covering you, your head tucked beneath Bucky’s chin as you catch your breath.

Everything’s warm. His skin, his breath, the way his arms hold you like you’re something he earned.

You shift a little, snuggle closer. “Seriously, James?” you mutter, voice muffled against his chest. “You’re so fucking good. I can’t believe you were actually insecure you forgot how to have sex.”

He lets out a groan—somewhere between bashful and bashful-aggressive.

“Doll…”

“No, like—seriously.” You sit up just enough to look at him, eyes wide and dramatic now. “That was insane. Like, are you sure you haven’t been practicing with a pillow or something while I wasn’t around?”

“Absolutely not,” he mutters, one hand dragging over his face. His ears are pink. “Jesus Christ.”

You grin. He’s blushing. This gorgeous, 110-year-old supersoldier with arms the size of your thighs and a tongue that just rewired your soul is blushing.

“I mean, the way you—” You gesture vaguely at your lower half. “You knew exactly what to do.”

He looks like he might implode.

“Maybe it’s muscle memory,” he mumbles, avoiding your eyes. “Maybe I just got lucky.”

“Oh, baby,” you say, all fond and exasperated. You crawl back on top of him, straddling his stomach, hands on his flushed chest. “That wasn’t luck. That was talent.”

He groans again, letting his head fall back on the pillow—but his hands settle instinctively on your hips, keeping you there like he doesn’t actually want you to stop.

“Don’t do this to me,” he pleads, but you can see the smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.

“I’m genuinely impressed, Bucky,” you say, mock-serious now. “Like, maybe you should’ve been cocky about it.”

He shoots you a look. “I can’t tell If this is your way of mocking me or you really mean it.”

You giggle—hard. Collapse onto his chest and wrap your arms around his middle while he sighs dramatically.

But he’s smiling.

You nuzzle your face into his neck and soften, voice low now, honest.

“You were amazing,” you whisper. “Like… beyond. You didn’t just make me feel good, Buck. You made me feel loved.”

That gets him quiet.

One hand slips up your back. His metal one curls protectively around your waist. He kisses your temple like he can’t help it.

“Only ever wanted to make you feel that,” he murmurs.

And now you’re blushing.

You both lie there a while—grinning, tangled, all warm limbs and wandering fingers.

“…So, round two?” you say sweetly.

He barks a laugh, grabs you around the waist, and rolls you beneath him.

“Bet.”

tags: @iamthatonefangirl @thatsbucknasty @buckytakethewheel @buckybarneswife125

[alinathinkstoomuch]

PINK MATTER

pairing: aaron hotchner x fake!fiance!reader (she's literally just a girly!fashion!reader atp & no longer the fake fiancee lol) summary: hotch comes home and finds you passed out with a vibrator and takes matters into his own hands when you tell him you didn't finish.....gags are used, based on this & this request. warnings: smut 18+ MDNI, use of sex toys, panties used as a gag, mentions of masturbation aka r making hotch tell her what he jerks off to and he somehow manages to make it romantic, aftercare, established relationship, praise kink. word count: 2.7k

✧ masterlist | ✧ alina's 1k bar

All of Aaron’s limbs felt like they’d been replaced with concrete. Or maybe with the entire weight of the jet itself, as if the thing had disintegrated the second they stepped off it and reformed inside of him. Normally, he’d head straight home after a case, especially one that dumped him back in D.C. at such an ungodly hour.

But tonight? Your place was closer. And the only thing keeping him semi-conscious through the last of the paperwork was the image of your bed, your warm bed, with you in it, and the promise of sleeping in.

And maybe… maybe he was getting slightly used to your swanky apartment building. The one that offered cooled water, had a coffee machine in the lobby, and always smelled faintly like something expensive he couldn’t name. 

The doorman gave Aaron a polite nod, they were on nodding terms now, which felt serious, but Aaron skipped the chitchat. It was the middle of the night, and unless the guy could teleport him directly into your bed, there wasn’t much to discuss.

But, as with all good things, there were downsides. The main one being your new neighbour. A woman in her late sixties who seemed lovely at first, right up until she decided to file a noise complaint after the two of you got particularly…vocal one night. 

The complaint, of course, went absolutely nowhere. You’d lived there longer than she had, sent thank-you cards to building staff, never forgot any birthdays, you were the model tenant, dare he say.  But still, the damage was done and now you both were on the receiving end of vicious glares that not even Aaron could match. 

So, he did his best to slip inside your apartment as quietly as humanly possible, hoping not to set off either of your two living alarm systems, Gus or the neighbour with a grudge and a questionable grasp of tenant law. 

The second he stepped inside, he could almost feel his stress stripping away layer by layer just by being in a place that was yours. Not to mention the way he felt something in his tummy at the thought of actually seeing you. He never thought butterflies were possible for a man his age, and yet there he was, kicking off his shoes with the urgency of a love-sick teenager.

Though once he heard the sound of paws against hardwood floor, he knew he was going to have to wait just a little longer, because he’d have to pay the inconvenience tax to your most prized possession first. (Yes, you would scold him if you heard him calling Gus anything other than your son.)

The furball plopped himself by Aaron’s go bag, knowing that when Aaron walked through the door past midnight, there was a treat–or two– in it for him. Aaron crouched down, his knees cracking in protest, and scratched Gus behind the ears. “Hi, buddy,” he whispered. “Is your mom asleep?”

He already knew the answer. 

You’d sent him a flood of pictures of your night out with a few girlfriends from work, posing with fruity cocktails in various states of full. He figured you’d be passed out by now in one of his old t-shirts and a pair of false lashes on the bedside table. He stood with a grunt to grab the treat bag from the side and handed over the expected payment which Gus took to the sofa, officially losing all interest in the spare human. 

Once his suit jacket was hung, he made his way to your bedroom, spotting the glow of your lamp through the cracked door. He nudged it open silently, fully expecting to find you tucked beneath the duvet fast asleep. But instead? You were sprawled on top of the covers, bare-legged and wearing his faded FBI shirt. One hand was flung overhead with your phone hanging in it and the other–

Oh.

Oh.

Aaron paused in the doorway, eyebrows lifting as the scene registered. Well. That explained the last ‘when r u home?? 🥲’ text you sent.

He exhaled through his nose, lips twitching in a silent laugh he didn't fully form. You were unbelievable, utterly impatient and completely endearing. He made his way over to your side, lowering himself to gently slip the phone and vibrator out of your hands, setting both down next to your earrings on the bedside table, shaking his head in amusement. 

You made an inaudible noise, your brows scrunching like your body had picked up on his presence before your brain caught on. He sat down on the edge of the bed, watching you keenly. Smiling at the way your hair was still half done from your night out, but the baby hairs had slipped free, framing your face in almost an angelic halo kind of way. 

He knew better than to disturb you while you were sleeping, never wanting to wake you if he didn’t have to. But his hand reached for your thigh, to the strip of skin exposed where his shirt had ridden up on your hip. It felt almost magnetic, the urge to touch, drawn in by the spill of stretch marks across your skin, like little moonlight streaks he just had to feel.

“Mmmn…” you murmured, voice thick with sleep. “You're home.”

He smiled, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple. “Yeah. I’m home.”

Your hand reached for him blindly, curling around his wrist as you opened your eyes. “Good,” you breathed. “Missed you.”

“I can see that,” he said, glancing towards the vibrator he’d just retired from your grip.

“Don’t judge me. You said midnight.”

Aaron let out a quiet laugh. “You fell asleep mid-attempt.”

“I was tired,” you defended, yawning mid-sentence. “Long day.”

“Sure. Looked exhausting.”

You tugged him closer by his tie. “Didn’t even finish…”

“Would you like to?”

“You’re not tired?” you asked, seeming much more awake now.

“I’m exhausted,” he said simply. “And I still want to take care of you.”

You hummed, legs rubbing together, chasing friction you weren’t even trying to be subtle about. Aaron stopped you gently, his hands gliding down to your calves as he guided your legs apart. He lifted one over his thigh, nudging the other to the side, opening you up.

He watched the way your hips shifted, pressing into the mattress, that visceral response you always had when you were worked up and needed undoing. He saw how your eyes tracked every movement he made, already wide and glassy, how your lips parted, how your ribs expanded with every breath.

He reached for the vibrator, switching it on, the room filling with a quieted buzz. He let the toy trail slowly along the inside of your thigh as he made his way up, catching the whimper that staggered in your throat, seconds away from reaching his ears.

“Remember what we spoke about?” Aaron asked, dragging the vibrator over your clothed cunt.

You tensed immediately, a moan slipping out. “Sorry, I’ll be quiet. Promise. Wouldn’t want Greta to—ah—” 

Another sound tore from your throat as he pressed the toy higher, right over your clit, the thin cotton of your underwear doing very little to buffer the sensation.

“That’s not quiet.”

“Don’t think I can,” you managed just as your head tipped back against the pillow, eyes fluttering shut. “N-not with you watching.”

He was beginning to feel his slacks tighten almost painfully at the sight. 

Then the toy was gone. 

Your head snapped up immediately. “Aaron?” 

His hands were already at your hips, fingers sliding under your underwear. “Up.”

You lifted your hips as he tugged them down and you exhaled with relief, assuming he just wanted better access. But then his other hand was under your chin, fingers curled, holding the bunched up panties in the other. 

“Open,” he instructed, his thumb dragging across your bottom lip. You did exactly that, opening your mouth and granting him access to stuff the fabric inside.

“Much better now, don’t you think?”

All you could do was nod and watch the way he reached for the toy again. He lowered it between your legs, his other hand grabbing your knee. He paused just for a second, watching the way your back arched, pleading for some sort of contact.

The moment he pressed it to you, your response was immediate, mouth falling open against the panties, the cotton soaking up what was more breath than voice and he could tell that this was exactly what you’d been waiting for. 

“You always get like this,” he whispered, adjusting the angle, “when I’m gone too long.”

You let out another muffled sound, hips twitching beneath his hand.

“Too worked up to wait. Try to do it yourself…but you never get all the way there, do you?”

You shook your head, thighs closing in on his hand. He didn’t scold you, just let out the smallest laugh, the kind that made your skin prickle in the best way as his hand moved to nudge your thighs open again. 

He began moving the toy in circles and you felt the speed pick up.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmured, thumb brushing along your hip. “Breathe.”

He saw the way your stomach tightened, the shirt rumpling with the telltale sign of exactly how close you were. Your jaw flexed around the fabric in your mouth, blocking another sound before it could risk a second complaint. 

You never took long with a toy, he figured that out early on and never minded. He wasn’t the type to take it personally. If anything, he liked it. Liked knowing what worked, liked that it was his hand making it work.

“Getting there?” 

You nodded, eyes shut tight, hands fisting the sheets.

“Thought so.” He pressed it a little harder, adjusting the angle a little higher. “Go ahead, honey.”

The moment he gave you permission, your hips bucked up, the toy stuttering slightly against your skin with the movement as you squirmed, clenching around nothing. Aaron kept it pressed against your clit, despite the way you couldn't keep still, until your hands found his wrist, gently pushing it away.

He switched it off, abandoning it on the bed so his hands could return to you, one on your thigh, the other reaching up to remove the makeshift panty gag from your mouth. You watched him pull the fabric out slowly, a slick string of drool catching on your lip. Aaron wiped it away with his thumb, like it was nothing at all.

“That better?”

“Much better, thank you,” you let out a laugh, still a little breathless. “This is exactly why you can’t leave. Like, ever.”

“I’ll be sure to bring that up to Strauss the next time we have a case,” he said, lifting your thigh to kiss your knee before gently lowering it from his lap. “I’m going to take a quick shower.”

“Mmmkay,” you yawned, letting your eyes close for a second. But when they opened you caught sight of the situation happening in his pants. Your lips curled slowly. “You sure you don’t want help with that?”

Aaron laughed, undoing his tie. “You need rest.”

“I could do it lying down,” you offered sweetly. “It’s very efficient.”

“I’m going to shower,” he repeated but you swore you could make out the flush in his cheeks.

“Ah, is that code?”

He paused, halfway through unbuttoning his shirt. “Code?”

You nodded, propping yourself up on your elbows. “Code for getting off in the shower alone.”

“It’s code for needing to rinse off hours of jet sweat, and—”

“So…yes,” you cut him off with a lazy grin.

He shook his head, already heading for the bathroom.

You stretched out on the bed, far too smug for someone who’d just had her panties in her mouth and needed permission to come. “Can I watch?”

Aaron paused. Like, actually paused.

Your voice dropped, softer now, more curious. “Have you ever… touched yourself…while thinking about me?”

He turned to face you and you raised your brows. “I have,” you admitted with a shrug of your shoulders. “Did it tonight, but clearly thinking of you wasn’t enough.”

“Yes.”

Your lips parted, a pleased smile tugging at the corner. “Yeah? What do you think about?”

He exhaled slowly and you could practically see the debate happening in his head. You just gave him your best lazy, post orgasm smile, like this was just casual pillow talk. 

“You really want to know?”

“I would do unspeakable things to know.”

He came back to the bed, settling beside you again. “Sometimes I think about your thighs. How they feel when you wrap them around my waist when you want me deeper, like you’re trying to keep me there forever. Or the way they twitch… not when you come, but just after.”

You swallowed, mouth suddenly dry.

“I think about your voice,” he went on, eyes fixed on your face. “Not the moaning, not what most people would imagine. I think about the way your voice trembles before you say my name, like your body’s surprised by how much it needs it.”

He paused, his eyes drifting to your hands. 

“I think about the way your fingers shake when you undo your jeans for me,” he added. “You try to hide it. You always look me dead in the eye like you're so calm… but your hands always give you away.”

You felt suddenly exposed, and yet cherished. He had been watching, really watching, like every part of you was something worth remembering.

“But there’s one thing you do and you probably don’t even realise.”

“What is it?”

“You laugh.”

“I–what?”

“After you finish, you let out this laugh. Like you’re embarrassed by how much you felt, or like it surprised you, or like it snuck up on you and now you’re overwhelmed and happy and trying not to show it.”

“I do not laugh,” you tried to argue.

He let out a breath of air, a laugh of his own. “Trust me, sweetheart, you do. Because it's exactly what I think about to finish.”

You furrowed your brows, completely taken back by his casualness. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not,” he replied, still smiling. “You wouldn’t notice it. But I do.”

“And that’s really what you think about? Out of everything?”

He nodded, hands reaching for your ankles, pulling them back on his lap again.

“Why?”

“Because it means I gave you something.” His thumbs stroked lazily over your skin as he answered. “Something that made you feel so much it had to come out somehow.”

You didn’t know what to say, your chest felt too full and your throat too tight. So you flopped back onto the bed with a dramatic groan, grabbing the nearest pillow and pressing it over your face, mostly to muffle the ridiculous, overwhelmed noise clawing its way out of your throat. Equal parts sob, squeal, and scream.

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered into the pillow. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

“You asked.”

You lifted the pillow just enough to peek at him, your face hot and burning. “Yes. Because I thought the answer would be something like my ass in denim shorts. Or when I wear that pink push-up bra.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” he said smoothly. “Those rank very high.”

“How high?”

He leaned forward, his hands sliding up the backs of your thighs “Top five.”

“Five?” you gasped. “My ass in denim shorts is five?”

“Baby,” he murmured, hands sliding higher,  “you have so many top-five moments, I had to get creative with categories.”

Before you could ask what those were, his hands reached and squeezed your bare ass, a laugh tumbling out of you without warning.

His eyes flicked up to yours instantly. “There it is.”

You froze. “No.”

He grinned. “Don’t deny it.”

“That wasn’t the laugh.”

“It was close enough,” he argued, hands wrapping around your lower back as he pulled you into his lap. You landed there with a gasp, knees straddling his thighs. “Don’t worry. I’ll get the real one out of you again soon.”

“Yeah?” you asked, hands snaking around his neck. “Think the shower needs to hear it, don't you?”

“Oh, absolutely the shower needs to hear it,” he agreed, standing with you in his arms. “So does the wall. And the mirror. And probably the floor.”

“Oof, sounds like it's going to be a long night then.”

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[coolchasteboy]

I remember the first time this happened to me. I was on the back porch. We had just gotten home. As soon as we were on the porch, I was on my knees. I am the girl. That is my position. Always on my knees. I unbuckled his belt and undid his pants. They fell to the floor. His hard cock was straining in his boxer briefs. I put my nose to his cock and breathed in. I loved his scent, his manliness. And then, as I had done so many times before, I slowly pulled down his boxer briefs. Chris' beautiful cock pop out. Hard. Leaking pre-cum. I opened my mouth and guided it in. I love his cock. Every single time I sucked it I got turned on. I was a natural. I love how he moaned each time I deep throated him. To have the tip of beautiful penis touching the back of my throat with his public hair touching my lips and tickling my nose and hearing him moan as he pulled the back of my head close to his body was just heaven. I loved his cock!!!

He was very manly. And he was the man in this relationship. He always took. He never asked. That is the natural order.

He pulled me up. He kissed me. He turned me around and held me from behind. He took one hand and bent me over the table on the porch. He didn't ask. He just did it. He was holding me face down on the table. He lifted my skirt and pulled down my pink string bikini panties to my knees. I had heard him spit on his other hand. Then he rubbed his cock and entered me. He didn't say a thing. There was no warning. There was no "baby girl I am going to fuck you now." That was not Chris' style. His style was to put his cock in my hole whenever he wanted. He didn't ask me if it felt good. He just forced it and started pumping my pussy. I could tell it felt good to him. He moaned. And he moaned. And he just kept fucking my pussy with both hands on my back forcing me down on the table. I didn't really know what to do accept just take his cock. So I did.

He must have fucked me for 10 minutes. Sometimes soft and slow and sometimes pounding my pussy. He did this I think to show me that he was he man. But honestly there was never any doubt about that. Then his rhythm picked up speed. He started grunting. Then there was a final push deep into my pussy and I could feel his seed flooding my insides. This was the first time he fucked me bareback. He didn't ask. He just did it. It was to be expected. He was my man and he needed his seed to be in me. After all that is my purpose. He just kept pumping and pumping. Finally he pulled me up, his cock still inside me. He kissed my neck and said "make me dinner baby girl." I always melted when he called me that. Especially after we fucked. But now, he had deposited his seed in me. I started to cry. He pulled his cock out, patted my ass, and pulled my string bikini panties up. "I don't want any of my seed to leak out of your panties" he said. He got dressed and went inside. I straightened my panties and skirt and went inside. I got him a beer while he watched TV and made his dinner.

His cum leaked out my pussy all evening long. At bedtime when I changed into a nighty I could see a major cum stain in my panties. I let them soak in the sink overnight. I couldn't believe it, but I was now a real woman with a real man's sperm inside me washing my panties of his cum. I LOVE MINA for helping me realize my role was to be a woman!!! I.LOVE.MINA.

[nolita-fairytale]

hard launch | joaquin torres x fem!reader summary: you and joaquin hard launch at bucky's congressional fundraiser.

warnings: allusions to smut (minors dni), tooth-rotting fluff, lots of flirting, joaquin w/ danny ramirez curls, spoilers for captain america: brave new world, swearing, idiots in love, use of she/her pronouns, mentions of food, friends to lovers

word count: 2.6k

a/n: this takes place in the same world as and for us, it won't be long, but can be read as a standalone piece.

masterlist

You’ve barely knocked twice before the door swings open, revealing one very handsome Joaquin Torres. His curls have grown out since you’ve seen him last, and the way he looks at you takes your breath away. 

“You’re early!” he practically cries, his face lighting up as he takes you in. “You should’ve called me! I would’ve picked you up at the train station.” 

“I wanted to surprise you,” you interject, the sweetest smile on your face as you throw your arms around your boyfriend’s neck. 

“Oh my God, I can’t believe you’re here,” he groans, the feel of your body pressed against his, surreal and perfect. He takes a deep breath, reminding himself of how good you smell, as the two of you remain in his doorway. 

“Your hair!” you cry, running your fingers through his soft curls.

“I need to get it cut. It’s so long,” he shakes his head, though he can’t help the grin that’s permanently, he thinks, spread across his lips. “Don’t! I like it like this,” you tease him flirtatiously, giving his hair a playfully little tug. 

You pull back, just enough to plant one on him, pressing your lips to his. 

“Hi, baby,” you say softly, your heart practically melting.

He kisses you once more, this time for just a little longer than your last one. 

“Hi, mi corazon. It’s so fuckin’ good to see you,” he sighs, happier than ever as he pulls you in for another tight squeeze. “C’mere.” 

“It’s so good to see you. How was your trip?” you ask him, after Joaquin tugs you into his apartment, insisting that you let him get your bag. 

You listen to him as he explains the majesty of Wakanda, and how absolutely geeked out he got when it came to the tech, as you take in his apartment. It’s much bigger than you expected—and certainly much bigger than yours—your eyes glazing over the large windows that line one of the walls of his living room that look over Washington DC. 

“Holy shit… is there something you’re not telling me. Like are you rich now or what?” you blurt out, unable to hide your surprise. 

He chuckles, shaking his head, your duffle bag in hand as he answers: 

“Uh… no. Sam called in a favor to help me get the place and as for the rest, uh, well… VA loans.” 

“Woah.” He smiles, utterly charmed by the look of awe on your face, the crinkle in the corners of his eyes an indicator of such. 

“Can I give you the tour?” he offers, offering you his hand. “It’s not a huge place but… yeah, it’s nice.” 

You take it, gladly, taking every chance to be connected to the boyfriend who you haven’t seen in a couple of weeks, due to his work trip to Wakanda. You know he’ll have plenty of pictures to show you—of Wakanda, of his new suit, of all the things he got up to—and yet you know there’s plenty of time for that later. 

It hasn’t been very long since his trip to Philly, where a night of reminiscing led to a love confession that’d change the course of your relationship with him forever. 

That, and mind-blowing sex.

He takes you through his kitchen, one he barely uses, even with its long kitchen island that overlooks his spacious living room. Even with how roomy the apartment is, it’s not like it’s much more than a living area and a bedroom, so it’s only a matter of time before you end up there. Joaquin shuffles you through his bedroom door, to find, once again, large city-facing windows with the curtains pushed open. Curiously, you peek through his large bathroom area to catch a look at the adjoining bathroom and walk-in closet. Joaquin places your bag down on the floor of his bedroom, his bed made neatly from years of mastering perfect military corners, with a happy sigh as he watches you explore. 

“Convenient that your bedroom was the very last stop on this tour,” you note, leaning up against the door frame of the ensuite. 

“No ulterior motives, I promise,” he replies, holding his hands up in the air as if to say, ‘I’m innocent.’ “Well,” you take a step forward, especially now that his hands are free. “Maybe I have ulterior motives.” 

“Oh yeah?” he chuckles, a small smirk threatening the corner of his lips as he takes a few more steps towards you. “Yeah. You see,” you begin, giggling as you feel his arms wrap around your waist, pulling you in so that you’re flush against his body. “It’s just… I sort of have this condition where if I’m in a room with you for longer than five minutes, I have to be naked.” “That’s so funny,” he plays along as you’ve now wrapped your arms around his neck. “ I think I have the same condition.” “Oh my god, I wonder if we’ll be included in the same medical study,” you let out a false gasp.

He shakes his head again, crashing his lips against yours, determined to spend the rest of the afternoon making you fall apart with his hands, his mouth, his cock, till neither of you can think straight. It doesn’t take long before he’s pulling you down on top of him, leading the both of you to his bed so that he can do just that. 

*

“You don’t think it’s too much skin?” you ask, suddenly shy, as you stare at your reflection. 

The silky, sage green, floor length dress that you wear, is deceptively modest at first glance: a high neck halter cut that shows an obscene amount of back with how low it dips, with the sweetest little button detail trailing down your low back. 

“Holy shit. You are so out of my league,” is all Joaquin manages to get out, as soon as he sees you. 

“Just answer the question, loverboy,” you tease him, turning towards him. 

Joaquin’s barely dressed, save for a black pair of trousers, in all of his shirtless glory—his hair, at least, styled. It’s his turn this time to lean up against the door frame of the ensuite as he looks you over, his words caught in his throat, like he didn’t just give you some of the best orgasms of your life mere hours ago. 

“I think…” he trails off, at a loss for words at how beautiful you are. He scratches the back of his head as he takes his time, searching for the right ones. “... that it’s just right, babe. People get all kinds of dressed up for these kinds of things. It’s-, you’re perfect.” 

“I-,” you chuckle, especially in regards to his final words. “... doubt that I’m perfect. I just mean, well, I don’t want it to be… you know… too sleazy or anything. I know it's an important fundraiser for Bucky.” 

“Well, if you ask me, I think you’re gonna help Bucky raise more money,” Joaquin flirts with you, a little more confident in his ability to tell you exactly what he thinks of how stunning you look. “Hell, I’d be halfway to giving up my life’s savings if I saw you at one of these things.” 

“Well, then it’s a good thing I’m going as your date,” you flirt back. “Can’t have that.” And then. “Okay, but you need to get dressed! Didn’t you just say that Sam said the car’s gonna be here soon?” 

“Ah shit. Yeah, give me like five minutes,” he swears, hurrying back into his walk-in closet for the rest of his suit. 

In all the time you’ve known him, Joaquin Torres hasn’t been the most punctual human—outside of, you can only imagine, his commitments in the military. But of course, that’s not the version of him you’ve known your entire life. The Joaquin you know is the one that’s always thirty minutes to an hour late to the function, so you know you have to keep him on a timeline. 

You dig through your bag for the pair of heels you plan on wearing tonight, then make your way out to the living room to give him some space to finish getting ready. You take your time making sure that you have everything you need packed in your clutch—your phone, your ID, and lip gloss—before beginning to put on your shoes. 

You smell him first, having walked through a cloud of cologne he's sprayed, before hearing a shuffle of footsteps till he’s standing in front of you, dressed fully in an all-black suit. It takes everything you have in you not to let your jaw fall on the floor. 

“Told you I could get ready fast,” he smirks, unaware of the effect he has on you. 

You’re still figuring out how to metaphorically pick your jaw up off the floor as you rise to your feet, your lips beginning to curl into a smile. 

“You should only wear this,” you compliment him, feeling like your heart might burst out of your chest. 

“You like?” he asks, his eyes lighting up. “I love,” you emphasize, as you make your way towards him. 

“Good, because it’s my best and only suit,” he sighs, feigning relief. 

“Well, I don’t know if it’s your best,” you reply, cheekily. 

He shoots you a questioning look and you’re quick to remind him that your personal favorite suit is the one he was born in. 

“Ah yes, my very best suit,” he agrees with a chuckle. “Can’t exactly go out in that. Now that would be too sleazy.”

“Hell of a way to help Bucky raise campaign funds,” you tease him, joking along with your fine ass boyfriend. 

“Lucky for you, and only you, you’ll get to see me in both this weekend,” he winks in your direction, outright flirting with you. 

You smile. 

Because you know it’s true: 

You’re the luckiest, to get to be loved like this. 

"We should eat something before we go. There's never any real food at these things," Joaquin states, heading towards the kitchen area. "Oooooh! We should totally pick up a pizza on the way home," you suggest.

"Ugh, my girl thinks of everything," he grins, as reaches for a bag of white bread on top of his fridge.

You giggle together over PB&J sandwiches before Joaquin gets a text from Sam that says something along the lines of:

Car’s here, lovebirds. 

*

You ride with Sam and Joaquin in the car Bucky sent for the three of you, mostly observing the way Joaquin interacts with his friend and mentor with ease, practice, and the charm you’ve known your entire life. You wish you could say the same for yourself, but this all feels so new to you, especially as you stand next to your boyfriend, clinking glasses and making small talk with some of the most important people in Washington. 

“Sam, I mean. Captain America, sir. I-,” you stammer out, still navigating how starstruck you feel as you stand in front of Thee Captain America. 

“I told you. You can call me Sam. In fact, I insist,” he reminds you, his voice gentle yet certain as he tries to put your nerves at ease. 

“Yes, sir. I mean, Sam,” you smile, this time with a little more confidence. 

“And what do we have here,” you hear a voice say, as Buck Barnes approaches the three of you. You watch as Sam and Joaquin exchange hugs and greetings with the man of the hour before his attention turns to you. 

You introduce yourself, followed by a firm handshake from Bucky. 

“Bucky, this is my girlfriend,” Joaquin introduces you, at the same time that Sam adds:

“The kid’s girl.” 

“Wow,” Bucky marvels, his eyes darting from you to Joaquin, then back to you, before, with a laugh, declaring, “You are so out of his league. It's great to finally meet you.” 

“Buck,” Sam says, something warning in his voice.

“That’s what I said!” Joaquin exclaims, throwing his hands up in the air, feeling more vindicated than ever. You laugh, “Ehhh, I think I got pretty lucky with this one. Just had to put up with him being a pain in my ass all through our childhood.” 

“Well, you’ll be glad to learn that nothing’s changed in the pain-in-the-ass department,” Sam adds, playfully. 

“C’mon, Torres. I got someone I want you to meet,” Bucky announces.

“You good?” Joaquin asks you, his eyes soft. 

You nod, “Of course. Go shmooze, or whatever else it is you guys do at these things.” 

“Don’t worry, Torres. I’ll take good care of her,” Sam ensures, instilling confidence in the both of you with a nod, as Bucky ushers Joaquin away. 

“You look empty. Should we grab another drink?” you ask Sam this time. 

“Sure,” he replies, leading you through the crowd and back to the bar. 

By the time you’re waiting for your drinks, you’ve learned about Sam’s sister, Sarah, and his two nephews. It’s not like you were able to talk much the last time you saw each other, just barely in the same place at the same time, both worried about Joaquin. He’s finishing a story about the best plate in New Orleans, noting that next time he’s back home, you and Joaquin should join him. 

Joaquin catches your eye across the room, as if to check in with you, even though he’s supposed to be chatting up the men in suits Bucky’s introduced him to. When you know the men in suits aren’t looking, you give Joaquin a thumbs up to let him know you’re doing just fine, earning a soft laugh from Sam. 

“Glad to see he’s treating you right,” he says, as if he’s learned all he needs to know from the small interaction. 

“I-, yes. He’s the best,” you reply, halfway to swooning over Joaquin to… well, sort of his boss. 

“Sam,” you start, faking confidence in calling him by his name and not Captain America. “I uh… I never got to thank you. For calling me. You know… to come see Joaquin when he was in the hospital.” 

“Oh, no need to thank me. Seemed like talkin’ to you was making things better. Glad he could have a piece of home with him,” Sam explains with ease. 

“I just-. I don’t know. I don’t know if we’d be here without, well, without, for lack of a better term, parent trapping us,” you continue, half in disbelief that you’re standing here, thanking him for his romantic advice. 

He smiles, realizing what you’re saying, “Seemed like all he needed was a push. The both of you.” 

You smile in return. 

“Yeah, we did.” 

A beat. “Well, shit. Captain America and a matchmaker? What can’t you do?” you joke, taking a more playful approach this time. “Yeahhhh,” he sighs, jokingly. “Gonna add it to my special skills on LinkedIn. Could be the next Hitch. The reboot."

You laugh, agreeing that he'd be an excellent candidate for Hitch 2, and as you continue your conversation with Sam, it feels like one big step towards becoming a part of this world. It’s certainly not what you pictured for yourself, and yet, standing here with Captain America (who’s quickly becoming your friend, Sam), with the love of your life stealing glances across the room at you, you wouldn’t have it any other way.

[itoshiabi]

Blue Lock Boys and Their Sex Lives

Sae Itoshi

He's so the no-strings-attached type. But don't get it twisted—Sae's not out there clubbing or bar-hopping. Nah, he cares too much about his health and sleep schedule. But if he meets a model during some high-end commercial shoot, and she casually proposes a one-night stand? Yeah, he'll go for it. No drama, no emotions. Just sex, and then he's out. Doesn't stay the night. Doesn't exchange numbers. He'll forget her name before he even buttons his shirt.

Rin Itoshi

Rin? Disgusted by hookups. Don't even try flirting. He doesn't give a damn about sex or attraction. Too focused on football. Too serious. Too emotionally guarded. So unless he falls for someone hard—and I mean, painfully in love with a girl who loves him back and wants to stay with him forever—he's not sleeping with anyone. He has insane trust issues, too. Sex, for Rin, won't be just physical. It'll be the kind of thing he only does when he's completely, irreversibly attached.

Barou Shoei

Another one who's not getting naked in front of someone he doesn't trust with his life. Like? You think Barou's gonna just casually sleep with someone? Absolutely not. First of all, he's a clean freak. Secondly, he probably scrubs his hands three times before touching anyone, so unless he's genuinely comfortable with you—and I mean comfortable—it's not happening. But when he does fall for someone? Yeah, he'll be intense, controlled, and possessive in bed. Everything he does will have purpose.

Yoichi Isagi

He's a "I only sleep with my girlfriend" type. Not even shy about it. He needs love, connection, mutual understanding. He's also the guy who will definitely jerk off at the beginning of the relationship because he doesn't wanna pressure his girl. He'll wait. He'll be patient. He'll make sure she's ready, and that she knows she's safe with him. When it finally happens, it's gonna be all about her—slow, soft, and maybe even a little shaky from how much he cares.

Reo Mikage

Exactly like Isagi, just... fancier. He's not into random hookups even though he could have them easily. He wants his partner to feel adored, respected, and worshipped. Sex is only happening in a relationship, and yeah—he'll jerk off in private because he wants to build that trust first. Once you're comfortable? He's the type to plan romantic nights, luxury candles, silk sheets, probably has a playlist ready. Rich boy lover energy.

Rensuke Kunigami

Same values, but way more serious. He's not into casual sex at all. Doesn't even think about it. He's all about commitment. Once he's with you, he's with you. He won't rush. Won't even try anything until you initiate first. Like the type of guy who'd say, "Only if you're ready,' and actually mean it.

Meguru Bachira

Unpredictable but playful. He'll 100% walk in front of his girlfriend naked without an erection and not think twice. That's just who he is. He's goofy, casual, and curious. If someone ever makes him interested enough, he might try a hookup—but it's rare. He's not horny 24/7 like some might assume. He's more about emotional fun. But with someone he loves? Expect a lot of teasing, surprises, and wild pillow talk mid-sex.

Ryusei Shidou

Now this one is the chaos. Dude probably jerks off three times a day and jokes about it in public. He's open, crude, and obsessed with physical touch. Hookups? Oh, he's had a few. But only if someone intrigues him. He's not desperate but if you're wild enough to match his energy, he's game. With a girlfriend though? Yeah. Obsessive, aggressive, needy. You'll never walk properly again.

Otoya Eita

"I don't remember her name." That's it. That's his entire sex life. Hookup culture poster boy. Flirty, smooth, charming, and emotionally detached. You can't pin him down. He probably says "I love you" as a joke during sex and ghosts by morning. He'll sleep with someone and then genuinely forget who she was within 24 hours. Zero guilt. Zero shame. He's not mean—just so not built for commitment.

Seishiro Nagi

Sex = effort. Nagi = allergic to effort. He's not initiating anything unless his girlfriend literally climbs into his lap and starts undressing him. He'll groan, complain that it's too much work, but let's be honest—once she gets going, he'll enjoy every second of it. He's lazy but responsive. Doesn't chase, doesn't flirt, doesn't care. But if you ride him into oblivion while he's half-asleep? He won't stop you.

Michael Kaiser

Flirt game? Strong. Commitment level? Nonexistent. He'll hook up if he's bored, if someone's hot enough, if it feels like a good time. And he knows how to make people fall for him—he just doesn't care if they do. If things get dull? He'll move on, no apology needed. Kaiser needs to be constantly stimulated, and when someone doesn't excite him anymore, he'll tell you he found someone better. With a smirk.

Karasu Tabito

Almost identical to Kaiser but with more sarcasm. He'll flirt like it's a sport, casually sleep with someone, and then ghost them with elegance. He's funny, charismatic, and emotionally unavailable. The only way to keep him around? Don't fall for him. He'll lose interest the second he feels tied down. Hookups are fun for him, but feelings? Nah. Too messy.

[kilojulietsierra]

“Within Arms Reach” - (Dr. Jack Abbot x Reader)

Thank you @letsgobarbs @ananonymousaffair and @clubsoft for asking me to participate in the A Doctor A Day event!!

My color was PINK and my prompt was “I just want the keys to my car back”

Word count: 1155

Warnings: canon typical allusions to suicide and or suicidal ideations, language, relationship w/ a coworker, Jack is on the roof, fluff, angst, happy ending, kissing, Dr Abbot gets a tad handsy, best attempt at a gn!reader so if I missed something let me know, no y/n, reader hints vaguely at sexy times

~~~~~

The sun is creeping up when you find him. The heavy, metal, fire door clunks open and then slams closed. Your footfalls barely register over the roof, but he can still feel each step you take as you close the distance. The air is cold this morning, he came up to the roof in his shirt, but he can hear you shove your hands deeper into the pockets of your jacket. Not yours, his. His jacket. You borrowed it because you hated the cold. Right now he couldn't feel anything, let alone the temperature.

You don't say anything once you come to the railing. You just stand on the other side within arms reach and he knows why.

He's the one that breaks the silence, "Need me?"

A soft, quiet snort of amusement, "Loaded question."

Jack clenches his jaw, he can't smile right now. "You know what I mean."

You shrug. His jacket rustling with the movement, too big on you. "I just want the keys back to my car."

That catches him off guard, the early morning wind gusts at just the right moment and he thinks maybe he can feel the cold. Maybe. When he looks at you it takes something out of him, the way the sunrise paints your face in some ethereal pink. Hues of muted orange around the edges.

When he doesn't respond, just stares at you, you give him the tiniest, wry smile. "You drove me to work today." You shrug again as you expound, dip your chin into the collar of his jacket and breath in the smell of hospital, detergent and him. He sees the way your eyes close just a bit slower at the comfort you find in it. Your attention back on him you continue, "So, if for some reason, today is the day, can you give me my car keys before you go?" You look from him over the railing and over the edge of the building.

Jack twists his face up, fighting back that smile you were trying so hard, without even really trying, to pry out of him. He takes a minute, savors it, the way you glow in the sunrise colors. The pink making you look so soft, so heaven sent. Finally he took a deep breath, closed his eyes in an effort to burn that image of you in his mind. "They're in my bag."

"Hmm." You nod, shift your weight back and forth, like maybe you'd picked it up from him. That's all you say. That's all you have to say.

He closes his eyes again, breathes deep and this time the cold air burns in his lungs. He sighs, bone deep and troubled, and then ducks back under the railing. You're smiling when he stands up straight, and he can't help but think how fucking gorgeous you are. The sun is creeping up higher now, the pretty pinks shifting lighter and lighter, glimmering in your eyes. "That's what you need? A ride home?"

You chuckled, pull your hand out of the jacket pocket and fist it in the front of his scrub top. The breath stalls in his throat when the last of that pretty pink sunrise glints off the diamond on your finger. You must've put it on before you came to the roof, came looking for him. "I need you." You duck your head to catch his eye.

He grumbles like that's not true.

"Stop it." You tug on his shirt. "Let's go home. This shit show can be someone else's problem for awhile."

When you turn to leave, to let go of him, he catches the sleeve of your jacket. His jacket. His hand slips down to yours, wrapping it in his larger, rougher, colder grip. He stares at your ring. His ring. "Wait." He tugs you back to him.

You hesitate, just enough to make a point.

Jack softens, the tension, the anger, the despair seeps out of him. "C'mere." He tugs again, a calmness he'd forgotten existed washed over him as you stepped in close. Your hands sliding over his torso, up his chest and shoulders to circle his neck. You looked so fucking pretty. So warm, like the pale pink and orange of the morning radiated from you and not the sun. He couldn't help but kiss you.

Fuck the rules, his or the hospitals. He'd had a shit night. He hated his job, he hated this placel, he hated life. If holding you, kissing you, on the roof of the hospital, made him feel better he was going to damn well do it.

You were hesitant, well aware that you were at work and you had both agreed to be on your best behavior at work. But, you kissed him like you understood how badly he needed it. Maybe you needed it too.

Jack had to stop himself. His hands had moved low, too low for being on the clock, he'd pulled you too close, kissed you too deep. Like it was the hardest thing he'd done, aside from coming back to the right side of the railing, he pulled back. His eyes immediately studied your face.

Now that pretty pink wasn't from the rising sun. It was you. Your cheeks and throat flushed, that same fucking shade of pink. You licked your lips, had to look away from him a moment even as your hands dug into the fabric of his shirt. When you met his eyes again you were still blushing, and smiling, "Now you definitly need to go get the car keys."

FInally he cracks that smile, "Why's that?" He tilts his head that way he does, looks down at you as he teases.

You tug on him, drag him if you have to, towards the door. "Because, you're going to have to get me home and finish…" You pause, bite your lip as you let him go and gesture vaguely towards him, "Whatever that was." Then you giggled and turned away heading for the door.

Not only does he smile, he laughs, strides after you and wraps his arms around you from behind. He buries his face in your neck for a moment longer, wraps you up tight, breathes in the smell of you and the lingering smell of him on the jacket. Kissing your neck he moved to slip his hands in the pockets of that jacket, his jacket, with the intention of grabbing your hands. Instead his fingers brush over cold metal, smooth plastic. He wraps his fingers around them and they jingle.

Your car keys. The ones he'd grabbed this morning with intentions of just starting your car for you, but then you'd asked if you could drive to work together. The keys you'd supposedly come up to ask for.

Jack doesn't say anything. Neither do you. There's no need, because you both know it was never about the keys.

~~~~~

[sweetdispatch]

Hi!! So excited to read your fics!

Requesting 9 water, 2 and 1 air, 5 earth and 3 fire !!

Ungrateful - Q. Hughes

v' elements pairing: Quinn Hughes x fem!reader summary: You never know how it feels to be loved until you met Quinn and his family warning: none

Since you can remember, your parents never had been in your life. They cared about their work more than about you. Everyone was telling you how cool it is to have such chill parents because they never cared about your grades and behaviour. In reality it wasn’t cool. You missed their presence. You wished that your parents would care about you. 

Everything you had been doing wasn't in their interest. You won a competition? They weren’t there. You graduated? They didn’t care. That’s why you moved out from your house and went to study in a different country, far away from them. As expected, they didn’t care. They never called you, like you weren’t even existing in their life. 

That’s why it was so tough for you to open up when you met Quinn. You couldn’t believe that someone would be interested in your life. It was such a weird feeling for you to have someone who would be there for you no matter what. Despite his busy schedule, he was always showing up for you. 

Quinn knew about your non existing relationship with your parents and he never pressured you to meet his parents. He didn’t want you to feel obligated, he wanted this to be your decision. Unfortunately, his parents showed up in Vancouver without any warning and you were forced to meet them. 

You couldn’t believe how great a relationship with parents he had. You felt jealousy growing inside of you that was later covered with your dark thoughts. You felt that you’re the problem, that you were a bother to your family and that’s why they never cared about you. His parents loved you the minute they met you. With time, they started treating you as their own daughter. 

For the first time, you went with Quinn to his lake house for summer. You felt the love and support everywhere. It was a bizarre feeling for you because you never had this in your own house. All the time there, you were sitting almost quietly, scared that one word could bring them to reality that you're an intruder. 

But this never happened. His mom loved you like a daughter and wanted to spend every free second with you. She was laughing that she never had a daughter and now she can do all the fun girly things with you. His dad taught you everything that your father never did. You learnt how to fish, how to play golf and how to fix small issues in a car. 

Quinn’ brothers were as amazing as his parents. They were joking that you’re better than Quinn and made you feel welcome and loved. You adored spending time with them but with time everything became too much for you. During one of the movie nights, you went to the bathroom and locked yourself there. 

Tears started spilling from your eyes. You felt overwhelmed by them. You felt not worth all the love and that you’re not good enough to be part of his family. Quinn could sense that something was off and he quickly ran upstairs after you. He walked into his bedroom and knocked on his bathroom door.

“Are you here babe?” Quinn asked. 

“Yes, I’m coming in a minute” You tried to stop crying and get yourself together. 

“I hear you crying. Please open the door so we can talk” Quinn begged you and you did it. He walked to the bathroom and closed the door. Quickly, he pulled you into a hug and you started crying again. “I got you” 

“I’m sorry but this is too much for me” You whispered. 

“Talk to me” Quinn’ hand was smoothing your back. 

“Your family. I love them so much but I don’t belong here. I don’t deserve this attention and love from them. I was growing up in a house where I was invisible and it’s too much for me when I’m in the centre and they care about me” You told him. “I know it’s stupid but I can’t help it”

“It’s not stupid. I’m sorry if they were throwing themselves at you but they wanted to know you and to spend more time with you. I told them about your family and they want to show you that family is not only blood relation but family is a group of people that love you and they do. I can tell them to let you breath” Quinn proposed and looked at your face. 

“I don’t want to be ungrateful. They opened the doors and hearts for me” You told Quinn and he smiled at you. 

“They will love you no matter what” Quinn kissed your forehead. “How about we go for a road trip to the ice cream shop you like?” Quinn proposed. 

“I don’t want to ruin your movie night with your family” You told him. 

“You’re not ruining anything and you’re my family too” Quinn grabbed your hand. “Let’s go, I’m buying”

[lazysoulwriter]

dial drunk, love sober - pedro pascal. ── .✦

requested! thank you. content: fluff overload, clingy drunk!reader, protective softie!pedro, phone call panic, established relationship, reader is a very dramatic lil mess

Pedro’s phone rings at 1:38 a.m. He’s already half-asleep, sprawled sideways on the couch with the TV on low volume, wrapped in the hoodie you keep stealing from him.

When he sees your name flash on the screen, he picks up immediately.

“Amor? Everything okay?”

He hears your voice before anything else. Loud. Slurred. Sniffling.

“Peeeeeedrooooo…”

His body goes rigid. “Mi amor, are you okay? Where are you? What’s happening?”

You hiccup. “I miss youuuu… I love you and I’m— I’m wearing your flannel and it smells like you and I think I might die about it.”

He’s already grabbing his keys. “Where are you, baby?”

“At Jess’s birthday,” you mumble, sniffling harder now. “But everyone is kissing and drunk and annoying and you’re not here and I’m so in love with you it’s like... offensive.”

Pedro stops cold in the middle of putting on a shoe. “…You’re not hurt?”

“What? No, I’m drunk. Devastated, but, like… emotionally.”

He exhales, almost falls over from the wave of relief that hits him, then starts laughing, because of course. Of course you called him sobbing because you miss him too much. You ridiculous, clingy little angel.

“I’m coming to get you,” he says, grabbing his jacket. “Do not move, stay exactly where you are. And keep your location on.”

“Pedrooo…” your voice breaks through the phone again, dramatic as hell. “I just want to go home. With you. Your chest is my bed now. Your hoodie is my identity.”

He’s laughing again, even as he jogs out the door. “Okay, okay, bebita, I’m on my way.”

—

By the time he gets there, you’re sitting on the curb outside, hugging your knees, his flannel nearly swallowing you whole. You look like a sad little cryptid who wandered out of a fairytale.

“There’s my baby,” he calls softly.

You turn, gasping like it’s the most shocking thing in the world. “Peeeeedroooooo,” you squeal, launching into his arms like a koala. “You came!”

“Of course I did.” He cups the back of your head and kisses your temple. “You sounded like you were being kidnapped by your feelings.”

“I was,” you sniff. “They got me.”

He’s still holding you when you start rambling.

“I was gonna dance but then this guy tried to talk to me and I was like ‘no way, I have a Pedro’ and then everyone was all like ‘where is he’ and I was like ‘don’t worry about it’ but then I got sad because I didn’t have your nose on my neck and your hand on my waist and I wanted to cry. So I did.”

Pedro kisses your forehead. “You’re so dramatic. I’m obsessed with you.”

“You better be,” you pout. “Because I’m, like, in love with your whole essence.”

He opens the car door for you. “Get in, my essence and I are taking you home.”

—

Once you’re wrapped up in bed, water on the nightstand and makeup wiped from your cheeks, you cling to him like gravity. One leg over his hip, arms around his neck, your cheek mushed to his chest.

“You’re so warm,” you mumble. “I missed you even when I was kissing you goodbye earlier.”

Pedro strokes your hair gently. “You don’t have to cry to get me to come hold you, you know?”

“Yeah, but it works,” you whisper, and he laughs into your hair.

“You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“I’m the cutest. And drunk. And yours.”

“Yes, you are.” He kisses your hair. “Forever. Even when you’re clingy and wasted and crying about missing my chest.”

“You love it.”

“I do.”

And he means it. So much more than you even realize.

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

[delilahsturniolo]

— 𝜗ৎ blue . . . m.s

in which . . . you can’t get over how much you still love your ex boyfriend matt, you’re both trying to hold it together for the sake of your daughter

warnings . . . unresolved angst, babydaddy!matt, toxic relationship between matt and reader, arguing.

written by @delilahsturniolo. do not copy, steal, or modify my works. if you are taking any inspiration from this, please ask me first before posting and credit me in your description. happy reading! :)

HIT ME HARD AND SOFT WRITING MARATHON . . . fic #10

the door creaks open and there he is, matt. messy hair under a gray hoodie, tattoos peeking out of his sleeves, shadows under his eyes from nights you don’t ask about anymore. “she’s already had her bath,” you mumble, not looking at him. “just needs her book and bed.”

“got it,” he mutters back, brushing past you like it doesn’t still feel like a punch to the chest every time he’s this close. you watch him go down the hall to her room. you shouldn’t. but you do. you hear her laugh. you hear his voice soften in that way it only does for her. it twists something deep in you. they’re your world, both of them. but god, you hate him. you hate how much you still love him.

ten minutes later he walks back into the living room, rubbing the back of his neck. “she’s asleep,” he says. “cool.” silence. not the quiet kind. the thick kind. heavy. waiting to explode. he stands awkwardly for a second, then drops down onto the couch like it’s still his.

“don’t get too comfortable,” you snap, arms crossed, leaning against the wall. “you’re not staying.” his jaw tenses. “i didn’t ask to.” you roll your eyes. “but you’re acting like you live here.” he scoffs. “i used to live here.”

“yeah, well, you threw that away.” and that’s it. he sits up, eyes locked on yours, voice already sharp. “don’t act like you were some perfect angel, like i just walked away for no reason.”

“you did walk away,” you spit. “you left me to raise her while you went out and played house with every other girl that gave you attention.”

“are you serious right now?” he’s already getting loud. “you pushed me away every damn day. made me feel like shit for breathing wrong.”

“because you never tried, matt! you never grew up. you were still trying to live like you were nineteen when we had a whole ass daughter depending on us.” he stands now too, both of you facing each other like you’re about to break something. maybe you already have. “and you never gave me credit for anything,” he growls. “i was working, providing—”

“you were barely around! and when you were, you were either starting fights or sulking around like fatherhood was some punishment.”

“don’t you fucking say that,” he snaps, voice cracking. “don’t act like i don’t love her.” your throat tightens. because you know he does. you know he does. but that’s what makes all of this worse. “then why couldn’t you love her enough to stay?” you whisper. “why couldn’t you love me enough to fix things?”

his eyes flicker. he looks away for a second like he can’t face what’s behind your words. “i did love you,” he says, quiet now. “i still—i don’t know. we’re just… toxic.” you let out a bitter laugh. “wow. that’s easy for you to say when you’re not the one here every day trying to clean up the mess.”

“you think i don’t feel that? you think it doesn’t kill me every time i leave without her?” his voice is raw now, stripped down. “you think i sleep at night knowing she’s growing up thinking her parents hate each other?”

“then do something, matt!” you shout. “stop coming here like this is just some visit. stop acting like we didn’t build a life together before you fucked it all up!” his eyes flash. “you think i don’t regret it every fucking day?” your breathing is shallow. chest rising and falling too fast. his fists are clenched. yours too. the room feels like it’s going to implode.

you both stand there, staring, all the rage and sadness and history between you like smoke you can’t breathe through. and then…quiet. just the hum of the fridge. the ticking clock. the ghost of everything you used to be. “i don’t want her to grow up thinking this is love,” you say, quieter now. “us screaming like this… hurting each other.”

he nods, slowly. his eyes are glassy. “me neither.”you look away. wipe your face before a tear can fall. “just… go,” you whisper. he hesitates, like he wants to say something else. but he doesn’t. he just walks out the door, soft and slow, like he knows he doesn’t belong here anymore.

and when it shuts behind him, it’s quiet again. but not peaceful. you slide down to the floor, bury your face in your hands, and wonder how something that started with so much love could end up like this. and somewhere in the other room, your daughter sleeps, safe. thank god for that. you’ll keep her safe even if it means breaking your own heart over and over again. because that’s what love looks like now. blue. and bleeding, but still showing up.

© delilahsturniolo

💌: BOW BOWWWW 3RD WRITING MARATHON FINISHEDDDD WOOOOHHOOOOOOO!!!!!! loved this one but nothing will ever beat my so close to what marathon in my eyes :3 anyway thank u to everyone who supported me and my writing during thissss i love you all so so much!! now, it’s time for my one year special! :)

[nixnbob]

THIS. This was one of the best scenes for writing and acting (to me) around heartbreak. Actual, real, shredding heartbreak. Whether you see it as platonic or otherwise. It felt so real. Like it really tapped back into the energy from the Fishes episode.

Especially to open the season with them reconciling and Carmy literally telling her that's what he wanted. He wanted them in the kitchen. No dysfunction. How she opened up to Claire while her dad was in hospital and everything pouring out about needing consistency, while her one piece of it lies in a hospital bed. And how it had felt like her and Carmy were starting to get that.

And the conversation with Carmy's mom. After all of the set-up each season around Sydney and Carmy's partnership and then like, when she felt it like a gut punch, so did we as viewers. She had chosen him over Shapiro and the Bear over anywhere else. And then... It was *chef's kiss*...

Hell of a way to end the season. Hoping there's another, but we'll see. I don't hate Claire, I just feel like she's a bit of a nothing character. She's just kind of there. And I feel like they've constantly gone well out of their way to have every character tell us 'how amazing' and 'how awesome' she is.

Like, so is Sydney, but they really haven't shied away from showing us her flaws either. Or any other character in the show. Sydney feels REAL. To the point it feels odd with Claire that they're not showing her flaws, or at least trying to actively tell us as viewers that there's no flaws, she's perfect.

Selfishly, I want another season just to finish a few arcs off, as it feels unfinished at the moment:

- It feels like Carmy is burnt out and has never had freedom to reconnect with what he loves in a healthy way. And that's why he's noping out if things. I see him trying to retire and it not really being possible for him. Especially with the chat with Sugar around how he had such a spark with it. Maybe he gets a few episodes of just cooking to enjoy it, or travelling again with some of the chefs that cared about him and helped him develop.

- Ibra's sandwich franchise is teased as maybe a bigger plot point for another season. Why have Unc and Albert only almost meet?

- What's going in with Unc and his money. Downsizing by choice or was there more going on?

- The (food and wine?) review hasn't been published, the one the guy called Sugar about.

- Frank, Tiff and Eva haven't visited the Bear yet. I would love them all to see how far Richie has come and for Tiff to tell Richie how proud she is of him. And even sweeter would be if it came from Eva, because she can see how together her dad is now, compared to where he was at the start of the series.

- The guy that came in the restaurant on his own and asked for a Beef. Was he another reviewer? Are we ever going to get an answer to that? It feels a little weird to focus in on him like that, more than with other guests.

- Whether there's something more going on with Donna. Felt weird to have Lee just say something hinting at it as a throwaway line.

- If they're hunting a star, maybe that's one of the main drivers for the next season and it would feel amazing after everything the characters have been through, if that's how they ended.

- There's a suggestion Carmy and Claire have reconciled, but they haven't really shown them back together-together. Maybe Claire is who Carmy thinks he needs, but then with her finishing her residency she'll surely be even busier now? Maybe they try to make it work and he sees how much she loves what she does, but how she can't give that up just for him. I feel like that might be a way to explore where their relationship is going.

I dunno. I just think Sydney deserves to realise her dream and Carmy deserves to be happy. And I don't think either of them are quite there yet. IMO it's being hinted that where things are heading, they might get there. But let us see it. Please.

Anyway, this was meant to be a short post and has now turned into something with paragraphs 😅.

i got shot a million times

[tarotwithavi]

What wounds are you carrying from your past life?

How are they affecting you? + How can you heal them?

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How to choose a pile?

Close your eyes and take a deep breath and ask the angels to show you the right pile for you and open your eyes. The first pile that catches your attention is the right pile for you.

Masterlist

Astrology masterlist

Paid services kofi ☕

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Pile 1

Alright, so the message I’m getting is that you might have some wounds related to family and responsibility. I see that in one of your past lives, you chose family over your own career. You might have been a really promising businesswoman, actress, scientist, or someone who could have gained a lot of recognition and fame. But you chose to leave all that behind just so you could take care of your family and your baby.

Because of that, you lived with this lingering guilt not because you weren’t happy with your family (in fact, I feel like you had a really good one), but because you never gave yourself the chance to create your own identity, make your own money, and receive the recognition you deserved. So, in this lifetime, you might carry some fears around motherhood or getting married. You might lean toward choosing your career over family and marriage.

In this life, I also see that someone in your family maybe your parents didn’t have a happy marriage. There might have been constant fights and arguments, and that really affected your mental space growing up. As a result, you may have developed this belief that men just aren’t it, and that everyone should just focus on themselves, build their career, make their own money, and live the life of their dreams.

And honestly, that mindset isn’t wrong. I’d support you in that. But I also want you to realise that this could be a past life wound you're carrying forward and healing it is part of your soul’s growth. There can be a balance between your married life and your career. Leaving one thing behind while chasing the other isn’t always the mature route. Life is about balance, compromise, and making things work.

I’m not saying you have to get married or have children that’s your personal choice. What I’m saying is: don’t block out love, support, or emotional connection just because you’re afraid it might cost you your freedom or ambition. Don’t swing to extremes. You don’t have to choose only one side. Find a way to hold both your dreams and your relationships with grace that’s where true growth lies.

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Pile 2

Alright, so the message I’m getting is that some of you were artists in your past life, and you had a remarkable talent for painting, handicrafts, or something artistic. But for some reason, you weren’t able to fully practice or pursue it. I’m also getting the sense that the art or creative expression you practiced may have been considered inadequate or was looked down upon by society at that time, so you had to suppress it, or you never got the chance to showcase your skills.

In this life, you carry those artistic talents within you and they’re meant to be expressed. I’m getting a strong message that you can actually earn through your creativity. There might be some artistic interests that have been on your mind for a while, but you’ve been ignoring them or procrastinating because you didn’t feel confident enough. This is your sign to start.

Whatever it is jewelry-making, embroidery, crocheting, painting, candle-making it’s time to take it seriously. You can turn it into a promising career or business. Practicing your art will not only help you grow materially, but it will also help heal the past-life wounds that left you feeling unseen or unfulfilled.

Now, for some of you, I’m also getting messages about religious or spiritual trauma from a past life. I feel like in a previous incarnation, you questioned the religious norms or practices that everyone around you blindly followed and people didn’t take that well. You may have been exiled, punished, or even executed for thinking differently.

So, in this life, you might still carry a discomfort or inner resistance toward certain religious practices/tradition .You may not follow the same religion as your family or society, and you may often question traditions or rules that don’t resonate with your soul. For some of you, I see that you might be walking a completely different spiritual path for example, if you come from a Christian family, you might feel drawn to witchcraft, or if you’re from a Hindu family, you may connect more with Buddhism or Christianity.

This lifetime is about finding your own truth and not blindly following what everyone else is doing. And by doing that, you’ll heal deeply and evolve spiritually.

I’m also getting a strong message that some of you were witches in your past life, and that explains your current fascination with the occult, witchcraft, or spiritual tools like tarot. In this lifetime, you’re meant to reclaim all the things you weren’t allowed to practice in the past.

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Pile 3

Okay, so I’m getting a lot of messages related to your mother. It feels like you and your mother have shared many, many past lives together and this is actually a very common phenomenon. I was reading a book about past lives, and in it, the author mentioned that when two souls are deeply connected and fond of each other, they often reincarnate as mother and daughter, or mother and son.

So, if you have a good relationship with your mother in this life, that’s a beautiful sign of harmony between your souls. But if you don’t have a good relationship with her, it could be connected to unresolved karma or emotional wounds from past lives.

Our mothers teach us how to receive how to open ourselves to love, care, and abundance. Mothers hold deeply nurturing energy, so if someone has a warm, loving connection with their mother, they usually find it easier to receive affection, help, and blessings from others. But if that relationship is strained, it can create blocks. You might find yourself closed off, scared of intimacy, or afraid to accept love fully especially when someone gets too close.

You may also fear abandonment feeling like the moment you let someone in, they’ll eventually leave, and you’ll be left alone again. To heal this, try reconnecting with your mother emotionally and intentionally. Ask her how she’s doing. Ask about her favorite color, what she loves most, what her childhood was like, or what makes her feel alive and happy. Creating small moments of connection can bring powerful healing.

Another way to heal this wound is to become more open to receiving. Remind yourself every day that you are worthy of love, care, blessings, and support. You are the most loved child of the universe even if it hasn’t always felt that way.

Some of you might also struggle with expressing your emotions or saying how you truly feel, because deep down, you believe people won’t care or understand. If that resonates, it’s another sign that healing your ability to receive especially through the mother wound will help your emotional expression flow again.

I also feel like some of you either need to read Pile 1 or you’ve just come from it.

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