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lauraneedstochill · 2 days ago

Text

flames on your tongue

pairing: Jack Abbot x resident!reader summary: Jack is not a man who picks up bad habits, yet you are so easy to get addicted to.

the idea came out of nowhere and hit me like a brick. I wrote this in just a couple of hours. it’s my shortest fic, but I’m lowkey obsessed, so I’m posting it as it is / 🔞 warnings: mentions of masturbation; reader has tattoos and nipple piercings / word count: 5K ♡ {read on AO3}

»»» Jack wears exhaustion in his back and shoulders, a little in his wrists. He should’ve left an hour ago, but he stayed for the paperwork. He catches pieces of conversations that unfold around the nurse station — something about a three-year resident joining the team, apparently a friend of Santos. Trinity talks about her with a smile, a little bit awed: top of her class, quick on her feet, and on the weekends she—

Jack stifles yet another groan, two fingers drawing circles on his temple because their yapping gives him headache. He figures that the new girl will be on day shifts, so he can’t find it in himself to care.

He’s ready to clock out in merely five minutes when he hears a gurney rolling in — it’s followed by a voice he’s never heard.

“GSW to the chest. The guy got thrown out of a van right at your parking lot.”

Jack turns to only take a peek, but almost instantly, his gaze catches on you. You are half-dressed for work: black scrubs pants are paired with a t-shirt and a biker jacket. But you walk like you own the place — both hands are pressing firmly on the guy’s wound, voice steady as you give commands to nurses. And even with how unconcerned he is, Jack notes involuntarily: you’re pretty.

And he suspects that Shen is thinking of the same thing when he runs in to stop you: he momentarily forgets about his coffee and gives you a smug smile. But your unblinking stare makes it falter just a little.

“You can’t go in like this,” Shen clears his throat and points at your ripped grey t-shirt with his bright orange plastic cup.

“Don’t you have gowns and gloves in trauma rooms?”

“And we wear 'em over the scrubs. It’s protocol,” he shrugs. “Just leave the patient to me and go change. The locker room is down the —”

“I’d rather not waste time,” you cut him off. Not bashful in the slightest.

You toss the jacket on the nearest chair — and yank off your t-shirt in one swift movement. Your bra is dark blue, thin lace over the naked skin; your left arm is covered in tattoos up to the shoulder. At least half of the people on the floor turn their heads in your direction. You care not. You pull a short-sleeved shirt out of your backpack and throw it on, then take a rubber band that you’ve had on your wrist to tie your hair up. It takes you less than half a minute.

Shen gapes at you. You ask without breaking eye contact:

“Is this okay by your protocol?”

His mouth closes and then opens; no words come out. So he just nods — once, twice; the cup he’s holding leans to the side, spilling the frothy mass of milk and coffee all over the floor.

“Shit,” Shen finds his voice — he sounds embarrassed. That’s also how his face looks when he adds, “Sorry, you can go ahead. I didn’t mean to—”

You do not wait for him to finish. You promptly help the paramedics to roll the gurney around the puddle — no pauses in your steps, no doubts in your demeanour. You check the guy’s vitals, then give Robby a handshake as you both rush into the trauma room.

The silence in the hall is almost ringing. But slowly, it starts filling up with hushed remarks and voices. It isn’t hard to guess who everyone’s discussing.

“She seems… fun,” Dennis mumbles, his cheeks pink up to the ears.

Jack realizes that his gaze is still glued to the spot you stood at. He looks away, and he can’t help but think: no, you seem like trouble.

»»» He tells himself he’s not intrigued, it’s none of his concern; yet, he keeps running into you. And Jack is used to people being intimidated by him, unnerved even. But you walk by like he’s a part of the decor.

The first two times you cross paths in the elevator — he is worn out after night shifts, hands in his pockets, back pressed to the wall. But then you come in, and his blood rushes at the sight. He’s always careful with his gaze as he takes notice: of how your black pants hug your thighs, of your three piercings in each ear, of the tattoos that you don’t try to cover. Just as you do not try to make acquaintances or strike up a conversation. Jack grudgingly decides he will take the first step next time, merely out of politeness.

But your third meeting catches him off guard.

Jack’s walking by the parking lot on his way out of the ER — it’s early in the morning, the dawn bleeding over the sky with hues of violet and red. He sees the movement out of the corner of his eye and absentmindedly looks at the pickup truck parked nearby. He stops dead in his tracks. The car is yours — well, based on the fact that you are in the driver’s seat — which certainly isn’t the place you should be changing clothes at. And Jack shouldn’t be affected by someone’s half-naked form, he sees enough of those at work; but this isn’t about the glimpses of your underwear he can definitely catch. No, his breath hitches not at the lace you wear but at the way your body moves — hips bucking up as you pull up your pants, spine arching, thighs pressing together, faint street lights countouring your curves through the car windows.

Jack suddenly feels treacherously warm. He blinks and manages to drag his gaze away. But he is torn between wanting to look again and giving you a warning: hey, kid, maybe just do it in the locker room, like all us mortals? It’s hard to think when his heart pounds so fast, he cannot focus.

Against his better judgment, he allows himself one glance. The second his gaze wanders back, it’s met with yours. And you’re looking straight at Jack, but your face doesn’t give away your feelings. He knows that he should be abashed and panicking and rushing off. Instead, Jack lingers for a moment longer and doesn’t look away.

When he does leave, his body burns all over, heat swelling somewhere in his stomach. Jack chooses to believe it’s nothing, it will pass.

»»» It doesn’t.

And he can’t tell if he keeps meeting you by accident or out of an unconscious wish.

Two other times are so abrupt and brief, he might as well be dreaming. First, you come by the vending machine while he is standing there. Jack freezes, keeps his mouth shut and curiosity reigned in. But then you bend down to grab your snack, and instantly his gaze is drawn to where your shirt is hitching up, baring your lower back so he can see the edge of your red panties sticking out. You straighten up without looking at him. He looks at you until you’re out of sight.

The next evening, Jack is ten minutes late, wrapped up in irritation at himself (and at the goddamn public transport). As he strides into the ER, he sees you leaving one of the trauma rooms with Santos. You are both tired — Jack can discern the signs in how your shoulders slouch a little, eyes blinking slower, voices toned down. He wants to ask what happened; surely, that is the only reason why he dithers in the hall. You stop when you’re a few feet away as Santos looks up something on her tablet. And it’s supposed to be innocuous — you stretching out your upper body, slowly releasing tension from the muscles. But his gaze turns covetous as it follows your neck and lines of shoulder blades that move under your shirt, the small bend of your back, the firm curve of your ass. Trinity doesn’t bat an eyelid as she throws questions at you, and you give her replies just as nonchalantly. But Jack is standing with his throat dry and pulse racing.

And evidently, he isn’t being very subtle, because as Walsh walks by, she catches who he’s staring at. She lets out a hum, her dark eyes fixed on Jack as she comes near.

“I’ve heard she’s new. Is she any good?” Emery nods in your direction.

“No idea, haven’t worked with her yet,” he looks down, his voice a little strained.

“I’m sure you will get your chance soon,” Walsh says, although her smirk suggests she isn’t talking about work.

Jack should keep going, and you are probably about to leave as well. He means to write it off as an accidental glimpse — but when his eyes sweep back to where you are, he faces not your back but your bold gaze. And Abbot knows he’s got a staring problem, but if you two were in a contest, you’d be winning.

He soon learns that you’re good at many things: for instance, you do learn from your mistakes. Because your sixth encounter happens where he least expects it — as Jack waltzes into the locker room before his shift, he almost stumbles when he sees you. And for a second, he gets a peculiar satisfaction from knowing that no passerby will get a chance to leer at your underwear.

Jack hopes to sneak away while you are chatting with Walsh, but the brunette is quick to spot him. Or maybe she’s just following your gaze that finds him first.

“Oh, I don’t know if you had the pleasure of meeting our ER cowboy?” Emery grins and grasps the opportunity to introduce you two.

Jack is reminded of that morning at the parking lot, and his face flushes. He waits for you to taunt him or to shame him; you do neither.

“Yes, we’ve met,” you say simply. You don’t mention the circumstances as you shake his hand.

And Walsh pretends the air isn’t getting thick with tension. Jack doesn’t even hear the excuse she makes up to slip out of the room. He’s concentrating really hard on steadying his breath and keeping distance. He truly doesn’t mean to look, but his gaze darts down when you reach for your bag, and he is suddenly aware that you aren’t wearing a bra under your tank top. And you’ve got piercings in your nipples.

He instantly averts his gaze and leaves without a word, with very hasty steps. But there’s a thought already lurking in his head: he wonders what it feels like — cold metal in the parts of you that are so soft and delicate. He wonders what it’s like to touch them. If you’d like that. He knows he surely would.

And the desire unavoidably takes root in him, spreading more every time you pop up in his mind. He has to take quite a few bathroom breaks to splash his face with cold water until his skin is almost numb; but it does nothing to cool down his feelings. Jack thinks about you in between the patients, in every lull in conversations, every free minute that he gets, despite all his attempts to load himself with work.

And it’s you who he pictures when he is finally home, his head pressed to the shower wall already wet with steam, hand wrapped around his cock. Jack’s eyes unwittingly squeeze shut as he’s imagining you naked in his bed, him flickering his tongue over your nipples, his name a soft moan in your mouth, him spreading your legs wide as his lips eagerly move lower, to where you’re soaked and ready for him—

He cums so fast and hard, his vision goes white for a few seconds.

And while Jack’s struggling to catch his breath, he realizes:

you are trouble, indeed. For him.

»»» It doesn’t help that he can’t find a reason not to like you. It isn’t from the lack of trying.

He wants to keep an eye on you when your shifts overlap, and that is how your next encounter happens. You get a shooting victim — a nasty stomach wound: the man who coded in the ambulance and lost a lot of blood, and his condition seems to be only getting worse. You also get to work with Frank, and from the get-go, it’s painfully apparent how incompatible you are. Which is the reason why both Jack and Robby speedily join you in the trauma room. Emery sneakily comes too because she’s not about to pass on entertainment.

And it’s truly a rare sight — Frank being humbled; the man himself can hardly cover his surprise. He doesn’t dare to raise his voice in front of Robby, but lets in tones of annoyance and frustration. You don’t back off. Your hands keep moving, barely ever still and dealing with the bandages already stained with blood, but your gaze is uncompromising as it keeps boring into Frank. For every argument Langdon comes up with, you manage to give two. Robby just stands by, switching his gaze between you like it’s a tennis match. And he’s supposed to be the referee, but he’s enjoying this too much to interfere.

Frank’s battling exasperation. “I have to remind you that it is not the standard of care—”

“Fuck standard of care if we want him to live,” you bite back with zero hesitation.

Robby immediately throws a glance at Jack, one brow raised and mouth curled into a small smile. And what Robby is thinking of is voiced out loud by Walsh.

“She’d do wonders on night shifts,” Emery teases Jack quietly.

Jack says nothing — he feels like he’s been snapped out of a trance. He’d love to work with you, to teach you, to guide your hands with his and have a reason to slip into your space. He also doesn’t know how to stop looking at your tattoo that peeks from under the collar of your shirt, the black ink that his fingers itch to trace. It’s a dilemma he is yet to put a name to.

Robby steps in before Langton can blow a gasket — and he puts the decision to a vote. The vast majority support your point of view, including Jack. And you don’t waste your time on gloating, but you do send a glance his way — with somewhat of a question in it: why does he follow you, what’s in it for him? Jack didn’t even think you’d notice. And since he’s got no answers, or at least none that he likes, he just walks off.

But while his eyes are peeled, Jack also catches on to many other things. The way you tap your fingers on the walls and counters while you wait for something, not nervously but rhythmically, like playing a piano. You quietly hum songs when you think nobody’s around, and even though Jack’s yet to recognize a single melody, he simply likes the sound of it. He sometimes pauses outside the break room just to listen. You are laconic but never doubtful or shy — your presence captures everyone’s attention in any room you’re in. And Jack is no exception, although he tries not to give in. He fails a little more with each encounter.

The eighth time comes in shades of crimson and dark orange. Jack’s walking to the hospital when he notices your figure in the distance, not far from the main entrance. You’re standing with your back to him, hand tucked into the pocket of your jeans. One of the guards approaches you, smiley and holding out something metallic —

You sharply turn to him, a cigarette between your lips.

The lighter trembles in his fingers under your stare. You wrap your hand around his wrist to steady it, then lean to him. Just as the paper wrapper catches fire, Jack’s temper flares up. The truth is poisonous like nicotine: he drinks in every second of this view — your face illuminated by the light, the yellow glimmers scattered over your cheeks and mouth — and he wishes so avidly he had a reason to be that close to you.

Which sounds an awful lot like jealousy.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he mutters, loud enough for you to hear.

It takes the guard one glance at Jack to get out of his sight. But you don’t turn your head. Do not react to him at all.

“One of these takes about 20 minutes off of your life expectancy, you know that? Probably a few hours by the end of just one week,” he grumbles when he is a few steps away.

“I only smoke on Mondays,” you inform him coolly, your eyes still on the dwindling sunset.

“As if that changes much. Smoking is the leading cause of preventable death in the States, in case you weren’t aware.”

That earns him a glance. Or more like a glare — cold, sharp, the kind that makes a person question their life choices. Jack doesn’t — he’s old enough to be sure of his rights and wrongs; but something flickers in his chest when your eyes meet again.

“Oh wow, never heard about that in three years of med school. Thanks for the eye-opener,” you deadpan, holding his gaze with ease. “You know what else people can die from? Age. And dozens of other things like car crashes or shootings or peanuts or swimming in places you aren’t supposed to. So I’m fine with taking a drag once a week. And I definitely don’t need anyone to lecture me.”

Jack watches as you blow a stream of smoke — out of the corner of your mouth, away from him; it’s easy to mistake for courtesy. Or maybe you don’t want it to block the view because you’re still looking at him, just like you did when he happened to see you in your pickup. He couldn’t tell if there was an accusation or a dare in your gaze; he is about to find out now.

Jack takes another step. “You are ruining your health. This is merely a reminder.”

“Which I didn’t ask for,” your voice gets just a little lower. Not angrier, not like a warning before a hit.

But like a warning before a kiss.

It’s in that moment, just before he digs for other facts, Jack notices how close he did manage to get. The cigarette stays clamped between your fingers, and his eyes dart down to your parted lips. And even with how vexed you are supposed to be with him, you aren’t moving.

“You’re always like this?” he asks, like he can’t hold the question any longer.

He holds your gaze again. You ask back:

“Like what?”

Insolent. Exciting. Fascinating.

“Disagreeable,” Jack breathes out.

One quiet word that isn’t quite a confession. But it’s as close to honesty as he can get. He stood at arm’s length just a minute ago — that distance is reduced down to one hand. Jack sees it rippling across your face: amusement and contentment first, but mostly — appreciation for the honesty you’ve got a taste for.

And then you whisper:

“Don’t you enjoy it?”

The evening stills around you two. So does his heart. And ardently, relentlessly, he looks again to where your words came out of. His thoughts are hazed, his caution just an echo in the distance, and he can only focus on your face. He only wants—

“Hey, you ready?” Santos calls out to you as she runs out of the building. If she suspects something, she doesn’t let it show. Trinity just waves at Jack. “Hi, Dr Abbot!”

You don’t say anything as you breeze on past him, your shoulder almost grazing his. You smell like brandied cherries, sour-sweet. He turns around after you, his gaze skimming over your neck, back, hips, and every other part that he can put his eyes on.

And this realization fills him, like air fills the lungs:

he would’ve kissed you even with your mouth full of smoke, of hate, of arguments that he can’t actually oppose.

He almost kissed you.

The almost makes his lips tingle. It’s not about him losing his composure — it’s him not knowing how to find it when he is with you.

»»» In two weeks' time, Jack’s drawn to you like metal to a magnet.

The tension gives way to a pull, too unexplainable for words; yet you both follow it. And soon his days are threaded with these moments that you share. Like when you have to stay an extra hour for the emergency С-section — the baby and the mom are fine, and Heather gives you praise, but you walk out too exhausted to even take the gown off. And you don’t notice it until Jack walks by you; he turns around and unties your gown, a mere brush of his firm hands over your spine. He doesn’t wait for you to thank him — but then you look over your shoulder, and your gaze softens as it meets his. It’s a reward that he takes gladly.

Then there’s the evening when Abbot curses under his breath, trying to find a tablet (which the ER’s never been short on, so what the fu—). And somehow he can feel you coming — must be the cadence of your steps or that same scent he’ll sniff out from across the hall; he doesn’t flinch at your palm at his arm. You simply hand him your device and leave. His skin heats where your fingers grazed it.

He gives you his umbrella when you’re blindsided by the weather. You bring it back — and add a bag of chips you caught him munching on once. He offers you his spare t-shirt when some drunkard throws up on you. And it’s a struggle not to imagine you in nothing but his piece of clothes. He saves that image in his head for when he’s in his bedroom.

And with more eagerness than he’ll ever admit, Jack digs through his old stuff to find a lighter. True to your word, you don’t smoke on most days you meet. But Monday evening comes, and you come out after your shift like clockwork. He walks unhurriedly to you, in case you don’t need help. You lock your eyes on him as you pull out a cigarette. Jack stops a step away and takes the lighter from his pocket — he brings it closer to your face, then flicks it. Waits for the cigarette to smolder.

You wait until he snaps the lid shut, then tell him bluntly. “This is the part where I’m not apologizing. For smoking.”

He shakes his head. “I didn’t ask you to.”

“But you expected it,” you press a little.

Jack lets a smile tug at the corner of his lips. “No. Not from you,” he says, eyes dark under the street lamps, but not unkind. Never dishonest.

Your lips twitch like you thought about smiling in reply. You still make sure not to exhale at him.

“So, any reason this only happens once a week?” he asks, hands sliding in his pockets. That way it’s easier to stop thinking about touching you.

“Don’t like how my voice sounds when I smoke too much,” you tell him vaguely.

“Sounds fine to me now,” Jack blurts out.

Your hand pauses mid-air. For just a beat, he wonders if his words came out wrong. And then, bathed in the streaks of light and smoke, you do smile.

“How do you unwind, Dr Abbot?” you ask him unexpectedly. “I assume you must have your ways.”

“Why? Does it seem like I need to?” he chuckles lightly. He’s pleasantly surprised how even his voice is; deep in his chest, his heart’s already picking up the pace.

“You work nights. Everyone says it’s a complete disaster up until 3 AM,” you explain. “And we both know this job isn’t all cheery.”

He takes a pause to think. There is no hidden catch he can discern. And yet, you watch him so intently, he — this man who’s older, tougher, who outranks you and should be the one with questions — raises his hand to rub his neck. So obviously nervous, he can’t hide it.

“I go to the gym. Works for me,” Jack answers plainly.

Now there’s a gleam of laughter in your gaze. Like you are trying to resist a tease. But it’s not mean or condescending; your voice actually sounds warmer.

“So, physical activity. That does help with stress,” you nod, taking a drag. You blow a few white smoke rings, then add. “I like boxing.”

It sounds random. But not for Jack, not when he’s memorized your every curve, not after fantasizing of mapping your whole body with his lips.

“Yeah, you look like you would,” he mutters.

There’s silence. In which something shifts. And something sparkles in your eyes, like he said exactly what you wanted to. You put out your cigarette, then pop in a piece of gum. Jack easily picks up the scent of cherries — he wishes he could taste the flavour. From your mouth.

Then you come closer — and all the thoughts are wiped off his mind.

“You look like someone I’d like to train with,” you say, voice low. Daring. Your gaze burns in a way that doesn’t scorch but lures him in. He zones in on your lips again — and sees you smiling. “Maybe one day,” you tell him, like a promise.

You pull away, and Jack opens his mouth to put his protest into words—

He notices that Santos is already outside. And there’s a shade of hesitation on her face this time. As you walk up to her, her gaze moves carefully from you to Jack. She waves at him again.

He waves back. But his eyes stay on you.

And Jack is not a man who picks up bad habits, yet you are so easy to get addicted to. And he is very willing.

»»» He’s got no clue what he should do about it.

The right, rational option would be to shut down all his feelings. He’s your attending, he’ll only make things complicated, and balancing your work and education is already difficult enough. You wouldn’t want to add to that. Wouldn’t want him. And he’ll survive on stolen glances, short interactions and lucid images his fantasies feed on each night as he’s jerking his cock, thinking of only you.

But sometimes he isn’t even sure who is watching whom.

Because you meet his gaze like you can feel it, like you can read his reasons. Like you aren’t appalled by them at all. And when you smile at him or move a little closer or let him do the same things in return, Jack feels untethered to the rationality.

It’s only been a month of knowing you, and it is getting harder to resist crossing the line. That’s all Jack thinks about day and night, at home, at work and —

The whirlwind of his thoughts is interrupted by someone’s awkward cough. Jack’s sitting at the nurse station, and as he looks up, he sees Santos. She is smiling. It is the kind of smile that stretches out in an unnatural, long curve and shows no teeth. The kind that’s forced.

“So, I’ve heard you are free this weekend. And I was wondering, maybe you’d like to go… to a bar? It’s close by, they have beer and all that,” Trinity smiles again. He stares at her like he is waiting for a punch line in a joke. She groans. “It’s not what you think, I’m not hitting on you or anything, I promise. There’s gonna be a bunch of other people — like Dennis, Parker… Oh, and Dr Robby said he’d come.”

Jack says nothing for a moment, although he does believe she isn’t joking. And there’s a very obvious why would you ask me? sitting in his mouth. He also doesn’t really want to talk. He takes a post-it note and slaps it on the table right in front of her. “Write down time and address. I’ll think about it”.

“Or I can just text it to— Okay, sure. I’ll write it. Smartphones weren’t meant for that,” Trinity rolls her eyes. But she bites down a smile, a genuine one.

Jack spends too much time considering the invitation. He almost doesn’t go. He’s not a heavy drinker, he can’t pretend he likes most of the modern music, he feels uncomfortable in crowds, he rarely goes out these days— Except, it hasn’t always been like that. And even though his school and military days were far from wild, he did find joy in get-togethers, dry jokes and warmth that comes from a few beers in the company of friends. He was the guy with a guitar at some point; now all of it is just a washed-out memory.

So Jack almost stays home. But then he thinks of how many evenings he has spent alone — and his next thought sounds like oh, fuck it. How bad can one night out be?

He comes in casual: black jeans that fit him well, a plaid shirt over a plain t-shirt. The place looks bigger than a bar, less loud than a club. He spots Parker, and she greets him with a laugh.

“Look at you, Dr Abbot, being all social,” she orders him a beer, insisting it’s for all the times he’s helped her out. The music isn’t too offensive for his liking. He takes a sip, Ellis does too. She leans back on a barstool.

“So, plus one in our support team,” she clinks her bottle with his.

He shoots her a glance. “What team?”

“I mean, she doesn’t need one, not with a voice like that,” Ellis muses in reply. Incomprehension must be showing on his face because she smiles. “Oh, this is your first?”

“I’ve been to bars before, Ellis,” he huffs.

“Not what I meant,” her smile turns cheeky. “Although she doesn’t really talk about it at work, I only found out from Santos, like, a month ago. She asked if I wanted to see her friend perform, and I knew this bar was nice, so I thought, why the hell not. Imagine my surprise when—”

“Well, I’ll be damned, you came!” Robby cuts in and pats Jack on the back, a little out of breath. He looks at Ellis. “Did I miss anything?”

“Nah, you’re right on time!”

There’s movement on the stage — men bringing out an electronic keyboard and guitars, adjusting microphone stands and putting down some water bottles. Jack’s eyes roam over the people gathering around. Trinity pops out nearby — a little tipsy, beaming, waving; she briefly mentions a “cool-ass set list”, then fakes a gasp when she sees Jack and Robby. She’s quick to dash away to Dennis who is a mess of blush and giggles, enwrapped in conversation with a girl Jack recognizes as one of the day nurses. But as he watches them, appears the comprehension that’s very overdue: you aren’t there. Why?

He gets about thirty seconds of uncertainty.

Maybe forty.

That is how long it takes to lift the shroud of this mystery while everything around him sinks into a semidarkness. The stage lights are turned low, the crowd moving closer with a cheer, with the anticipation that comes from knowing exactly what’s to come. Guitar sings first, a deep sound that quivers but grows stronger, louder, soon joined by the sharp, snappy drumming. The rhythm builds into a catchy melody, something that’s edgier than pop-rock, something that already sends a ripple of excitement through the audience. And then Jack sees it — the unmistakable hair color and face features, the confidence that every move is filled with, the smile that’s always brazen and unapologetic.

Yours.

And the awareness flits through his mind like a dry chuckle: of-fucking-course. But on his face, there’s shock. And awe that is so stark, he can’t deny it.

Your voice is velvety, a little raspy but so beautifully clean when you take high notes. The light drips over you, hitting the angles of your face and collarbones, your bared arms and shoulders, the hips you’re moving every time the bit drops. And Jack can’t tear his eyes off you, speechless and stunned and overwhelmed with yearning. It’s jarring just how much he wants you.

You make him feel like there is electricity in his bloodstream, blade pressed to his carotid artery to let his doubts and self-control bleed out of him, his ardor burning flesh down to the bone marrow.

And he doesn’t recognize the song or know the lyrics.

All that Jack knows is — he’s fucked.

✧ a PLAYLIST I quickly threw together — for when you want to feel like every man needs CPR at the sight of you 🔪 ✧ my previous fics: 🌊 / 🔥 ✧ dividers by @/saradika-graphics.

♡ English is not my first language, so feel free to tell me about any mistakes. comments & reblogs are very appreciated! let me know if you want to be tagged ♡

#jack abbot #was editing my new one-shot when my inspiration decided NOPE go write smth else !!! also I made the header in 30 minutes and I love it wow #lauraneedstochillinsteadshewrites #the pitt #jack abbot x reader #jack abbot x you #jack abbot fanfiction #jack abbot fanfic #jack abbot imagine #dr abbot x reader #dr abbot x you #jack abbott #the pitt fanfic #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt x reader #the pitt hbo #dr abbot #shawn hatosy #x reader

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seitmai · 2 days ago

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(i read this probably end of last year and the comment waited since then for me to edit/finish since then, sorry about that 😬🫣)

Good god so many (horny) thoughts

That's an accomplishment!

“She thinks that Mr. Barnes gets distracted while it’s just the two of you,” there is no one that has ever looked after Steve quite like Bucky.

Just bestie things🫰🏻

His job isn’t to make sure that Steve listens to everything Gail suggests, no. Peter’s job was to assist Steve. If Gail would let him do his job, he would be quite excellent. Less annoying because all he wanted was to please Steve, but feels an obligation to please Gail. A stickler for doing things by the book.

That sounds annoying 🥴

He walks out of his office, and directly into the parking lot where Bucky is waiting with a car. The one person that is bound and determined to make sure that Steve remains Steve, and not Mr. Rogers or just Mr. President. Bucky keeps Steve humble and grounded. And he’s not above reminding Steve of his tiny and sickly self. It’s what makes the world go round.

Everyone, especially in a position like that, needs someone like that!

“It’s an addiction,” he says, his voice flat. “An addiction that is being rewarded, while me, who doesn’t smoke, is working inside by myself. So I have decided that I am taking a smoke break twice a night, and getting paid for it as well. Scott, you know I’m right. They are costing you money,” you can’t exactly argue with reality. Deny it if he wants to, you are taking it upon yourself to make sure you are fairly treated like the other.

Period 👏🏻 maybe just take some like candy cigarettes instead 😅

“Why?” Why? Did he seriously ask you why? Because he’s too fucking attractive. “Because you’re the stupid kind of attractive that gets me in trouble,” the kind of attractive that makes you fall in love on a first date, and then you let him walk all over you.

That's dangerous

“Sex of course,” he licks his lips slowly, and you watch every movement of every goddamn muscle like you’re studying for a test. He has the best crinkles around his eyes. He’s not some young boy, so you know he knows how to use what he’s got, “What do you want to drink?” You have got to create some space between the two of you and this conversation. It’s derailing, and if you don’t stop he’ll be in the supply closet with you on your knees. This man is making it hard to breathe.

😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨

“Please, don’t peg me,” you’re the one smirking at him now. Those powerful men love being pegged. So your bestie, who is just some girl on TikTok and you don’t know her at all, but that’s what she says. Powerful men love to be topped. Being a power bottom somehow makes them feel free to not think, and they can just enjoy.

I believe that lol

“Slade means valley. Meadow seems a bit more suitable for you. Ah, but it also means a place of refuge, and that’s what you’ve been for me tonight,” you smile softly. Not your flirty little smile, but a smile of being seen for once. Somehow your awkward humor has given the bar hottie some refuge from whatever has given him a headache, “Steven.”

What a thoughtful nickname for a possible ons

You raise the glass to your lips, drinking it all down, “If you’re the presidential candidate then I’m the Princess of Genovia.” “That’s a made up country. Wouldn’t you rather a real one?” It’s endearing that he knows that at all. “Princess of Monaco.” “Alright, Grace Kelly,” stupid damn crooked smile.

Hey, no shade on Genovia!

“Are you going to try to do better at your head?” Oh he is a cheeky little bastard. So those gray flags that you always ignore are starting to turn into a shade of green. No man is perfect. And this is just the good stuff after the role play. “I’ve never had anyone complain about my head before,” his tongue moves out of his mouth, and he traces it over his pillow pink lips. Pulling the puffy bottom into his mouth before he bites on it. After the distraction you look at his left hand, “Are you married, Mr. President?”

Interesting timing to ask that question 😅

“The Four Seasons,” now you’re the one to choke. Obviously he isn’t running for president because he wouldn’t be caught dead taking a broke bartender into The Four Seasons with him, “Only the best for the Princess of Monaco.”

He is smooth

Stepping away from him, you go over to the window, staring out at the city. It’s amazing. Beautiful in a weird way. “Are you not into — did I read everything wrong here?” “Oh, no. I’m totally down to fuck. I have this huge, giant need to know what your dick looks, feels, and tastes like. But I’m just seriously caught up in this room. Holy shit, how much did this cost?” Too much. Steven is in the mob. His name is probably Captain Shawshank!

Valid reaction lol

“None of the above. I’m going to take your pants off, and throw you on the bed. Then I’m going to crawl in between your legs, and suck on that pretty little clit that is swollen and in need of attention. Then I’m going to fuck you like a dirty little slut. You know longer will be the Princess of Monaco, but the President’s whore,” green flag. Green flags all around! You would very much like to be ‘the president’s whore’. Clearly, you’re into role play after all.

Sounds like a great plan Mr. President 🙂‍↕️

“Uh huh,” you whimper. Pulling off your lip he picks you up, and tosses you onto the bed. He takes a few steps towards you, and you shake your head, “You told me you were going to crawl in between my legs, that is very much walking.”

Better hold him to his word ☝🏻😌

Steve growls but does get down on his knees, and he crawls to the bed. Gripping to your foot, he yanks you down to the edge of the bed, and rips apart your legs. Kissing in between your thighs before he begins to pull your pants off. Inhaling so deeply when your mound is uncovered by denim, “Did you just smell me? What do I smell like?” “Heaven,” he answers coolly. He tosses your pants to the side before he returns to pull your panties down.

😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨

“Princess, I don’t sleep around because it usually comes back to bite me in the ass,” sure sure because ‘he’s a presidential candidate’. “But if I ever decide to fuck someone as you so colorfully say, I don’t want one time typically. I want it all night. So why don’t you check the expiration dates, while I have a snack,” he sinks lower on the floor, before he’s face to face with your pussy.

Why is that so fucking hot?!

He rips your panties off, “I’ll have more delivered here,” he says before licking a swipe up your slit, and he moans. A moan so deep and guttural that your eyes roll in the back of your head, and you drop back on to the bed, and grab one of the condoms.

Ita gonna be a long night 🤭

Oh, this man is about to dirty talk you into an orgasm. The art of dirty talk is lost on most men. They don’t understand the importance of being vocal. Moan at the tastes and pleasures that we women give you. Tell us what you’re going to do with us. We’re not made of glass, and a lot of the time, women want you to be rough as fuck.

This!!! And he probably can and will

You don’t want that either. No no. You want at least six times tonight. He can call for another box later in the night. Wait, who the fuck is bringing him condoms? What a weird thing to call for. Can you have condoms DoorDashed?

If you have money for a room like that at the four seasons, nothing is a problem to get delivered lol

“Then I’m going to stop,” you sit up on your elbows to stare at his beard soaked in your essence, and he leans back on his calves. Leaning away from her! Your pussy.

Rude!

“Read the expiration date first. And then I’ll let you come on my fingers. And after that, if the condoms aren’t expired, I’ll fuck you like the needy little slut that you are.” You growl in protest but read over this tiny stupid fucking print. Who the hell did this? Who designed this to look like this? Stupid people that weren’t in the middle of getting their back broken by a lying fucking god. If he was telling the truth, you’d be fucking a presidential candidate. Haha, wouldn’t your parents be so proud that you took someone like him home? Well, he paid for the damn room. At least he has money.

This is gonna be a memorable night for sure 🤭

Before you even realize what is happening, he’s pulling off his shirt, and he looks better with it off. A few hidden tattoos that make you drool. If he’s telling the truth, he’s going to be the hottest fucking president ever. And he has hidden tattoos? Drool. God help your body. He pulls off his pants, and of course he’s a boxer briefs man. You want to cry happy tears at the size of his bulge. You’re a glutton for punishment, and you want him to ruin your cunt. Judging from the impossible starin of his underwear, he’s going to.

What a sight 😮‍💨🤤

“Oh god, yes,” he reaches on the bed to retrieve one of the six condoms, and then starts to roll down his underwear. You try to be polite, and look him in the eyes, but there’s a glorious cock right there, that you have to see. He peels them down further, and his cock springs to life. Perfect. Pretty spongy mushroom tip with beads of precum oozing out. A beautiful vein traced on the underside of his cock, and right up his happy trail.

Sometimes you just have admire that piece of artwork unashamedly 🙂‍↕️

You want to bite it. Trace that vein with your tongue. You’re such a loser simp for this beautiful man, and you don’t care. You’ll shout it to the world that you are his sex toy if he wants you to. You didn’t care as long as he puts that pretty cock inside of you.

She so right for this 🤭

“If you want me, put it on me,” you look at him through your lashes before you take the packet, and pull the rubber out. You grip his velvet steel rod in your hand before placing the latex on the tip, and roll it down his length. Counting inches as you go along. “Nine. Inches that is, and you’ll take every inch,” his voice is so gruff, and you can’t wait to try and fit his heavy, hot, pulsing cock inside of you.

😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨

Adding another inch, you grab onto his forearms, nodding for him to continue. Another inch. And another. Not stopping until the tip whispers against your cervix, and he’s fully sheathed in your warmth. “Do you want me to treat you like a whore, or like I love you,” that’s the thing about you and him, you both know this isn’t love. It’s two adults giving each other pleasure. And you haven’t had that in so long.

I mean one doesnt suspend the other automatically, but some nights you will just chose one 🤭

“You’re body is so fucking reactive,” he grunts as he drills into your body. How is this man single? There is a bad trait in there somewhere. He lies about what it is he does of course. “Hey,” he snaps his fingers at your face, “Stay with me.” Rude. But true. His face makes this so much better. You can look at him without imagining that you have Henry Cavill fucking you. This view is very nice indeed. “Don’t stop fucking me!”

This just cracked me up 😂

“No! Come back!” Sex should always feel so good that you beg them not to leave you.

Facts

“Oh,” he keeps fisting his cock, while he searches for something on the floor. “Your ass is quite nice.” “Yours isn’t bad either. Aha!” Bending over, he retrieves something from the floor, and then looks at you with a smile. What is he going to do with that? “My my, you were soaked at the bar. Were you leaking out on your thighs?” “Yes,” there’s no point in denying that Steven has made you wetter than anyone ever has before. He knows it, too. He pulls the panties out of your mouth, tossing them back onto the floor. His eyes coast over your overstimulated body, still tweaking as he pulls the condom off himself. Grabbing the tip, Steven dangles it over your mouth letting his spend drip onto your mouth where you hungrily lick it up. He could fall in love with you at this moment.

I truly would feel mutual 🤭🤤

“You can either call me Steve, or Mr. President, Meadow,” you see the game that the two of you are playing. And either it’s just going to be good for tonight, or you could see yourself falling for this man, despite his need to lie about his job. It’s fine. You’re fine. As long as he fucks you like that again. You can pretend he’s the future president.

“You’re the best kind of disgusting,” he smiles, and hops off the bed, and pulls you up to him. “Let’s get you showered. Then we’ll order some room service, and you need to hydrate. You made a mess of that bed.” “Sorry,” you cringe. As you look over the mess of the bed. It’s soaked. Ruined. You feel sorry for whoever has to clean this mess. “Do not apologize because I wasn’t issuing a complaint. Are you tired? It is late. We’ll figure it out in the shower,” is this man really offering to shower with you? How is that both sweet and hot. “Don’t get me hard in the shower, and I know that will be difficult because I know what you feel like. Not to mention, you looking like that, and because of me, it’s really working for you,” you know you’re wrecked. Your eyelids at half mast with the high that is coursing through your body.

Of course they aftercare is top tier if he ducks like that 😮‍💨🥰🥵

Lmao fair

Nothing You Could Do, Part 1

Summary: You were just a sassy bartender minding your business, and then he showed up. America's prince, soon to be king, or in other word's future President of the United States of America. Things kicked off way too fast. You just want to be your normal self. But Steve Rogers needs you. Can you navigate being a self sufficient woman in DC, and the woman on his arm?

Pairings: Steve Rogers X Reader

Rating: explicit

Warnings: explicit language, explicit sexual content, PIV sex, dirty talk, fingering, oral sex (F receiving), squirting, rough, degradation, dumbification, spitting, stuffing things in reader's mouth, cum play, 18+ ONLY

Word Count: 7.3K

*dividers created by @saradika-graphics

Series Masterlist

Steve leafs through a few more papers before laying them down on his desk. He runs his hand over the back of his neck, massaging the ache that he’s had there for over an hour. Things are becoming a reality. He is a candidate for president of the United States of America. Something he’s wanted his entire life. And yet, something still feels off.

Be a good man. That’s what his mother repeated to him everyday growing up. She didn’t care where he landed in life, she just wanted to make sure he was a good man. He thinks for the most part he’s accomplished that. Some, only Gail, would say that he didn’t find someone to share it with. But in all fairness, he’s never truly looked. Someone would come along if they were meant to share a life with him.

But who would want to share a life with him now? Now that he is starting to campaign for president. This isn’t an easy life. It’s nonstop. It would need to be someone willing to give up so much of themselves, and their life, and he’s not ready for that. Nor should it be what he’s worried about right now.

Right now he wants to sign a few more things, and head out. His one night a week that he asks for. This may be the last one, not if he has it his way. He gives up so much of his time, and that’s okay, but he still needs those couple of hours to just drink some beer at the bar. Pretend he isn’t who he is. Deny it if he’s asked.

“Boss?” Steve politely rolls his eyes while looking down before he greets the means well, but still annoying personal assistant Peter. “Um, you told me to tell you when it was six o’clock, sir, Mr. President, Rogers, sir.”

“Steve is just fine,” he reminds him again. Steve scribbles out his signature before stacking the papers in a neat pile, and tucking them into an envelope. “Can you make sure that Natasha gets these?” He asks, standing up to grab his coat.

Peter clears his throat, and then straightens up quickly, “Gail said that you don’t need to go out tonight.”

“Gail needs to mind her business.”

“She’s worried about security, sir,” Peter grabs the coat from Steve, and holds it up. Helping him get in, while Steve is trying to not be frustrated.

“Bucky will be with me,” Peter clears his throat, and shakes his head no. “Bucky will be late?”

“She thinks that Mr. Barnes gets distracted while it’s just the two of you,” there is no one that has ever looked after Steve quite like Bucky.

“Does she propose I take Sam with me?”

“The future vice president at a bar with the president?” Peter cringes. Steve could almost get away with it on his own. He just doesn’t shave before going out. Shaving was for the television. Who knew a beard could make all the difference in one’s appearance.

“Look, kid, Bucky can handle this. Even with a distraction there is no one I trust more than him to keep me safe. Now if you would excuse me I have somewhere I need to be. I’ll have Bucky text you the coordinates for the bar tonight. By the way, he went there earlier this week, and cleared it. You’re welcome,” Steve walks out, leaving Peter’s breathing to increase.

“Slade!” Your head turns to the door, where your boss screams a name that is definitely not yours, but fake names in this city are always a good idea. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Smoking,” you smile, bringing the stick to your mouth for a quick pull, and he jerks it out of your hand, “Hey! That was my cigarette!”

“That was a stick,” you know it was only a stick, you weren't a moron. “Why are you out here pretending to smoke a stick?”

“Because Anna comes out here to puff on a stick that causes cancer. Jacob vapes, and who knows what issues that could cause, and they are out here for twenty minutes, without clocking out, so they get paid.”

“It’s an addiction,” he says, his voice flat.

“An addiction that is being rewarded, while me, who doesn’t smoke, is working inside by myself. So I have decided that I am taking a smoke break twice a night, and getting paid for it as well. Scott, you know I’m right. They are costing you money,” you can’t exactly argue with reality. Deny it if he wants to, you are taking it upon yourself to make sure you are fairly treated like the other.

He rolls his eyes, holding the door open for you, “Get back inside.”

Lifting up your watch you shrug, “I’ve still got five minutes left.”

“You’ve seriously been standing out here, sucking on a stick for fifteen minutes?”

You laugh, shaking your head no. That is just silly, “No. I’ve been standing out here holding a stick for fifteen minutes. I only sucked on it when you came out here and disturbed my peace. Do you come out here when everyone else is smoking?”

“They’re actually smoking,” he says flatly.

”I don’t want to get cancer, but I also would like to have a paid break just like everyone else. Would you prefer that I took a beer break?” Scott seems to be playing favorites, when you know that it’s really yourself that is the favorite.

“No,” he walks off, but you decide you’re going to follow him, and annoy him. He’s easy to annoy, and you quite enjoy it. “Slade, quit following me.”

“We’re not finished with this conversation. I’m trying to figure out why I am not allowed to take a smoke break and not spend money, and not get cancer,” perfect logic.

“Huh?”

“I don’t want to waste my money on vape or cigarettes. I don’t want cancer. But I do want to go outside and ‘smoke’,” you wiggle your fingers in quotations to emphasize how you're not actually going to be smoking, in case he forgets. “In this society as a woman it’s hard enough for me to make it ahead of men anyways. I’m just trying to better myself. Trying to do what’s right in a man’s world, while saving my money in order to buy a house.”

“You could make more money dancing,” you retch. He’s suggested this a few times to you, and you just feel in DC if you became a dancer, then you would become the dirty little secret of some politician. One that doesn’t want you to dance for others anymore. Just him. Or her. Hey, it’s a modern world. Corrupt politicians are a dime a dozen, and it doesn’t discriminate against genders.

“I’m just saying,” Scott isn’t creepy. It’s this back and forth game you play. His bar doesn’t actually have dancers.

“I make very good tips here.”

“And once you’ve bought your house what are you going to do?” You hadn’t really thought about that. You had a goal, a big pretty white house with a nice fenced in yard. You’d get a dog. You’re unsure of the breed, but you want to adopt. Maybe a cute little mutt. “So you make the money for a house, and then what? You keep working here?”

“Yes! Because what is life if I can’t annoy you on a regular basis?” Scott rolls his eyes, and points behind the bar. “We’ll continue our conversation at another time, Mr. Lang. Please, make sure you leave any suggestions in the little box in my locker for me!”

“Get back to work!” He screams over his shoulder. You are back at work. And only one man is at the bar, and the suspicious man from earlier this week is just randomly walking around. You narrow your eyes as you watch the odd man before leaning on the bar to the slumped over man.

“You look as if you need Advil,” and a really long nap.

“Do you have any?” He asks, his hand goes to massage his neck, lifting himself up in the process, and you gulp. This man is obnoxiously attractive. His hair is just that odd length of long that you crave, and the blue behind his glasses is gorgeous. And then he gives you a cocky sideways grin.

“No,” he furrows his brows at your weird inflection of your tone, “You need to just lean right on over. I can’t look at you and hold a conversation.”

“Why?” Why? Did he seriously ask you why? Because he’s too fucking attractive.

“Because you’re the stupid kind of attractive that gets me in trouble,” the kind of attractive that makes you fall in love on a first date, and then you let him walk all over you.

“Oh yeah? And how’s that?” Could he not be so — pretty? There’s this adorkable quality to him, and you want to throw your bar towel in his face. Just to hide his looks, and eyes from looking in your direction. Turd.

“Well, you’re the annoying attractive man that sits there, and flirts with me all night.”

“Oh really?” You weren’t even finished! Yep. He’s the kind. He’s already interrupting your thought process.

“The kind that acts all innocent, and then when they see me about to close down the bar, you whisper in my ear, ‘You wanna continue this conversation?’ And the answer is yes, yes, I want to continue this conversation. And of course you’re going to take me to some sleazy hotel room, and there’s no talking involved at all, just horizontal dancing. And you know what the worst part is?”

“I don’t, but I have a feeling no matter what my answer is, you are going to tell me anyway. So why don’t you just go ahead and tell me, so I don’t have to play a guessing game,” oh, he’s good. He is hitting all your morally gray flags.

“The worst part is you’re the type of man that could get me to role play, and quite honestly, I’ve never understood the point. Here we are two adults, and we can be who we say that we are, you know?” Do you even know? Because you are not even Slade.

“What’s wrong with role play?” Oh, cheeky son of a bitch. “And do you actually have Advil?” You do. You reach into your apron, because yes, bastards here can be annoying, and you just need something to ease the pain in your head since you can’t tell them that they’re insufferable and you don’t want to converse with them. Good tips are important. “You’re not trying to poison me are you?”

To prove that you aren’t, you take two pills out for yourself before offering them to him. God, he has nice hands. No! Do not fall for this sorcery. “The problem with role play is the fact you spend a few hours on a scene, instead of just getting to the good part.”

“What’s the good part?” He cocks up an eyebrow at you, and you just know this asshole is enjoying this.

“Just some beer on tap. I’m not that picky.”

“Seriously? I would have pegged you for a Miller guy or something,” that stupid eyebrow does that thing again. “Maybe Budweiser. You seem all American,” he seems like he would look great over you. STAP!!! Focus.

“He’s got jokes,” you wink at him, starting to fill him a glass up.

“Well, you’re the one that brought up sex,” you lay the pint in front of the man, sliding it over. Watching as he takes a drink.

“How’s my head?” He chokes. Sputtering beer onto the bar, and the odd man that has been here nearly every night this week turns to look at him. “That bad? I’ll have to try better next time.”

“This isn’t at all how I saw my evening going. Do you have a name?”

“Slade. And you?”

He picks up his phone, looking through something, and you fear you might have gone too far, “I would have pegged you for a Meadow.”

“What?” where the hell did that come from?

“We can forgo last names tonight, Steven. What is it that you do? You’re definitely a politician,” the stupid eyebrow again! Curse him and his sexy hot ways. You’d think he was an asshole, if he wasn’t also just so sweet. “Let me guess a congressman?”

“Presidential candidate,” you guffaw. Snort. Seriously, it’s the ugliest laugh that has ever come out of your mouth, and the weird shadow man looks over at the two of you again. He’s probably this man’s bodyguard. Ahh, makes sense. He was canvassing the place. You wonder what he discovered.

“Okay,” you answer, pouring the two of you a shot of vodka. Sliding it over towards him, you raise your hand for a cheer, “To Mr. President.”

“To Meadow,” whatever. You didn’t care what you called him. They’re all fake names anyways. He’s going with a presidential candidate just as much as you’re going to be the Queen of England.

You raise the glass to your lips, drinking it all down, “If you’re the presidential candidate then I’m the Princess of Genovia.”

“That’s a made up country. Wouldn’t you rather a real one?” It’s endearing that he knows that at all.

“Princess of Monaco.”

“Alright, Grace Kelly,” stupid damn crooked smile.

“I thought I was your Meadow?”

“Mine?” Fuck his eyebrow. “When did you become mine?”

“I suppose it was the moment you and your stupid brow did that thing. Could have been when you looked at me. I guess it was that easy,” shit. Shit shit shit. “Not that I’m easy. It was easy. It meaning I’m going to shut my damn mouth, Mr. President. Would you like another glass of cheap beer?” imagine, the president at this dive bar drinking cheap beer!

“No, I don’t like to be fully impaired.”

“Fully impaired for what?” Good grief! “Man, fuck your eyebrows.”

“Sorry, they’ve offended you, my Meadow. That was never the intention. Of course, my intention was to come here for a beer, and then I ran into an awkwardly charming bartender who just so happens to be the Princess of Monaco. Does this mean we’re role playing?” Shit! One conversation, and now he’s role playing with you. You said you didn’t like that.

“Does this mean we’re eventually going to get to the good stuff?” You’ve made a fool of yourself this entire conversation, but for some unknown reason it worked. This man is lying about who he is, just like you are, but you don’t care. The only thing that you care about now is feeling him. He’ll be gone before you wake up. But you have to know what his dick looks like. And just how long he doesn’t last.

“I’ve never had anyone complain about my head before,” his tongue moves out of his mouth, and he traces it over his pillow pink lips. Pulling the puffy bottom into his mouth before he bites on it. After the distraction you look at his left hand, “Are you married, Mr. President?”

“I’m not.”

“Are you lying?”

“No,” the ultimate red flag is non-existent. He could be lying, but there isn’t a tan line. there always is. These politicians love to traipse around with their shiny band for everyone to see, but they come in here, and remove it, but the line remains. They can fool the country, but they can’t fool the bartender that they want to fuck.

“So which sleazy hotel are we going to?”

Your body slams into the wall, while Steven fumbles around with the keycard. His mouth is devouring your own, and you moan at the taste of beer lingering on his tongue. He pulls you in tighter to his body, his leg bent at the knee so you straddle his leg in the most unladylike way, and you grind down on him, “The Princess of Monaco is…”

“If you say slutty, Mr. President, we’re going to have a problem,” his chuckle is low and rumbling as he finally gets the damn door open, and he drags you into the suite with him. His mouth attaches to whatever part of your body he can get to. Nipping and sucking on your neck while you stare in awe looking at the suite.

“Holy fuck,” you surmise, gazing at how beautiful this room is. It’s bigger than your fucking apartment. Maybe he isn’t a politician but a businessman. Maybe he was in the mob! You won’t say a word. Steven is probably a made up name just like Slade. Meadow is nice. You could change your name to Meadow.

“If you think my mouth is good here, just you wait,” he rips at your jeans. Pulling them apart, and you look at him confused. Did he just speak? Wait, the good stuff is supposed to be happening. But this view!

“What?” He stopped for some reason.

“What?” He stands up straight, realizing your needy little body has stopped humping air, and he wonders if things have changed instantly. “What is happening?”

“I was looking at the suite. You can continue to undress me. I can let you fuck me from behind while I look at this view. Holy hell!”

Stepping away from him, you go over to the window, staring out at the city. It’s amazing. Beautiful in a weird way. “Are you not into — did I read everything wrong here?”

“Oh, no. I’m totally down to fuck. I have this huge, giant need to know what your dick looks, feels, and tastes like. But I’m just seriously caught up in this room. Holy shit, how much did this cost?” Too much. Steven is in the mob. His name is probably Captain Shawshank!

“Do you realize you’ve said holy in front of every curse word known to man?” Lies.

“Holy damn. Now, I believe that’s all the words,” you practically skip out of the living area, and walk into one of the rooms, whistling. “There’s more than one room in here. After you fuck me are you going to make me go into another room to sleep, so you can be in here alone? Are you going to call me a car, and I have to walk out the back door? Are,” his thick finger presses up against your mouth, and he shushes you like you're a damn child.

“I like that,” you sigh.

He presses his mouth against yours. Biting on your lower lip, “You like that?” The timbre of his voice rattles you to your core, and arousal floods your nether region, and you begin to hump the air again. His smile is full of sin, and you wish his leg was in between your thighs again.

“Heaven,” he answers coolly. He tosses your pants to the side before he returns to pull your panties down.

“You do have a condom, right? I actually never have sex with random strangers, especially not ones that claim that they’re a presidential candidate. You know, you really do sound insane when you say that,” he chuckles, and you feel it right on your sex. He’s controlling you with his voice alone. He hooks his fingers around the elastic of your panties, and starts to pull.

It’s both too fast, and not fast enough, “You didn’t answer about the condom part. I am on birth control, but Mr. President, you could have a disease that I can’t wash off,” he stops the descent of your panties, leaving you spread and bear, and it causes you to whine in protest. He reaches into his pocket, pulling out his wallet, and he tosses you a condom. Then another. And another. And another.

“Stop!” You scream sitting up, and looking into his wallet. “How many are there?”

“There should only be five, but I don’t like odd numbers so there’s six,” that fucking eyebrow. He knows. You told him what that damn thing does to you, and now he’s using it against you.

“Ahh!” You shove your hand over his brows, and try to breathe, “Are they expired? Why do you have six?”

“Because I don’t like odd numbers,” he repeats, smiling, and even though you can’t see it, you know he’s moving that stupid sexy brow. How are eyebrows sexy again?

“No, I mean, did you intend to sleep with six random strangers tonight? Or…?” Please say no!!

Steve buries himself in your drenched folds. His beard tickles your thighs and puss in the best possible way. Vision? Who needs it? You most certainly did, until whatever the fuck he’s doing with his tongue happened. It flicks over your overly sensitive nub while both his hands pull you apart, “What a pretty little pussy this is.”

He pushes two fingers inside your wet heated channel, and moans again, “What’s the matter, princess? You already going dumb on just my fingers?” No, you’re not. You’re enjoying the feeling. “Go on, what’s the expiration date, baby?” His lips wrap around your clit, and he gives the button a hard suck, causing you to see stars. Mewling out his name, and your legs start to tighten around him.

He uses the width of his body to keep you good and spread, and tsks you, “I’ve just got started. But I need you to be a good girl, and read me what the expiration date on the condom is. Just to make sure it’s allowed for me to fuck you. If they’re expired, then I guess there’s going to be no fucking, or I’ll have to call someone to bring me a box of condoms, and I really don’t want to do that.”

He pumps his fingers into you, and you attempt to read the back of this packet. Why the hell is it shiny? And where is the damn expiration date? You know that they have them. “Your pussy is so fucking greedy. You think she can handle a third finger?” No, but you’d like to try.

“I think she can. Just gotta ease number three in,” pleasure blinds you, and again, you can’t read anything on the back of this stupid tiny foil packet. Thank goodness you’re not allergic to latex because you can’t hold off a single second of actually seeing how his cock feels inside of you. “Go on. I know you can do it,” condescending sexy as fuck asshole.

“Steven, I can’t,” he lets his teeth drag over your clit, and you sob out his name again. “Steven!”

“That’s Mr. President to you, princess. Now, try again. Read the expiration, and I’ll give this greedy little pussy what she really wants, my throbbing fat cock,” yes. Yes, that is exactly what your pussy wants. You wish he’d give it to her right now. When the hell did you start referring to your puss as a she? The power of Steven, Mr. President.

“Mr. President, I can’t.”

“Then I’m going to stop,” you sit up on your elbows to stare at his beard soaked in your essence, and he leans back on his calves. Leaning away from her! Your pussy. “Read the expiration date first. And then I’ll let you come on my fingers. And after that, if the condoms aren’t expired, I’ll fuck you like the needy little slut that you are.”

“Oh my god!” The sound of your voice is like a bratty child. You want him so bad. So much. That’s another reason that you can’t even concentrate. You’re horny, and you need to come. “Mr. President, I wanna come!”

“Expiration date, sweetheart.”

You growl in protest but read over this tiny stupid fucking print. Who the hell did this? Who designed this to look like this? Stupid people that weren’t in the middle of getting their back broken by a lying fucking god. If he was telling the truth, you’d be fucking a presidential candidate. Haha, wouldn’t your parents be so proud that you took someone like him home? Well, he paid for the damn room. At least he has money.

“Ahh! Ooh ooh! They don’t expire for another three months! Make me come.”

“As you wish,” he says before he is tongue fucking you into oblivion. You thought his fingers felt nice. This is a different feeling. This is primal. My god, he’s so dirty, and you almost hope he is a presidential candidate, just so you will know how a president fucks. His tongue is replaced by three fingers, and he sucks and finger fucks you roughly.

Slamming those fingers into your body like it’s what he was made to do. Curling his digits and hitting a spot in your body that only you have only discovered. No man has ever found this hidden gem. The dam to pleasure. It only means one thing, and you try to tighten your legs together. Shivering at the build up that he’s creating.

“You dirty little slut. You know what I’m trying to do, don’t you?” he’s trying to soak himself, and you for that matter.

“Mr. President!” Your voice is so uneven. He’s gotta stop hitting that spot or else…

“Go on, darling. Soak me. Squirt all over me. Come on. Give it to me. Give me what I want. Yes! Fucking yes!” He yells out a hoop of triumph as you squirt arousal all over his chest. “Fucking dirty girl,” he pushes his face back into your wetness, and laves up your juices. Giving you the time that you need to come down from that fucking high.

Leaning over your body, he starts chuckling as he removes your shirt. “Are your legs like jello, princess?” Yes. He just made your body have a damn waterfall, and your brain is trying to catch up, and he has the arrogance to ask that? Yes. You are jello. “I like seeing you pliable like this. Just means I’m going to get to fuck you the way I want to.”

Whoever is out there to ask for forgiveness, you promise to after he treats you like his own personal whore. Removing your bra, he smirks, “Yeah,” he slaps at your tits, moaning when you yip at the slight pain. “Perfection. I’m about to make you my little sex doll. What do you think about that?”

“Yes, please!” You sound like an idiot, and you don’t care. “Mr. President. I want to see your cock, please.”

“Oh, and she’s got manners, too. Does she just want me to forgo niceties, and just fuck you like the needy little slut you are?”

Steven brings the packet to his mouth, and his teeth clamp on a corner before he peels it off. Spitting the corner off with a pffft. Bits of his spittle float into the air, and you wish he’d just spit on you. In you. Make you swallow it, you didn’t care. He curls his finger, wiggling it, and beckoning you closer. You clamber up on your knees, both of you naked and ready to be owned and claimed by the other.

“Nine. Inches that is, and you’ll take every inch,” his voice is so gruff, and you can’t wait to try and fit his heavy, hot, pulsing cock inside of you.

“I do love a challenge.”

“Then lay back. Because I’m not stopping until every inch is inside of you,” every glorious nine inches of him. Yep. You’re a goner. Done. Finished. Whatever it is that he has, you’re taking. You settle yourself back on the bed, and Steven knees himself to his perfect spot, and uses his cock to slap over your clit.

He wiggles his tip through your slick. Always ending at your clit, and he adds a bit more pressure. Running the tip through your warmth, and pushes through your entrance, and he pulls back up. Repeating the process over and over again, until you’re weak, and wondering when you actually get to feel him.

Steven sinks into you past the tip. Watching you to make sure you’re still okay with where things are going, and adds another inch. You hiss at the wide stretch. He’s not just long, he is so wide. His fullness pushes you open in the most lewd and salacious way. This is such a vulgar moment, and yet it still feels so right. It feels like heaven.

“I’m your whore, Mr. President, use me,” that damn brow cocks up, and he gives you a crooked smile. A warning because he isn’t going to take it easy on you. Wrapping his hand around your neck, he lifts you up and crashes his mouth into yours in sync with how he thrusts his hips into you. He’s so deep that you go cross eyed. He’s stealing your breath away with his mouth, and the harshness of the drive of his hips.

Fucking you in two. You feel this man up to your eyeballs, “Meadow, we’re going to have a long night if you’re already going dumb. Are you giving me permission to…”

“Yes!” You shout without any hesitation. “Yes, just fuck me. Whenever, however you want. Just always wear a condom,” he nods his head once, and both his hands grip onto the headboard. And he RAILS into you. You understand the need for multiple beds now because you’re embarrassingly leaving a mess all over this one. Your arousal pools underneath you, and the squelching sounds of your cunt echo in the room.

What the fuck is he doing to your body, and how? How is he able to control your body the way he is? Make you feel floaty and boneless, while also shocking you with aching pleasure. He is glorious, and you’re going to have him all night. Who knows, maybe he can continue to come into the bar and fuck your brains out.

Rude. But true. His face makes this so much better. You can look at him without imagining that you have Henry Cavill fucking you. This view is very nice indeed. “Don’t stop fucking me!”

“Shh,” he coos down at you. “I know you’re going all limp and everything, but you don’t have to shout at me,” you didn’t shout, “You very much did shout. If you can’t behave I’ll have to fill your mouth with something,” he is a devil, and you scream his name again. “Suit yourself.”

“No! Come back!” Sex should always feel so good that you beg them not to leave you. “Oh,” he keeps fisting his cock, while he searches for something on the floor. “Your ass is quite nice.”

“Yours isn’t bad either. Aha!” Bending over, he retrieves something from the floor, and then looks at you with a smile. What is he going to do with that? “My my, you were soaked at the bar. Were you leaking out on your thighs?”

“Yes,” there’s no point in denying that Steven has made you wetter than anyone ever has before. He knows it, too.

“Good girl,” you want to melt. You want to die right here. He can’t be saying words like that and think that your body won’t respond. “Open your mouth, and stick out your tongue,” you respond quickly, “Such a good girl.”

He inches closer to you. His mouth hovering right over yours, and he licks up your tongue. You shiver. Your body pushes you closer to him because you want more, and he spits on your tongue, “Swallow,” you listen so well, “Very good girl. Now, get on your knees. This next part is going to go fast because your tight little pussy is making it really hard for me not to bust a nut just looking at you spread, and gaping because of me.”

“I’m — what?” You look down at your body, gasping. “What…?”

“On. Your. Knees. Or I make you watch myself come in my hand,” oh, hell no. You get onto your knees, and lean forward. Arching your back, and showing him exactly what he gets to have for the rest of the night. Well, five condoms worth. “Thatta girl,” swoon. Asshole. Asshole! He reaches around your body, shoving your panties into your mouth, and you cry, arching your back even more. He’s filthy.

Steven lines himself up to your entrance, grabbing onto your hips with so much force that you know you’ll have his fingerprints etched into your skin for a couple of days. With one hitch of his pelvis, he slams into you balls deep, “Mmm!” You don’t care, your mouth is stuffed, you’re going to be as loud as you possibly can. He fills you so well. The fullness inside of you is the most pleasant exhilaration you have ever experienced.

But the way he grunts and moans with each harsh slide into you. His balls slapping up against your clit — this is perfection. He spits down to your hole, and you just know he’s about to turn even more gray flags green, and he pushes his thumb into your puckered ass, and if you could form words, they would be thanking him.

“You’re such a fucking dirty girl. You like this? You like how I fuck you like a dirty little slut?” Yep. You like it a lot, but you can’t tell him that. Not while you’re tasting your own honey. Not while you are coating his thick cock with your cream. Not while he is filling every hole in some weird way. Nope. You can’t think. Your synapses are sparking up with so much delight. A numbing pleasure that makes no sense other than your body is lifted into another world with the god of pleasure and debauchery.

“Your pussy has been pulsing around me for five minutes, did you know that?” Yeah. You are feeling that. You even feel the vein on his cock throbbing in your tight channel. “Fuck yeah. Yes! I’m almost there. You’re coming with me,” one of his hands dips between your legs, and he rubs over your clit with so much ferocity that your legs tremble. Falling down onto the bed, and he just keeps fucking you into a black hole.

Shuddering and shaking. Muffled screams that make no sense. And his hips snap into you, darkening your backside with heat. He’s so powerful. “I’m. Fuuuuuuck! Coming,” warmth balloons into the latex, and he slows his rhythm. Easing into a slow roll of his body, until he slides out of you. Flipping you onto your back, and you are surrounded in so much wetness.

He pulls the panties out of your mouth, tossing them back onto the floor. His eyes coast over your overstimulated body, still tweaking as he pulls the condom off himself. Grabbing the tip, Steven dangles it over your mouth letting his spend drip onto your mouth where you hungrily lick it up. He could fall in love with you at this moment.

You’re the best stress reliever he’s ever had. “You look so pretty coated in me.”

“Next time, why don’t you let me feel you explode on me? I could paint myself with your cum.”

“Sorry,” you cringe. As you look over the mess of the bed. It’s soaked. Ruined. You feel sorry for whoever has to clean this mess.

“Do not apologize because I wasn’t issuing a complaint. Are you tired? It is late. We’ll figure it out in the shower,” is this man really offering to shower with you? How is that both sweet and hot. “Don’t get me hard in the shower, and I know that will be difficult because I know what you feel like. Not to mention, you looking like that, and because of me, it’s really working for you,” you know you’re wrecked. Your eyelids at half mast with the high that is coursing through your body.

“Who is the talkative one now, Steven.”

Masterlist

Taglist: @tis-thedamn-season @marveloustaylortot @pono-pura-vida @peaches1958 @seitmai

@smile1318 @andydrysdalerogers @cjand10 @midnightramyeoncravings @kmc1989

@pandaxnienke @kmm-fluv @distractingbeth @buckybarnesisdaddy @musingsfromthemitten

@disneyprincessbuffyannesummers

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abbysimsfun · 3 days ago

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Sims In Bloom: Generation 2 Pt. 233 (Love in La Ciudad?)

Even though it scared her a little, Arista woke up thinking about kissing Nicola the night before. She went to the bathroom after a short swim and talked to herself in the mirror. "Don't bring it up. Let her bring it up if she even wants to."

The girls sat down to breakfast and the air was quiet between them. "I have such a headache," Nicola complained.

"You drank a lot last night," observed Arista with an empathetic smile. "Did you want to take it easy this morning?"

Nicola nodded. "Maybe we could head to that Mexican restaurant in Vista Hermosa for lunch instead of brunch."

"Sounds good to me," said Arista. "These pan de muertos will tide me over until then!"

Another silence, until finally, Nicola swallowed a bite.

"I'm sorry I kissed you last night. I hope you don't think I was trying to take advantage of you."

"You were a few sheets to the wind. I was worried you'd think I took advantage of you."

"Arista, I meant to kiss you. I just probably chose the wrong moment."

"You meant it?"

"When my head stops hurting, I'd kiss you again...if you wanted to."

"I'd like that. I- are you sure?"

Nicola smiled. "Yes, I'm sure. We get along great. I love the things you talk about and I like watching your hips move when you dance. And your butt."

Arista blushed. "No one's ever said they like my butt before."

"I'll bet they thought it."

After staying in for a few hours to hydrate and relax, the girls made their way to a new Mexican restaurant they'd read about on a travel blog.

The vibe of the place was airy and light. Perfect for a sunny day in La Ciudad. But once they were seated, they were dismayed to find nothing but Simerican fare like hotdogs and roast turkey on the menu.

"Is this a joke? Where's the Mexican food?" Arista scoffed.

"We could go somewhere else," Nicola suggested. "I don't mind where we eat as long as it's good."

"It's a nice vibe in here," Arista reasoned. "I guess we could order some cocktails and some chips and salsa. We'll find a food stand in the park when we get hungry later."

So they ordered drinks and chips, with Nicola opting for mild salsa while Arista experimented with something a little bit spicier. They chatted through lunch before heading back to Nuevo Corazon, where they made their way back to Mirador del Amor.

But this time, Arista wasn't in the mood for dancing, so the women made themselves comfortable chatting with locals. Arista felt a little green, hoping a trip to the bathrooms would help as her insides churned and gurgled. But on her way back to the sofas, she was sick right on the floor of the club.

Nicola leapt up to check on her friend. "Arista, what's wrong? Are you okay?"

"is your stomach okay after that lunch?"

"I feel fine. Why?"

"I think the spicier salsa, or maybe something in my drink, gave me food poisoning."

"Oh my gosh! Do you want to go to the hospital?"

"I don't think it's that serious. I probably just need to empty my stomach and sleep it off."

"Well, we're going back to the villa right now so you can do that."

They left the club, but they didn't make it very far before Arista needed to lie down, nauseated with a spinning head. Nicola laid down beside her so they could stare at the sky.

"You should call the restaurant to tell them what happened."

"I don't know it's food poisoning for sure, so I shouldn't. I don't want to spread any false accusations."

"If you won't do it, I will. If they're making people sick, they should know."

(I'm sad Arista's legs clipped under the steps in the spot they decided to lie down, but the photo and the moment were too good, I had to use it anyway.)

With Nicola's encouragement, Arista reported her condition before they made their way back to the villa - earning a reimbursement for the meal and a one hundred-simoleon bonus in compensation.

Somewhat miraculously, after a short nap, her food poisoning had passed and Arista gained her second wind. Making the most of it, the girls changed, staying up chatting and flirting for hours until one compliment led to another. Suddenly, Nicola was inviting Arista upstairs to share the vibrating bed!

Their woohoo, gentle and satisfying, changed everything, and they fell asleep under the covers together. When they woke up the next morning, Nicola brought up the future. "I know you want to travel, and I was thinking...maybe we could travel together. No fixed address, no plans, just experiencing the world together and making money as we go."

"What about teaching?"

"I love teaching, but I think sometimes I got into it because it's what my mom does. It was the easy option and the path of least resistance, you know?"

She nodded. "You're sure you wouldn't mind traveling? We might have to rough it sometimes."

High maintenance Nicola bristled slightly but forced a smile while they made breakfast together. (Have you ever seen two sims use the same stove at the same time??) "I should push myself out of my comfort zone," Nicola insisted. "Especially if you're willing to date a divorced mess like me who doesn't know what the future holds anymore."

Arista realized she and Nicola were both a little damaged by people and events in their past, but being together in Ciudad Enamorada stood among the most carefree weeks of their lives - even with food poisoning and bad musicians and a little too much juice.

They were both afraid they might screw things up, but they left their vacation with a promise to one another. Maybe traveling long-term would tear apart the new bonds they'd formed together, or maybe not.

Maybe it would be the supportive, loving, forever relationship they both deserved.

So Nicola decided to quit her job and move with Arista to wherever their hearts might lead them, but first the fresh lovebirds had a wedding to attend.

Nicola's brother, Dominic, wed his longtime girlfriend, Anika, under the same backyard wedding arch where Nicola married Hazel years earlier. This time, however, Nicola's mom, Kim, was on her best behaviour and the ceremony went off without a hitch.

Anika was the youngest of four, and her older brothers all arrived with their families. The eldest, Kris, arrived with wife Holly and their kids. Even though Holly was Nicola's ex-wife's elder sister, there was no awkwardness between them. Hazel was happily remarried, and Nicola was proud to introduce guests to Arista as her partner.

Whatever the future might bring, the newly-minted 'Nicarista' planned to face the next chapter together. ->

<- Previous Chapter | Gen 2 Start | Gen 2.1 Summary | Gen 2.2 Summary

Gen 1 Start | Gen 1 Summary

This is the end of Nicola's arc in my save (for now at least!) I'm pulling her out and @sleepyselkiesims is taking custody! They'll also be seen giving commentary together during @changingplumbob's Dating Deanna round three (which was filmed before this trip.) But the adventures of Nicarista don't end here and I believe Selkie has *vague plans* for them. 👀

I'm sorry Arista got food poisoning on my watch! Nic did not, but they had the same meal, so maybe something in the cocktail she ordered was bad. I never play with restaurants so that's never happened to me before, but the moodlet only lasted three hours so it was quick, at least!

I'm also sorry I gave Nic a few new outfits but didn't dress up Arista. I was worried I'd make her look goofy or put her in something that would lower Nicola's attraction to her, so I gave Nic some pink clothes because Arista likes pink and let their trip unfold!

A little townie tree update with a wedding portrait roll call:

WCIF "Mexican" Restaurant: I searched for Mexican restaurants on the Gallery and Mexican Restaurant Fixed by meggy0102 is beautiful and functional, but the menu is not Mexican. I'm too much of noob to fix that so I worked with it, instead.

WCIF Poses: I posed everyone in the wedding shot just to make sure I could get them all in frame. I regret not laying an aisle of any kind even though I didn't even play through the wedding, I had Dominic and Anika elope and just set up the posed photo to save time. I used a random collection - Besties by Katverse, Siblings by Katverse, LuckyCC's Casual Family Photos, ParisSimmer's Aleesha & Austin Wedding posepack, Cute Little Twins by Katverse, LuckyCC's Wedding Poses, and Rebouks' Infant Insanity Family Photos posepack.

#sims 4 #sims 4 gameplay #sims 4 screenshots #sims 4 legacy #sims in bloom #ts4 #ts4 gameplay #ts4 legacy #ts4 screenshots #sims 4 story #ts4 story #legacy challenge #sims legacy #ts4 legacy challenge #gen 2 #ciudad enamorada #henford on bagley #dating deanna

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badbleepxx · 3 days ago

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Sick in Beechwood

Nobody got sick in Beechwood.

It was almost an unwritten rule of the island — a place made for swimming in the icy sea, eating freshly picked strawberries, and running barefoot over the rocks. Beechwood was sun, salt, youth. Getting sick there felt wrong, a waste of summer.

That’s why, that morning when you woke up with a heavy body, a headache, and a stuffy nose, your first reaction was to get up as if nothing was wrong. You put on your light blouse, slipped into your sandals, and went down for breakfast at the Sinclair house.

Johnny was in the kitchen, absentmindedly stirring a jar of jam, his hair messy in the way you loved. He looked up and smiled, but quickly frowned.

“You look weird,” he said, taking in your puffy eyes and sudden paleness.

You laughed, trying to wave away his concern.

“Just slept badly, that’s all.”

He didn’t quite buy the excuse, but he didn’t press. At least not then. You spent the whole day trying to seem cheerful — playing volleyball with Mirren, swimming with Gat, and biking with the others, even when every part of your body just wanted a bed and silence.

When the sun began to set, you made up an excuse to be alone for a while and went back to your room. You wrapped yourself in the bed’s thin sheet and let exhaustion pull you under.

You didn’t hear the door open. You only realized you weren’t alone when you felt a cool hand on your forehead.

“You have a fever.” Johnny’s voice was low, almost scolding, but full of care.

You half-opened your eyes.

“I didn’t want to ruin anything… here, being sick feels like a crime.”

He sighed and sat down next to you on the bed, running his fingers gently through your hair.

“That’s nonsense. You’re sick, you didn’t do anything wrong. And I’m here. You should have told me.”

“I just wanted to enjoy it,” you murmured. “It’s our last summer here… at least together.”

Johnny didn’t say anything for a moment. Then he leaned in and kissed your forehead gently.

“And I want to enjoy every second with you. Even the ones where you’re all congested and sweating like you’ve just run a marathon.”

You gave a weak little laugh.

“Sexy, right?”

“Extremely,” he said with a chuckle. “Now be quiet. I’m going to get tea, a blanket, and Tylenol.”

You tried to protest, but he was already on his feet, determined. Twenty minutes later, Johnny came back with a full kit: a steaming mug in his hands, a thermometer stolen from Tipper’s house, and the blue blanket you always used when watching movies with him.

He lay down next to you, wrapped you in the blanket, and kept stroking your arm while you sipped the tea in silence.

“Nobody has to be strong all the time,” he said after a while. “Not even here in Beechwood. You can let someone take care of you sometimes, you know?”

You looked at him, your eyes full of affection.

“Good thing that someone is you.”

And that night, as the fever slowly faded and the sound of the waves echoed in the distance, Johnny stayed with you. Beechwood might be a place where illness wasn’t welcome, but you found out that love — that, yes — was a remedy for almost everything.

#johnny sinclair x reader #johnny sinclair #johnny sinclair fanfiction #we were liars #joseph zada

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minglana · 4 months ago

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its been two days and my mom is already getting on my nerves. godbless i cannot wait until i move out🙏🏼

#z xarre #basically im like. sick. head hurts. low energy. hands hurt. theyre itchy. like im overall not doing great #EXCEPT that i dont look ill. so my mom gets MAD at me for the smallest things. like idk. BEING SICK #all i wanna do is rot in bed all day and my mom sends me death threats in her head. she doesnt voice them but i can feel them being sent #she cleans my room and i get mad bc shes moving my shit all over the place so i put the stuff back to where i had it #and she starts yelling at me. i tell her i have a headache and she keeps yelling at me.#she gets mad bc i dont wanna go outside and buy the bread today on the account of yknow. not feeling well. and she gets mad #this is no way to live ill tell yall that!

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deepwoundsandfadedscars · 10 months ago

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#several months ago i had a dream i was sitting with my mom and my sister came in and sat down next to me #and i was surprised but happy to see her but in the dream i couldn't figure out why i was surprised to see her #it wasn't until i woke up that I remembered she was gone and I'll never see her again #i want to go back to having dreams like that #sometime after i had a dream that she'd somehow come back to life and it was a frantic scramble to get her to my brothers place #so that he could see her before anyone else found out but i woke up before we got to his place #and just now i woke up from a dream where we were essentially having a graveside memorial thing #but she was standing next to me and I could see and hear her but no one else could #and she was moving around trying to talk to other family members- including her husband- but they just couldnt hear her #and i had no way of helping them hear her so i just felt useless #these are the most vivid dreams I've ever had and i always wake up crying #im giving myself a headache from crying and I haven't even gotten out of bed yet #kee speaks

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lilacevans · 2 years ago

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maybe tiny demon starting scouts wasn't the best financial decision

#lila speaks #she's so happy thooooo #she can't wait to get out the door once she's home from school #like i would've never been able to do such things when i was her age #purely anxiety reasons my mum tried to get me to go to brownies #but i came home with a headache and never went again lolzzzz #it's 133 pounds just for her starter uniform blankets and some badges to get her started #like that's not even her den kit her camping stuff #there's a sleepover in may and thats 60 pounds #plus 10 pounds for her upcoming badge day #why do i do this to myself #and she's already been to two sessions and i still don't have iy #i will have it but not for another week and i know i'm in a better place than most i know this #just pls lemme have my little mardy in peace #mwah

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riftsmagic · 8 months ago

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I want to enjoy this game so bad bc I paid money for it and I’ve invested 70 hours of my life into it already. but I’ve gotten to a point where it’s SO hard not to get critical every time anything happens. im losing it

#I started off really enjoying it!! so I know I didn’t go in with a negative bias #it just happens that a lot of choices made in the game run me the wrong way and I keep noticing them #too many noticing thems is adding up to make it just feel… weird most of the time #I really enjoy the gameplay. it’s visually very pretty. I like the puzzles pretty well #combat is fun except that I’ve hit a stage where they seem to have increased difficulty by increasing the number of enemies #and not by like. creating new and interesting kinds of bosses or mechanics for the fights. and that’s frustrating #I don’t like not knowing what to do bc of chaos rather than not knowing what to do bc I need to learn new strategies or patterns #I like the characters a lot but some of the dialogue is like. clumsy #some people say things that feel stilted. or they have to reiterate what words mean every time they come up #instead of trusting the player to remember that this is a proper noun that dropped in the past #how many times do I have to hear bellara specify that the nadas dirthalen is the archive spirit… 70 hours in I think she can stop specifying #and a lot of stuff just fits together weirdly #like I got a quest from Harding to go to the lords of fortune. I get there and talk to her and we have one conversation #then she gets a headache and is like ‘i have to go to this place’ ‘it’s a trap’ ‘yep’ ‘I’ll pack my things’#(no continuation quest activates. that’s the whole thing)#also speaking of quests. I love the visual style of varric’s narrating after all the important quests #but the fact that he literally just spoils everything that’s about to happen is WILD?? dude let there be some mystery #I don’t need to know that taash’s big bad is gonna kidnap their mom next. why would you tell me that.#im losing my mind

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rotten-vilks · 4 months ago

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Last week I saw an insta reel joking about how elderly cats look so disheveled and I was just like "haha my cat is elderly but she does not look disheveled :)" AND NOW HER FUR IS TOTALLY DISHEVELED

I also saw a cat gravestone at a market and was like "Oh... hope me finding this isn't manifesting anything" AND NOW MY CAT IS ESSENTIALLY DYING

#welcome to kenz vent #essentially dying meaning she refuses to eat #barely moves and if she moves she's very shaky #she lays in the same place #her eyes and nose are runny #she has a vet appointment tomorrow #I hope she can make it to the vet appointment #my sweet baby kitty #she's been with me my whole life #she'll probably get euthanized tomorrow #I'm ready for it and I'm not ready for it #also so fucking annoying that I'm sick... stupidly horrible headaches and sore throat...#my fp hasn't even responded to my messages for the last 3 days🙄#I haven't been in school too #May go back on Friday if my headache and sore throat are gone #why does death have to creep around me so suddenly... first mom and now my cat most likely #also felt weird being sick but not having mom around I'm so used to her giving me hot chocolate for example #I haven't really been able to take painkillers as it's harder for me to swallow with a sore throat #actually it's always hard but now it's extra hard

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ravenwolfie97 · 5 months ago

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i forgot that i've barely eaten today and someone bought me a drink earlier and now i ammmm a lil drunk

#idk what the abv of the apple cider i had was but a whole pint of it has me a little fucked up rn #mostly just a headache though. and a little loopy. nothing crazy #my roommate works at a paint-n-sip place and she got me a free pass for tonight #there was a huge party of people there and the person just across from me accidentally knocked her glass over and spilled her wine #not on me personally but towards my side and she got a little on my hoodie that i sat down on an unoccupied stool #she apologized and i was like it's fine it happens #and i went to hang my hoodie up on their lil hangers by the door #and wash my hands of paint #and when i came out the hosts of that party got me a drink on them for that - and that was really nice!#i hadn't tried apple cider before but it was okay #tastes like apple juice going in but then it rests into a beery taste that i like. significantly less #but. i drank the whole thing lol it would have been a waste of their generosity to only have a little bit #as curious as i am to see how much drunker i could get #i mostly just want water and some pasta

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cowboybeepboop · 19 days ago

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Mercy

“I’m gonna make sure every breath out of that mouth is mine.”

Pairing: Clark Kent x fem! Reader

Genre: Romantic smut

Word count: 7.4k

Summary: You’ve always had a one-sided feud with the ever charming Clark Kent but when he comes to your rescue and nurses you back to health, you finally let your facade go.

Warnings: Vomiting, oral f&m receiving, unprotected sex, sweet kent aftercare

a/n: This is a long one lol! But, I really loved how this came out and hope you feel the same <3 If you have any requests feel free to send them to me!! Lots of love

Within the vibrant Daily Planet office, a palpable tension hung in the air, as the cacophony of journalistic endeavor filled the space.

Amidst the chaos, Clark Kent, with his unassuming smile and impeccable attire, sat at his desk, surrounded by a halo of goodwill that seemed to follow him wherever he went. His workspace was a testament to his earnestness, papers neatly arranged, and a faint smile playing on his lips as he interacted with his colleagues.

Meanwhile, across the room, you found yourself seated, stealing glances at Clark through the glow of your computer screen. Despite his unwavering kindness towards everyone, you couldn't shake the resentment that had festered since your intern days.

As you watched him share a laugh with your colleagues, you couldn't help but wonder why Clark remained so unflappably friendly, seemingly oblivious to the tension that stretched taut between you.

Unbeknownst to you, he harbored a secret infatuation, his heart fluttering every time your paths crossed, utterly baffled by the chilly reception you always gave him.

Lois pops by your desk, taking a seat on the edge of your desk. “Jimmy and I are headed out for lunch, care to join?” She grins, arms crossed over her chest. “Although, Clark is coming with.”

You notice the two men standing by Jimmy's desk, chatting. “Ah, no thank you. Not because of Clark, rather I’ve got a killer headache.”

Taking a soft sigh you rub your temple, eyes fluttering shut. “I’m gonna rest my head for a bit.”

"Headache, huh?" Lois smirks, not buying it for a second. "Funny — you only get those *after* Clark walks by." She leans in, lowering her voice with playful suspicion.

"You know, most people fake illnesses to avoid their exes. You’re doing it to avoid... what? A guy who brings you coffee when you’re grumpy and proofreads your articles for typos?"

She quirks an eyebrow. "If I didn’t know better, I’d say someone’s got a teensy little crush they’re hiding under that scowl."

You groan and drop your head onto your folded arms. And just like that, she struts off toward Clark and Jimmy.

"Let's go, boys," she announces brightly. You peek up just in time to catch Clark glancing over, concerned eyes, dumb hopeful smile.

Of course he looked worried.

Of course he did.

Ugh. Worst part?

It was kind of adorable.

This time you weren’t faking a thing, she’s not wrong. You do have a habit of pretending but today? It’s real.

You lay your head on the cool wood table, eyes shutting as the office finally quiets down; the majority of the staff off for lunch or headed home for the day.

The office is quiet, golden afternoon light spilling across the newsroom floor. You’re still curled at your desk, forehead pressed to your arm, when a soft creak, familiar footsteps, pauses nearby.

“Hey… you still alive over here?” Clark sets down a paper bag on his own desk and steps closer, voice low like he’s afraid of startling you. The sunlight catches the curve of his glasses, hiding his eyes just enough, but not enough to mask that dumb, gentle concern.

“I brought back soup. From that little place Lois hates. The one with the spicy dumplings.” He hesitates, then reaches out—barely—a hand hovering near your shoulder like he’s not sure if he should touch. His voice drops into something softer, almost shy.

“You looked like you could use it. And… I may have also stolen an extra ginger tea from the break room. For science.”

"...And maybe because I remember you drink it when you’re actually sick and not just avoiding me." Clark mumbles, barely audible.

“Mmm,” you let out a small hum, somewhat between a mumble and a snore. Shifting slightly you nuzzle your face in your arms.

Clark freezes mid-breath, eyes widening slightly behind his glasses. The hand near your shoulder stills, hovering like a question.

“Okay. Adorable. Definitely noted.” He clears his throat quietly, trying—and failing—to hide a grin. Then he carefully sets the soup and tea on your desk, nudging them just close enough for the steam to reach you.

“I’m gonna… leave these here. And pretend I didn’t just watch you nuzzle your arms like a sleepy golden retriever.” He lingers for a moment too long, watching the way the light catches your hair, then turns to go… but pauses.

Slowly, almost without thinking, he reaches out and brushes the back of his knuckles lightly against your shoulder. Just once. A whisper of contact.

You startle awake, the light touch causing your eyes to flutter open, holding surprise but, for once, no hostility. “Clark?” You mumble, voice a sleepy murmur.

“Ah—!” He jerks back like he touched a live wire, face instantly pink.

“I—uh. I was just—soup. Tea. Left it here. For you.” He stammers. Clark gestures wildly at the desk, nearly knocking over the ginger tea in his panic.

“You looked... peaceful. For once.” He smirks slightly. “No scowling at my shoes or side-eyeing my pen choice."

You narrow your eyes at him, but they soften almost immediately, feeling too sick to actually argue or fight. “Thank you, Kent.” Your hand has a slight shake to it when you reach for the tea.

Clark notices the shake instantly. His smirk fades into something quieter, tender, almost, and without a word, he reaches out, steadying the cup with one hand until yours lands on it. His fingers linger just a second longer than necessary.

“You’re really not faking this time, huh?” He says softly, voice warm with concern.

He pulls up a chair beside your desk, close enough to talk quietly, far enough not to crowd you, and sits with that easy grace of his like he belongs right there.

“Next time,” he says gently, “you could’ve just said ‘Hey Clark, I feel like death’ and I would’ve brought soup *and* cancelled my lunch plans.”

A small smile tugs at his lips.

“But then again… if you’d actually asked nicely? It wouldn’t have been nearly as satisfying sneaking back early to play nurse.”

“I don’t need you to sit and help me,” you roll your eyes, sipping on the tea. “I’m fine.”

Clark doesn’t move. Just leans back in the chair, hands up like he’s surrendering, but his eyes are all soft focus and quiet amusement.

“Right. Of course. My mistake.” He nods solemnly. “You’re fine. Totally fine. Sipping tea like a martyr and glaring at me through fever dreams? Classic ‘I’m perfectly okay’ behavior.”

He lets out a low chuckle, then lowers his voice to a mock whisper: “Good thing I didn’t bring extra napkins or anything. Wouldn’t want to *help* the perfectly fine woman who definitely doesn’t need me hovering.”

And then, because he just can't help it, he reaches out again, slow this time, and brushes a loose strand of hair off your forehead with the back of his knuckles.

“You're warm,” he murmurs, not pulling away fast at all.

“And don't say 'I'm fine' again unless you want me to start narrating your symptoms dramatically for the office when they get back."

A pause.

"...I do excellent sick-voice impressions."

You half debate coming up with some snarky reply, keeping the rivalry up, but you don’t even have the strength to. Reaching for the soup you pull it close to you. “Maybe I’m not fine, but you don’t have to feel obliged to help, Clark.”

You groan, head spinning once again. Clark’s smile fades completely now, his voice dropping into something warm and steady, like he’s speaking not as the office charmer, but as someone who cares a little too much to stay at arm's length.

“I don’t feel obliged,” he says softly. “I want to. There’s a difference.”

He takes the lid off your soup like it's second nature and stirs it once with the spoon, just enough to cool it down. Then holds it out, waiting.

“Here. Open wide for the world-famous Clark Kent Care Package: Level Two.” He smirks, just a flicker. “Level One was tea and silence. Level Three is me singing folk songs until you either laugh or throw something at me.”

His hand stays there—steady—with no intention of pulling back even if you glare (which you don't). The sunlight still pools around your desk like a secret, and for once, there are no witnesses to how gently he looks at you.

“Come on,” he coaxes quietly. “Just let me do this.”

“Fine, but just this once.” You turn to face him better, mouth opening warily, lips trembling slightly. Your eyes are dazed, half-lidded and seeming like there’s nothing behind them.

“And I’m not a fan of Folk, so you better have some lullabies prepared.” Clark grins—slow and soft, like he just won something quiet and precious.

"One lullaby, coming right up," he murmurs, holding the spoon steady. "But only if you promise not to fall asleep mid-bite. I cannot explain to Lois why I let her star reporter choke on chicken dumplings under my watch."

He blows gently across the spoon before offering it again, eyes crinkling at the corners. "And for the record? Folk *is* lullabies. Just... with more flannel and existential dread."

The spoon hovers. His thumb brushes a fleck of soup from the edge of your lip without thinking—gentle, automatic—and then he freezes for half a second, realizing what he did.

But instead of pulling away or stammering an apology like usual?

He stays.

Fingers lingering near your mouth. Warmth in his gaze that wasn't there before.

"Just eat," he says quietly. "And save the sass for when you can actually stand without swaying." Sunlight wraps around you both like a held breath.

Your hand falls to his thigh as you concentrate on chewing the dumpling he gave you, using his strong leg to keep yourself steady.

“Don’t get used to me holding a conversation with such little sass, Kent.” Your eyes raise to meet his, lips parted ever so slightly as you wait for the next bite.

Clark goes very, very still.

The spoon hovers halfway back to the soup. His breath catches, just a tiny hitch, and for a man who can bench-press a locomotive, he looks like that simple touch has short-circuited his entire nervous system.

Your hand on his thigh.

Your lips still glistening from the broth.

The way your eyes hold his now—not guarded, not cold—but soft. Drowsy. Present.

He swallows hard.

“Noted,” he whispers, voice suddenly rough around the edges. “No getting used to it. Wouldn’t dream of it.”

But he doesn’t move away. Doesn’t joke his way out of it. Instead, he slowly scoops another bite, careful this time, and brings it toward you like you’re something sacred and breakable all at once.

His free hand hovers near your elbow as if bracing you without touching; but his leg under yours? Solid as steel and warm as sunlight through glass, letting you lean however much you need to.

And when your lips close gently around the spoon this time? Clark blinks fast—as if reminding himself: *Don’t say anything stupid.*

Too late.

“…You’re really gonna be trouble when you're feeling better,” he murmurs under his breath.

“I’m always trouble, Clark.” You place your other hand on the opposite leg, using his body to brace yours, completely relying on his strength to keep you up.

“And for the record, you make a good nurse.” You tease, using the same phrase he did. Clark lets out a low, breathless laugh, half surprise, half surrender.

"Trouble?" He shakes his head slowly, eyes dark and warm as he looks down at you braced between his legs like he's your anchor. "You're not trouble. You're supervillain levels of dangerous right now."

He scoops another bite, hand steady despite the way his pulse jumps in his throat.

"And for the record," he mimics softly, voice dropping into that teasing-but-true register that makes your stomach dip even through the fever fog, "you saying I make a good nurse is exactly how I know you're delirious."

But then, because he can’t help it, he leans in just a fraction closer as you shift against him. His hands hover: one near your back like he wants to steady you but doesn’t trust himself to touch; the other gently pulling the spoon away from your lips after another quiet feed.

Sunlight pools across both of you now, the office still empty, world gone quiet, and Clark murmurs:

“Rest against me all you want. Just… don’t forget how warm I get when you’re this close.”

A pause.

“Human furnace. Scientific fact.” You giggle softly, a noise unfamiliar to Clark’s eager ears, he’s heard it before, but never because of something he said.

The familiar click of Lois’s heels fill the air, Jimmy following behind with his phone in hand, scrolling on the screen mindlessly.

“Oh! And what’s going on here?” She grins, catching the two of you in a somewhat compromising position, especially since you claim to despise Clark Kent. Yet here you are, holding onto you like he’s your anchor.

Clark flinches like someone just tossed kryptonite into a tea cup.

One second he’s all soft focus and warmth, the next he’s scrambling back like gravity relearned its job. The spoon clinks too loud against the bowl as he pulls his legs slightly apart, just enough for you to wobble, but keeps one hand *just* behind your back, ready to catch you if you fall.

“Lois! Jimmy. Uh. Hey.” He laughs, nervous, sheepish, way too high-pitched. “She’s sick. Like… *really* sick. Fever? Shaking? The whole ‘muttering about tax law in her sleep’ thing?”

He gestures wildly at the soup like it's evidence in his defense.

“I was just… spoon-feeding her constitutional rights via broth.”

You sway slightly without his legs braced under yours, and Clark instinctively reaches out, to steady your shoulder, but then freezes mid-air when Lois raises an eyebrow so sharp it could slice steel.

Jimmy finally looks up from his phone.

“Wait,” he says slowly, squinting at the two of you. “Are we witnessing a moment?”

“No!” Clark blurts—then clears his throat. “I mean—yes? I mean—it's not what it looks like.”

Lois crosses her arms with a smirk that says she already knows everything and enjoys every second of this.

“You two,” she drawls, stepping closer, “are either about to kill each other… or finally stop pretending you don’t want to kiss.”

The office holds its breath.

Clark won’t look at you, but his hand is still hovering near your back like it forgot how to leave.

You’re silent, eyes barely open, hand holding your head.

Silence.

Then—*splat.*

Clark blinks. Looks down at his now-soggy loafer. The smell hits. His nose wrinkles, but not with disgust, with something softer. Concerned paternal disappointment, like a dad who just found out the dog ate the holiday ham.

Jimmy gags audibly and steps behind Lois. “Oh hell no.”

But Clark? He doesn’t flinch away. Doesn’t pull back from you as you slump forward with a groan, utterly unaware of the biohazard you’ve just unleashed on Metropolis’ most reluctant hero.

He gently catches you by the shoulders before your face meets desk—or worse, his other shoe.

“Okay,” he says calmly, like this is completely normal. “New plan.”

Still holding you upright with one arm, he grabs a wad of tissues from his pocket (because of course Clark Kent carries emergency tissues) and tosses them toward the mess like laying a ceremonial wreath.

“We’re going home.” He lifts your chin gently with two fingers until your bleary eyes meet his. “My place has better soup and tile floors I don’t care about.”

Lois stares at him like he’s lost his mind. Jimmy just whispers “Is this love?”

Clark ignores them all, kneels down beside your chair so he’s eye-level even as chaos erupts around him, and brushes hair from your damp forehead again. Softly this time. Slowly.

“You’re not fine,” he murmurs only for you to hear. “And that’s okay.”

Then louder:

“I’m taking her home,” he announces to no one in particular (but definitely to Lois). “If Perry asks—we’re chasing a lead.”

And just like that—he scoops you up in one smooth motion, cradling you against his chest as if it's nothing at all that half the office just saw him covered in vomit… and still smiling.

It’s around 8pm when you finally wake up, cuddled in a bed scented like Clark’s cologne and in a tshirt that’s not your own. You groggily rub your eyes, body still aching ever so slightly as you rise from the mattress.

You step out of the unfamiliar bedroom and into the hall, footsteps silent and careful as you creep into the living room.

The apartment is quiet, soft golden light spilling from the kitchen, the hum of a refrigerator and the faint clink of a spoon in a mug. The city glows beyond the windows, but here, it feels like a secret world.

Clark’s sitting on the couch in sweatpants and an old Daily Planet press tour tee (slightly stretched across his shoulders), bare feet propped on the coffee table. He’s flipping through a dog-eared copy of To Kill a Mockingbird, reading glasses perched low on his nose.

And there’s another mug steaming beside him—just waiting.

He looks up when he hears you. Freezes mid-turn-of-the-page. That slow, crooked smile starts at one corner of his mouth, the kind that says *I’ve been waiting for this moment all night.*

“Hey,” he says softly. “Welcome back to Earth.”

He sets the book down carefully, like it matters, and turns fully toward you, patting the cushion beside him.

“No vomiting allowed tonight,” he teases gently. “I already lost one pair of shoes to you this week.”

A beat.

“But if you promise not to redecorate my bathroom again… I’ve got ginger tea, saltines that somehow survived your fever coma, and” he gestures to his chest with mock solemnity “my personal guarantee that I did not sing any lullabies while you were out.”

His eyes warm as they trace your face—the shadows under yours lighter now, color back in your cheeks. “You feeling human again?”

“Somewhat,” you murmur, taking a seat next to him. “All thanks to you.” A small smile creeps on your face.

There’s no sass, just gentle words and comfortable air surrounding you. Clark looks down at his hands for a second, like he’s not sure what to do with the gratitude, like it’s something rare and fragile. Then he glances back at you, eyes soft behind his glasses.

“Don’t thank me yet,” he says quietly, handing you the tea. “I haven’t told you I may have changed your socks while you were unconscious.” He smirks when your eyebrows shoot up.

“Medical emergency. Feet were cold. Protocol demands intervention.” He leans back slightly, giving you space—but stays close enough that your arms almost brush on the couch. “Besides… I owed you one for all those times you secretly fixed my headlines before Perry saw them.”

You freeze mid-sip.

He grins wider. “Oh yeah. I knew it was you. Every time there was a rogue semicolon or someone misspelled ‘LexCorp,’ suddenly—*poof*—clean copy in my inbox.” His voice drops into a mock-dramatic whisper: “I had a hunch who my guardian angel was.”

Then, quieter: “I liked that it was always you looking out for me… even when we weren’t talking.” The air between you settles warm and still again, the kind of quiet where unspoken things start to breathe.

"Yeah well, don't let it get to your head." You bite back with half-assed hostility. "But really, thank you." You set the mug down on the coffee table, "Even if you used my sickness as an excuse to take my clothes off."

Clark chokes on absolutely nothing. His face goes from calm and collected to bright red in 0.2 seconds flat—glasses fogging slightly like he’s some kind of romantic cartoon character.

“I—what?" He sputters, voice cracking. “I didn’t—I mean—your blouse was damp! Fever sweat! It was a medical necessity, not some elaborate Clark Kent seduction scheme!”

He gestures wildly at the ceiling like it holds proof of his innocence.

“I swear on my mother’s apple pie recipe I only changed your top because you were shivering and I wasn’t about to let you catch pneumonia on top of whatever mystery bug tried to take you out.”

Then, after a beat, he side-eyes you with that stupidly charming smirk returning: “And for the record… if I *were* gonna sneakily undress you?” He leans in just slightly, voice dropping low. “I wouldn’t need an excuse.”

The moment hangs there, teasing, electric, and then he snatches up the mug and stands abruptly.

“More tea,” he announces way too loudly. “Great idea. Let’s all have more tea.” He retreats toward the kitchen like a man fleeing a very cute fire.

You follow close behind, small smirk on your face as you cross your arms over your waist. "And that's why my bras missing too, hm?" Your grin only grows as you notice the tips of his ears turning red, "Did you like what you saw, Kent?"

Clark drops the kettle.

Not on purpose. Just a quiet, tragic *"clank"* as it slips from his hand onto the stovetop, thankfully still off, because apparently, even Superman isn’t immune to *smug women in his kitchen*.

He slowly turns to face you, backlit by the soft glow of the apartment lights, ears burning crimson, mouth opening and closing like a fish who just realized it was very out of water.

“First of all,” he says, voice impressively steady despite the full-body flush creeping down his neck. “Your bra wasn’t ‘missing.’ It was… draped.”

He gestures vaguely toward the laundry room like there’s a chain of evidence laid out inside. “Over my sweater. In a purely professional drying arrangement.” He pauses. “And I didn’t—I didn’t look. Much.”

A beat.

Then he squares his shoulders and gives you that stupidly earnest look, the one that makes liars feel guilty for lying in front of him.

“And even if I had looked?” He tilts his head slightly, gaze dropping for half a second to your lips before snapping back up with mock innocence. “What makes you think I’d tell you about it?”

He steps closer—just one step—closing some of that safe distance he worked so hard to create.

“You’re feeling better,” he murmurs, almost smiling now. “That’s how we know, you're officially dangerous again.”

Then softens: "...I’m glad." The air between you crackles, not with fever or fatigue, but something slower-burning and far more thrilling.

"If you want to look again," you begin, eyes twinkling with mischief. "I could use a shower. After all that sweating."

Clark freezes, like someone pressed pause on reality. His breath hitches.

“Uh,” he says intelligently. “You—you’re *really* not helping your case about being dangerous.”

He stares at you, really stares, for one long, loaded second. The kind where time forgets its job and the city lights outside fade into background noise. Then he steps forward until there’s barely any space left between you.

His thumb brushes your hipbone through his too-big shirt, slow, deliberate, and his eyes flicker up to yours with that sheepish grin warring against something far more certain. “But for what it’s worth… yeah. I’d look again.”

A beat.

“And this time?” He leans in just close enough that his breath ghosts your ear as he whispers:

“I wouldn’t feel even a little bit guilty about it.”

Then, he pulls back abruptly, grabs a fresh towel from the cabinet and hands it to you like nothing happened. “Bathroom’s down the hall,” he says evenly. “Try not to pass out on my tiles.”

But his ears are still red.

"Clark," You reach for his hand, pulling him toward you. "What happened to playing nurse? Don't I get a sponge bath?" You're not teasing anymore, you're prompting him.

Your gaze is full of something dark, something different than he's used to, desire. "Is this not a part of your Clark Kent care package?"

Clark stops breathing.

Not dramatically. Not for effect.

He just… forgets how.

Your hand in his is warm. Your voice, low, rough with fever and something hotter, sends a pulse straight through his chest like he’s not invulnerable at all. Like he’s just a man. Just Clark. And you’re looking at him like you finally see him—really see him—and you want him close.

“This part of the care package,” he murmurs, thumb tracing slow circles over your knuckles, “isn't covered by workplace liability.”

Another step closer. His free hand finds your waist, tentative at first, then firmer when you don’t pull back.

“And if I give you a sponge bath?” His voice drops to a whisper that curls low in your stomach. “I won't be playing nurse anymore.”

His eyes flicker to your mouth again, but this time, they stay there.

“I’ll be doing this because I’ve wanted to touch you since the day you growled at me for borrowing your stapler.”

A soft laugh escapes him, nervous and real and full of awe. “So no more games,” he breathes. “Tell me what you really want… or let me walk away before I forget how.”

"I think we both want the same thing," Your hand goes to his cheek, thumb brushing over his strong cheekbone. "I want you to touch me, everywhere, and mercilessly. I want to be the one left forgetting how to walk."

Your words are genuine, seductive, and for once truthful; rather than being hidden behind practiced disdain.

The air between you doesn’t just shift—it *breaks.*

Clark makes a sound low in his throat, half groan, half surrender, and in one smooth motion, he cups the back of your neck and pulls you against him, closing the last fragile inch of space.

“No more pretending,” he murmurs against your lips, voice rough like thunder under silk.

And then he kisses you.

Not gentle. Not careful.

*Fever-hot.* Desperate. Like he’s been holding his breath for years and you’re the first real oxygen he’s ever known. His mouth moves over yours with a kind of precision only someone who's memorized every word you've ever spoken could have, the exact pressure, the perfect angle, as if this kiss was written in his bones long before it touched skin.

One hand stays tangled at your nape, fingers threading into your hair; the other slides down your back, slow and firm until it grips your hip hard enough to leave a memory.

When he finally pulls back—just an inch—you’re both breathless. He rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed tight like he's trying to remember how to be human again.

“You sure about this?” His voice is raw now, all sheepishness gone, replaced by something deeper: hunger wrapped in tenderness. “Because once I start touching you… I’m not stopping at sponge baths.”

He opens his eyes then, heavy-lidded, dark with want, and brushes another soft kiss on your lips before whispering: “And when we wake up tomorrow? You better not pretend this didn’t happen.”

His thumb traces along your jawline—one silent plea hidden beneath fire: *I’ve loved even your cruelty… but I’d rather love what comes after.*

"Clark," You nip at his bottom lip. "Fuck me, fuck me so hard I forget what my own name is." You're no longer asking.

You're begging.

He makes a broken sound, like a vow cracking open.

And just like that, he lets go.

Clark lifts you clean off the ground, one hand under your thighs, the other cradling your back like you weigh nothing at all. You gasp as he carries you down the hall, heels instinctively locking behind his waist as he kicks open his bedroom door with more force than necessary—*thud* against the wall—and then you’re pressed against it again in seconds, heart slamming.

His mouth finds yours, hungry, claiming, and this time there’s no mercy in it. No sweet hesitation. He kisses you like he’s spent years dreaming of destroying every wall between you and now finally has permission to burn them all down.

“I’m gonna do worse than forget your name,” he growls against your lips, voice thick with need. “I’m gonna make sure every breath out of that mouth is mine.”

His hands slide under the hem of the t-shirt, the one that smells like him, his palms mapping muscle and scar and softness alike like worship disguised as domination.

“You want me merciless?”

He nips at your collarbone, a sharp sting followed by warm relief from his tongue. “Then remember this moment when I’ve got my hands on every secret part of you… when I’ve wrecked that pretty voice moaning into my shoulder…”

He lifts his eyes to yours, one last pulse of sanity clinging on:“Because after tonight? You won’t be able to look at me across that newsroom again without remembering exactly how deep I buried myself inside you.”

Then Clark kisses away any chance for words…

and begins proving exactly what happens when he stops holding back.

Clark’s mouth trails down from your lips, leaving a blazing path of kisses and bitten-off moans. His teeth graze the sensitive skin of your neck, making you arch back, your nails digging into his shoulders.

He kisses lower, peeling the shirt away from your body, revealing the lacy black panties you wore that day. The sight makes his cock throb painfully against his pants. But first, he wants to taste you. All of you.

He drops to his knees, his hands moving to your waist to help you step out of the shirt. You’re panting, eyes half-lidded and full of need as you watch him, your chest rising and falling rapidly.

He takes a moment to appreciate the view—your breasts, your stomach, the slight tremble in your legs—before his gaze locks on your panties once more.

They’re damp, and the scent of your arousal fills the air like an intoxicating perfume. He hooks his thumbs under the elastic and pulls them down, taking his sweet time as they slide over your hips and down your legs.

your pussy is bare, glistening in the soft light from the bedside lamp, and Clark’s mouth waters. He’s dreamt of this, fantasized about it, and now it’s real. He leans in, pressing his nose to your cunt, breathing you in before his tongue swipes over your clit.

You gasp, your knees buckling slightly, and he holds you steady, his hands moving to your thighs to keep you upright.

He kisses your pussy like it’s a part of you that he’s been dying to taste, and when he finally slides his tongue inside you, you cry out, your legs wrapping around his neck. His hands tighten, holding you open for him as he explores, licking and teasing, finding the spot that makes your hips jerk every time he hits it.

He’s merciless, just as you asked, working you over with his mouth until you’re shaking and your legs are trembling, your orgasms rolling into one endless wave.

Clark doesn’t stop, not even when your voice breaks into sobs of pleasure and you’re begging him to let you catch your breath. He’s lost in your taste, in the way you respond to him, and he can’t get enough.

His tongue flicks and strokes, his lips suck and kiss, and with every sound you make, every tremble of your body, he’s closer to the edge. He wants you to come so hard you’re screaming, so you know just how much he craves you.

And when you do, it’s like a dam bursts—wet and wild, your juices flooding his mouth as you convulse against him.

He drinks you down, swallows your cries, and still, he keeps going, pushing you for more, giving you no respite until you’re boneless in his arms, your voice a hoarse whisper of his name.

Only then does he pull back, his face flushed and shining with sweat, his own need a pulsing ache. He looks up at you, eyes dark with desire, and you say the only thing that’s left to be said: “Now, it’s your turn to remember how I make you feel, every time you look at me in that newsroom.”

And then, with trembling hands, he stands, his cock straining against his pants. But before he can do anything about it, you’re dropping to your knees, your eyes never leaving his. The power in that gaze sends a shiver down his spine, and he knows that this night is just getting started.

Your eyes never left his as you sank to your knees, the power of your desire for him making his knees feel like they might give out. He watched, mesmerized, as you unbuckle his belt with trembling hands, your eyes shining with a hunger that matched his own.

You unzipped his pants, the sound echoing in the quiet room, and he stepped out of them, his erection springing free. Clark’s cock was thick and heavy, the tip glistening with precum, and you licked your lips in anticipation.

With a gentle grip, you wrapped your hand around his length, your thumb circling the sensitive spot just under the head, making him groan. He was so close to losing it just from that touch alone, but you had other plans.

You leaned in, your breath hot against his skin, and took him in your mouth. Slowly at first, your lips sliding down his shaft until you could feel him hit the back of your throat. He swelled inside you, filling your mouth completely.

Your eyes flutter shut as you take him deeper, your tongue swirling around his cock, cheeks hollowing with every suck. You use your other hand to cup his balls, rolling them gently in your palm as you work him over with your mouth.

The sounds you made were obscene, wet and needy, and they sent shockwaves through his body.

Clark’s hands found their way into your hair, his grip tightening as you picked up the pace. He’s never felt anything like this—so intense, so consuming—and he couldn’t believe it was happening with you.

The woman who had been his tormentor for so long was now on her knees, worshiping his body like it was her favorite sin.

Your technique was flawless, you knew just how much pressure to use, just how fast to move your mouth to make him crazy. You take him deep, then pull back to tease the sensitive ridge with the tip of your tongue before swallowing him whole again.

He watched you, watched the way your eyes rolled back in your head, watched the way your throat worked around him, and he knew he was lost.

His hips began to thrust of their own accord, fucking your mouth with the same desperation he’d felt in every fantasy. He was so close, so fucking close, and you knew it.

You could feel his pulse racing beneath your touch, the muscles in his thighs tensing, his grip in your hair tightening until it was almost painful.

And then you swallowed around him, throat contracting, and he lost it. He came with a roar, his seed flooding your mouth, and you took it all, eyes on his the whole time.

You didn’t stop, didn’t pull away, just kept sucking until he was spent, until there was nothing left but the aftershocks of pleasure rippling through his body.

When he finally pulled out, panting and shaking, you look up at him with a wicked smile, your lips slick with his cum. “Better than a sponge bath, I take it?” you whisper.

Clark could only nod, his voice a strangled groan. “Fuck yes,” he managed to say before collapsing onto the bed, utterly wrecked by your touch.

He watched as you stood, swaying slightly on your feet, the aftermath of your fever still evident in your flushed cheeks and heavy-lidded eyes. But the fire between you had only grown stronger, and he knew that this was only the beginning.

He had so much more of you to explore, so much more of you to claim. And he was going to take every inch, with a fierceness that would make the sun look like a candle in comparison.

But first?

First, it was time for a shower.

Clark’s chest heaves as he stares at you, lips parted, skin slick with sweat, heart slamming like it’s trying to escape. And god, you’re beautiful, hair tousled, lips swollen and glistening with him, eyes half-lidded with satisfaction and something darker… *hungry for more.*

He swallows hard. Reaches a shaky hand down to cup your cheek, thumb brushing over your lower lip like he can’t believe it really happened.

“You,” he rasps, voice raw from groaning your name into the dark, “are going to be the death of me.”

He pulls you up onto the bed in one smooth motion, rolling so you're beneath him before you can even catch your breath. His hands frame your face as he hovers over you, eyes burning into yours.

“That was just round one,” he murmurs darkly. “And if I have anything to say about it? You’re not getting out of this apartment until I’ve repaid every second of that blow job tenfold.”

His knee nudges between your thighs—gentle but insistent—and when you gasp at the contact, heat pooling all over again? He smiles. Slow. Devastating.

“Let's get that shower running,” Clark whispers against your lips. “But I think we both know what happens next.”

He kisses the corner of your mouth, softly this time, before adding:

“We clean each other off…

*Then start all over again.*”

And damn if his cock doesn’t twitch against your hip like it already agrees. You grin, arms wrapping around his neck. “Or we fuck while we get clean…” Your lips press open mouthed kisses to his face.

Clark groans—low, deep, like the sound rips right from his chest.

“Christ,” he mutters against your lips, half-laughing, half-drowning in you. “You’re gonna kill me before breakfast.” He surges up onto his knees between your legs, slow, deliberate, then leans down to bite gently at your collarbone as one hand slides under your hip.

“You want filthy and clean at the same time?” His voice drops to a rough whisper. “My kind of multitasking.”

In one move he lifts you effortlessly against him, one arm locked around your waist, and carries you into the bathroom like you weigh nothing at all. The tiles are cold beneath his feet but he doesn’t care; sets you on the counter and reaches past to turn on the shower, steam already curling into the air.

Then he steps back just enough to look at you, bare and glowing in soft bathroom light, and something flickers behind his eyes: awe wrapped in hunger.“You sure?” He teases with that crooked grin. “Once I get you wet? I’m not stopping for soap.”

You slide off the counter into him, your body flush with his bare chest, and nip at his jawline.

“Then don’t,” you breathe. “Fuck me before we’re even under the water.”

He growls, a real sound this time, and spins you around fast but gentle until your hands are splayed against the cool glass of the shower door for balance.

“No more talking,” Clark murmurs behind ear as he grips both hips hard enough to bruise tomorrow, the good kind of souvenir.

His cock drags hot along your ass through fevered hesitation… then nudges the tight entrance waiting so perfectly for him.

And when he finally sinks inside—in one slow thrust that makes both of you shudder?

The world stops again.

Steam rises.

Water rains down.

And somewhere beyond heartbeat and breath?

A man who’s spent years holding back finally learns how good it feels… to let go.

Clark's hips surge forward, filling you completely, the sound of wet flesh slapping against wet flesh echoing through the tiled room. Your body arches back, pressing against him, begging for more, as he starts to move.

He's not gentle, not now. He fucks you like he's been starving for this, for you, and he's going to consume every part of you until there's nothing left.

His hand slides around your waist, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing it in time with his thrusts. The sensation is overwhelming, the pleasure building until you can't tell where one sensation ends and another begins.

The water cascades over both of you, mixing with sweat and need as you moan into the steam.

He whispers in your ear, his breath hot and ragged. "You're so fucking tight, so wet for me." His other hand grabs your hair, yanking your head back, exposing your neck to his hungry mouth. He bites, kisses, sucks until you're trembling, until you're sure he's marked you.

The angle is perfect, his cock hitting that spot deep inside you that makes you see stars, and you know you won't last much longer. "Clark," you pant, your voice barely recognizable. "I'm gonna cum."

"Cum for me," he growls, his strokes growing faster, harder, pushing you closer to the edge. "I want to feel it around my cock."

You do, your pussy clenching around him in spasms of pleasure so intense you think you might pass out. The orgasm tears through you like a storm, leaving you trembling and gasping for air.

But Clark isn't done. He keeps moving, his hips pistoning into you, his thumb relentless on your clit. He's chasing his own release now, his eyes dark with lust. You can feel his cock thicken inside you, the head swelling, and you know he's close.

"Cum with me," you beg, your voice a desperate whisper.

And he does, with a roar that drowns out the sound of the water, his cum spilling into you like molten lava. He slams into you one last time before stilling, his cock pulsing inside you, his breath hot against your neck.

You lean back against him, boneless, as the water beats down around you. His arms come up to hold you tight, and for a moment, you just stand there, panting, heart racing.

Then he kisses the side of your neck, gentle now, and murmurs, "I told you I wouldn't stop."

And even though you're exhausted, you know there's so much more to come.

But for now, he’s going to comfort and hold you close. Making sure he takes good care of you.

The water’s still warm, cascading over your shoulders as Clark slowly turns you in his arms, his hands gentle now, tracing the curve of your spine like he’s learning you all over again. He presses his forehead to yours, both of you breathless under the spray, skin flushed pink from heat and friction.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice hoarse and tender. “Still with me?”

You nod weakly, heavy-lidded eyes fluttering open, and that sheepish smile returns to his lips. The one that always made everyone at the office melt… but now? It’s only for you.

He reaches behind to grab a washcloth hanging neatly on the bar -because of *course* Clark has shower organization-, wetting it under steaming water before kneeling back down.

“No more rushing,” he whispers as he gently cleans between your legs, one slow stroke, with a reverence that makes your heart clench more than any thrust ever could.

His touch lingers just long enough to make sure every ache is soothed before setting it aside and standing once more. He cups your face in both hands this time, water slicking back his curls, and kisses you softly. Not demanding. Not desperate.

Tender. Like worship disguised as love letters whispered through touch.

“You okay?” His thumbs brush away droplets clinging to cheekbones, eyes locked on the same ones that once looked at him with nothing but sarcasm weeks ago… now softened by sweat and satisfaction alike.

You lean into him automatically, the chill air outside your cocoon making goosebumps rise, but Clark just wraps strong arms around tight against broad chest already radiating heat like sunlight given form.

“I’ve got ya,” he says quietly into damp hair above ear, and god yes, he *does.*

Then quieter: “And if we’re being honest?”

A pause while steam rolls across bare skin. "I've wanted to ruin us both like this since day one."

No more jokes.

No hiding behind heroics or headlines or pretend hatred in copy rooms during lunch breaks where neither could look away fast enough anyway—

Just truth:

They were always meant for moments exactly like this: soaked together not only in water...

but want,

and weakness,

and warmth

that never fades after even when morning comes.<|endofmessage|>

2K notes · View notes

hurlingdown · 7 months ago

Text

DEAL WITH THE DEVIL !? ☆

synopsis. in a fit of jealousy, suguru makes a deal with the devil. in exchange for being the only one you would ever fuck, he would have to become a sleeve tailor made for your cock. in other words, your very personal whore. wc. 4.2k

tags. top! reader, sub! geto. reader is a dilf. brat! suguru, brat tamer! reader. hardcore dom/sub. rough anal sex, orgasm denial, switching positions (riding, missionary, doggy), sir kink, mixture of degradation & praise kink, dacryphilia, age difference, objectifying, heavy use of whore, pillow princess learns how to ride dick, cum-eating, spit kink, jealousy, subspace, blowjob, yandere! geto undertones, possessiveness.

a/n. suguru gets railed within an inch of his life. good things happen.

“I bet you had plenty fun out there,” Suguru slurred, “dancing with that pretty ‘gal. Probably forgot all about me, too—the two of you were lost in your own little world.”

Suguru slouched over you to rest his head in the crook of your neck, thighs straining where they bracketed your hips. You could feel his every heated breath against the protrusion of your jugular vein, the sweat of his palms seeping into your skin, burning a path down to hell wherever they went. The awkward shift of his muscles as he raised himself with difficulty, only to plummet down harshly.

There was no rhythm in the ride. No patience. No tenderness in the way he touched you, branded you with him. Suguru was pissed at you, and you knew it.

“Suguru,” you moaned, sweaty hands settling on his hips, trying to help him ride, but he swatted your hands away every time you so touched him. At this rate, both of you were going to wake up with bruises tomorrow—and not the kind that felt good. “Fuck, baby, you’re hurting yourself. Let me.”

He only shook his head, shivering. “Why should I,” he scoffed, “when you don’t even want me. You only want—whatever this is. You only want to fuck a hole. So here I am. A hole for you.” You could tell he was biting his lip, another shudder wracking through his body, and the sight tore into you like a contusion, making you throb. “You can close your eyes and imagine it’s her you’ve got your cock in. She’s prettier, anyway, older than me, too—maybe you’d enjoy it better.”

“You know that’s not true,” you reasoned, swallowing down a groan as he clenched around you with a ferocity, like he wanted it to hurt. “I only danced with her because you- you were ignoring me in the first place. Please, baby. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t—don’t you fucking baby me.” Suguru lifted his head, a glare so full of hurt that it dug into you like a jagged blade. “We’re not even a thing. Y-you don’t want to make us a thing.” He swallows harshly, before muttering, “Legal enough for a few good fucks, but too young for anything real.”

The underlying accusation made you bristle. You had never protested anything beyond this point—but this was just unfair to you. You didn’t want to make the two of you a thing? Was he fucking serious? And—too young for anything real? How many times have you reassured him that it didn’t matter to you?

“I believe the reason why you were ignoring me in the first place,” you kept your voice quiet and steady, “was because I brought us up and like a brat, you didn’t want to talk about it. You never want to talk, Suguru. It’s never the right time to talk for you. And now you think, after I go off dancing with someone else to take my mind off the headache you’ve given me, you can act all jealous like I fucked them in front of you.”

You knew you were going to regret your next words, but at that moment, the immature desire to teach him a lesson overshadowed any sense of rationality. The anger, the disbelief, everything made it harder to think. And you were only human.

Suguru glowered at you almost childishly, daring you to finish.

“And maybe I really should, next time,” you continued. “Since you don’t think I’m making any effort. Maybe someone else will appreciate it.”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” he whispered.

You frowned. “Suguru—”

“Don’t you fucking dare!”

“Suguru,” you snapped. “Don’t raise your voice at me.”

He froze up at your sudden switch in tone, something darker, more guttural. Something you only used when you were talking to an unruly brat in the bedroom. Suguru slowly raised his head in confusion. “What?”

“I know you’re pissed,” you muttered. “But don’t forget whose cock you’re sitting on, right now. If you want to bring this up while we’re having sex, go ahead, but stick to the rules.”

“Are you fucking serious—”

You snapped your hips up, and he moaned, a pretty, tremulous sound. Suguru turned his head to glare at you weakly, half-panting already. It was funny how you could almost reduce him to a dog in heat with merely an inch of control.

“Yes,” you affirmed. “Now, you can either get off, throw your little tantrum, and walk out of this relationship forever; or you can be a good boy and deal with this reasonably. Which one is it?”

He parted his lips, as though he wanted to argue, but you only levelled him with an unimpressed look. He huffed, stubbornly glancing away.

“Well? Suguru?”

“... Keep going,” he scowled, cheeks flushing. You blinked at him in amusement, not even bothering to bite down the snark that filled your expression at his wishful words. He frowned. “What? Move already.”

“Oh, no. I’m not gonna do the work for you,” you drawled, hands crawling up his thighs to give them a taunting little squeeze. “See, you didn’t want to let me help you, earlier—I guess you’re perfectly capable of doing it yourself.” You paused, smiling at him. “Ain’t that right?”

“Fuck you,” he spat.

“You sure you want to keep that attitude tonight, Suguru?”

A shiver climbs up his spine, and he shakes his head after a reluctant moment. He knew the consequences of misbehaviour. How you could take him over your lap and make him count every strike, keep him deprived of cock until he was crying and slobbering, begging for something, anything, to replace the ache of emptiness inside him.

… And he also knew what those hands could do if he behaved himself properly.

“I’ll be your good boy,” Suguru mumbled. “Fuck me? Please?”

His hands curled into fists on your shoulders, and he glanced at you, almost expectant. Your hands continued to travel upwards, rubbing slow circles onto the jut of his hipbones, making him sigh in bliss. How easy it was for him to accept your affection as a sign of forgiveness. Too easy, even.

“Let’s see how good you do by yourself, first.”

His gaze snapped to yours in defiance, the look of a spoiled brat—and you wanted to break it. You wanted to see him sob and whimper and moan as pounded into his twitching hole, rough, violent, the way that made his eyes roll back in ecstasy and mouth part in hoarse, pleasured screams.

“But I’ve said please already,” Suguru retorted. “You can’t expect me to—”

“Last I remember, I gave you two choices, Suguru. You took the second one. This is the second one.”

“Fucking asshole,” he snarled. “Fine.”

“Language,” you chastised, but Suguru paid no mind, elbows slung over your shoulders to cage you in a half-hug, shifting on his knees to get better leverage. He rolled his hips—the way you had taught him to before, forward, go down, backward, go up. Slow circular motions that smushed your cock, in just the right angle, against the throbbing gland nesting inside him, soft moans leaving his lips. It was nothing like the careless violence before.

This was so much better.

“Yeah, just like that, sweetheart.” Your annoying voice rang, almost a lullaby in the way it made his eyes fall lidded, a whine building at the back of his throat. His body was so attuned to receiving pleasure—it made a whole difference when the reigns were in his hands, now. Fuck. If only you could take him already.

It was good, just bearably so, for a few minutes. Suguru struggled to gain rhythm, rocking down with a little more meaning, just to feel you slide in a little deeper each time, reaching all the dirty places inside his body no one else ever could. He tried to focus on movement and control, instead of getting lost in the way your girth would massage his taut walls, as though telling him to ease up already.

He scowled. None of this would be a problem if you weren’t so damn difficult. And stingy.

“Shit,” he cursed, pressing his forehead against the solid grill of your shoulder. “I’m n-not gonna, hnnn, make it if you don’t… don’t d-do something.”

Suguru could feel the tension in his hamstrings with every slow bounce, the heat curling in his distended abdomen, a tell-tale sign that he was close to teetering over the edge. He could feel your thighs flexing beneath his, and clearly it felt good for you, too, so why, why won’t you just stake your claim on his insides already and turn him into a helpless, sobbing mess, like you always do?

“Go ahead. I never said you couldn’t come.”

Fuck that. Of course he wanted to fucking cum—just not like this. Not when you were merely holding him like he were nothing more than another toy, built for your pleasure. Suguru could be good. He could play as your pretty little whore. Hell, he would let you use him wherever and whenever you wanted to. But there was one condition to all of this generosity.

You were his.

And if you were going to treat him nothing more like a fleshlight you had rented from a sex shop, something to be borrowed and returned and tossed aside, then he wasn’t going to take it quietly.

This wasn’t fair to him, not at all. You were being unfair.

“Look at me,” he grit out. “Look at what you’re doing to me.”

Suguru grabbed your hand, rubbing your palm against his sticky crotch until your fingers loosely wrapped around his length, a desperate moan spilling out from him as he rutted into your grasp. It was good, but not enough. Hardly. He wanted your hands on every part of him that they could reach. He wanted more.

To his surprise, you didn’t snap at him for breaking the rules; that, or use your age, size or his willingness to your advantage. Your grip only tightened on his twitching cock, choking a whine out of him. He lifted his head to glance at you with heady eyes, shivering at the interest in your gaze.

It only spurred him on.

“This,” he slurred, resting a hand on his slightly swollen stomach, “is yours.” He lifted his hips and moved his hand lower, lower, prodding at the slick-coated length that emerged underneath him with the pad of his forefinger. “Now this… this is mine. You understand?”

Your breath hitched, arousal building rapidly at his sultry words. This was new, and not bad at all. If this was the game he wanted to play… you supposed you could play along, for now. Just to let him have his fill of fun.

“They can look at it, touch it, even take pictures of it… but I own the only two holes that you can be inside of. Ever.” Suguru knew he was being selfish, but he couldn’t help it. He couldn’t bear to ride something that didn’t belong to him—something that had been tainted by the filth of your other toys. He continued, “I can play by your rules. Be your good whore. Shut up when you tell me to. But play by mine, too.”

“Greedy,” you snarked. “But fine.”

He looked pleased at your easy acceptance.

“Good. Now look at m-me, properly, when I cum on your cock.”

You kept your word, letting him take the lead. It was obvious he was still getting used to steering with the reigns so unceremoniously thrust into his hands, but fuck, was it hot. You stroked him, your touch rough but still reverent, thumb digging into his beading slit at times, making him cry out as he rode you with renewed vigour.

“Both hands on me,” he ordered, before hastily adding, “please.”

He didn’t tell you where, so you put your fingers in his mouth.

“Fuck,” you panted, almost losing yourself in the way he fluttered around you tirelessly, soaking you up and taking you in. The rhythm of his bounce. The sensual roll of his hips. The obscene whimpers and shudders that sent vibrations into your body whenever he fucked himself a little too good. You loved it all. You wanted it all. If this was what you were getting in exchange for a little rule-breaking, then you would do it a thousand times over.

Suguru was gasping, thighs twitching, moaning senselessly and drooling around your fingers, and you knew he was about to break from the pressure. Oh, well. He did a good run, for his first time.

You let go of his cock, and he nearly screamed out in frustration.

“No, fuck, no, no, no—”

“But what?” you hummed, and Suguru wanted to wipe that innocent smile off your face with violence. “You said you’d cum on my cock, darling. I don’t see why you need my hands on you.”

“I didn’t mean it like that, and you know it,” he snapped. What was wrong with you? Weren’t you edging yourself, too? Wasn’t it painful for you, to be denied of release? You were being so frustrating.

“I played by your rules, sweets.” You pressed a tender kiss to the juncture of his neck and shoulder, and he let out a helpless shiver. “This cock right here?” You nudged upwards to force your cockhead against his stomach walls, earning you a filthy whine. “All yours. But don’t forget. You promised to be my whore in exchange for that. Now, we don’t condone breaking promises, do we?”

“N-no, but it doesn’t explain why you had to stop—”

“Because I wanted to.” You let a small smile creep onto your face, relishing in the glazed look in his eye, the quiver in his bottom lip, as though he were about to cry. “Whores don’t order their owner around… unless it’s for the entertainment of their owner, of course. And right now, I’ve gotten terribly bored of it.”

Suguru looked positively dumbfounded. But if that meant you were going to finally do something about it instead of sitting there, then he wasn’t going to argue with you. He let you maneuver him onto his back pliantly, almost coy in the way he glanced up at you through his lashes, spreading his legs for you.

How could anyone expect him to want to protect his dignity when you looked at him like that? He wasn’t even prey, to you—something much, more lowly. An object, your possession. A confection to be devoured. You had let him at a glimpse of the power you held over him, and fuck, did it feel great to have you bending to his every whim, stroking his cock for his pleasure for once, but this… this was nothing but not a deal with the devil. True sovereignty was never in his hands. It was all an illusion.

But if his only purpose would be reduced to a sleeve for your cock to fit into, merely for your pleasure and entertainment, then Suguru would get you so addicted to him, you’d prefer him over any other drug.

“Please,” he begged, glossy eyes peering at you, “sir.”

You smiled. “What do you want, Suguru?”

“I-I want,” he said, half short of a whine, “w-want you- to take control. Please.”

“Thought you were enjoying yourself, love.”

Suguru knew what you wanted. To recognise his new identity—something inferior to you. Something that needed to depend on you to survive.

“I- am- but, mmph, my legs h-hurt.” The glance he gave you, then, sent a shock straight into your chest. He breathed out a quiet confession, the killer blow, “I need you to put me in my place, sir. Please.”

Your grin grew crooked, hands finally settling on the thick of his hips for the perfect leverage to thrust, and Suguru knew, then, that he had fucking won.

The first smack of your hips against his ass had him keening. It stung, especially how he was bruised all over from riding you too hard, earlier—but the sharp zing of pleasure coursing through him made up for it a hundred times over. He wrapped his arms around your neck needily, fingers curling into your hair to keep you close, as close as you could be with your cock stuffed inside him.

“Sir!” he sobbed, legs going around your hips as he trembled in ecstasy, moaning, gasping for breath, because finally, fucking finally, you were here in his arms, giving hell to his insides just the way he liked it. “Yes, yes, mmh, yes, sir—”

All he could do was breathe.

“So loud,” you cooed. “Poor thing.”

“C-can't help- mnh, it,” Suguru whimpered, his body jerking weakly with every thrust. He squeezed his eyes shut for the briefest of moments, sobbing with pleasure as you took him again and again, the weight and heat of your body pinning him down completely, consummately, caging his lithe one, and he loved it. “W-wanted this- for soo long. You- always f-fuck me so- good, sir.”

“Yeah? Why were you so stubborn, then?” you leered down at him, “Being all tough, snapping at me—acting like you had it. You really had your fun, didn’t you.”

“‘m so- sorry,” he moaned, eyes rolling back. “W-won’t do i-it again.”

Your smile grew wider at that. “What a good whore,” you sighed in appreciation, tilting his head by the chin to examine his tear-streaked face. “Pretty, too. Not all whores look pretty when they cry. You’re one of a kind, Suguru.”

“Sir- you’re- ah, haa, t-thank you, sir,” he panted, whimpering as you pinched one of his nipples, “‘s all ‘cause- of y-you, sir. you make- make me feel- s-so good.”

“Good to know.” You smoothed a hand over the red and purple blossoming on his pecs from the assault you had subjected them to, your sweat dripping onto his body with every jostle and thrust. “Now shut up for a bit and take it, yeah?”

Suguru nodded frantically, eyes half-lidded as he gazed up at you. He was getting close again, the excitement in his belly churning tenfold in this new position that had him feeling every sensation of you pulsing inside him, now that he didn’t need to divert his attention elsewhere. Fuck. He couldn’t even remember why he was mad at you in the first place. He cried out as you thrusted meanly, cock grating against his prostate, his legs tightening around your waist in reflex.

And then you pulled out with a devilish smirk.

Suguru sobbed out, voice breaking in parts, the sound loud and desperate. “Please, s-sir. I- I was going- I was about to- ”

“I know,” you crooned. “Told you to shut up, didn’t I?”

He nodded pliantly, but he couldn’t hold in a whimper, soft and needy. You couldn’t help but admire the sight beneath you, despite the pain-pleasure inside you of yet another ruined orgasm—his eyes were shiny with tears, skin flushed prettily and bruised around the chest and waist, back arched as he desperately tried to get you to move.

“Turn around for me, sweet thing.” You pressed a kiss to his wet cheek, trying to soothe him. “I know you can do that. You were so good for me just now, baby… I’m so proud of you. I’m sure a teensy little more is nothing to you, mm?”

Suguru nodded again, rolling onto his stomach sluggishly. He was getting tired, stars drifting past with every slow, dreamy blink, body drained by the way you fucked it like it was something unbreakable.

He pressed his face into your pillow, inhaling sharply at the scent of your musk filling his every breath, whining as you gripped his hips and tugged him backwards, the head of your cock rubbing against his puffy rim. There was nothing, absolutely nothing else worth his attention on at the moment, the world fading to a trifling blur under your touch.

The only sounds he could hear were your heavy pants against his shoulder blades, the chanting of fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me in the distant back of his mind, making his insides melt with the desire to be taken. There was no more Suguru. There was only a hole in his place.

He could feel his eyes drooping, soft breaths luring him to sleep, but out of the cloud of smoke and haze, you were there, a steady presence behind him, the warmth of your calloused palms branding his hips and thighs guiding him back to reality.

“Let’s remind ourselves,” you husked, your voice wrapping around him like a warm blanket of safety amid the static. “Who are you to me, Suguru?”

He breathed out a moan, then answered without thinking. “Yours- only yours.”

“Specifics, baby. Let’s try again.”

He tried to shift back onto you—even an inch would do, with how desperate he was, but your hand on his hip held him in place. You huffed out a laugh as he turned his head to frown cutely at you. “Your- your property,” he tried again. “Your plaything.”

“Better,” you praised, “but they’re not what I’m looking for. What else?”

Suguru knew what you wanted to hear, but he just couldn’t recall at that moment—it was too much, the edging, the scent of you everywhere, the exhaustion, the hot sweaty press of your chest against him, your big hands on his body, your cock rubbing between his thighs. All of it was making his head blank.

He whimpered helplessly, wanting to turn to you for help, but you kept him in that same humiliating position, as though it were a common whore you were breeding and not him—

“Whore,” he gasped. “I’m your whore.”

You grinned, then, sharp and pleased, and Suguru could almost cry at the relief he felt. “And what do good whores do, mm?”

He sobbed, “Good whores take what they’re given… and say thank you.”

“Good,” you repeated, breathless. “Very good, Suguru.”

You positioned yourself properly this time, tapping the head of your cock wetly against his entrance just to hear him whine, before entering him with a heavy, careless thrust—to the very brim.

Suguru buried his face into the pillow, practically screaming. He fisted the bedsheets, head swimming with the sudden burst pleasure overwhelming his senses, the pleasure of being taken, used, like property you had paid for; the pleasure of you picking him, of all people, to be the one you wanted to play with. All the toys in the aisle and you had chosen him.

He’d gladly be your personal whore.

“Now,” you prompted with a drawl, “what do we say, mm?”

“T-thank you, sir,” Suguru whined, “Thank you so- soo much.”

“Well done,” you breathed, carding a hand through his long, silky hair—before pulling it back into a makeshift pony tail and yanking him up by it, roughly. You ignored his startled whine, taking a second to admire the shape of your cock jutting out from his now exposed abdomen—before towing him backwards, slowly, until his back settled against your chest.

You could feel his frame quivering against yours. Where was his confidence? The attitude, the jealousy? Guess you had fucked him so good he had forgotten everything else but his only purpose in life—to offer up his holes for your pleasure.

“Open up, whore,” you whispered.

Suguru didn’t need to be told twice. He fluttered his lashes, parting his lips for you, breath hitching as you collected a ball of spit, letting it drizzle slowly, obscenely, from your mouth to the waiting hole beneath you. You snapped his jaws shut, making sure you heard the audible swallow before you let go.

“Thank you,” he whimpered. You smiled. You had such a good-mannered whore.

He snivelled when he felt a hand enclose his cock—the poor thing so hard it was almost purple, lovingly stroking him. Tears slid down his cheeks freely as soft moans and pants spilled unbidden. He sobbed out brokenly, body jerking in your arms as his cock gave a weak, helpless spurt, the orgasm washing over him in cathartic waves.

“T-thank you,” he panted, glancing up at you with pretty, moist eyes.

Suguru only let out a feeble whine as you slowly slid out of him, clenching and gaping from the emptiness, placing him back on all fours. He clutched the sheets with trembling hands as something wet tapped on his cheek, and he opened his mouth without much thought.

“My pretty whore,” you praised, and put your cock in his mouth. The warm gush of cum down his throat had him choking out a beautiful sound of gratitude.

Suguru had been stupid to think he could ever get the upperhand in a deal with the devil. But that was all he was now, wasn’t he? A stupid, pretty whore, only ever good for taking cock. He couldn’t help but smile at the thought, with a mouthful of cum and more trickling down the side of his chin.

Maybe he was always meant to be like this.

Maybe what he needed was your guidance, all along.

masterlist!

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deebris · 9 months ago

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Save you from yourself

Silco (from Arcane) x Wife reader

Synopsis: The tender moment between you and your daughter, Jinx, is interrupted by your sudden fainting, and Silco takes control of the situation.

Warnings: Fainting, self-neglect, based on real symptoms of dehydration, the reader is a motherly figure for Jinx, and Silco is somewhat possessive in the end, angst with fluff.

Word count: 2.3k

Zaun tonight was surprisingly quiet. For the first time in a long time, you could hear the water flowing through the windows of your room, and a cool breeze carried the scent of your daughter’s freshly washed hair through the corners. It was an incredibly comforting moment to care for her blue locks; it always brought an inexplicable peace to your mind. You really needed it after the exhausting day you had.

The affection that surrounded those moments, with both of you sitting on your bed, gently running your fingers through her strands and laughing at how Jinx always ended up sleepy, warmed your heart. But tonight, that warmth felt strange and discomforting. You tried to ignore a sudden dizziness and the chills, keeping the window open as you brushed through her long hair to continue braiding it. Was tiring work, but you loved.

“Is it going to take much longer?” she asked impatiently, something you had already expected. Complaining about the time was part of Jinx, but you took it with indifference.

“I’m almost halfway,” you tried to reassure her with a gentle, maternal tone, something she liked. “Just this one left.”

“Ugh, I hate when it takes so long,” she grumbled irritably, throwing herself back into your lap. Her movement made your hands lose the strands, messing up part of what you had done.

“Jinx!” you called her name, annoyed, but softened when you felt her cling to you even tighter, wrapping her arms around your waist and burying her face in your belly. Her body started warming yours even more, pushing the cold away, and you stayed silent, appreciating the closeness.

“Can we do it later?” she asked in a low voice, almost needy. Jinx had a thing with physical contact; it was something she appreciated when it came from the right people. That’s why she was now closing her eyes while you stroked her cheek and the side of her head.

“It’s going to be harder to fix,” you tried to argue, struggling with the duality of wanting to stay cuddled with her or return to the hard work of finishing her hair.

“You’re warm,” she murmured, and you couldn’t see, but she furrowed her brow, feeling your body temperature against her pressed cheek.

“I think so,” your whisper came without weight, not caring about the statement. Or maybe you just didn’t have the strength to think properly anymore.

You felt drained, and your daughter had noticed your lack of energy when she took your hand to play with your fingers, interlacing them in a sort of waltz but seeing how you barely reacted to her movements, letting her have fun on her own. And you always used to play along.

“Let me finish,” you asked with much effort, confused by the new sign of your condition that had just emerged: a sharp pain in your forehead. But it wasn’t common for you to get headaches.

Luckily, Jinx obeyed without further rebellion. She stood up to allow you to finish what you had started. She pulled her legs up to her chest on the bed, pouting with a dissatisfied expression while she felt you place the golden pins.

When you had just finished braiding, your fingers fell, sliding down the braid’s length, as if keeping your arms raised for just one more second was extremely difficult. And it was.

Your dizziness worsened, leaving your limbs weak, and now you couldn’t avoid feeling a hint of nervousness as your breathing became irregular, along with the dryness in your throat.

“My love, can you close the window?”

Your request alarmed Jinx, who turned toward your voice but not enough to look directly at you. Hesitant, she stood up, and when she returned, a look of confusion took over her face.

“What...?” The word got stuck as she quickly approached, placing one hand on your back and the other on your shoulder. “What’s going on?” Her desperate tone cut through you like a blade, filling your chest with guilt.

“I... I think I’m not feeling well.” You tried to hold back the tears, but your trembling voice betrayed the effort. Just a few tears fell, as if they had run out, and the pain in your muscles and joints, which had started as a discomfort in the morning, had become unbearable. The discomfort had been easy to ignore before, but now it seemed impossible to divert your attention from it.

You hadn’t paid much attention to the dizziness that had disrupted your day, but sitting for a moment seemed to amplify all the symptoms. Maybe they had always been there, silently growing, until they reached this point.

“Say something!” Jinx’s voice sounded choked, pulling you out of the haze. You tried to open your eyes, but it was hard. She was scared—you could feel it in the way her hands trembled as she held your face. She shook you gently, the urgency clear in every movement. “Don’t close your eyes!” she screamed, her voice breaking as darkness overtook your vision.

When consciousness started to return, you opened your eyes slowly, blinking to adjust to the dimness of the room. A faint light illuminated the room enough for you to realize you were lying down, now wrapped in a blanket. Your hearing seemed muffled, as if you were submerged, but amid the confusing sounds, Silco’s voice emerged.

He was calling for Jinx, trying to calm her. “Jinx, listen,” he repeated, his voice deep and firm, but filled with concern. His tone seemed to seek her attention, trying to contain the emotional storm that was overwhelming the girl. “Jinx, I told you it is fine. It is nothing serious.”

Silco’s deep voice, usually so controlled, was now filled with a disturbance he could barely disguise. As he spoke, he repeated those words mentaly, as if trying to convince not only her but also himself that this was just a temporary illness.

“B-but...” Her voice broke, and the rest of the words got stuck in her throat. Jinx seemed unable to look directly at her father; her eyes nervously scanned the room, searching for an answer where there was none. “She... she just suddenly got like this.”

“Was not sudden, Jinx.” Silco took a deep breath, trying to remain calm. “We just did not notice before.” He adjusted his tone, seeking a firmness he didn’t feel, hoping to convey some confidence. “It is common. People get sick all the time. She will be fine.”

He continued, repeating the words like a mantra, silently praying they were true.

“Do you promise?” Jinx’s question came loaded with urgency, almost like an ultimatum.

Silco hesitated for a moment, swallowing hard at the weight of that word. Promising meant more than just reassuring her; it meant banishing any possibility of loss or failure. He knew he couldn’t say “yes” lightly, but he also couldn’t imagine denying that reassurance to his daughter.

His gaze shifted behind him, seeking your figure lying down. When he noticed you trying to sit up, despite visible effort, Silco felt an unexpected relief. It was a sign, even if small, that gave him the strength to respond firmly.

“I promise.” His voice came low but firm, as he squeezed Jinx’s shoulders, trying to convey a security he could barely feel.

Jinx followed her father’s gaze, and upon seeing you move, her behavior shifted instantly. With the frantic energy characteristic of her, she ran to you.

“Calm down!” Silco tried to call to her, but she was already on top of you.

You, however, were lost in confusion. Your mind felt like a blur, and the unbearable weight on your eyelids made it impossible to react or understand what was happening. The last thing you felt was Jinx’s hesitant touch, quickly replaced by the touch of calloused hands, before everything went dark again.

Silco watched as your eyes opened and closed again, what seemed like the thousandth time that night. It was as if you were waging a battle against your own consciousness and body, trying to hold onto reality as it slipped through your fingers.

He hadn’t slept. He had spent the night by your side, patiently waiting for that moment when you would finally wake up for real. Making sure you didn’t hurt yourself with the needle stuck to your wrist, connecting you to the IV that kept your body hydrated, had been an exhausting task. Every time you briefly stirred, it seemed like you were compelled to move your arms, as if testing your own strength, and he found himself forced to intervene.

“I thought you were going to pass out again,” he murmured, his voice low and strangely gentle, something rare coming from him. He carefully placed his hand on your forehead, checking the fever that, to his relief, was starting to subside.

“What do I have?” you asked, the words coming out slowly as your mind pieced together recent memories and adjusted to your surroundings.

Silco let out a long sigh, somewhere between irritation and relief. The corner of his lips curved into a dry smile, as if he found the situation so absurd it was almost comical, yet no less serious.

“You spent the whole day without drinking water.” His voice carried a hint of exasperation and he carefully brushed away the hair that was sticking to your face. “Dehydration. How, for the love of everything, did you not feel thirsty?”

His question was genuine, a mix of confusion and disbelief.

“I don’t know,” you whispered, feeling small and stupid under his analytical gaze.

Silco didn’t say anything more right away. Instead, his eyes studied you for a moment longer than necessary before he leaned back in the chair next to the bed.

“Whatever the reason, this will not happen again,” he declared firmly, his voice carrying a tone almost possessive as he crossed his arms, as if imposing his will on the universe itself.

“Sorry,” you said, the weakness still evident in your voice, but there was also a trace of embarrassment, making your words almost a whisper.

He watched you in silence, his gaze fixed as you stared at the pillow. Even pale and visibly fragile, you were still the most beautiful woman he had ever known. The soft moonlight illuminated your face, highlighting a few strands of your hair, and in that moment, something inside him softened. The hard expression he always carried melted away, replaced by a rare tranquility—a surrender to the simple relief of seeing you there, breathing.

You saw the IV, something Singed must have done, and noticing it was almost empty, Silco carefully leaned forward to remove the needle. His movements were almost methodical, but there was an uncommon tenderness. His fingers slid lightly over the skin of your wrist before touching the catheter, and that seemingly small gesture sent a shiver down your spine.

It was as if, in that touch, he wanted to send you a message: I’m here, and I will be gentle.

“Jinx will be on your case the whole week,” he stated casually, though his tone was firm, as if warning you about your foolishness that caused all this.

You laughed, the weakness in your voice softened by the playful tone. “I can handle it.”

Slowly, you pulled his fingers, as an invitation for him to come closer. Silco accepted without hesitation, climbing onto the bed beside you. He positioned himself behind you, wrapping his body around you in an embrace that, though silent, carried a desperate intensity.

His hands tightened around your waist, the fingers interlacing as if he feared that if let go, you might slip away. The warmth of Silco’s breath brushed against your neck, bringing with it the scent of the cigars he always smoked. On anyone else, or in any other situation, the smell would have been overpowering, almost repulsive, but from him, there was something strangely comforting about it. It was a subtle reminder that, despite everything, he was there—solid, present, and, above all, familiar.

Silco squeezed your waist tighter, his deep voice cutting through the silence, almost a controlled growl as he whispered against your ear:

“Do you really think you will achieve something important if you forget the basics? Forget to drink water, to take care of yourself… That is not just foolishness, it is pure recklessness.”

He held you close, his eyes wandering to a distant point in the room, as if searching for something to focus on, while trying to make you understand the weight of his words. Silco knew you had this habit of putting yourself second, neglecting your own needs for what you thought was more urgent or important.

“Stop putting yourself at risk like this,” he continued, his voice firmer, “or I woll not have any choice but to take care of everything.”

His voice, cold and incisive, sounded almost like an attempt at humor, but you knew him well enough to know that he wasn’t one for jokes. Silco didn’t care for casual remarks, and the lightness in his tone was just a mask for the frustration he felt. You worried so much about not overburdening him that you ended up ignoring your own well-being, making his biggest concern a reality: he would have to carry the weight for you.

“I take care of you… even if I have to save you from yourself,” he whispered, almost like a mantra. The words were both a promise and a necessity. He was speaking to himself, trying to reaffirm his own position, and you didn’t dare interrupt him. You just cuddled closer to his body, feeling the warmth and firmness of his words as a protection that, somehow, also felt like a prison.

#imagine #x reader #angst #arcane #lol #x you #silco x reader #arcane silco #silco #silco and jinx #silco arcane #silco x wife reader #jinx #jinx arcane #jinx league of legends #jinx x mother reader

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literary-dolly · 24 days ago

Text

baby steps.

jason todd x fem!reader

word count: 4.9k warnings: jason has a kid, mentions of pregnancy, a bit of arguing but mostly fluff

Who knew a family of detectives could be so oblivious? (A.K.A the four times the Bats are blatantly confronted with Jason's kid and the one time they finally realise she's his).

It was incredibly rare that Tim asked anyone in his family for help. At best they would mock him for needing help in the first place, at worst (and in most cases) they would create more problems and, in turn, an even greater headache. It was even rarer that he asked Jason for help – Jason had a talent for doing both, rinsing him within an inch of his life while helpfully pointing out the fifteen flaws in whatever Tim had originally been thinking in the first place.

Alas, needs must.

Jason had made it abundantly clear that under no circumstances was anyone allowed to visit his apartment. He was fiercely protective of not only his space, but yours. The first time Dick had shown up unannounced, injured, whilst Jason was still out on patrol, meaning that you had to patch up a bloodied Nightwing on your favourite rug – well, Dick’s initial injury had been the least of his worries. Jason had practically chased him out of the apartment, and needless to say Dick hadn’t made an expressed effort to return any time soon.

But Jason had also made himself impossible to contact. The only chance anyone ever had of catching him was at the tail end of his weekly visit with Alfred, or some kind of Bat-emergency that involved all of them swarming into the Cave, typically with bigger issues at hand. Every time someone figured out his phone number, he changed it. Nobody knew his email address. He didn’t have a habit of responding to his mail.

Tim just had a few questions about shifts in gang territory in Gotham, questions he knew Jason would know the answer to, saving him hours of detective work trying to figure them out on his own. It was a long shot, and one that could potentially end in much more than a flesh wound, but he’d already sunk so many hours into the case that anything seemed like a decent option at this point.

And so, he sucks in a breath as his knuckles rap against the front door.

It takes a few seconds, a bit of shuffling from inside the apartment, but eventually it swings open, revealing Jason – looking alarmingly sleep-deprived, even for him, clad in his worn, stained Gotham Knights jersey and sweats.

“No.” The door ricochets shut almost instantly. He hears the chain go across.

“Please, Jason,” Tim calls through the letterbox, knocking more frantically on the wood, “It’ll only take five minutes!”

There’s a brief pause, a silence so thick you could cut it with a knife; he tries to prise the letterbox open, desperate to get a look inside. He nearly falls flat on his face as it swings back again.

“What do you want, Tim?” Much like his look, Jason’s voice is tired, laden heavy with sleep. It’s strange, Tim considers, it’s not like Jason had been patrolling more than normal, if anything he’d been out less in the past few weeks. He hadn’t had any major injuries that they’d known about.

In spite of that, he plasters on a smile, “Can I come in?”

Jason’s entire frame fills any view into the apartment – Tim has never been before, and he’d be a liar if he said he wasn’t as interested about the case as he was in Jason’s choices in home décor. For a second, a look of genuine hesitation flitters across his brother’s face, but eventually he lets out an exasperated sigh, “Give me a minute.”

The door slams shut once again.

He can hear the telltale signs of life, the slam of doors and cabinets, the jumble of objects being moved about – he tries to look through the letterbox again, it’s in his best interest to know if Jason is up to something after all. It’s only a minute until the door swings open again, a clear path for entry this time, and Tim tries his best to look like he’s not casing the place as he makes his way over to the dining room table tucked in the corner. It’s unexpectedly cosy: warm colours, blankets, a roaring fireplace, a few photos of you and Jason hung up sporadically across the walls. He’d visited Jason’s safehouses before, and they tended to have more of a clinical, American Psycho kind of vibe. Needless to say the change of pace is a pleasant surprise, and no doubt your doing.

Jason doesn’t sit, instead opting to stand imposingly in the corner of the room with his arms tight across his chest. There’s a deadly scowl knitting his brows together, only the flickering of flames in the hearth interrupting the silence.

“Where is your better half?” Tim asks politely, trying to lighten the mood, “She’s much better company than you.” Probably not the way to go about it.

“Not here, clearly,” Jason huffs under his breath, throwing a look that very pointedly screams ‘get on with it’, but Tim almost draws back in surprise at his next words, “Would you, uh, like a drink?”

“Would I like a drink?”

“Yes, Tim, a drink.”

“You are asking me if I would like a drink?”

“At this rate you’ll be lucky if it’s cyanide,” Jason bites, “now for the last time, would you like a fucking drink?”

“Oh, yeah,” Tim splutters, spreading the collection of papers he’d brought with him haphazardly across the table, “A Coke would be great, if you’ve got it.”

Jason only grunts in response, trapsing languidly off to what Tim could only imagine is the kitchen. For a brief second, just as the door opens, something catches the corner of his eye that he definitely was not expecting to see.

A stroller.

It’s just so odd. Jason and a stroller are two things he’d never anticipated seeing in a room together – let alone a room that belonged to Jason. Ideas race through his mind about what the purpose of it could be: Some kind of disguise? Did it have some kind of hidden vigilante potential that none of them had ever considered before? Was he using it to, uh, move things?

It hits him all at once. Lian.

It wasn’t at all strange for Jason to look after Lian for the odd night or two when Roy was away on missions. He’d occasionally bring her round to the Manor to see Dick during those periods to keep her occupied for a few hours. Tim hadn’t seen the girl in a while, a few months at least, and whilst he was fairly certain she was too old to be ferried around in a stroller, he wouldn’t exactly consider himself to be an expert on childcare.

He's quickly shaken from his thoughts as soon as Jason returns, kitchen door clicking shut softly as he slams a can of Coke down on the table, sipping his own coffee down in massive gulps.

“So, Timbit, tell me what you got. You have 30 minutes.”

Steph loved shopping. Not extravagant shopping in luxury stores with millions of assistants that would attempt to shake her down for every penny as soon as she breathed through the door – just grocery shopping. It had always seemed like a mountainous task growing up, trying to make every penny stretch as far as possible, being forced to make practical decisions about what would last the longest or be the most versatile. But with a bit more money in her pocket now, it was a joy, the freedom to pick and choose anything, to go in with a recipe list and gather the ingredients, even splurge on a name brand.

It's her favourite part of the week, every time. Some people might find it sad, but hey-ho, it’s not like she gives a shit anyway.

That’s why she almost doesn’t notice when her cart clips the back of someone’s leg, lost in her own world, leering forward as she’s jolted over the handlebar. She definitely hadn’t noticed, until her victim turns around, that the person that she’d hit had been you.

“Holy shit!” Before you can even get a word in, Steph grapples her arms around you in some kind of pseudo-bear hug, “It’s been so long since I’ve seen you! Jason practically keeps you under lock and key, you know?”

You have an oddly sheepish look on your face as you reply, Steph astutely notices, eyes darting side-to-side. You look exhausted, concerningly so, the typical fun-to-be-around vibe you normally emanated decidedly missing. “Tell me about it. Uh, how have you been?”

“I’ve been good, good, same old really,” Steph pauses, before dramatically mouthing vigilante-ing with an overzealous eye roll.

“Jason mentioned you’d been doing really well,” you offer with a genuine smile, “Said that you and him had been working together a little more.”

“Yeah, well, it’s never easy with that pig-headed bas- oh my god who is this?”

A baby. Steph had failed to notice the whole-ass fucking baby in a carrier situated across your cart, giggling and beaming up at her with these beautiful blue doe eyes. Through her incredible detective skills (and the Daddy’s Little Princess sweater engulfing the tiny little thing), Steph quickly considers that this gorgeous young lady is the most magnificent creature she’s ever had the pleasure of laying eyes upon. There’s a few tufts of thick, jet-black hair sprouting out of her head, a little crazy looking – but only adding to the charm.

“Can I?” She asks almost instantaneously, practically vibrating with excitement. The little girl seems just as eager, reaching up with her chubby little fists to try and get a grip on Steph’s waggling pointer finger.

She’s surprised, upon looking up, to see how uncertain you are. Your smile is nervous, still seemingly a little rattled by the unexpected encounter. It doesn’t take long, however, for your eyes to soften, a more legitimate grin quirking at the corner of your lip, “Go on then. Just – be careful.”

Steph’s already got the baby in her arms: bouncing her up and down, cooing, playing with her adorable rosy cheeks. It occurs to her all at once that she didn’t know that much about you, your history, or your family. If she’d known you had such a cute niece or cousin or something, she would’ve made an effort to get to know sooner.

The three of you stay like that for a least half an hour; you seem to loosen up over the course of the conversation, answering all of Steph’s questions about the little angel. There’s a warmth that burns bright in her chest as you ensure to ask about her just as eagerly, making sure that yes, she’s good and letting her know that, in spite of what Jason might say, she’s welcome any time if she needs anything. It’s only as the baby begins to cry, shrill and loud, interrupting her story about a chase her and Jason had been on last week, that Steph agrees to let her go – and I mean, she feels like wailing at the loss of that little bundle of joy.

She can’t say she blames you as you wrap the whole thing up fairly quickly, the pair of you sharing one more tight hug and the usual promises to see each other more often. You’re gone in seconds, fleeing down another aisle and out of the way of the other disgruntled customers bitching about the screaming infant.

It doesn’t take long for Steph to lock back into her mission in the cookie section, staring down at the lines of shelves: name brand Oreos? Yeah, name brand Oreos.

“God, I wish that kid would shut up,” comes a quiet grumble from the old gentleman to her left.

“Hey, fuck you, man. She’s literally a baby.”

There were a lot of things that Duke liked about school. His friends, primarily. The schoolwork itself was a bit of a dud.

Needless to say, the most difficult part of his week was rallying the youngest Wayne to be ready for their carpool back to the Manor on a Thursday evening. It was every Thursday, like clockwork, that Duke would visit Bruce and the rest of the Bats – and it was every Thursday that he would have to locate Damian Wayne and navigate him through the end of day crowds to meet Alfred. The kid clearly liked school more than he cared to admit, because trying to find him in the halls of Gotham Academy at 3pm each and every time was by far the most difficult mission he had ever been assigned.

Which is why it’s a surprise when he spies Damian stood directly in front of the main entrance, arguing with Jason Todd, nonetheless. He only catches the end of the conversation as he makes his way over, but it doesn’t scream of anything particularly brotherly, even friendly.

“–just tell me, Todd. I demand to know.”

“It’s none of your fucking business, you little brat. Move out of the way.”

It’s then that Damian catches sight of him, offering a standard scowl in his direction, “Thomas, don’t you think it’s fair that Todd should have to tell us why he’s arrived at our school on a seemingly random visit?”

“Nice to see you, Jason.”

“Hey Duke,” Jason grinds out, brow clasped between his fingers, “Damian. Move. Out. Of. The. Way.”

“Pfft, it is never a nice day to see Todd. What a preposterous notion,” Damian drawls, so infuriatingly blasé as he inspects the dirt underneath his fingernails.

“Duke,” Jason’s practically pleading, and it throws him for a hell of a loop. He’s not sure he’s ever seen Jason plead for anything, “Please can you get the little rat out of the way? I’m already late for something.”

“B didn’t send you to pick us up or anything?” Duke asks, and – hey, he’s a vigilante too – it’s in his nature to ask questions.

“Jesus fuck, not you as well,” he makes a quick dash to try and push past Damian, who quickly shifts to block his way, eliciting a scowl from a few teachers gathered across the path, “B wouldn’t dare ask me to pick you two annoying little fucks up. He knows I’d say no.”

“Todd, just tell us why you are here and I’ll let you past.”

“Damian, I swear to God if we weren’t at a school I would rock your –”

“I’d like to see you try.”

“Jason,” Duke begins calmly, the fear of having to break up a fight between two trained assassins in a school yard echoing in the back of his mind, “Is what you’re doing really so bad you can’t just tell him? It’ll make this whole thing go quicker.”

“I’m not doing anything bad!” The elder throws his hands up in exasperation, “You people think the absolute worst of me. I’ve already told him – I’m here for an evening class. One that I’ve managed to come to for the past five Thursdays without running into either of you!”

“Is that enough for you, Damian?” Duke turns to face the younger Wayne, who still has his face contorted in a sour expression.

“No.”

“Fucking waste of time,” Jason mutters, full of venom, under his breath, slinking down to sit on a step. Duke can’t claim to know Jason particularly well, the man is definitively the scarcest of all the Wayne children, and they’ve rarely hashed out any kind of conversation one-on-one – but the man looks wrecked. Dark bags hang heavy underneath his eyes, hair flat and wavy against his forehead, the usual stripe of white mostly hidden underneath thick tufts of black. Even as he sits, his shoulders are slumped over, and Duke’s not unconvinced that the man might just fall asleep on the spot.

“Listen, Damian, I think maybe we should just–”

“Master Damian,” a curt voice calls out from behind them, and a bit of life seems to gleam back into Jason’s eyes as he clasps his hands together towards the sky, “I believe it would be rude to keep your father waiting any longer, would it not?”

Damian, who up until ten seconds ago had seemed such a mighty force, instead deflates, slinging his schoolbag over his shoulder and making ever so minute movements towards Alfred. Not an audible word passes his lips, but more a steady stream of various different threats and commands slowly dwindling to silence as he finally makes it to the butler.

“Master Duke, I believe you are due to come with us tonight, yes?” Alfred offers a warm smile in his direction, as always.

“See ya’, Jason,” Duke throws a salute in his direction, electing to not take it to heart when Jason gives him little more than a huff and a half-hearted wave in response.

“Master Jason,” Alfred begins so slowly, in a tone that they all know is reserved only for his favourite grandson, “It is only 4:06pm. I am sure if you arrive now, they shall still be inclined to let you in.”

“Thanks Alfie,” Jason mutters, hoisting himself to his feet with seemingly the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Damian’s eyes instantly come alive, fire blazing in his irises as he glares up at Alfred, “You know what he is here for, Pennyworth?”

“And Master Jason–” Alfred simply ignores the pestering questions of the boy at his side “–you seem to be lacking in a great deal of sleep. May I remind you, as I have many a time, that I would be delighted to help, should you require it.”

Jason’s face morphs into a mixture of relief and genuine fondness as he nods towards Alfred, disappearing into the entrance of the school.

If at that moment, Duke happened to notice the flyer on the school gate that read something along the lines of New Parenting 101, 3pm, Thursdays, he didn’t dare say anything about it. Unlike some of his counterparts, he’d like to believe he knew when to keep his mouth shut.

And besides, that means he can’t temporarily relish in knowing something that the mighty Damian Wayne doesn’t.

“Pennyworth, if you do not tell me what is going on with Todd, I shall be forced to ask Father.”

“I wish you the greatest of luck in that line of inquisition, Master Damian, I’m sure you will get very far.”

For a man who lived, worked and patrolled most nights in Bludhaven, Dick Grayson sure seemed to spend a ridiculous amount of time at Wayne Manor. It felt like he spent every waking moment stuck in traffic between the two, constantly ferrying back and forth: report due at work in Bludhaven, Babs wants his input on a case, need to go home to feed Haley, Tim needs this taking to Wayne Enterprises – Can he pick Damian up from school? Yeah, he can pick Damian up from school.

Which is why when nights like tonight come around where nobody requires anything else of him, he’s got his patrol covered for the evening and he can just leave the Manor to go home and cash in on that precious gem the rest of the world like to refer to as sleep, he’s packing his things up and hitting the road quicker than Wally. Even Bruce gives him a nod and a smile on the way out, telling him to rest up for their – oh god, their mission tomorrow.

The very last person that he’d expected to run into on his way out was Jason.

People. Because, holy shit, Jason has a baby strapped to his chest.

It’s all so casual, Jason with his sunglasses and tank on, strolling up to the front doors like there is nothing bizarre about the whole situation. The baby is fast asleep against him, letting out the occasional huff of air, but beyond that completely still and peaceful.

“Hi Jason,” Dick says, almost incredulously, as Jason had clearly just planned to carry on past him without a word.

Even through his sunglasses, Dick can practically hear his younger brother’s eyes rolling in his skull, “Hi Dick.”

“Hello baby,” He’s often been credited for being fairly observant, but it doesn’t take a mastermind to acknowledge the clear outlier in this situation. To add insult to injury, Dick makes sure to stare as pointedly as he can at the small child using its own thumb as dinner.

“C’mon now Dick,” Jason teases, a smirk on his lips, “We’ve gotten closer over the years – we’re not that close.”

“Jason why in the fuck do you have a baby strapped to your chest?” Every syllable is emphasised with a soft slap to Jason’s shoulder, and instantly Dick realises he might have just written, signed and mailed his own death sentence.

Clark would struggle to hold a candle to the intensity of the look Jason gives him, and Dick can’t help but falter back as Jason’s shoulders begin to square, his body language echoing a stance that he’s seen on his brother many times. The indicative signs he’s about to beat the shit out of someone.

“Are you stupid?” Jason grits out in a whisper, “She’s clearly asleep.”

“You are yet to answer my question.”

Jason’s glasses slip down onto the tip of his nose, allowing Dick a glimpse into those smouldering eyes. Everything written on his face screams obvious as he so snidely remarks that she’s yours, duh. Dick can’t help but do a double take as he stares down at the little girl – he’d had no idea that you had a kid, and he can’t help but feel atrocious now that it all fits into place.

Jason had always been so intensely private about your relationship, and your presence within the family saved exclusively for special occasions, holidays, birthdays, the like. Like an epiphany, Dick realises all at once how little he knows about you and your background. He had no idea that you’d even been in a relationship prior to Jason, let alone had a kid that you’d brought along for the ride. You were so young! And Jason – the fact that his brother had stepped up into the role, well, he couldn’t help but be impressed.

“Oh. Oh. I see,” Dick replies, awestruck, feeling far too ashamed and ignorant to dare ask any questions that might pry into Jason’s personal life. He knew how they tended to make him scatter. Does Bruce know about this?

“Uhm, Dickhead, you’re kind of in the way,” Jason thrusts out an arm to push him to the side, “Move.”

Holy shit Bruce must know – he’s brought the baby to the Manor.

“Oh shit, yeah, uhm, sorry.” He’s still in a trance. Haunted, some might say.

Jason, a little confused but cranky as always, offers little more than a judging look up and down as he passes through. Dick feels his entire body rupture as the door shuts softly behind him, leaving him in the evening husk.

So much for getting any sleep tonight.

“I’ve called this meeting because I believe we have something we need to discuss,” Dick starts, addressing the room. It didn’t take long to rally everyone, 24 hours to be exact, all of the children of the family sat engrossed on the floor of the library: himself, Tim, Duke, Steph, Cass, Damian. Everyone except Jason. “We need to talk about Jason and the baby.”

“What baby?” Damian blinks furiously, looking around demandingly at the rest who seem to nod in some kind of understanding.

“Jason brought a baby to the Manor yesterday. It is not his,” Dick starts causing a chorus of ooo’s and ahhh’s to erupt across the room, instead Dick just offers your name, “The baby is her’s. And now they’re raising her together.”

“Uhm, guys–” Duke calls out quietly amongst the rabble, sneaking a hand up slowly.

“Are you stupid?” Steph shouts, relishing as Dick jumps back in surprise.

“Why do people keep saying that to me?”

“She’s not hers,” Steph explains, “She’s like, her niece or something.”

“That would explain the stroller in their apartment,” Tim adds thoughtfully, and everyone whips round in an instant, throwing out a barrage of questions about Jason’s apartment – oddly focussed on its décor.

The door to the library slams open, silencing everyone in the room, “I can confirm, you’re all fucking stupid.”

At first, all that’s visible is Jason, an angry look etched into his features as always. The real shock comes when you step out from behind him, the little girl in question clutched tightly in your arms. He takes a moment to pull a chair over from across the room, taking the baby briefly in his arms as you get comfortable before handing her back over. Without missing a beat, he leans over to press a chaste kiss on the baby, brushing back strands of thick black hair off of her forehead.

“This is my daughter, you imbeciles,” Jason grinds out as he stalks over to the group, “Mine. Ours. As in me,” he pauses to point to himself furiously, before pointing to you, “Her.”

Whoever said a library was meant to be silent had clearly never encountered the Waynes. The noise is everywhere; everyone is on their feet practically clawing to get in front of their brother. Damian, who makes an attempt to grab at Jason’s jacket, is quickly swatted away. Dick, who is dipping up and down in a desperate attempt to maintain eye contact with Jason, gets his face shoved out of the way by Steph, who is trampling everyone in her path to try and get answers.

“Quiet. NOW.” Jason’s words come out so much quieter than any one of them would expect, but in an instant all six mouths snap shut. “Stop screaming in the presence of a literal 6-month-old.”

A few heads hang in shame, sauntering off to the other side of the room to get a look at the baby nestled in your lap. Dick stands gaping like a fish, arms raised at his sides, “But how? I thought she wasn’t yours?”

“Excuse me?” You call out from your perch on the chair, watching as the eldest Wayne winces in response.

“When were you even pregnant?”

“About six months ago,” you deadpan. Dick jumps back like he’s been burned.

“I was being sarcastic, Dickhead! Dick, that’s a baby. We’ve been together for three years!” Jason spits back, a look of complete and utter disbelief on his face.

“I don’t know how to age estimate children!”

“Well, I’ll give you a real good hint – that one’s not older than three!”

Dick pauses sombrely, a dark look passing over his features, “I didn’t– I didn’t think of that.”

Steph, who is now cradling the girl in her arms, turns to you in confusion, “But when we ran into each other at the grocery store? You didn’t say anything?”

You can only offer her a sheepish smile, “We hadn’t told you guys anything yet, and we were still getting used to the whole parenting thing. I thought you might have figured it out on your own, to be honest, but I wasn’t going to correct you if you were wrong.”

“Can’t hate a girl for protecting her peace,” Steph shrugs.

Tim peers over at the baby with an astonished laugh, “Jeez, Steph, are you blind? She looks exactly like him. Hair, eyes, nose, everything.”

“Okay Mister #1 Detective, I didn’t hear you figuring anything out.”

“Is this why you have looked reprehensible for the past months, Todd?” Damian calls out, trying his utmost to look disinterested in the girl cradled in Steph’s arms. His eyes blatantly give him away. “I thought you were having a mid-life crisis.”

“Mid-life crisis? Damian, I’m twenty-two,” Jason blusters, face going a dark shade of red, “and let’s not state the obvious about my mid-life crisis. But yes, it is why I have looked tired for the past few months.”

“You’re glowing,” Cass offers politely, a reassuring hand on your shoulder. You give her a bold smile in response.

Jason seems to deflate, finally collapsing down on the couch, “Yeah, cheers Cass. You look great too.”

It’s at that moment that a thunderous voice echoes from the hallway, a set of heavy footsteps rapidly approaching the library, “Jason? Is that you? Have you brought my grandchild to see me?”

“I’m so popular,” Jason grumbles bitterly to himself, eliciting snickers from everyone else (all apart from Dick, who has yet to move on from his previous conversation), “Yes, B, she’s in here.”

Bruce Wayne appears, clad in golf-attire from some Brucie event he’d been wrangled into attending, to instantly swoop the baby up in his arms, a soft smile on his lips as a symphony of giggles ring out across the room. Horror is etched into the face of every other vigilante present; scorned looks of complete and utter betrayal cast towards Jason lounging in his seat.

“You told Bruce and not us!”

“That’s not fair!”

“What the fuck, Jason?”

“Why would you tell Bruce first?”

“Technically, Alfred knew first,” Jason adds thoughtfully with a sharkish grin. The protests only get louder.

Bruce doesn’t seem to care for the rabble, nestled in an armchair with the baby cackling happily on his lap, his features lighter than they had been in years. Eventually, things begin to quieten as all attention is drawn to the pair, everyone pausing their complaints to stare fondly at the girl who can only peer at them with absolute curiosity. In the moment of peace, you and Jason offer each other a delicate smile – it’s been a long few months, but you’d relished doing it together. Maybe, just maybe, it was time to bring in the village.

“Well,” Bruce mutters with a grin, “at least none of you have to argue over who’s my favourite anymore.”

I had a day off work today and literally just smashed this one out. I'm a sucker for the 'jason has a whole life that nobody else knows about trope' and idk if you can tell from my reblogs recently but girl!dad Jason is haunting my narrative

If you liked it, well, like it - a reblog is always appreciated. If you don't like it, leave me alone.

#jason todd #jason todd x reader #jason todd imagine #red hood #red hood x reader #red hood imagine #jason todd x you #red hood x you #jason todd fic #red hood fic #dc fanfic #dc robin #dcu

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kominigiru · 1 month ago

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here’s part 2 of milkshakes and misunderstandings :] (1.2k wc)

You wake up with a headache that feels like it’s trying to saw your skull in half. The hangover hits hard—your mouth is dry, your limbs heavy, your thoughts slow. You groan and flop back against your pillow, summoning the only person who might take pity on you.

“De,” you croak, like a child calling for a parent. “Water.”

You receive no verbal response, but you do hear shuffling from outside. A moment later, your bedroom door creaks open.

Mydei, your brother slash roommate, enters with a glass of water and a face that could sour milk. The eternal expression of older sibling disappointment. It’s the same look he wears every time you do something he considers objectively dumb—which is always.

You accept the glass without thanks, chug it like it’s the last in existence, then collapse back into your pillow. The bed dips beside you as he sits down.

He doesn’t ease into conversation. He never does.

“You have a boyfriend,” he says, flat as drywall. “I’d say congratulations, but I’m still deciding whether to kill him first or you.”

“What?” You look at him like he’s grown two heads. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“That’s not what you told me on the phone,” he replies, placing the empty glass on your nightstand with a little too much emphasis.

You blink, trying to focus through the fog of your own brain rot. Somewhere in the recesses of your memory, there’s loud music, alcohol, milkshakes, and someone really, really pretty holding your phone like it was grenade.

“I don’t remember calling you,” is all you manage to croak out.

“That’s because I called you.” Mydei sighs, rubbing his temple like this conversation is actively lowering his lifespan. “Next time, if you’re going to get drunk and get yourself a boyfriend, at least pick someone more… sensible. Out of all the people in your school, you just had to choose Phainon.”

The name hits you like a defibrillator.

You jolt upright so fast your vision whites out for a second. “What?!”

Phainon?! As in Phainon?!

Okhema University’s Golden Boy?

The captain of the basketball team?

The senior you share half your classes with?

Your (and, let’s be real, half the school’s) low-key, high-key crush?

That Phainon?!

Mydei doesn’t even blink. “He brought you home in his car after getting milkshakes. You professed your love for him and then passed out. He said Stelle asked him to take you home.”

Stelle. Of course it was Stelle. The only person alive who knows about your ridiculous, slow-burning, definitely-doomed crush.

And of course she’s friends with him. Of course she is.

But hold on—what did he just say?

“Wait—what do you mean I ‘professed my love’?”

“I mean exactly that,” Mydei deadpans. “You declared you really, really loved him. Emphasis on the really.”

You make a noise that is not human.

Your hands fly to your head, gripping your hair like you’re trying to physically hold your soul in place. Fingers twist into your strands, tangling at the roots. You curl in on yourself like the fetal position might offer some kind of emotional immunity.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, horrified. “I can never go to class again. I have to drop out, fake my death, move to Aidonia, and start a new life as a sheep farmer.”

“Good,” Mydei says without missing a beat. “Fewer mistakes for me to clean up.”

You groan and flop back into the pillow, arms over your face like maybe, just maybe, if you stop existing hard enough, time will rewind and you’ll make better choices.

But deep down, you know it won’t. Because you got drunk, confessed to your crush, and even your brother witnessed it.

This is a disaster.

I need to call Stelle, you decide, already grabbing your phone like it’s a lifeline.

You shoo your brother toward the door with the urgency of someone trying to hide a crime scene. Mydei gives you a look—equal parts exhaustion and judgment—but thankfully doesn’t argue. He exits with a muttered “good luck,” and shuts the door behind him.

The second he’s gone, you fumble with your phone and stab at her contact.

It rings. Once. Twice. Three times. Then—

“…Hello?” Stelle’s voice is groggy, thick with sleep. “Did you get home safe?”

“I did,” you whisper-shout, “but that’s not why I’m calling. Why—” you hiss, “—did you ask Phainon to take me home?!”

You hear the faint sound of rustling fabric. “Did you two kiss or what?”

Your entire face catches fire. “No! Even worse! I made him buy me a milkshake, told my brother he’s my boyfriend, and apparently—I said I really, really love him!”

There’s a beat of silence. Then she yawns. “Okay, but like… what’s the problem?”

You stare at your ceiling in disbelief. “The problem is I embarrassed myself in front of my crush, who also happens to be your friend. And worse—Mydei found out. He knows Phainon! They’re basketball rivals from opposing universities! You basically threw me at the captain of Okhema’s basketball team like I’m a drunken offering to the gods of romantic humiliation!”

Stelle snorts. “Okay, drama queen. Want me to give you his number so you can apologize or something?”

You groan. “You owe me a milkshake for this.”

“Didn’t Phainon already buy you one? That’s two milkshakes in one day. This is the greed they warned us about in the Bible.”

“Stelle—”

She laughs. “I’m helping your love life, babe, so you’re welcome. But sure, I’ll buy you any milkshake you want.”

“You better. That’s a promise.”

“Yeah, yeah. See you in class.”

The call ends.

A second later, your phone buzzes with a new message:

You’ve been staring at the number for five full minutes now. You don’t even know where to start.

Should you just apologize and pretend none of it ever happened?

Should you offer to make it up to him?

Would that make it worse?

Would he even reply?

What if he hates you now?

You chew on your lip, anxiety churning in your stomach. The idea of seeing him in class again—with all this hanging over you—is enough to make you want to spontaneously combust.

And if he leaves you on read? Or worse—never reads it at all?

No. You have to send something. You’ll drive yourself insane if you don’t.

Just wing it, you tell yourself, fingers already flying across the screen.

After multiple rewrites and a minor existential crisis, your thumb finally hovers over the send button.

The message reads:

You hit send.

Instant regret floods your system like battery acid.

You clutch your phone, staring at the screen like it might explode. Then—eight minutes later—the “Read” appears.

You scream.

You throw your phone face-down on the bed like it’s cursed.

You bury your face in your hands and seriously consider deleting your number, your name, your entire existence.

Then your phone buzzes.

You peek. One message.

You stare at it. Then you see the typing bubble pop up.

…Then disappear.

Then reappear.

Then disappear again.

You hold your breath, heart in your throat.

Another message chimes in. Then another.

And when you read it, your brain short-circuits.

note: this was sooo fun to write! as a fan of smau, i enjoyed making the fake chats (even though i had to go back and forth to make and edit it lol so if the images seem low quality and you notice the timestamps don’t make sense, just pretend otherwise ❤️). unfortunately though, this will be the last part to this series. it was supposed to be just a one shot at first but seeing as a lot of people liked it and requested for a part 2, i decided to make one.

i think romcoms suit phainon really well. he’s the ultimate male lead—the opposite of a northern duke. a duke of the south? hmmmm

also, once mydei hears abt you and phainon going out for real, he’s gonna break phainon’s spirit and crush his dreams the next time they see each other in a basketball court ❤️

#honkai star rail #hsr #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #phainon #phainon x reader #phainon fluff #🍙 ely writes <𝟑 .ᐟ #🍙 m&ms

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mwphisto · 2 months ago

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Sylus: Grueling

~ You've had a rough day and Sylus doesn't seem to notice until it's too late

~ Inspired by anon's thoughts! Thank you anon!

A note from Soul: This one is a bit longer than my usual imagine/blurbs! I've been trying to get back into writing more fleshed out ideas and stories and this one was a fun starter! Don't think I'm quite satisfied with my work just yet so you'll probably see a lot of longer pieces as I try and get myself back into the flow of writing details lol. This post contains hurt/comfort, jokes about eating habits, and a bunch of fluff afterwards! WC: 1.8k

Your day has been nothing short of grueling.

Not that anything truly serious had happened, it was more or less a day full of minor inconveniences. First, your alarm didn’t go off. Only, it did, and you had slept right through it. Somehow, you pulled yourself together and arrived only about ten minutes late. While it annoyed you to rush, it wasn’t the end of the world.

Then, you stepped away from your desk to make a coffee. You hadn’t had time to get it this morning on your commute for obvious reasons. You could settle for the Hunter Association’s coffee set up in the break room. You’d finish your reports after making it, and then meet up with your ever elusive partner.

Only, you spilled the coffee after you had just finished making it. Your hunter’s watch blaring to life as it dedicated a metaflux overload just outside.

Two inconveniences in a row. Alright, that's fine, you’d live. Annoying, yes. But really not the end of the world. Until your gun jammed, and your whole life flashed before your eyes as a wanderer nearly detached your hand from your wrist. Your hunting partner had saved you in the knick of time. But that didn’t stop your anger.

With the wanderers handled, and a quick check to ensure the scratch on your wrist was nothing more, you went back into headquarters. On the way you let Simone know of the issue and she happily took your guns to check them out and fix whatever caused the nearly life changing incident.

Back at your desk, your head throbbed with a dull, irritating ache. Perhaps you were a little more wound up than you let yourself realize. You weren’t having the best day, and all the little errors that had occurred only felt so bad because they were happening one after another. Your own reasoning didn’t help the ache of tears that burned behind your eyes. “Jenna, I need to leave.”

Your captain had luckily been understanding, agreeing that you should head home for the day since your headache would likely slow your judgment in the field. Okay, understanding but a little harsh was probably a better way to describe her. It felt like a punch to the gut, like you were a bit useless.

As you hauled yourself out of headquarters, you found your body thrumming with the need to be held. You needed him, his comforting embrace, his soft bed, his deep voice. Everything that made Sylus who he was – it was a comfort to you. Your own little oasis, a safe-house, maybe the safest place in the whole of Deepspace.

It was late afternoon when you were swallowed by the N019 Zone’s perpetual black. Something you had come to find incredibly comforting - maybe because it was Sylus’ home, his territory. Maybe because it just screamed his name.

Luckily, your bike didn’t give out on you as you scanned your handprint and entered the impressive built-in garage Onychinus’ base had. Your bike had a reserved spot right next to his, and a spot to rest your helmet. It was the little things that made your heart ache. You needed him expeditiously.

Another handprint scan and the door to the main safe house unlocked. Immediately, you were greeted with the smell of toast and eggs.

This is pretty early for him to be up… But you shouldered off your jacket and slid out of your boots regardless, setting your things aside on the coat and shoe rack before quietly padding down the hallway. “Didn’t think I’d be seeing you today, Kitten.” His back was turned to you, his attention focused on the stove before him.

“Got out early, figured I would stop by.” And you swallow the need to express how much you needed his comfort. “Unless you’re going somewhere?” He wasn’t in his pajamas, but he wasn’t in his beloved black slacks and button up that he wore for work. He was in a sweater and gray khalkis. “Not going anywhere, don’t worry.”

He glanced over his shoulder then, grimacing slightly. “You look terrible, kitten.” There wasn’t a hint of worry in his words, no, it was purely a tease. You were positive you looked as tired as you felt, a little bit of blood still lingering on your hunter uniform sleeve from the cut. “Gee thanks, you always know what to say.”

Your unusual bite still clung to the words, but you could feel them lacking their typical enthusiasm. You and Sylus always bantered like this. Always gave each other shit, pushed and pulled the limits. But it was just that, your way of showing affection, your way of bonding. Today though? You felt your stomach twisting.

“I’ve only made enough food for two servings. Not nearly enough for your appetite. Give me a minute and I’ll get another round going.” But you couldn’t even feel hunger, despite not eating anything all day. “Oh screw you.” you choke on a forced laugh, trying not to collapse into the bar stool that sat at his kitchen island.

“You know you can eat enough for four people, kitten.” And dammit you wanted to cry. He wasn’t wrong, and this topic had never been sensitive before. But today it seemed every nerve in your body was on high alert. “And you can eat enough for six. Don’t even go there.” You swear your voice waivers.

If it did, Sylus didn’t seem to catch on.

“Fiesty.” You wished you were, maybe you really were better at putting up a front than you thought. For Sylus to be so convinced? Maybe you should consider taking up acting instead of being a hunter.

You rubbed your face, fingers focusing their pressure just above your brow bone and dragging downwards over your temples. It wasn’t just your body that felt stiff, it was your entire face too. “Eat up, it’s one of your favorites.” By the time you pulled your hands away, Sylus was already back at the stove ready to make more.

“You don’t need to bother, Sy. I’m not super hungry.” A dish that usually made your mouth water now had your stomach turning. “Oh? Is someone on a diet?” He had made that joke before, it was one you’d yell at him for, slap his arm or his chest, and then start laughing. It never stung, never hurt, but now?

The tears were welling in your eyes before you could stop them. White hot embarrassment clung to you as your tired hands moved to cover your face again. You tried, you really did, to control your breathing and mentally talk yourself off the edge of a breakdown. But it wasn’t working, the tears hurt to keep at bay.

When your snarky comeback didn’t reach his ears, Sylus turned to look at you. Another quip danced on his tongue but it died altogether when he saw your shoulders shaking. Only then did he really look at you, look at you hard enough to see the dried blood on your sleeve and the bandage poking through.

It seemed to crash down on him all at once.

You had a bad day, and here he was poking fun. “Sweetie?”

You inhaled deeply, cringing as it sounded like a muffled sob. “I’m good, I’m sorry, I’m good.” You pull your hands away, looking at him through watery eyes as a half-hearted wobbly smile pulls at your lips. The stove had been abandoned, he now stood beside you as you trembled. The brave act doesn’t fool him, though. Not one bit. “You are not okay, what happened today?” And the tears start anew.

You can only choke out repeated apologies, embarrassed that he’s seeing you crumble like this. For being so sensitive, for not being able to handle the usual jokes. “You have nothing to apologize for, Sweetie. I’m the one who should be saying sorry.” You don’t resist when he pulls you in, holding your weeping body to his, grounding you as he cradles your head to his chest.

“I’m so sorry, Sweetie. I should have realized, I should have known.” But how could he? He had been preoccupied and you didn’t crawl into the kitchen with dramatic flair. You had been attempting to hide it anyways. “No, that’s not an excuse. I should have known something was off the second you walked in here so early.”

Oh, you must have mumbled that outloud. “Sylus, r-really it’s not your fault. You didn't know–” but he’s cutting you off “I didn’t know but I should have been able to tell.” You wanted to tell him it wasn’t his fault, because really it wasn’t. But you couldn’t stop the new wave of tears. It was better to just let it all out, but you felt ridiculous doing so. Even if he was cradling you like you desired in the first place.

“You had a bad day, and I went and said you looked terrible.” It was more to himself than to you, but for some reason it made your sob turn into a choked laugh. “Sweetie, I'm so sorry. I don’t care if you don’t think I need to apologize because I personally know I do. I was so rude to you.” Truly, he felt like he had just kicked a stray kitten.

“It’s how we always are to each other, Sy. I promise you it’s not the comments that upset me.” You sniffled softly, eyelids heavy but you were content with your tears. “I just had a bad day. Just a bunch of little inconveniences that piled up and…”

“And I made it ten times worse by being a jackass. Fuck, Sweetie, I’m so sorry.” It was killing him, truly. He felt his body tensing as he thought about the comments he had made, and you were falling apart right behind his back. He felt heartless.

“Sy, really, it’s okay. We always joke like that, today I was just a bit more sensitive than normal.” But it didn’t really make him feel better - he wasn’t willing to dwell on it though. He needed to make it up to you instead of verbally bombarding you. “Let’s go take a shower, you can wear some of my clothes, and then we can relax in bed. How does that sound?” You nodded, eyeing the food he made.

“You’re hungry, no? You made food for yourself, you should eat. I can take care of myself.” You pulled away from his embrace, wiping the drying tears from your cheeks and trying to steady yourself to be okay. “I was only eating because I remembered how upset you were the last time I forgot breakfast. I want to take care of you, sweetie.”

“Plus, once you’re settled, we can make something else. Have you even eaten today?” And suddenly, you were shrinking into the barstool, sheepish about your answer.

“That’s what I thought. No more denial, let me pamper you.”

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