#under a paper queue

[echobsilly]

take my hand.. whatif hes senior dogs sanctuary under there (clicky experiments from the past week)

[call-me-oracle]

barbara gordon in batman: under the red hood

bonus:

[autonomousxselves]

//I can't tell if the majority of blogs I interact with are offline lately all at the same time (fair enough summer is starting) of if Tumblr is hiding them from me but sometimes I'm like "man X and Y hasn't been on my dash at all lately not even an ooc update hope they're alright" and then see they reblogged a thread or answered an ask the day before like no they're ok Tumblr is just hiding them

[julymusings]

I'M WORKING LATE !

jason's too stressed, and too exhausted. luckily, you have a few ways of getting him to relax. rated 18+, mdni contains: jason todd x reader; grinding, handjob, blowjob, reader's hair is long enough 4 a ponytail

He hasn't looked up from his file in two hours.

Jason did this sometimes, got so engrossed in a case that everyone and everything else took a backseat. You learned early on that he doesn't like to be bothered when he gets in this headspace, getting used to tuning him out and going about your own tasks (aside from the occasional kiss atop his head or brush of your palm across his back, something he could never complain about), but you think if he stares at his papers any harder, he'll go cross-eyed.

He sat down to work two hours ago, around the same time you started making dinner. Not wanting to disturb him, the two of you worked around each other in a comfortable silence, him typing away at his laptop while sifting through papers, and you cutting vegetables and boiling noodles. In the one hour it took to prepare the meal and bring two steaming bowls of pasta to the table, he hadn't looked up once. You set his bowl in front of him, but you're not sure he even noticed.

In the hour following, you finished your meal, cleaned up the kitchen, took a shower, changed into pajamas, and packed up his untouched bowl of pasta for later, all before settling in on the couch to put on headphones and queue up your show on your computer.

Now, you watch him from your spot on the couch as he sits at the dining table, body tense and still as a statue, save for the occasional flick through the pages of his file, or a scribble of notes on his notepad. Seeing him ultra-focused was nothing new, but there's something about this night that has you concerned. The bags under his eyes are heavier than usual, his lips are chapped and raw from being chewed on, his reading glasses are askew on his face, and his hair is messy, odd ends sticking out from how often he drags his hand through it.

It's when his neck turns slightly to look at the notepad at his side and you hear the minute clicking noise followed by a quiet wince that you know you have to intervene.

From experience, you know this is something you have to go about subtly. At your harping, he's been getting better about prioritizing himself and his wellbeing over work, but he still shows some defensiveness when someone suggests he take a break. He won't admit it, but you know he feels guilty about taking time to relax when there are people who need his help.

You approach him slowly from behind, dragging your feet on the hardwood floor, a gentle alert to your nearing. Your fingers softly brush over his back, sliding up across his shoulder blades until your hands rest on his shoulders. He doesn't react.

You squeeze your hands lightly, feeling the tight knots in his muscles, and his shoulders relax a few centimeters. You repeat this motion, slowly massaging from his shoulders to his neck. He releases a heavy exhale when your thumbs press against the sides of his neck, making circular motions to ease the tension. You lean lower to brush light kisses over the spots you press into, and finally, his head lifts. He leans back, head falling over the neck of his chair to look up at you as his hands reach back to rest over your forearms. He wears a tired smile, and you drop your head to close the remaining space between you, brushing your lips over his. They feel rough from the consistent dragging against his teeth while he was deep in concentration, but nonetheless remain warm and inviting for you to press kisses to.

"Hi," Jason whispers against your lips, his voice scratchy from its hours unused.

"Hey," you breathe. Your lips travel up his face, kissing up his nose and to his forehead, each spot relaxing a little more as you kiss it.

Your fingers continue their pressure around his neck and he groans softly when you press into that perfect spot, finding the largest knot. You want to bottle the sound, save it to listen to on a loop for hours.

"Can you finish up for the night?" You whisper the words behind his ear, following up with another kiss brushed across the skin.

"I'm so close to the end, baby," he speaks softly, his breath warm on the side of your face. "I can feel it. I just need a little more time."

Your hands trail back down to his shoulders, pressing harder. "You've been stuck for forever. You need a break."

"Baby..." He sighs when your kisses move down his neck.

"Please?"

He leans forward, pushing away from your touch to look back at the work in front of him, but you persist, moving around to climb in his lap. Your legs straddle over his hips, arms circling around his neck. On instinct, his hands settle on your thighs, and squeeze.

"Please, Jay?" You whine, prodding your nose against his. "You're working so hard, honey." You drag your lips underneath his jaw. "You're so tense. Let me help you relax."

He sighs again, his hands sliding up to grip your waist, hips shifting forward to nudge against yours, and you know you've got him.

"I can't say no to you, can I?" Jason concedes, and you grin.

"No, you can't."

You kiss him eagerly, humming against his lips when he reciprocates. It starts off innocent, as slow and sweet kisses, before quickly devolving into something more harried, your heated breaths mingling through exchanged keens and moans. When Jason pulls back to remove his glasses and toss them on the table behind you, you mouth along his neck, sucking and biting and licking at the skin. At the same time, your hips rock against his, and his hold on your waist tightens. You muffle his moan when your mouth finds his again, hands sliding into his ruffled hair to grab ahold of the strands and pull. His mouth falls open slightly, and you take the opportunity to slip your tongue past his lips.

He's so lost in the feeling of your movement against him and your hands in his hair, Jason doesn't register the hand that slides down to his belt buckle until his jeans are unzipped and your hand has slipped inside to grip his half-hard cock through his boxers.

"Fuck," he groans, his head falling back as you palm him. With his throat on display, you latch onto the spot just below his Adam's apple. After a few moments, he pulls himself together enough to say, "Was this your plan?" He pushes his hips out to grind against your hand, his erection growing harder. "Seduce me into taking a break?"

Satisfied with the mark you've left on the column of his throat, you pull back to look at him. You tug at the band of his boxers, pulling them down marginally to slip your hand inside and pull his dick out. Your knuckles brush against his balls and his hips jump, releasing a small gasp from him. You tease him with slow, light strokes up and down his length. Your thumb brushes over the beads of precum on his tip, and a high-pitched moan falls from his open mouth. His gaze on you is something out of a renaissance painting, all rosy cheeks and devoted eyes.

"I don't know what you mean," you say, though the tail-end of your statement is cut off by Jason taking your face in his hand and bringing your lips back to his.

His other hand tries to creep under the waistband of your sleep shorts, but you stop him with a grab on his wrist. It elicits a needy whine from the back of his throat, both at your depriving him of touching you, and the loss of your touch on him.

"Sorry, baby." You push yourself off him, your heart skipping a beat at the broken noises he makes in protest. "But I said I'd help you relax."

You can see the change in his eyes when you drop to your knees in front of him, his enlarged pupils encroaching further on the teal of his irises until they're just thin rings of blue and green around black.

"Can I?" Your voice is hushed and timid, almost self-conscious at the submission you're offering.

He whispers your name, quiet and hungry as he looks down on you. You run your hands over his thighs and he moves to sit on the edge of his seat, spreading his legs further apart so you can fit comfortably between them. His hands, which grip the sides of his chair, are taken in yours and guided to your hair. One holds your hair back, and the other cups your jaw, his thumb brushing soothing strokes on your cheek as you take his cock in your hand once more. You stroke at the base while dipping your head down to wrap your mouth around his tip.

Jason is big, and no matter how many times you take him, there's always a moment needed to adjust. Slowly, your mouth works past the tip, each bob of your head taking a little more of him while your hand jerks him off where your mouth can't reach. His breathing grows heavier the deeper you take him, the muscles of his abdomen tensing and contracting with the effort it takes to not immediately cum at the sight of you sucking him off.

"Fuck, that's— baby, oh my— fuck!" His low, baritone moaning mixes with the sloppy sounds your mouth makes. His whole body squirms as he fights the urge to just stand up and roughly fuck your throat until he comes. "You're so fucking good to me," he groans.

The hand on your jaw brushes away the tears that form as you gag from taking him as deep as you can. The hand holding your hair tightens its grip, softly yanking the strands and you moan; Jason feels the vibration in his cock and whimpers, his own tears gathering in the corners of his eyes.

"Baby, I'm so—" He cuts himself off with a loud, animalistic moan when you swirl your tongue around the head of his dick, followed by a flick of your tongue against the tip before taking him in deep once again. Your tongue drags against the vein under his head and he comes in your mouth, the hot spurts gushing onto your tongue as he shallowly thrusts himself through his orgasm.

When he's done, hands fallen to his sides, slumped back in his seat and panting heavily, you slide your mouth off him and hold it open for him to see what he left.

"Swallow it." His voice is low and gravelly.

You listen.

"That's my girl," he breathes.

He helps you to your feet and wipes your wet cheeks with the back of his hand before pulling you in for a kiss.

"My girl," he whispers again. His eyes sweep over you with reverence, and it's your turn to cradle his cheeks in your palms and brush away the hints of moisture.

"Are you done working?" You ask quietly. Hopefully.

He leans his forehead against yours. "I still have to—"

You give him a long sigh, to which he playfully rolls his eyes.

"I guess I'll just go to bed! All alone!" You exclaim dramatically, stalking away from him with exaggerated steps.

"I'll be there in a minute," Jason laughs, calling after you.

"You better," you tease. When you know he's looking, you lift the hem of your shirt and pull it off, throwing it aside and turning away. It has barely left your hand when you hear his chair scraping against the floor and you break into a run towards your bedroom.

You don't get very far, however, before he catches you. You squeal when he grabs you by the waist and throws you over his shoulder, both of you full of giggles as he carries you to your room.

cause i'm a singer....

so this is my first time writing smut why am i highkey nervous abt it this was supposed to be under a thousand words but girl....i'm still classifying it a mini fic tho not a regular fic bc i FEEL LIKE IT & let it be known i am a jason crying during sex TRUTHER

and um why was i fighting for my life trying to describe their positions in the beginning when he was sitting in the chair and reader was standing behind him. i still fear it's not clear so i drew it. hope this helps

[the-marios]

updated 4/25/25

hello, I’m Remy’s mom, and welcome to “the Marios”. I’m curating this blog so my boy can see safe content of his favorite characters, and I can have a visual record of the things he likes and occasionally what he likes about them. some quick info in case you’re browsing here:

- this blog is under my control and at no point will Remy be interacting directly on tumblr

- because of this, anyone can follow and interact with this blog. if you want, you can tag @the-marios in any art or content you see that he might like (I will obviously be checking it out first)

- if you do tag this blog, I will usually put those posts in the queue rather than reblog them outright since it’s easier to show him content in batches

- any and all Let’s Play video recommendations would be so appreciated. his current fixation is modded playthroughs of the Luigi’s Mansion series where Mario is model-swapped as the main character

- Remy cannot read yet and doesn’t really understand situational humor of comics; most of what is reblogged here is about the visuals

- I will sometimes like a string of posts from the Mario tags and get his thoughts in the tags before reblogging, I’m sorry if this is bothersome on notifications

His current favorite game is Paper Mario and the Thousand Year Door, but he also likes to watch videos about Luigi’s Mansion, Super Mario Maker 2, Super Mario Odyssey, and Super Mario Wonder.

His current favorite character is baby yoshi from TTYD, specifically the red baby yoshi. He also likes Madame Flurrie and Princess Daisy, but this changes often.

Remy’s primary non-Mario fixations are roombas (he owns an iRobot and a Ropvacnic), spinning fans, and smoke detectors!

Thank you to all the talented artists and content creators out there who have shared anything that has helped me relate to Remy on his terms.

[sexhaver]

Marvel Rivals does two very weird things with matchmaking. the first one is where, instead of skill-based matchmaking (SBMM), they use a method they literally invented named "EnMatch" (link downloads a pdf of their research paper), which builds on an earlier rudimentary version of the same idea referred to as engagement-optimized matchmaking (EOMM).

to summarize: it still uses a traditional Elo-esque system to quantify the skill of individual players, but unlike SBMM, which aims to balance these Elo ratings between two teams to ensure a fair match (under the natural assumption that players want to play fair matches), EnMatch instead uses a literal AI to predict what win-loss ratio every player needs to not ragequit at that exact moment and then attempts to give players easier or harder games as appropriate. the difference isn't massive, something like a 45% expected winrate instead of 50%, but it's there and it's on purpose. if you read between the lines of the section about influencing factors, they even leave the door open to stuff like cosmetics purchases influencing matchmaking

the second weird thing builds off of that and is thankfully limited to quickplay (unlike EnMatch which is present in ranked): if you lose enough quickplay matches in a row, you get put into a game against 6 easy bots, with 2 bots on your own team to autofill healers/tanks to avoid team composition issues. there are a few tells that let you know you're in a bot game once you know to look out for them, but the insidious thing is, the game never tells you you're playing against bots! there's a separate "Practice vs AI" mode, but this thing im describing happens in the normal quickplay queue! and the reason it sucks so bad, other than still getting the full leaver penalties if you leave, is because it results in posts on the subreddit/discord of people either posting a clip of them "popping off" against literal easy mode bots, or posting clips of a Punisher bot aimbotting them down and asking people to report them for hacks (because they are in fact literally aimbotting). obviously this feature is in the game for the exact kind of player who would never notice it and is there to give them an easy win to discourage a ragequit after a loss streak, but it just feels kinda scummy imo

[ba9go]

two smart cookies

bakugou katsuki x reader

u.a.!bkg and reader, exam stress and study sessions, bkg comforts reader, soft bkg hours, fluff (sfw)

part 2/3 of the cookie craving collection (completed!)

more cookies for you? part 1 (sfw) 🍪 part 3

you were never the best at academics. sure, you came to your classes on time, paid attention during lessons, took down notes, and did your homework on time.

still, you were never the top of your class, and you didn’t mind it, really. i mean, u.a. was full of brilliant students! you never let your grade or rankings deter your efforts from trying your best.

katsuki, on the other hand, has always been an all-rounder. back in junior high, he berated izuku for being a shitty nerd, but the truth is, katsuki was quite the nerd himself. even now, in u.a., katsuki studies hard to get perfect grades — and he does, every single time. because katsuki deserves it, you think.

you know katsuki like the back of your hand. you know that he wants to do well, to become the number one pro hero, to be the damn best. and anything that katsuki wants, you knew he would get. katsuki has always been relentless like that, unshakeable resolve and unwavering determination. that’s the stubborn katsuki that you knew and loved.

sometimes, you can’t help but wonder if you’re falling behind.

sighing, you close your laptop, burying your face in your hands. you rubbed at your eyes drearily, willing yourself to stay awake just a bit longer. there was a huge test next week, and you wanted to ace it, wanted to be able to show off to katsuki, wanted to make him proud of you for once.

it’s only 1am. classes start at 8 tomorrow. you got this. you gulped a few mouthfuls from your water bottle (katsuki banned you from drinking coffee; “stay off that shit! it makes ya all jittery! s’not healthy for ya, idiot!”). you opened your laptop, and continued studying until you fell asleep at your desk.

you barely managed to stay awake during your 8am class. the bell rings, and it’s time for recess. but instead of leaving to grab lunch, you fold your arms under your head to lay down on your desk. your eyes fluttered close, and you drifted off into sleep…

meanwhile, katsuki’s frowning, waiting for you at the canteen. he looks down at his phone. no new notifications. he scowls. normally, you’d text him when your class overran. his frown deepens when he sees a few of your classmates stream in to queue for their food.

he tries to stay calm and rational. maybe you went to the restroom? maybe you had questions, and stayed back after your lesson? maybe you’re already on your way? but it’s already been almost 10 minutes and— “fuck this shit,” katsuki swears, and starts walking in the direction of your block.

katsuki’s worried. his hands are clammy with sweat, balled up into fists in his pockets. he’s walking briskly down the hallway, stressing about what might’ve happened to you.

he freezes at the doorway of your classroom.

for a moment, he’s angry. katsuki glares at your sleeping frame, then at your messy desk, stacks of paper and sticky notes strewn about, and he’s thinking god, you’re so irresponsible, you’re clearly overworking yourself, the fuck are you even that stressed for—

katsuki walks over, and he’s fuming.

he notices the eyebags under your eyes, notices the sticky note pasted right on the front of your laptop.

katsuki’s pissed off, partially at you, but mostly at himself. how did he not realise?

katsuki taps your shoulder gently. you stir awake, and his heart aches as he watches your tired eyes blink open. he walks to your side and kneels next to you.

“‘suki?” you mumble, raising your head to look at him. “oh god, i’m so sorry, i forgot to…” you words trail off as katsuki places his face in your lap.

“fuck that,” katsuki mumbles.

“huh?”

katsuki’s quiet for a while. he’s so still, until his shoulders start to shake and you feel him trembling against you and you feel wet, hot tears on your legs. you start to apologise, but katsuki speaks again.

“s’not a total victory,” katsuki says, and his voice cracks halfway. “i can’t win…” he finally looks up at you, shaking his head, and it hurts, seeing your katsuki break down in front of you like that. “not when you’re not okay…”

you hold katsuki’s face gently in your hands, thumbs moving to wipe across his tear-streaked cheeks. tears of your own start to cloud your vision. “katsuki, i’m sorry,” you whisper shakily, but katsuki shakes his head again, prying himself away from your hands. he leans forward to bury his face in your tummy. your wrap your arms around his shoulders instead, one hand rubbing soothing circles into his back.

“i can’t,” katsuki hugs your waist tightly. “don’t want to see you suffer like this, i can’t, y/n.” you feel a pang of guilt. “please.”

“i’m sorry, katsuki,” you sobbed. “i.. i just wanted to do good, for you. wanted you t’be proud of me.”

katsuki looks up at you slowly. “why wouldn’t i be?”

“my grades suck—”

“hah? we havin’ the same conversation right now? what the fuck does that gotta do with anythin’?!”

“i’m stupid! and i can’t be your sidekick if i stay stupid!” you whine.

katsuki stands up. he claps your face in his hands, squishing your cheeks between them. he’s frowning, glaring daggers at you.

“what are you,” he asks dryly.

“…an idiot sandwich.”

katsuki sighs, letting go of your face. without warning, he traps you in a loose headlock, his free hand ruffling your hair roughly.

“damn right you are,” katsuki scoffs. “but yer not stupid. ya got that?” he kisses your forehead. “the smartest girl i know. my girl. ya got some nerve, callin’ my girl stupid. ya wanna die?”

as he continues drowning you in his affection berating you, you’re reminded again of just how much katsuki loves you.

“yer already smart. don’t gotta do anythin’ to prove shit to me, or any other fucker. someone been tellin’ ya things, behind my back? what’s gotten into you, hm?”

“no. got myself stressed ‘bout my test next week, s’all,” you admit with a pout.

“next time yer fuckin’ stressed, ya come to me, got it?” katsuki pulls you into a tight hug. “no more of this overworkin’ yourself bullshit. ya need sleep to focus in class, damn it!”

“i knoooow—”

“ya clearly don’t,” katsuki scolds. then, he rests his forehead against yours, looking into your eyes seriously. “take better care of yourself.”

“mm,” you hum.

he kisses your lips. “i’m serious. i need my future sidekick in tiptop condition, ya hear me?” you frown at his words.

“am i really good enough?” the question slips from your lips before you can stop yourself.

katsuki kisses you again. he pulls back with a smile, the one that’s reserved just for you.

“yer the damn best thing that’s ever happened to me,” katsuki says easily, confidently.

you smile.

“thank you, hero.”

dynamy has my whole heart

taglist (thank you for your support!!): @anicaaa67 @maddietries @nemisimp @an-na-bella @valeriyaaak @buggie07 @v3n7s

[swordsandholly]

Treat Me Gently (Because No One Else Will)

Ch 2: Johnny, Johnny, Johnny

Next | Masterlist | Ao3

Ghoap x Reader | MDNI 18+ | cw: low self image, oral (male & female receiving), fingering

“Merry Christmas, happy birthday.” You sigh, flopping your routine test results on your kotatsu table. It’s nearly time to get out the heating blanket - your favorite time of year. The leaves have just begun or change. A chill wind batters at your windows right on queue.

Simon sits spread out on your couch, practically covering the damn thing. His own results lay neatly beside yours for you to check. At this point you trust him enough that it’s more a formality than anything, but if you even thought about not looking Simon would put you on sex probation for sure.

He looks more tired than usual, you realize as you take him in. The circles under his eyes are darker than what he normally comes home with - more still-healing scratches and bruises litter his arms than you’re used to seeing.

“Fuckin’ beat.” He mutters, bending to give your papers a cursory glance. He reaches out after, grabbing onto the pocket of your hoodie to pull you into his lap.

“Poor thing.” You coo sympathetically, leaning to nip at his clipped ear. “How about I help with that?”

“’ave somethin’ in mind?” He murmurs - there’s a gravel in his voice that he only ever gets when he is truly exhausted. You slip down off his thigh and pull out one of the sitting cushions from under the table, kneeling on it between Simon’s spread legs. He cocks a brow, pretending not to know exactly what you’re doing despite the fact that you can already see him hardening in his sweatpants.

You run your open hands from his knees to hips, then back down, repeating the motion a few times. The material is soft under your palms. Warm, too, from Simon’s seemingly always extra heated skin. It’s always so lovely during the cool months to have a personal heater - it even comes with a nice cock. You have to stifle your snickering at the thought.

“Y’want somethin’?” Simon tilts his head, resting it on his hand with his elbow braced on the back of your rickety old couch.

You grin, attempting at a coy expression and achieving with absolutely no subtlety. Flirting was never your strong suit - you’re much better at jumping right in. You let your hands wander higher, over his hips, under his shirt to his waist. Coming back down, you hook your fingers in his waistband only to pause, glancing up at him for permission.

Simon nods, eyes alight but still obviously worn out. That’s okay, you don’t mind doing the work today. You take your time, running a hand over him through his pants while nudging at the waistband. Simon huffs in the way that tells you to get on with it. You hook both hands in, timing it with the lift of his hips to pull them halfway down his thighs. Really, you’d rather take them off entirely, but you know Simon’s limits. It’s easier said than done to pretend not to notice the large, ugly bruise on his hip.

You take his hardening length in your hand, giving it a few leisurely pumps. You like it better when he’s like this - pretty, untrimmed curls of blonde framing his equally pretty cock. Not that you’d tell him that. It’s his decision to do as he pleases.

You lick a long stripe from root to tip, earning a shuttering sigh as Simon’s eyes slip closed. You can’t help but hum happily as you take him into your mouth - that familiar, pleasant weight on your tongue. It’s impossible for you to take all of him, your hand working what you can’t fit in your mouth. That familiar mix of his musk and fresh scented soap hits your nose and your own eyes flutter shut as you take him.

Simon’s hand comes to rest on the back of your head. He doesn’t apply pressure, there’s no forcefulness, just a gentle hold. A steadiness that he somehow always manages to embody. His pants and quiet groans fuel you to take him as deep as you can. A low moan passes his lips when you lightly cup his balls, giving them a gentle tug. His hips begin to rock forward to meet your rhythm. Those desperate little sounds he makes pool in your core - each one their own reward.

“G-gonna-fuck-” Simon grunts a broken warning.

You take him as deep as possible as he cums down your throat. The hand on your head holds you in place as he works through it, hips twitching and brows furrowed. You lap at the tip, cleaning off the last beads of cum until he sucks in a harsh breath - the signal that it’s crossed into too much. Simon lazily pulls his bottoms back up. His shoulders relax finally, melting fully into the couch with his head still propped on his hand. You have a feeling that’s the only reason it’s still upright.

“Come up ‘ere.” He sighs, lids heavy and words slurred. The hand on your head relaxes, mimicking a lazy, petting motion over your hair.

You shake your head. “I’m fine.”

He frowns slightly. “Don’t want me t’return the favor?”

“I just wanted to welcome you back with something nice.” You smile. “Plus, you’re tired.”

“Who says I’m tired?”

“You. Literally, like, a few minutes ago.” You scoff, leaning your cheek on his thigh. Really, you’re perfectly content here - tracing light circles on his thigh and basking in the physical touch you’d been missing. Warm and comfortable. Your eyes slip shut, the hand stroking your hair eventually goes limp and falls to the wayside. A smile splits your lips at Simon’s light snoring.

He’s so predictable.

You grab your laptop, busying yourself with quietly typing and checking off a few emails while Simon snores away. He might have a little crick in his neck based on the way his head leans forward but you figure it’s better than waking him. You won’t be able to convince him to sleep twice. He’s probably slept in worse positions anyway.

There’s something that feels oddly right about moments like these - you, working at your little table between Simon’s legs while he naps on the couch. It’s where you’re supposed to be. Not always, both of you can come and go, and not necessarily directly touching, but within each others orbit. There’s something about knowing he’s there, even if you can’t see or feel him that makes you warm. Like a nice cup of tea during a heavy storm.

It’s safe here. It’s safe with Simon.

***

The groceries in your arms teeter, the buy one get one bottles of wine clink against each other in your reusable shopping back as you fight with your old deadbolt lock. You really should get your landlord to replace it, but he never answers his damn phone. At least he keeps the rent cheap in exchange for the shitty building quirks.

You check your voice mail - the physical one that you keep on hand only for Official Business - pressing the button on the answering machine as you begin putting away and organizing your groceries for the next couple weeks. You grabbed Simon some of those weird, rarely in stock, off-brand bon bons he loves. He says they have a better texture than the name brand. They just make your teeth hurt they’re so sweet. The voicemails filter through, nothing. Your agent wants to check up on your progress. Your water bill is due. You get a reminder for your appointment at the nail salon.

Your heart sinks when that honey-sweet voice of your lawyer drips through the phone.

“Hey, hun, so… unfortunately I have bad news.” Your blood curdles, back stiffening as you freeze in place. “It looks like we’re not gonna get the easy way out. Matthias officially contested - we’re going to have to go to court-“

You don’t catch the rest of her voicemail. It blurs into the background. Your ears ring, louder, louder, louder, louder.

Your hands shake around the bag of food still in them. If it weren’t already propped on the counter it would have fallen to the floor. It feels far away, as if there are miles between the things in front of you and yourself.

Your breath catches. It stings - every inhale and exhale more labored and shallow than the last. You’re choking on nothing. You can’t get any air - your vision turning to pinpricks. One hand braces you on the counter, the other resting on your throat as you lean, knees weak. You can’t see him. You can’t. The image of his face, dressed in one of his name brand suits, and his family glaring at you from the other side of the courtroom behind him twists in your mind. Hell beg you. He’ll beg and plead and promise things that won’t fix it - won’t fix you.

You’re hot, you’re suffocating. Each breath wheezes in and out.

In.

They hate you.

Out.

They have every right to hate you.

In.

You can’t see him.

In.

Them. Anyone. You can’t-

Please just breathe in!

Your phone dings - Simon’s assigned two toned chime.

S >> Dinner?

S >> I’ve got steak

The ringing in your ears clears to a low thrum. You take a long, deep breath finally. The numb tingling in your hands slowly dissipates. The shaking doesn’t. It takes far too long for you to get the texts written out.

>> I'll bring wine

You run your fingers through your hair, attempting to fix what doesn’t need fixing. You look the same as always, if not a little more hollow. It only feels like it needs to be fixed. You feel frazzled - thread bare. Too exposed and raw, standing out in the hallway that seems far too long in both directions.

Simon will fix it.

If he notices you’re more quiet than usual, he doesn’t say. He’s probably happy for the silence, if anything. Your chattering voice can’t be that pleasant - going on and on about absolutely nothing. Teasing and picking for no reason other than your own entertainment. How the hell does he put up with you?

The food helps. It fills you, makes you whole. The weight of it makes this moment real as you help Simon clean up. As usual, he washes and you dry. He laughs at some offhand joke you make - splashes you with water from the sink and you can’t help but shriek and laugh along with him. The wine makes your muscles lax and your mind slow. It’s good. This is good. This is fixing it. For now, at least.

That’s all you need: for now.

“How was Mexico?” You ask, sinking into your side of the couch. “Didn’t get to ask earlier…”

Simon sighs heavily. “Absolute shite… mostly.”

“Mostly?”

“’ad a good battle buddy.” He hums, staring out the window for a few beats, as if he forgot you were there. Those dark eyes soften as a gentle smile graces his lips - warm and molten.

You break out in an impish grin. “What’s that face?”

“What face?” Simon turns to meet your eye, returning to his usual stony neutrality.

You squint, eyes flicking between his, grin only growing wider. “Oh, you totally fucked.”

Simon splutters, stuttering over denials and dismissals - because that’s preposterous and completely out of character - before he finally submits. It never takes long, just an unending stare until he gets around to it. It’s not like you have room to judge.

You push your socked feet into the side of his thigh. “Sooooo, what’s their name?”

He looks off to the side, pretending to eye his wine glass. “Soap.”

You bark out a laugh, slapping your hand over your lips to stifle the sound. “Don’t tell me that’s their real name.”

“It’s Joh- I call him Johnny.” Simon twiddles his thumbs, shifting slightly. He’s mentioned a Johnny before, you think, albeit briefly. Said he was annoying but competent. There’s a new gleam in his eye, now. You see it. You’re not even sure if he knows yet, but you do. You’ve seen it time and time again.

You hum and swing a leg over his lap, settling your weight on his thighs. His hair is soft as you run your fingers over it - freshly buzzed and fuzzy.

“Tell me about your Johnny.”

“He’s not my Johnny.” Simon huffs.

You smile. He will be. There’s no one on this planet that can resist those big brown eyes and their pretty blonde lashes - even if nothing comes of it long term.

“Still. I’m curious.”

“‘e’s Scottish.” Simon shrugs. “‘e draws.”

“That’s all?”

“‘e’s funny.”

“With your sense of humor, I find that questionable.”

Simon chuckles, broad shoulders shaking slightly. He pulls gently on a piece of your hair, toying with it. “‘e ‘as pretty eyes…”

You cock your head like a bird observing some newly discovered, shiny treasure. This stage always interests you. The yearning, the fluttering. The crush of it all, so to speak. Sometimes you wish you had a way to quantify it - like a heart monitor or blood work or something. It looks good on Simon; the light flush of his cheeks and the slight quirk of his lips.

Matthias used to look at you like that. Your gut churns, throat constricting, and you swallow roughly.

“Good for you, Si.” You murmur.

He scoffs, shaking his head. “Shouldn’t be talkin’ about work so much. Makin’ me neglect the beautiful woman in my lap.”

“Beautiful?” You laugh, cheeks hot as you roll your eyes dramatically.

“Fit?”

“Meh.”

“Sexy?”

“Blah.”

“Stunnin’?”

You lightly smack his shoulder. “Shut up and fuck me, Riley.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He grins. A strong arm wraps around your waist, kneading at your ass before drifting lower, pressing against your sex through your leggings and underwear.

The name Johnny rings in your mind as Simon’s arms envelop you. When did it happen? Where? Their living quarters? Out in some godforsaken tent in the middle of nowhere? That sounds more like Simon. All tense and wound up, heavy hands and low groans. It’s probably wrong to imagine a stranger like that. You wonder what he looks like. Could be anything, Simon isn’t exactly picky (he’s with you, after all). Does Johnny know how Simon feels? Does he feel the same? How would he know? You’ve never been sure how people figure that out. You’ve always just waited to be told and gone along with it - is that how it works for everyone? Surely not. That can’t be how it works for Simon. He’d never just go along - never let someone else just roll with it either. He demands enthusiasm, in his own way.

“Y’with me?” Simon rumbles in your ear. You hadn’t realized his hand stopped moving.

“O-oh, yeah. Just got a little lost in my head.” You murmur.

He hums. “Everythin’ okay?”

“Yeah, just… y’know how I get.”

“You’ve been spacey t’night.” So he did notice. Simon presses his cheek to yours. “Somethin’ goin’ on?”

You chew your lip. You’re a terrible liar - you can’t say no outright. You don’t need to dump on Simon, though. Your problems are minuscule compared to even his day to day ones. An inconvenience at most. Besides, that’s not what he has you here for. He’s not here to listen.

Instead you repeat, quieter but with a smile, “Just fuck me. Please.”

Simon moves slower now, as if you somehow became more fragile in a few mere seconds. He lays you back on the couch, kissing down your body while pushing your shirt up and out of the way. You squeeze your eyes shut, forcing your mind to stay in the moment. You’re in Simon’s apartment, on his couch, with his grounding weight above you. It’s the usual song and dance - gentle movements with breaks for permission. Sometimes you think the checks are more for him; for his own piece of mind in continuing. You still revel in the care behind them.

Simon eats pussy like he’s tasting some sort of delicacy - slow, deliberate, savoring. Long strokes of his tongue between your folds and light, sucking kisses on your clit. He wraps a strong arm around your thigh to hold you still as you begin to squirm, rolling your hips in search of more. Your body thrums with gentle warmth from the wine, letting you lay loose and easy for him to take as he pleases.

“Fuck, Si…” You gasp, back arching as his tongue pushes inside. You’re close already - emotions running high and pushing your desperation. If you can just cum - just reach that high and get it out of your system - it’ll all be okay.

Your hand grazes over Simon’s shorn hair as he circles your entrance with his fingers - coating them in your slick before slowly, slowly, slowly inching them inside. You whine in complaint, grinding down onto them and the tongue on your clit to get him moving - to get what you want.

“Please, Simon-“ You whine. He takes the hint, speeding up his movements to match your desperation.

“C’mon, pretty girl, cum on my tongue.” Simon groans against you, voice low. “Let me taste you.”

You let yourself fall into it. It’s easy to listen with that deep accent lilting in your ears - oozing honey down your spine. It’s easy to follow instructions blindly. Simon works you through it, murmuring little praises and sweet nothings between pressing sucking kisses to your clit. He only stops when you press your palm against his forehead, whining in protest as the stimulation moves onto just that side of too much.

Simon grabs a condom from one of his many little stashes as you come down and hands it to you, as per usual. You flip it in your hands with half lidded eyes while he strips, not bothering with making any sort of show and just letting it all fall into a pile on the rug beside the couch. Not that you’re complaining. You wince internally at the litany of bruises and marks covering him. New scars forming and deep marks of blue, black and yellow.

He slides the condom on with ease, practiced hands making the usually fumbling task quick. He reaches over you to grab one of the throw pillows propped on the couch armrest and taps your hips for you to lift them.

“Ready f’me?” Simon asks, leaning forward to nip at your soft jawline.

“Yeah.” You gasp, turning your head to meet his lips as he presses inside. They’re slightly chapped from his time away.

“Fuckin’ soaked.” He groans into your mouth. “Always take me so well, yeah?”

You nod, breath catching in your throat as Simon grinds his hips against yours. The angle with the pillow presses him against that sensitive spot inside you with every movement. He keeps it slow - intimate - allowing you to feel all of him with each thrust.

Those dark eyes meet yours, pupils blown wide. You wrap your arms around his neck to pull him close - careful not to irritate any of his wounds. Simon tucks you against him, one arm around your upper back and the other hand holding the back of your head as he curls you into him. Your legs lock around his waist as you breathe him in - your moans mixing and bodies melding. This is what you needed. To be consumed, to disappear into the purely physical. Your mind doesn’t need to be active, on edge, as you roll your hips to meet his, as you press your fingers into his strong back and gasp when you cum. You only need to feel Simon’s teeth sink into your shoulder, just enough to muffle his own climax.

It’s safe here.

You both sink into the couch, breaths slowing and lids heavy as you come back to reality. The music that had been formerly drowned out comes back into focus. You shiver at the sudden chill of the room when your bodies part, fumbling for one of the random blankets strewn across his various furniture. Simon doesn’t say anything when you drape it across the both of you and lean your head on his shoulder.

You glance out of the corner of your eye as Simon’s phone vibrates on the coffee table. He has messages locked, but you see three consecutive notifications from “Johnny.” You smile and let your eyes slip shut as Simon’s arm wraps around your shoulders to pull you close.

banner by @the-aesthetics-shop

[fukcnoplease]

Danny is done. He is tired. He is dead. He deserves a sweet treat and to hibernate under fifteen weighted blankets for nine years.

Instead he is standing in the Gotham City cross country bus station with a dead phone and no sweet treats. He had had the misfortune of having avid ghost hunters as parents, who had demanded he help them with their latest invention instead of joining his friends on a fancy bus hired by Casper High to take them on a multiday, multicollege trip. Apparently they had made an agreement with the school that as long as he met the school trip in one of the cities and still paid for the whole trip, he could still take part and at least catch the school bus home.

Of course, exhausted after helping his parents, catching up on homework, and taking out some ghosts Danny ended up falling asleep on his bus. Now he was standing alone, cold, half-dead, in Gotham City’s main bus center with a dufflebag of clothes and backpack of ghost supplies his parents forced on him.

The school trip was, thankfully, passing through Gotham as one of the universities but they had multiple cities to hit before they got to Gotham. According to the itinerary it would take at least five days for them to hit Gotham and even then theyd be arriving late in the evening.

Danny had to find a place to stay for five nights and something to do for five days. Thankfully, Gotham city is seeped in ectoplasm which means its full of ghosts. Ghost who are more than happy to help a lost boy find a place to stay.

Danny chats with some ghosts, being pointed this way and that before he finds a nice old man dress in a fine suit with an unfortunate gunshot wound to his chest. The man offers to lead Danny to an excellent and cheap place to stay and Danny… is too tired to care honestly. He follows the ghost across the city, hails a taxi, repeats the address the ghost gives him, missing the taxi drivers shocked stare, and falls asleep in the taxi.

He is woken up by gentle taps on the glass by an older looking man and gives a half asleep mumbled thanks to the taxi driver as the old man takes his bags inside. Even in his tired state Danny has the sense to offer to carry his own bags but is politely and sternly refused by a british accent which is enough to wake him up.

Standing in the entrance way of a luxury… hotel? It doesnt seem to have a reception, though, and the decorations feel far to personalized. He glances around to find the helpful ghost staring wistfully at one of the larger portraits. A family of three, a beautiful woman with shoulder length dark curls, a young boy with dark hair and a bright smile, and the face of the kindly ghost.

The butler(?!) calls for Danny to keep up and he rushes to catch up, more out of instinct than sense. The ghost wanders casually after them, pausing to admire artwork every now and again.

The butler drops Danny’s bags in what seems to be a guest room, or maybe this really was just an incredibly fancy hotel, the room had its own ensuite, desk, and empty closet and chest of drawers. Honestly Danny couldnt even hazard a guess anymore.

The butler(manager?) informed him that breakfast was at 8 am sharp every morning and dinner was 6 pm sharp every evening. Danny gave a dazed nod which was apparently all the older man needed before he vanished back into the hallway. Almost as quickly as the ghost did after giving Danny one last cheeky grin.

Queue Danny being weirdly introduced to the Batfam and doing his best to avoid the adoption papers at all costs while also trying NOT to be eldritch and strange around this also eldritch and strange family.

[ghostlycod]

MDNI

what if reader is some Russian oligarch’s daughter (yknow, old money) and due to her parents supplying information to the task force, their daughter (you) comes under threat, so until the motherfucker who’s out to get your family is taken care of, they demand that you be placed in a safe house under SAS protection

queue weeks of hell for the guys being trapped in a safe house with your boujee, high maintenance, Russian princess-type ass. fucking 20 step evening routine, 10 step skincare, walking around in that creepy white paper cucumber mint face mask at night when the lights are off, doing yoga to “uplifting beats synth princess pop” music at the ass crack of dawn, bringing your own all organic gourmet fruits and veggies because you refuse to eat whatever bullshit they have stocked at the safe house, demanding special treatment for His Royal Highness Mister/Mistress Snuffles (your dog or cat (or both)).

and oh the attitude on you. spoiled, boujee, and picky. it’s not that you’re rude altogether, you don’t even say anything when you’re displeased really. you just expect certain things and turn your nose up when they refuse. no commentary necessary, your disapproval is clear even when it’s nonverbal. doesn’t that just make them sooo angry. Sooo frustrated. puts thoughts in their head like maybe someone needs to fuck that attitude right out of you. precious perfect spoiled little princesss, you’ve never had it rough, have you? but these are rough men, not used to comfortable and soft things, and they won’t go easy on you

maybe it’s not them stuck in here with you. maybe it’s you stuck in here with them.

[kaiyunsim]

heavy —

pairing : classmate!riku x gn!reader

summary : a sleepy riku catches your eye during class, so you decide to help him catch up.

warning : fluff, VERY sleepy riku, idk he’s just really cute

a/n : something from my drafts as i take my break. ilysm riku pls come back. (he’s my nct ult).

queueing : heavy - the marías

— wc : 1.0k — not proof read —

it starts with riku nodding off again. his head dips lower and lower, dark lashes fluttering against his cheek as he fights a losing battle with sleep. you're sitting two rows behind him, and you can see the way his pen slowly slides out of his grip until it clatters to the desk, startling him awake for a moment. he blinks around in confusion, mumbles something under his breath, and then, just like that, he’s out again.

this isn’t a rare occurrence. maeda riku is known for being the sleepy one in class, always managing to snag a seat by the window so he can rest his head against the cool glass. at first, you’d thought it was just laziness or boredom, but over time, you’ve realized it’s just part of who he is. naturally laid-back, with a tendency to doze off whenever things get too quiet. and honestly, you find it kind of endearing. there’s something almost peaceful about the way he naps, like he’s perfectly content in his own little world.

still, you can’t help but feel a little bad for him when it means he misses parts of the lecture. the teacher’s voice drones on, oblivious to riku’s half-conscious state, and when the class finally ends, riku jerks awake with a sharp inhale, looking around as if trying to piece together where he is. his notebook is mostly blank except for a few messy scribbles at the top of the page.

as everyone files out of the classroom, you linger by your desk, watching him. he’s rubbing his eyes now, yawning so wide it makes your jaw ache in sympathy. before you can talk yourself out of it, you grab your notes and walk over to him.

"hey," you say softly, not wanting to startle him. he looks up, eyes a little glassy from sleep. up close, you notice the faint crease on his cheek where he must’ve leaned against his arm.

"oh, hey," he says, voice scratchy. "did class end already?"

"yeah," you reply, holding out your notes. "i thought you might need these. you seemed pretty tired."

his eyes widen slightly as he looks at the papers in your hand. "oh, uh, thanks. but you don’t have to—"

"i want to," you interrupt, smiling a little. "besides, it’s not a big deal. i’m already caught up, so it’s just copying for you."

riku hesitates, but eventually, he takes the notes from you with a small, grateful smile. "thanks. really. i’ll get them back to you tomorrow."

"no rush," you say, shrugging. "if you need help with anything, just let me know."

and that’s how it starts.

the next day, riku returns your notes, meticulously copied onto his own paper. you’re a little surprised by how neat his handwriting is, given how messy it looked when he tried to write during class. he thanks you again, and you tell him it’s no problem. but when he starts nodding off halfway through the next lecture, you pass him a quick note: want me to explain this later?

he glances back at you, a bit sheepish, and nods before dozing off after an attempt of staying awake. after school, you sit together in the library, going over the parts he missed. riku listens intently, occasionally asking questions or scribbling down notes. he’s quieter than you expected, but there’s something calming about it… like he’s genuinely absorbing everything you’re saying.

"you’re a good teacher," he says at one point, looking up from his notebook with a faint smile.

"and you’re a good student," you reply, grinning. "when you’re not asleep, that is."

his ears turn pink, and he laughs softly. "yeah, sorry about that. i’m just... a sleepy person, i guess."

"it’s fine," you say, shrugging. "it’s actually kind of cute."

his blush deepens, and he looks away, pretending to focus on his notes. "thanks... i think."

from then on, it becomes a routine. whenever riku dozes off in class, you’re there to fill in the gaps. sometimes it’s as simple as handing him your notes; other times, you’ll sit together after school, going over the material until he feels confident enough to handle it on his own. he’s always polite, always grateful, and you can’t help but feel a little proud when you see his grades slowly improving.

but it’s not just about academics. as the weeks go by, you start to learn more about riku. he loves music, often humming under his breath when he thinks no one’s listening. he has a dry sense of humor that catches you off guard, making you laugh at the most unexpected moments. and he’s surprisingly thoughtful. once, he brought you a coffee after noticing you seemed tired, mumbling something about how it’s only fair since you’ve helped him so much.

"you didn’t have to do that," you tell him, touched by the gesture.

"yeah, but i wanted to," he says, echoing your own words from that first day. his smile is small but genuine, and it makes your chest feel warm.

one afternoon, as you’re sitting together in the library, riku glances at you and says, "you know, i’ve never really had someone look out for me like this before."

"what do you mean?" you ask, tilting your head.

he shrugs, fiddling with the corner of his notebook. "i guess i’ve always been the type to just... figure things out on my own. it’s nice, though. having someone to rely on."

you’re not sure what to say to that, so you just smile and reply, "well, you can rely on me anytime."

his eyes soften, and for a moment, you’re both quiet, the sounds of the library fading into the background. it’s a simple moment, but it feels significant… like something unspoken has shifted between you.

from then on, your study sessions start to feel less like a chore and more like an excuse to spend time together. riku still struggles with staying awake in class, but now he’ll catch your eye and give you a small, apologetic smile, as if to say, sorry, i’ll make it up later. and he always does.

one day, as you’re packing up your things, riku clears his throat and says, "hey, do you want to grab some food or something? you’ve been helping me so much, and i feel like i owe you."

"you don’t owe me anything," you say, smiling. "but i’d love to."

he grins, looking both relieved and a little nervous. "cool. there’s this place nearby that has really good ramen."

"sounds perfect," you reply, and for the first time, you see him look truly awake, bright-eyed and excited, like he’s finally found something that energizes him.

as you walk together, talking about everything and nothing, you realize that helping riku wasn’t just about academics. it was about connection, about seeing someone who needed support and offering it without expecting anything in return. and in the process, you’ve found something unexpected. a friendship that feels as natural as breathing, and maybe, just maybe, the beginning of something more.

[littlejoyss]

𝓯𝓪𝓽𝓮 𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓽 8

“One single thread of gold tied me to you.”

Stray Kids - Felix x Reader

Red (golden) string of fate trope

Word count (so far): 21k

𝓹𝓻𝓮𝓿𝓲𝓸𝓾𝓼 𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓽 ← 𝓬𝓾𝓻𝓻𝓮𝓷���� 𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓽 → 𝓷𝓮𝔁𝓽 𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓽

(A/N: I'm back! Don't worry I haven't forgotten about you guys! Camp was super fun and I can't wait for the SKZ concert in four days. HYPED! Here is the next part you guys have been waiting for! <3 -Deedee)

Outside, the streets of Seoul were already shifting into motion, vendors setting up carts, stylists dragging rolling racks, staff unloading lighting gear. The city thrummed with purpose, and today, you were part of that rhythm.

At the venue, chaos reigned in the best way, models were weaving between dressing areas, makeup artists wielding brushes like weapons, and interns running errands on pure adrenaline.

“Finally,” Bora said, appearing beside you with a headset slung around her neck. “Hair and makeup just started. I moved your models up in the queue.”

“How’s Jiwoo?” you asked, scanning the room.

“Hovering,” Bora muttered. “Not saying much. Just watching.”

“Classic.”

As if summoned, Jiwoo appeared from behind you, arms crossed over a black designer coat, her eyes already scanning the seams of the gown you had hanging on the primary display rack. “You didn’t sleep,” she said instead of a greeting.

“Did you?” you asked, not missing a beat.

Her lips curved slightly. “Sleep is for people who don’t care enough.”

Your eyes didn’t waver. “Good. Then we’re both over-invested.”

A tense pause. Then, with a soft hum, Jiwoo handed you a folded piece of paper from the pocket of her coat. “Oh, and good luck telling anyone,” she said, the corner of her mouth curving upward in something between a smirk and a warning. “They won’t believe you on the day of the show.”

You stared at the paper in your hand.

“What the hell is this?” Bora asked, appearing at your shoulder like a summoned storm cloud. She narrowed her eyes at Jiwoo’s retreating figure. “What did she just give you?”

You didn’t answer, already unfolding it with shaking fingers.

Bora leaned in, her breath catching as she read over your shoulder.

To Whom It May Concern,

Please consider this a formal request to cancel and reroute the March 12–14 shipments of design materials under order #5449, #5451, and #5454.

The creative direction has shifted, and these materials are no longer needed. Immediate cancellation is authorized.

-Shin Jiwoo

Your throat closed around your breath. “Those are my original fabric orders,” you whispered. “The embroidered silks, the hand-dyed organza, everything from my first concept.”

Bora’s eyes blazed. “She signed it herself.”

You looked up, across the chaos of the venue, and found Jiwoo watching you from near the lighting rig, arms still crossed. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t hide. Her chin lifted slightly, almost as if she were daring you to make a scene.

“She sabotaged you,” Bora whispered-yelled. “She knew if you didn’t have those materials, you’d have to start over.”

“Felix was right!”

“Huh?”

“He guessed it was Jiwoo who sabotaged me!”

“Of course he did.”

You folded the note slowly, carefully, as if sealing a wound you weren’t ready to look at yet. “She’s not even trying to hide it anymore.”

“She doesn’t have to,” Bora muttered, grabbing the paper from your hands and sliding it into a zipped pouch on her clipboard. “She thinks she’s untouchable.”

You exhaled sharply, the chaos of the venue blurring around you for a second. Models strutted by in half-stitched looks, seamstresses dodged camera crews, and the air was thick with setting spray and adrenaline. Yet all you could hear was your own pulse.

“I could call the organizers,” Bora offered, already halfway pulling out her phone. “Show them the note, raise hell-”

“No,” you said quickly, grounding yourself. “Not now.”

Bora blinked at you.

“We don’t derail the show. We own it,” you said, steadying your voice. “She wants me to spiral before I even hit the runway. She wants me emotional, distracted.”

“Okay. So we wait.”

“Exactly. We wait. Let her watch as every model walks out wearing what she tried to erase.”

Bora’s grin was slow and dangerous. “Now that’s the designer I signed on to work for.”

Then, the announcer started talking over the loudspeaker.

Bora smiled. “The red carpet is starting,” she translated for you. “Are you ready to see your man?”

“Huh?”

Bora smirked like a cat who’d just spilled food on the floor (totally didn’t write that because my cat just did that). “Well, I guess someone didn’t check the guest list.” She tapped her headset. “Red carpet’s live, and guess who just stepped out of the van looking like he walked off the cover of Vogue Korea?”

Your stomach flipped.

Bora tugged you by the elbow toward the side monitors, where the camera feed displayed a wide shot of the carpet. Paparazzi flashes lit up like fireworks against the fading Seoul skyline. Stylists and idols made their way down the step-and-repeat in waves of silk, sequins, and swagger.

There they were. Stray Kids.

The camera shifted to a close-up just as they turned in unison, waves and smiles exploding toward the cameras. The crowd behind the barricades screamed.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Felix was toward the center, surrounded by the other members. His blonde hair was slicked back, revealing the earrings you’d helped him choose over a late-night video call. He wore a deep navy suit with subtle embroidery down the lapels, your embroidery. You hadn’t even known he kept that sample.

“Jesus,” Bora muttered. “Is that... one of your pieces?”

You nodded numbly.

Felix turned toward the cameras, flashing that heart-melting smile that lived rent-free in your chest. But just as the crowd’s roar peaked, he looked straight at the lens and winked.

Bora laughed. “Yeah. He knows exactly where the live feed’s going.”

“It’s a part of his job!”

“Or he knew you were watching.”

You couldn’t even argue with her. Because the way Felix held himself was different than the polished charm he showed in rehearsed interviews.

The feed cut to a wide shot again, panning slowly across the carpet as the announcer rattled off the guest list in sleek Korean. Stray Kids made their way down the line, pausing for photos and press, and then, just for a second, Felix turned away from the chaos, scanning the edge of the venue like he was looking for someone just beyond the frame.

Bora pushed you light, “You need to walk out there and kiss that man under a thousand flashbulbs.”

Your jaw dropped. “Bora! No! We already have had enough internet drama recently as it is! I’ll tell him he was right about Jiwoo once he gets off the carpet.”

Bora gave you a look that could only be described as theatrical disappointment. “Fine,” she said, drawing out the word like it physically pained her.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

You had Bora drag Felix backstage after he walked the carpet. Her fingers were latched around Felix’s wrist while he laughed and apologized to every staff member they breezed past. “VIP coming through, designer’s emotional-support soulmate, move!” she barked.

A stage manager pointed them toward an empty wardrobe alcove just off the main runway queue. Bora shoved Felix inside, turned on her heel, and winked at you. “Five minutes. Use them wisely.” Then she was gone in a flurry of clipboard and headset.

The curtain dropped back into place, cocooning you and Felix. He was still in the navy suit, the one kissed with your stitches. Up close, the silk caught the work lights, tracing every thread of your embroidery like constellations across his chest.

“You look-” Your voice snagged. “-ridiculous. Like I commissioned the night sky to show off for me.”

Felix’s smile was crooked. “Good. I dressed for an audience of one.” He glanced around the cramped space and then back to you, brows knitting in concern. “Bora said something about sabotage?”

You exhaled, pulling the folded note from your pocket. “You were right. Jiwoo canceled my original shipments. She handed me the proof herself, like a victory flag.”

Felix’s expression darkened as he scanned the signature. “I knew it.”

“I know.” Your shoulders slumped. “I should have believed you the first time. I just… I needed to think the worst wasn’t true.”

He folded the paper again, but didn’t give it back. “Who should I talk to about this?”

“She said it herself, no one would believe me if I said anything. They would think I tried to sabatoge her.”

“She said that because she assumed you would be the one saying something. Not a handsome idol who can make a public statement that can be heard by thousands.”

“What?”

“Let me talk to the people in charge. I’ll make them listen. You’ve worked so hard by yourself, let me help you.”

“I’m scared, Lix,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “If this gets out, if they really believe Jiwoo over me… it could ruin everything. My career, my reputation.”

He reached out, fingers brushing over the string between you two. “You’re stronger than you think. And you have people who believe in you. Like me.”

“Okay. Let’s do it your way.”

Felix grinned, that brilliant smile lighting up the cramped space again. “That’s my girl.”

The backstage curtain fluttered, signaling it was time. Bora peeked in, eyes sparkling. “You two lovebirds ready to own this?”

You smirked, standing straighter. “More than ready.”

taglist (comment to be added): @shinygubbins @lizzygd @btch8008s @under--space @monniemons @chimmyn0chu @wickedbutlovely @sunanlix @beal-o @valkirymin @moonlitcelestial @wolfhallows4 @beppybeesnuggets @eridanuswave @lynastrawberry @multiifanbigbang @yxna-bliss @chasinghxran @velvetmoonlght @rylea08 @rjrjhfvrvdhdhrvvrrv @daisylove3 @rougegenshin @wolfs-howling @akindaflora @felixsonlyrealwife @chaosandcandies

[lola-writes]

Diagnosing Desire

Pairing: Tom Bennett x nurse!reader

Word Count: 5,6k

Themes & Warnings: pov first person, use of Y/N, swearing, fluff, drinking, smoking, eventual smut

Synopsis: Working as a wartime nurse, you’ve been charged with seeing to the physical exams of new recruits. It’s not until Tom Bennett shows up that you realize just how physical the exam can get.

A/N: Not surprised so many people wanted more Tom Bennett. Some inspo taken from Pearl Harbor. Not everything is medically accurate for the sake of the plot. Found this picture (bottom right) of a soldier getting an exam during ww2 that looked just like Ewan from behind!

Song: Angel Of Small Death & The Codeine Scene - Hozier

Masterlist | Add yourself to my taglist | Ao3

Likes, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated ❤️

Enjoy the read!

“Efficiency is key,” my uncle declared, rustling through the recruitment papers with a grim determination etching his features. “We need to be swift yet thorough.”

“How about I take the main parameters from the start,” I offered. “Leaving you more time to fill out paperwork. Then, I hand them over to you and fill out their files as you examine?”

A thoughtful crease furrowed his brow. “That might just work,” he said, tapping his finger against his lips in contemplation.

The car rattled upon the cobblestones as we lurched onto Manchester’s main street, shuddering us into silence. Every window, lamp post and building were decorated in posters and placards of soldiers with brandished rifles, blaring red pronouncements reading ‘RECRUIT NOW’, ‘EVERY FIT MAN WANTED’, and ‘RALLY ROUND THE FLAG’. 

Neville Chamberlain’s haunting voice echoed in my head, a remnant of his crackling announcement on the Home Service. 

This country is at war with Germany.

A knot of dread tightened in my stomach. 

I despised war, the very notion of violence solving anything. Yet, here I was, about to be thrust into the heart of its machinery.

But if war was inevitable, I would steel my resolve, seeing to put my expertise to good use. 

Fresh out of basic nursing training at King Edward VII Hospital in Sheffield, I’d been dispatched with my uncle and a contingent of colleagues to Manchester. As an NHS nurse, we were tasked with overseeing and assisting in the physical examinations of the city’s new recruits. My uncle, Dr. Benjamin Clark, a seasoned veteran with ten years under his belt, would lead the examinations, while I served as his right hand.

The car turned a corner, then another, before coming to a grinding halt at the curb. I nudged my uncle, yet engrossed in paperwork. Once he glanced up, a gusty sigh escaped his lips. 

“Plan B then,” he muttered, his voice laced with resignation.

The queue leading into the induction center stretched for what seemed like miles. Tracing its path with a sinking heart, a chilling realization dawned on me and settled in my stomach. 

There was endless work ahead of us.

The induction center hummed with activity and crackled with a nervous energy as we entered. Sunlight streamed through high ceilings, illuminating rows of tall, numbered privacy screens. Each makeshift booth held a white-clad nurse and a trepidatious recruit clutching a folder. 

The Manchester center pulsed with a daily influx of hopeful faces, each ushered through a chaotic dance of physical exams, fingerprints, fitness tests, and dreaded vaccinations. My days blurred into a whirlwind of vision checks, height and weight measurements, and the familiar sting as I administered countless injections.

Most of the men I examined were models of civility, enduring the process with a stoic resolve, a wince of pain at the stick of the needle their only betrayal. Yet a few shattered the façade, their bravado crumbling into crass jokes and unwanted advances. Thankfully though, my uncle was a fortress of composure, and would swiftly shut them down, but each encounter left me with a residue of unease and a tear in my patience.

I wasn’t unused to being flirted with. Now, however, it felt like a relentless barrage, a desperate grasping for normalcy in the face of oblivion. By the end of each day, I felt like I’d fielded more marriage proposals than a fairytale princess. I could hardly blame them, though. These men were teetering on the precipice of war. Desperation hung heavy in the air, clinging to these men about to face the unknown. They would depart with no guarantee of whether they’d ever return. 

While I couldn’t offer them a forever, I could offer a gentle smile and as kind of a rejection as I could muster. A disarming act for some, but for others, it wasn’t enough, their misplaced advances requiring security to escort them out.

“Go on, love, give us a chance,” this one man wheedled at my desk after completing his examinations.

I skimmed his file splayed open before me, everything appearing to be in order. ‘Keith Worsley’, it read. 

What a cruel joke, I thought, as I stamped his papers for approval, plastering on my most saccharine smile. He practically vaulted the desk, arms outstretched like he was about to give it a big hug. 

A firmer approach perhaps, a harsher deflection, would expedite his departure. The insistent line of restless faces behind him fueled my resolve.

“You’ve passed,” I announced, my voice clipped, as I shoved his folder shut, thrusting it towards him. “And there’s a queue.”

He ignored the dismissal, looming closer, his breath a noxious cocktail that I could almost taste on my tongue, threatening to crack my carefully constructed façade.

“You gonna deny a soldier his one shot at happiness?” he pressed, his voice thick with misplaced entitlement. 

I sighed internally, a silent scream trapped in my chest.

Efficiency is key, echoed my uncle’s voice in my head. What a struggle that turned out to align to.

“I might die fighting the Nazis,” he continued. 

I started to think it funny just how common that sentence turned out to be. And how these men begging for my hand, publicly liked to expose just how self-absorbed they really were. Pathos disguised as romance.

“Let’s live life to the fullest tonight, baby,” he drawled, desperation clinging to his words like a bad cologne. The urge to laugh was a battle I nearly lost, but the bile rising in my throat solidified my resolve, and I leaned in closer, a sugary smile plastered across my features.

“I’m afraid I’d rather be fighting the Nazis,” I quipped. 

He clamped onto my arm, a jolt shooting through me.

Perhaps not the best candidate for my newfound ‘ice queen’ persona, I thought. 

“Think you’re clever, hm?” he snarled. 

Before I could respond, or seek refuge beneath my uncle’s wing, a voice sliced through the tension.

“Get yer coat, mucker, it’s not gonna ‘appen,” it drawled, its tone snarky, dripping with playful menace, and with an undertone of complete and utter disregard for law and custom. 

Keith rose from the desk, my hand still hostage in his grip. We saw him simultaneously. 

A tall, wiry figure, all straw-blonde hair and icy blue eyes stood behind him in the queue, a scowl twisting his features as he sized Keith up and down, eyes rimmed with lethal venom.

“The fuck you say?” growled Keith, his grip tightening on my arm.

“Y’ heard me.” The blonde dipped his chin. “Now, let go of the lady’s hand. She’s done nothing but take care of ya.”

Kieth obliged before lumbering towards the blonde, towering over him, fixing him with an unwavering glare. But the thick tension ran thin when the blonde suddenly erupted in laughter, his eyes sparkling with mischief. 

“Something funny?” Keith snarled, nostrils flaring.

“Keith? That’s yer name?” the blonde derided, amusement lacing his voice as he nodded at Keith’s dog tag.

A beat of stunned silence followed.

“What about it?” asked Keith hesitantly.

“Well, Keith was always the name of that kid who wore a balaclava till’ April, candle wax snot angin’ from his nose.” The blonde grinned widely. 

My jaw clenched to stifle a snort of laughter. What a cheeky fucker, was all I could think, before Keith’s fist met his face with a resounding blow. The blonde was on the floor before anyone could stop it. 

Security materialized in seconds, hauling both men out the door in a flurry of limbs and shouted obscenities.

I rubbed a hand over my forehead, the day’s stress settling into my bones. I sighed deeply, before waving forward the next recruit. 

_

The next day was no different. Another deluge of recruits. Hundreds lined up to get their vision checked at my desk, their anxious energy buzzing through the air.

Another folder slapped onto my desk as I was finishing up with the one before. The pen slipped around in my clammy hand, still getting used to the rhythm of work. 

I opened the new folder with a practiced flick, my eyes scanning the documents. To service the Royal Navy, HMS Exeter (68). 

“Tom Bennett,” I read aloud, already filling out the form.

“Yes, ma’am,” a voice replied promptly, a hint of salt-laced amusement clinging to the words.

“Read row eight for me, please,” I instructed, pointing at the Snellen’s chart over my shoulder, my focus remaining on the papers.

“D-E-F-P-O-T-E-C,” he declared, rather fast, considering the small size of the letters.

“Steady on, sailor,” I chuckled, glancing up. 

My breath hitched in my throat. 

The tall, straw blonde mischief with the quick wit, a deep purple blooming around his left socket.

“Goodness,” I gasped, my mind scrambling for a more eloquent response.

He flashed his infuriatingly charming grin, pointing at the damage with his thumb. “Y’ should see t’other bloke,” he winked, coaxing a giggle from my lips. 

He towered over the desk, his hands folded in front of him, assuming a casual, almost nonchalant posture that somehow commanded attention. His sharp, protruding chin and aquiline nose dominated his features. 

But it was his lips that truly captivated me. They were set in a sort of perpetual pout, settling him into a curious air of sensuality that contradicted the hint of arrogance in his demeanor.

Suddenly, my mouth felt dry. Words seemed to evaporate as I looked up at him, a nervous flutter awakening in my chest, and a pulse settling in my core.

“Thank you,” I managed, a wave of unexpected gratitude washing over me at the thought of this stranger taking a punch for my dignity. “For yesterday, I mean.”

He dipped his head a fraction. “Come on,” he lulled, wetting his lips. “Who wouldn’t lend a hand to a lady in distress?”

A hesitant smile touched my lips, sweeping a glance around the room before meeting his gaze again. “A lot of people,” I countered.

He scrunched his nose and curled his lips. “Bunch of wankers, the lot of them.”

I offered him an amused smile as his eyes settled on my face, a playful smirk slowly tugging at the corner of his mouth as our gazes lingered a beat too long. The intensity sent a blush creeping up my neck. Flustered, I ducked my head to his file, though the words swam before me, my eyes failing to comprehend regular English.

“No worries like,” he said, pointing at his papers. “I’m mint in my file, healthy as a horse.”

“Right,” I replied, checking off the twenty-twenty vision, hearing, and speech. “Procedure demands a full exam, though,” I said, rising from my chair.

“Ey?” He cocked his eyebrows, his eyes following me towards the privacy screen. “Y’ gonna examine me?” he asked, almost in disbelief.

“Please, step behind here,” I said, gesturing behind the screen.

His eyes sparked with satisfaction as he rounded the desk towards me, his gaze fixed on me with a mischievous glint, his hand brushing me in passing as he slipped around me behind the screen, sending a warm current through my body. I followed suit, my mind suddenly a blur, as I attempted to regain my composure, busying myself with sterilizing equipment, discarding used needles, and filling new syringes with vaccines, all the while feeling his gaze on me.

“Alright, so… how’s this whole exam thing gonna work then?” he asked, restless fingers exploring my equipment. 

I gently swatted his hand away, a wry smile playing on his lips. 

“We’ll start off with a quick height and weight measurement,” I explained. Tom nodded and started towards the scale. “Then, you’ll need to undress and I’ll…”

“Whoah…” he countered, stopping in his tracks. “Undress?” he repeated, his voice darkening beneath something amused.

“Well, yes,” I confirmed, raising an eyebrow. “Were you never briefed beforehand, Mr. Bennett?”

Tom curled his lips.

“Did they not tell you what to expect?” I clarified.

“Never stuck ‘round for that long. Just thought it’d be a quick look in me gob and I’d be sorted,” he drawled, a sly grin spreading across his face. “But if y’ want me to get me gear off, just say the word,” he rumbled, looking me up and down.

The audacity of his suggestion both flustered me and strangely titillated me. I fought back a laugh from the utter impertinence of his man, channeling my frustration into professional courtesy.

“I appreciate the enthusiasm, Mr. Bennett,” I said, forcing a politeness into my voice, though betrayed by a hint of mirth despite my best efforts. 

“For you,” he said, curling his lips. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

I cleared my throat to steady my beating heart, and began to explain the procedure to him, in the most professional way possible. But as I did, his face grew more and more smug.

“Christ,” he muttered, elation sparking in his eyes. “Least let a bloke buy ya a drink first.”

 “The doctor will be conducting most of the physical examination,” I informed him, a faint smile tugging at my lips.

“That’s a shame,” he droned.

I studied him with disbelief, to which a cheeky smirk curled his lips. 

“Yer hands all over me. Mind ya, I wouldn’t complain.”

“I’m sure you wouldn’t,” I said, rolling my eyes as I pulled the latex on my hands.

“Wouldn’t be needing those either,” he said, nodding at my gloves. “Wouldn’t want ya choking your lovely hands on my account.”

“Let’s keep it professional, Mr. Bennett,” I countered, a playful edge to my voice as I slipped on the second glove.

He sniffled. “Mmhm,” he hummed, his lips pursing defiantly. 

“Right,” I said, clicking my pen to the ready. “Let’s get started.”

“Fire away, love,” he drawled, his amusement an inescapable distraction.

I took a deep breath, willing my butterflies to settle.

“Would you mind emptying your pockets and stepping onto the scale for me?”

“Yes ma’am,” he said, and began rummaging through his pant pockets, pulling out a metal lighter, a packet of fags, some pounds, and his ID. He placed them in the bowl I held out and hopped onto the scale. I noted down his weight and height. 

“Excellent. Now, please remove your shirt.”

A satisfied glint lit up his eyes. He clicked his teeth and crossed his arms over his stomach. “Quite like bein’ ordered about,” he said, before pulling the shirt over his head.

“I suppose you have to get used to it,” I replied, my eyes flickering over his toned chest, his dog tag nestling between his pectoral muscles. Turning away to grab the measuring tape, I silently berated myself for the warmth blooming up my neck. 

“Wouldn’t be ‘alf as good from anyone else, though,” his voice, a low rumble, sent shivers down my spine. 

When I pivoted back, his height loomed over me, his hands clasped behind his back in a soldierly posture that accentuated his broad shoulders and chest, a mischievous glint dancing in his eyes.

“Would you mind…?” My voice trailed off as I hesitated to make physical contact. Unlike the others I’d processed with practiced efficiency, the thought of touching him set my nerves on fire. “Standing like this for me?” I finally managed, my voice a gentle whisper, my hands reaching out to gently unclasp his from behind his back, raising them straight outward. “Perfect.” 

I drew closer. The scent of him, a mix of clean sweat, tobacco, and bad decisions, filled my senses as I reached around him to fit the measuring tape around his shoulder blades. As I straightened to fix it around his chest, I caught him observing me. The playful glint had softened, replaced by a simmering intensity that sent a warm tremor through me. I half expected him to lay an inappropriate or snarky comment, but a beat of charged silence hung in the air, save his breathing which had gotten slightly labored.

I quickly recorded the measurement and released the tape. “Perfect,” I said, a touch too brightly, charging my voice to attempt to salvage my composure. “You may lower your arms.” Scribbling the numbers in his file, I forced myself to focus on the next task. “I will have a look at your teeth next,” I said, picking up the light source and a wooden spatula.

“Alright,” he said. He dipped his chin for me to reach, his lips pouting with arrogant sensuality, as I approached him. 

His presence consumed me. His scent, the warmth of his body, mere inches from my own, radiated through me like electricity. I hesitated again.

“I don’t bite,” he grinned, to which I rolled my eyes, and placed my hand to his chin in defiance. His timber lowered into a throaty whisper, “Only if ye ask me nicely.”

My breathing shallowed, heat shot through me like licking flames, my heart drumming against my ribs. “Good to know,” I said, attempting to sound unbothered, tilting his head toward me. “Say ‘Ah’.”

“Ahhhhh…”

I depressed his tongue with the spatula and examined his teeth, making a mental note of the slight misalignment of his incisors. “Bite down,” I instructed. Another minor misalignment appeared. “Hmm,” I murmured, and released him, noting it down in his file. 

“Problem?” he asked.

“Did you have braces as a child?” I inquired, setting down the equipment.

He scoffed. “Fuck nah. That gear’s for mugs only.”

His foul mouth was disarming

“I see,” I said, before I turned and started towards him. His eyes had become hooded, the ice melted into a dark sea, holding a challenge I couldn’t quite decipher. His lips inched up into an askew smile that pitted his cheek as I reached for his face again. I felt a prickle of awareness as his gaze flickered down my body, before returning to my face.

I palpated along his jaw, starting below his ears, then down towards his throat. He sighed deeply. His skin was so very warm beneath my fingers.

“Been experiencing any fever or illness of late?” I asked, my fingers continuing the path down his neck. His gaze flicked to my lips.

“No,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble.

He was extremely warm. Borderline feverish. 

“Currently on any medications?” My fingers continued down his broad neck, down to his collarbones. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat, and his ‘no’ came out hoarse and shaky. 

I systematically checked the rest of his body for abnormalities, checking for any bruises, hernias, anything deviating. His breath hitched as my fingers grazed his arm, then the other. Then I took a turn about him, checking his neck, shoulders and back. My eyes travelled lower, and something fluttered through my stomach. 

He had a very cute butt. 

He tilted his head to the side when I came around him, a devilish grin on his lips. 

“What d’ya reckon, doc? See somethin’ y’ like?”

“Everything seems to be in order,” I announced, going to stand in front of him, ignoring his blatantly rude comment. “Just like you claimed, healthy as a horse.”

A satisfied grin tugged at his lips, “Told ya.”

“Now for the really tricky part,” I continued, watching Tom’s smug grin slowly fade from his face as my uncle emerged from behind the privacy curtain.

“How are we doing in here then, Y/N?”

“All done, Dr. Clark. He’s all yours,” I confirmed, a hint of amusement dancing in my eyes. Tom’s confusion was a welcome change to his previous arrogance.

Dr. Clark cleared his throat and flipped through the file. “Mr. Bennett,” he addressed and looked up. “For the lower body examination, please remove your trousers,” he said, smacking his gloves into place.

Tom looked to me, a silent plea I readily understood, and I flashed him with a sweet smile.

“Good luck, Mr. Bennett,” I sang, tearing the gloves from my hands.

He turned to my uncle, then hesitated. “Could I…” Then he cleared his throat, his voice lowering to a whisper, though loud enough that I could hear before I vanished behind the screen. “Could I have a moment?”

_

The next day, a familiar name landed on my desk at the vaccination booth.

As I looked up, intense blue eyes met mine.

“Mr. Bennett,” I greeted him professionally, though something stirred within my chest.

“Y/N,” he said with a charming grin which made my heart trip over its next beat.

Fuck. He must’ve heard my name from my uncle yesterday. 

“And please,” he continued. “Call me Tom.”

“Alright, Mr. Bennett. Right this way,” I said, rising from my chair. 

He hesitated at first, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his features before he obliged and rounded the desk, following me behind the screen.

“Pull down your trousers and lean over,” I instructed before he could manage to land some witty remark.

“Actually, I-,” he started.

“Chop chop, sailor,” I interrupted, ushering him to the table. “We haven’t got all day.”

“Right uh… Like this?” he asked, his back turned to me, his cheeks exposed before me.

I looked him over. “That’s right…” I said absently, my eyes travelling.

Focus.

As I readied the vaccine, a beat of awkward silence stretched between us before Tom spoke again, his voice uncharacteristically hesitant. 

“So, listen uh…” he began, clearing his throat, an unfamiliar vulnerability lacing his voice that unsettled me. My gaze drifted to the way his jaw clenched, a flicker of some apprehensive in his eyes. Was he scared of needles or something? “I know a lot of these other blokes been causing ye trouble and that, and uh…”

Gosh, he was so fucking cute when he was nervous. 

“I was wonderin’ like…” He rubbed his chin in his hand. “Would you want to like…” His fingers tapping out a nervous rhythm on the table, attempting to urge his words forward. “Maybe…” His voice trailed off, searching for the right turn of phrase.

Oh god, he was about to ask me out. 

My heart hammered against my ribs.

I loaded the syringe in a nervous blur, and tapped out the bubbles at the top.

“Like… wanna go out with me – argh!” His whole body cramped up as I stabbed the needle into his butt cheek. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, did I poke too deep?” I asked with feigned concern.

A throaty groan escaped his lips. “Clattered me bones, I think,” he wheezed, his head bent over the table, swaying slightly as he held onto it for support.

“Go on, sailor. You can take it,” I said gently, patting his back as he pulled his trousers back up, groaning as he went. 

I thought he must’ve forgotten what he was about to say, because he started staggering out of the booth, one hand rubbing his arse.

“Nah, hang on,” he said, turning on his heel, his jaw ticking with determination. “Listen, I really wanna take ya.”

My cheeks flared red. “Excuse me?”

Alarm sparked in his eyes, as if just realizing what he’d said. “Out!” He corrected. “I’d really wanna take y’ out. That weren’t meant to come out like that.”

Suddenly he started acting very strange. It started with staggering. He steadied himself on the IV pole at his side, the metal rattling under his weight.

“Mr. Bennett?” I asked, approaching him slowly, “Are you feeling alright?”

“Yeah,” he said, shaking his head to his senses, “Just gon’ a bit… wobbly, is all.”

Something dawned on me. I snatched his file from the table and opened it. ‘Andrew Howarth’ was hidden beneath a sticker of Tom’s alias.

I slammed it back down on the table, my voice sharpening. “Have you already had this shot?” I demanded, turning back to him, venom lacing my voice.

“Well,” he mumbled, his eyes fluttering. “Just t’ once.” Then his head hit the floor.

_

Exhaustion gnawed as I exited the doors to the induction centre, the hours of work settling heavy on my cognition. The golden glow of lampposts cast long, spidery shadows across the slick cobblestones as I descended the stairs. The memory of Tom swam up before me, his handsome face against the cold floor, concern flooding me after his fainting spell. I recalled him muttering incoherently in my lap as a crowd gathered, my uncle eventually pushing through to help.

A warmth, unexpected and foreign, bloomed in my chest. He’d taken a punch to the face during our very first encounter, then nearly experienced an anaphylactic shock trying to ask me out on a date. Underneath that snarky, arrogant mask, I believed, was something so much deeper. 

My heels clicked against the stone as I approached the car. I opened the door and slid inside, just starting to pull it shut when a voice echoed from outside. 

“Y/N!”

A jolt of adrenaline shot through me as I saw a figure jogging up the street towards me, hands shoved in their jacket pockets. 

A thrill sparked in my chest as they drew closer. I flung the car door open again and stepped out. 

“Hello, Mr. Bennett,” I uttered, attempting to hide the shakiness in my voice as he approached. “How are you feeling?”

“Made up,” he said, flashing a lopsided grin, and I noted that the purple around his eye had deepened somewhat. “You?”

A laugh, tinged with delirious exhaustion, escaped my lips. I shrugged. “Pretty knackered, actually.”

Tom’s grin diluted slightly, as a concerned frown etched his features. “Course y’ are! Made up you’re knackered after all that!” There was a soft concern in his voice that spun in my ears like silk. I smiled at him as a comfortable silence settled between us. But when I turned my heel slightly on the cobble, he spoke up. 

“Listen, uh…” he began, putting honey in his voice. “Before all of that with the fainting,” he said, drawing closer. “I wanted to ask ye out.”

I smiled, nodding. “I know,” I admitted softly. “It was pretty obvious.”

A cheeky grin lit up his features, and he tilted his head. “So…” He pursed his lips. “What d’ya say, doc?” His voice lowered into a gentle caress, and I felt his fingers brush against mine ever so lightly. “I need someone lookin’ after me while I recover,” he winked.

I couldn’t keep from smiling, my gaze drifting down to the cobblestones, as I considered his request.

“I’ll be a good boy, I promise,” he said, grinning, coaxing a laugh from me. 

Exhaustion threatened to pull me under, but a different kind of weight settled in my stomach as I met his gaze. He was off to war, soon to be on a ship across the Atlantic, with no notion of when he’d be back. If he’d ever be back… 

Dread coiled in my stomach. 

If he was going to die, we should at least live tonight. 

I winced internally at the cheesy quote from that Keith bloke. But it was the only thing that seemed to fit the urgency in my heart. 

“Alright,” I heard myself say.

“Yeah?” Tom’s voice dripped with elation, a melody that tugged at my already strained emotions. “C’mon then,” he said, offering me his arm. “Everyone reckons a cold brew sorts ye right out after a dizzy dossin’.”

_

A honeyed glow emanated from The Old Wellington, pulling us like moths to a flame. Inside, a vibrant symphony of voices rose and fell, punctuated by the melodic clinking of glasses. The air thrummed with the mingled aromas of spilled ale, aged leather, and an undercurrent of cigarette smoke. Tom, a whirlwind of charismatic energy, navigated the throng, his smile as familiar as the worn grooves on a favorite record, his banter bouncing off patrons like playful echoes. Their easy camaraderie spoke of a shared history, a hidden world I longed to decipher. Here, in the heart of Manchester, I was an explorer in a land of unknown faces and customs, adrift but not entirely lost. But when he grabbed my hand and pulled us towards the bar, none of it mattered. 

“A pint and a gin martini, if y’ would, Kristina,” he tossed over his shoulder to the bartender.

The cheek of this man. Did he just assume what I’d be drinking?

“A gin martini? Really?” I arched an eyebrow, a playful challenge in my voice. 

He pivoted towards me, a smug pout plastered on his lips, one hand casually tucked in his pant pocket as he leaned against the worn wood.

“Thought y’ might need a touch of sophistication, ya know, a taste of the high life,” he drawled, his eyes twinkling with something akin to a dare. 

And I was up for the challenge. 

I snorted and mirrored his stance, my arms crossing atop the bar in a playful imitation. “Do elaborate,” I replied, my voice laced with amusement.

A genuine grin erupted across his face. “Well, gin martinis are for proper ladies like, the kind with a bit of mystery and that,” he said, his voice dropping a touch lower. “Like yourself,” he finished, wetting his lips as his eyes flicked briefly down my body.

A shiver danced down my spine and vibrated in my stomach.

“So, a woman of intrigue is defined by her choice of beverage?” I countered, cocking my eyebrows in defiance, a playful glint in my eyes.

He shook his head ever so lightly, a flicker of something deeper gracing his features, like I’d totally missed his point. “Nothin’ could ever define ya, love. Y’ more than a drink,” he said, his voice growing suddenly serious. 

A warmth bloomed in my chest. This cocky charmer held an unexpected sweetness beneath the surface, a complexity that piqued my curiosity even further. 

Kristina placed our drinks on the bar and Tom slid a bill across to her. “Cheers, Kristina.”

I nodded at his pint. “So, you’re a lager then,” I joked. 

He tilted his head, a dimple flashing in his cheek. “A simple brew for a simple bloke,” he said, placing the rim to his lips and taking a swig. 

I laughed and shook my head. “You’re anything but simple, Tom.”

 “Seems my theory holds some water, then,” he grinned, mischief glittering in his eyes.

He pulled his packet of fags from his pocket and lit one with a practiced flick, his cheeks hollowing as he sucked in. Smoke curled from his lips in a grey cloud, momentarily obscuring him in a hazy veil. In that moment, a strange desire flickered within me – to be the tobacco stick consumed by his flame. 

“Fancy one?” he offered.

“Why not?” I said, watching him already pull a second one out of the pack, putting it to my lips, the subtle graze of his fingers against me singeing my skin like hot coal. 

“So, what d’ya think of the war then?” he said, flicking the lighter shut. 

I exhaled, tapped the ash, and pursed my lips. “That there must be a better way to solve conflict.”

A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. He pointed at me with the cigarette wedged between his fingers. “You and me dad would get along,” he stated.

Intrigued, I leaned in. “How so?”

He took a blow of his cigarette before he answered. “He’s a conscientious objector,” he said, breathing a plume of smoke.

“You clearly don’t share his sentiment,” I said, stirring my drink with the olive stick.

Tom curled his lips, a furrow etching between his brows, his finger flicking ashes into the ashtray. “Let’s just say it was either this or a stint in Her Majesty’s finest accommodation.” He rubbed his nose, a cocky sniff escaping him, as if the topic was bothersome. “Not exactly dad’s proudest moment.” His voice lowered somewhat, his fingers tapping atop the bar.

My eyes skimmed his fidgeting hands in contemplation. He’d enlisted for redemption, though I wasn’t exactly surprised he was a troublemaker, lacing him with even more intrigue than I had expected. 

The liquor flowed freely as he unraveled his story – his pacifist father, the ache of losing his mother young, his spirited sister who appeared to have stepped into their mother’s shoes. With each revelation, an invisible thread tightened between us, drawing our bodies closer, a silent conversation blooming beneath our skin.

By the time I finished my second martini, a reckless glint danced in my eyes, my fingers feeling daring and loose. They brushed down his arm while he was talking. My gaze flickered to his lips, a silent invitation. Tom, immersed in some topic I’d failed to keep up with, trailed his hand up my side absently, his fingers grazing my hips, up to my waist, his body radiating into me, my mind consumed by his scent as I attempted to focus on his words. 

A husky chuckle grazed my ear. “A bit bevvied, are we?” he whispered into it, his voice laced with amusement.

“Not any more than you,” I countered. 

“Pfft,” he said, frowning theatrically and pursing his lips. “I’m off the wagon.”

His hand drifted down my back, a single finger tracing a tempting path to my tailbone, the motion sending sparks downward. Desire flared within me, a wildfire consuming my inhibitions, fueled by the euphoric buzz of the alcohol. I leaned into him until I could feel his breath mixed with liquor and tobacco upon my lips. My fingers came up to his chest, my lips savoring his every breath like it was life itself. I just needed him to make a move. Close the gap between us. Draw his tongue into my mouth so that I could taste it. But he was still, ragged breaths fanning me, his muscles drawn taut beneath my fingers. 

“Fancy a change of scenery?” I whispered against his mouth. 

“Bet,” he mumbled, his voice thick, before creating distance between us, the electricity cut, sparking like static. His hand in mine, he steered me out of the pub, the night air a stark contrast to the heat that had been building inside me...

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Divider by: @saradika

A part 2 is planned soon!

[ethanfundraising]

What were your favorite wintertime activities as a child? What upcoming holidays do you celebrate? How do you celebrate? ❄️ Reblog and share in the tags.

“Hi. Please take a moment to read this. I am writing a post on behalf of @suad-khaled whose fundraiser has been stagnating and has only reached 50% despite her fundraising for several months. Suad has been verified by @/nabulsi and also by @northgazaupdates, you can read more about her and her struggles in the tag here.

Suad is an engineer who after graduating with top marks was also working as a university lecturer in her university. Just before the October 7th's accelerated genocide, she also found she was pregnant and was ready to also start this new chapter of her life.

Since the genocide, she and her husband have been displaced multiple times, escaping bombing narrowly in the process. In June she gave birth to baby Khaled and then immediately had to move to a tent with him. Suad and her baby both have been sick this year and her infant has suffered from malnutrition and chest infections in the first year of his life. The doctor recommended nebulising sessions for baby Khaled because of his chest infection and allergies which also ate into the family's limited funds.

Right now, despite facing constant hunger Suad is deeply worried about being able to afford diapers and formula for Khaled. Prices have quadrupled; a pack of 36 diapers now costs $50, and a can of formula is $13. Buying cheaper formula caused baby Khaled's health to worsen. This is also baby Khaled's first winter and he needs winter clothes.

Please, please support Suad and baby Khaled and help their fundraiser reach completion so that they are able to survive and evacuate from Gaza.”

(Thank you for the help with creating this post! I did not have the brain energy to come up with the right words, so this was written by a friend of a friend.)

💙 Reblog, Queue, Share 💙

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[always-just-red]

HIIIIII congrats on 200 followers!! Can I have a Zayne smut fic pleasee?? Like the reader sees him wearing scrubs for the first time and she finds him hot or (reverse) him seeing the reader in uniform for the first time? Thank you!!

Sorry it's taken me so long to get around to this! '200 followers' is like a punch in the face reminding me how long this has been in the queue haha, but thank you so much! ❤ I don't write smut I'm afraid but this is a quick lil build-up to a cliff-hanger, so if any of the talented smut writers out there wanna write a part 2? Go for it! And tag me so I can read it link it here for everyone to enjoy!! Smut writers, I summon you!!! ✨🔥✨🔥✨✨

Professionalism

Zayne x Reader ❄

Summary: You love a man in uniform! Or... well, scrubs or whatever.

Genre: Suggestive (not smut sorryyy)

Warnings/Additional tags: still PG i guess since it cuts off before anything happens? gn!reader, established relationship, inappropriate workplace behaviour (shame on you Dr Zayne!!)

| Word count: 1.7k | Masterlist | Opt-in to my taglist here!

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Love and Deepspace. All work is my own, so please don't repost or plagiarise!

You’re not quite sure when this game started, but you’re going to win.

It was unassuming at first— harmless, even innocent little acts that slipped into something else altogether, as they so often do. Almost like falling in love: it snuck up on you. Coincidences— a chance meeting in the park, an accidental brush of two hands— become suddenly calculated. You take the reins from fate; you walk in the park where he takes his lunch, and he takes his lunch in the park where you walk. How fortunate it is, that you’re always running into one another.

Yes, this has been like falling in love. And neither one of you is naïve.

It’s dark outside the hospital. The stars are contesting the scattered, infinite lights of Linkon and you watch them through a window, finding meanings and shapes. They’ve a warmer glow than the cold, white, clinical lights in here.

“Could I get you something while you wait?” Yvonne asks, peeking over the top of the reception desk. She sounds anxious, and you can make a pretty good guess as to why.

“I’m fine. Thank you, though, really,” you smile cheerfully back.

She humours you with one in return. “I’m sure Dr Zayne will be along shortly,” she titters nervously, trying to fill the quiet. “He was with his last patient of the round when I spoke to him. It shouldn’t have been too much trouble, he must be— ah! Dr Greyson!”

The man was just passing through, face buried in a clipboard, but he stops at Yvonne’s greeting.

You lift a hand. “Hey, Greyson.”

“Hey!” He squints at something he’s read. “What a coincidence! I was just saying to Zayne it’s been a while since you paid us a—” he looks up and loses his train of thought. 

“Visit?” you finish.

“Umm… yes,” he chuckles, with the kind of reluctance that tells you he can’t decide if he’s falling victim to some prank. It’s the same anxiousness you’ve inflicted on poor Yvonne. He tests the waters with a: “Rough day at work?”

You beam at him. You’re sat with your usually pristine uniform marred by swathes of half-dried blood, too dark to be human. Not one bit of it is yours. By some miracle, you managed to perfectly dodge every swipe of that Wanderer’s claws today. Rolled out the way of every flying piece of rubble. “You should see the other guy,” you say, then double back, “well, the other thing.”

Greyson gives a stiff grin, still sceptical, but you’ve almost won him over. Nonchalantly, you reach for one of two brown paper bags at your side, then hold it out to him. “Here, for you!”

He tucks his clipboard under his arm, then comes over and takes it. There’s a soft crinkle as he unfurls the top. Sneaks a glance inside. His face lights up. “Thank you,” he enthuses, his hand diving in to retrieve a large chocolate-chip cookie— one of many. “Yvonne, would you like—”

She holds up her own paper bag. Greyson chuckles again, tucking into the treat. Like Zayne, he’s prone to working through his breaks, and you know he’s so often starving. Midway through a bite, he looks up at you, frowning. “Is this a bribe?” he mumbles, cheeks so full you almost can’t make out the question.

You smile at him pleasantly.

He chews slowly— connecting the dots. “No questions asked?” he guesses with a raised eyebrow.

“No questions asked,” you nod.

It’s a fair trade. The cardiac surgeon thinks it over, his eyes narrowed at you behind his glasses. He takes another suspenseful bite of the cookie. Chews. Swallows. Then there’s the broadest grin you’ve seen yet. “Works for me! I don’t want to know.”

With a nod to Yvonne, he carries on down the corridor, shooting you a knowing wink as he passes. You adore that man. Hell, half the hospital staff feel like family. You’d lay down your life for them, but you also delight in having them wrapped around your finger, albeit, with the help of a cookie or two.

You’re so busy watching Greyson leave that you don’t notice his absence has already been filled. Not at first, anyway, but then you feel it: hazel eyes on you.

You turn to meet them. Zayne stands, one hand curled around a small stack of paperwork, the other retrieving his glasses from his face. He tucks them into his breast pocket. “What a pleasant surprise,” he says, and the enthusiasm has been carved out of his words and replaced with suspicion.

“Hey, doctor,” you tease, lifting the last of your care packages from the coffee table. “Thought I’d join you for your break before I head home. Do you mind?”

His gaze flits over you, and it isn’t the honourable inspection he’d claim it to be if you dared call him out on it. He’s trying not to look again. “Of course not.”

This would usually earn you a sheepish smile, or a kiss on the cheek, but you’re angling for something else today. Victory. Look at him: he knows.

Like you said, neither one of you is naïve.

…

All right— knife to your throat?— you have an inkling as to how this started.

It was a more honest version of this: you’d stopped by the hospital, a few months ago, to boost the morale of a certain doctor and his hard-working team with some coffee from down the road. The machine in the staff room was broken, and by multiple accounts: made shitty coffee, anyway. So you often found yourself, hot drinks in hand, trying to catch Zayne on one of his few breaks.

(You miss that old coffee machine. They’ve replaced it, now.)

One morning, you were a little too late. Zayne had been called on to assist with a surgery, and you almost clashed in the corridor— you hadn’t recognised him at first. He was out of his usual attire: dressed head to toe in his medical scrubs. Despite the rush he was in, he made time to flash you a gentle smile. Said you could wait in his office; he wouldn’t be long.

You never did give a coherent answer. There was something about seeing him like that— so professional, so in his element. Off to save someone’s life, probably. Gods, he was amazing, and he just looked so, so good. 

Zayne knew from the start, of course; he’s so perceptive when it comes to you.

You used to feel guilty— positively sinful— until you caught that look in his eye, one day after work. You’d gotten to his place, kicked your boots off while he watched from the couch, enamoured, but you hadn’t noticed. You’d been complaining about a Wanderer. You were a mess: your hair, your uniform.

You remember looking up, and there it was. A flicker of something dark in his gaze.

He was quick to disguise it. Always quick to disguise it, because he’s a gentleman.

It’s been an unspoken war of attrition since then, and you’re both determined to outlast the other. You pick and choose your battles; there are times Xavier tries to drag you to the Association’s medics for surface scrapes and bruises, but you turn him down: you have a doctor at home, thank you very much.

Zayne tends to every wound with tight lips and steady hands. You’d feel bad, but…

He sometimes turns up to your dates still wearing his lab coat. (He left his regular coat at home again, and it’s cold outside, isn’t it? A lab coat is better than nothing.)

Last week, he really pushed his luck. He was demonstrating a new experimental technique in the operating theatre, and Greyson insisted you come along to watch. It was so innovative, he said. Zayne was working something of a miracle, he said.

So here you are, fighting back.

“Well?” Zayne asks. He’s sitting back in his chair while you ‘straighten’ his tie.

You’re perched on his desk, not listening. “Hmm?”

He catches your hand gently, using it to pull you closer, so you’re forced to meet his eyes. His tone is low. “What did I just say?”

You glance down again. Chuckle: “Something about responsibility?” 

A finger lifts your chin, tilting your gaze back up. “It’s inappropriate,” Zayne says.

“What’s inappropriate?”

“You know what you’re doing.”

“No,” you mutter, and the finger on your chin can’t keep you from staring at his lips. You speak a whisper of enticement: “Tell me what I’m doing.”

Will he do it— say it— after all this time? Put it to words so that it might finally be acted upon? Break, you will him, looking into his eyes, because the last stunt he pulled pushed you over the edge, and you can’t hold on much longer. It’s starting to hurt.

All in. You are going to fall, so you’ve got nothing to lose by trying to bring him down with you.

“It’s just a uniform, Zayne,” you smile innocently. “But if it bothers you that much… I could always take it off.”

Your doctor stares at you, his expression refusing to melt. Then he lets out a sigh. In the beat of a heart he’s up out of his chair, striding away from his desk, away from you.

“Zayne?”

Now he’s not listening. He’s by the door, taking his lab coat down from a hook and threading his arms through the sleeves. He fixes the cuffs, straightens it, but that’s where the motions of habit end. His fingers don’t make it to the buttons, and of course you notice; you’re not naïve.

Zayne turns to you, and there’s no disguising that look in his eyes and its common counterpart: a rare, inevitable smile. Complete surrender. He locks the door with a click.

Ha.

You were always going to win, weren’t you?

[sengardet]

Don't Answer the Door

You are startled awake by a knock on your door. The clock on your nightstand reads 3:13 AM, and your heart flutters in your chest from the jarring disturbance. Groggy, you fumble for the light switch, blinking against the sudden brightness in your living room. The knocking continues.

Feeling a swell of unease, you approach the door. Peering through the peephole, you see two figures in dark suits, their posture rigid, their faces concealed by the distorting glass. You can’t make out any details—only that they’re official, authoritative, and impatient.

Your mind races. No one comes by at this hour for trivial reasons. You open the door with caution, pressing yourself against the frame. The two individuals stand in the hallway, their expressions cold, unreadable. They flash government identification so quickly you barely catch the emblem—some military or paramilitary organization you do not recognize. The taller of the two thrusts a crisp white envelope toward you without a word.

“Sign here,” the shorter one orders, voice devoid of emotion. You glance at the proffered documents, your stomach churning. Its heading reads: “Summons for Immediate Conscription: Experimental Soldier Program.”

Your eyes flick from the paper to their stern faces. “This… must be a mistake,” you begin, your voice trembling with the aftershocks of being yanked from slumber. “I’m just a civilian. I’m not in the reserves—or the military at all.”

Neither agent reacts. Reluctantly, you press the pen to the document and sign where indicated, wondering if you even have a choice.

“Report to the specified facility at dawn,” the taller agent informs you. “Any delay will be treated as desertion.”

They leave as swiftly as they arrived, departing down the hallway without further explanation. The words “compulsory conscription” and “Experimental Soldier Program” practically burn themselves into your mind.

An hour of restless pacing follows. Yes, you’re in good physical shape; you lift, you run track, you’ve taken pride in sculpting your body. But you’re no fighter.

The directive is clear, and the hour is growing late. Knowing you can’t escape this, you make a feeble attempt to sleep again, but every time you close your eyes, you imagine the two agents’ stony faces.

At dawn, you force yourself out the door and head to the address included in the summons.

When you finally arrive, armed guards greet you with silent scrutiny. Past the barbed-wire gate, past an austere courtyard, you’re directed into a squat, concrete building. Inside, the corridors are utilitarian, lined with unmarked doors and glaring fluorescent lights that hum incessantly.

They guide you to a large, steel-gray reception hall. On one side, you see a queue of grim-faced men and women—some in military fatigues, others looking as out-of-place as you do, obviously civilians. At the front of this line, bored clerks at desks check documents and stamp papers. An official gestures for you to join the line.

When your turn comes, a clerk scans the barcode from your summons, then passes your file to someone else who breezes through it silently.

“Fitness aptitude but no military training. Conscript assigned to Medical Research Trials.” He glances at you impassively. “Report to Lab Sixteen—down the west corridor, second right.”

You blink, swallowing hard. So they don’t intend to toss you into the battlefield. You almost feel relief. Almost. But something about “Medical Research Trials” feels equally foreboding. You muster a shaky nod, following the corridor signs that lead deeper into the facility.

Your footsteps echo as you move forward, unsure who to address. Eventually, a freckled redheaded woman—her hair pulled into a tight bun—approaches you. Her freckled nose crinkles with a faint smile that tries to be warm but only heightens your unease.

“You must be the new one,” she says, studying a tablet. “Come with me. I’m Dr. Whitley.”

At the center of this room, under harsh lights, stands an examination bed fitted with thick leather restraints. The sight of those straps makes your pulse spike. You glance at Dr. Whitley, suddenly desperate for answers. But before you can voice your concerns, a slender, disheveled-looking male assistant guides you to the table.

“Right this way,” he says politely, gesturing for you to lie down. When you hesitate, Dr. Whitley murmurs, “Just a precaution. The procedures can sometimes trigger involuntary thrashing.”

The assistant carefully loops the leather restraints around your wrists, over your biceps, across your torso, and around your ankles.

Your voice cracks with tension. “Is this—truly necessary?”

Dr. Whitley lifts a hand, as though to soothe an anxious animal. “We’ll be quick,” she says softly. “You’ll be perfectly fine.”

Fine. The word rattles uselessly in your mind. The overhead lights glare, making you squint as your heart pounds in your ears. You hear scuffles around you—other lab personnel filing in. A brunette in thick-rimmed glasses approaches with a calm, professional demeanor. She doesn’t bother asking permission before removing your shirt, her fingers lingering on your skin in an oddly reverent way. On your exposed chest, she places sticky electrodes connected to an EKG machine. You glimpse the display in your peripheral vision, its lines jumping in time with your pulse.

Thery pay no attention to the obvious distress expressed in your frantic heartbeat. Dr. Whitley studies the readout, tapping on her tablet. “Has the subject’s DNA been preserved so we can proceed with the experiment?” she asks aloud.

“Yes,” the male assistant replies. “We have the sample and the baseline data from their file.”

Dr. Whitley sets aside her tablet. “All right. Let’s see how that extraordinary physique holds up.” There’s a subtle, disconcerting excitement glimmering in her eyes.

The brunette with glasses retrieves another device—a small ultrasound probe. She applies a cool gel across your sternum and gently presses the wand against your pounding heart. On a nearby monitor, a grayscale image of your heart appears, pulsing and contracting in real time. You watch with wide eyes, unsettled by how intimate this glimpse inside your body feels—especially when you’re strapped down and powerless.

“Look at this,” Dr. Whitley murmurs. She points to the screen, where the shape of your heart flickers in contoured lines. "The ventricular wall dimensions are on the upper end relative to its advance size, but not constrictive."

The brunette nods, adjusting her thick glasses as she studies the display. "The heart rate is elevated now, but that's to be expected given the circumstances."

The redhead approaches the monitor more closely. "Optimistic about those contractions as well."

Lost in the moment, you feel a prick in your arm as the brunette fixes an IV port, and then there’s a sharp sting when she injects a cocktail of liquid that feels alarmingly warm. Within seconds, your heart pounds faster, harder.

A beep on the EKG intensifies, becoming frantic. Your breath hitches, sweat beading on your forehead. You can almost feel the wave of chemicals coursing through your veins.

“Look at the response,” the brunette exclaims softly, adjusting a dial. “We’re climbing steadily. Those contractions you like are getting stronger.” She says with a smile to Dr. Whitley.

You try to control your breathing, but the flooding anxiety sends your respiration into ragged, shallow gasps. Dr. Whitley steps closer, placing her hand against your slick chest. The warmth of her palm contrasts with the cool gel, and you can tell she’s feeling your heartbeat directly, pressing down just enough to sense every contraction.

“Oh, feel that,” she breathes, voice tinged with a near-reverent awe. “It’s wild—like a caged animal.”

A strangled whimper escapes you, your vision swimming. Each thunderous palpitation grows more forceful than the last. The edges of your awareness blur as the room spins. In the background, you hear them discussing your “incredible baseline,” the range they can push, the data sets they need to gather. Words like “glycosides” and “tolerance thresholds” begin to blur into an indecipherable haze.

Driven by equal parts horror and instinct, you struggle against the restraints. The leather digs into your wrists and ankles, unyielding. Dr. Whitley’s hand remains firmly over your chest, her demeanor more predatory now, a thin-lipped smile curving her freckled cheeks.

She glances at the brunette. “You said it yourself—I’ve always had a soft spot for strong hearts.” Her fingertip draws slow circles against your pectoral muscle. “There’s something so intimate about feeling another person’s life force like this, beating under your hand.”

The brunette’s mouth quivers with a grin. “Just don’t push too hard,” she cautions. “We need the subject alive for continued data collection.”

As if on cue, you feel another searing jolt of medication surge through the IV. Your body jolts. The beeping on the EKG ratchets up a notch.

From the corner of your eye, you see the dark haired man scribble notes: “Heart rate: 190… 200… 210…” His voice is a clinical drone. “Ventricular function… strong but nearing upper limit.”

Dr. Whitley leans over you again, studying your face. The overhead light draws harsh shadows across her features, making her freckles stand out like dark flecks of rust. “You’re doing very well,” she coos, as if praising a prized lab animal. “Just a bit more, and we’ll have what we need for this session.”

Her words run through your oxygen-starved mind. Session. That means there’s more to come.

You barely register the next injection into your IV port, only the jolt that makes your chest seize momentarily. The EKG squeals in response, and you tremble against the straps, moaning through gritted teeth, begging them to stop. Dr. Whitley presses down again, feeling the frantic pulse beneath her palm.

“Beautiful,” she whispers, more to herself than anyone else. “So strong… so determined to live.”

The brunette nods, stepping away to analyze real-time data on a monitor. “We have enough for the day’s baseline,” she says. “Let’s stabilize, then prepare for the biopsy this afternoon.”

Biopsy. The word jolts you, fanning the embers of your terror. Before you can beg for mercy—though in your core, you suspect it would be futile—your body is swept in a hazy wave of sedation. Some new mixture floods your veins. The tension in your muscles goes slack, your eyelids drooping.

The next time you regain awareness, it’s all at once. No gentle easing into reality—just a sudden, blinding rush of fluorescent light overhead, a wave of antiseptic stench, and the cold press of metal beneath your back.

Gradually, your vision clarifies enough to see Dr. Whitley leaning over you. Her red hair is pinned in a messy bun this time, stray curls framing her freckled cheeks. She’s not wearing the typical neutral expression of a physician. Instead, she looks… enraptured.

“You gave us quite a scare,” she murmurs, almost intimately. Her gloved hand lifts from somewhere around your sternum—or what should be your sternum. She steps aside, momentarily revealing the open cavity of your chest.

Your mind screams at the sight. Even in your near-sedated state, you realize you’re looking at your exposed ribcage—no, not exactly that, either. Metal retractors hold apart what must be the edges of your chest wall. And within that space… something wet and pink is beating, pulsing in a disturbingly recognizable rhythm.

Oh God, that’s your heart.

Terror floods you, but your body remains mostly limp, pinned by sedation and perhaps other restraints you cannot even feel. You try to shout, to ask what they’ve done, but only a thin, rattling exhalation escapes your lips.

“Shh,” Dr. Whitley soothes, sliding back into your line of sight. She’s wearing a surgical cap and mask, though the mask is tugged down just enough to reveal her mouth in a small, pleased smile. “You’re stable. We had to open your chest to resuscitate you effectively and examine some… structural qualities. Your heart is larger than we anticipated—stronger, too. But it needed a little help.”

As if on cue, you feel an odd tickle, and then something cold glides across the surface of that beating mass. You cannot feel your chest wall, but the raw sense of motion resonates through your body. You’re excruciatingly aware that your heart is outside your body’s normal protection.

A fresh wave of adrenaline floods your system, or maybe it’s something Dr. Whitley just injected into your IV. She sets a large syringe down, and her expression brightens with a frightening, clinical enthusiasm. “Your heart’s conduction system is still reactive,” she tells another figure you barely register to her left—a nurse? An assistant? You’re too disoriented to focus. “But we want to see how it holds up under high-stress conditions. Given what happened earlier, I want to push it carefully this time.”

Careful doesn’t describe what happens next. Dr. Whitley places her hand flat against your heart—your actual heart—and the sensation buckles your mind. There’s a moment of primal panic, the knowledge that someone’s palm is physically in contact with the essence of your life, your existence. Her grip isn’t rough, but it’s firm enough that each beat is transmitted right into her glove, and you can tell she’s measuring every contraction.

She flicks a switch on the IV line. Immediately, your heart rate spikes. A trembling quake runs through your arms, and you gasp for air, which you can only half pull into your lungs. The EKG machine to the side chirps faster, almost frantic. Your heart pounds, straining against her palm.

She glances at the monitors. “Good,” she breathes. “Strong sinus rhythm at 120… 130… climbing.” Her green eyes gleam, half-lidded in fascination. “Let’s aim for 180. Then I’ll begin defibrillator testing.”

Defibrillator testing. The phrase sends a jolt of dread through your drug-clouded thoughts. Normally, defibrillation is used to restore a normal heartbeat when it’s lost, but she wants to test your heart’s “electrical resistance” at an accelerated rate. Alarm bells ring in your mind, but your limbs remain numb to commands. Whatever sedation they’ve used keeps you still, but tragically conscious.

With an eerie calm, Dr. Whitley slips a slender paddle-like device from a sterile tray nearby. It’s an internal defibrillator paddle, smaller than the usual external paddles but no less capable of delivering a massive shock. She holds it close to the apex of your heart, her other hand bracing gently against the organ’s side. On a separate console, the dark-haired assistant raises the charge level, reading out numbers that blend into a horrifying litany: “50 joules… 75… 100.”

At that moment, your heart is galloping near 180 beats per minute, each contraction rattling your half-open ribcage. Dr. Whitley nods once. The assistant presses a button.

The current slams into your heart like a tidal wave. Your vision goes white, and your body jerks upward despite the sedation. Even your respiratory attempts stall. For a second, your heart surges out of rhythm, thrashing erratically. The EKG squeals. It’s unclear whether it’s going to recover or slip into another flatline.

Dr. Whitley pulls back, checking the monitors and the limp spasm of your heart. “Sinus conversion… no, it’s fibrillating. Increase the energy in increments of 20 joules.”

Another shock. Your entire chest cavity—what remains of it—contracts violently. The wet muscle of your heart convulses under the contact. Stars explode in your vision. Even your mind, dulled by sedation, can barely cling to consciousness. Then the monitors beep in that dreaded monotone again: a flatline.

“No,” Dr. Whitley hisses, as though scolding your heart for not cooperating. “We’re not done.”

She drops the defibrillator paddle and quickly gestures for a different tool. In your delirium, you see it flash silver: a large syringe, maybe adrenaline or some specialized stimulant. She rams it directly into the muscle of your heart with a practiced jab. The sharp invasion of the needle conjures a swirl of nauseous dread in your gut.

The EKG remains flat. Gritting her teeth, Dr. Whitley removes the syringe and does something both primeval and intimately horrifying: she begins manually pumping your heart in her hands. Wrapping her gloved fingers around the unresponsive muscle, she squeezes it rhythmically, trying to coax it back into beating. Each squeeze makes your mind spin—an unnatural, nauseating feeling of an external force attempting to animate your core.

“Come on,” she mutters, her focus absolute. “Respond!”

A flicker. The EKG hiccups with an uneven beep. Then another. Your battered heart twitches, as though deciding whether to obey or give up entirely. With another firm compression from Dr. Whitley’s hands, it makes a feeble attempt at a beat on its own. The flatline disappears, replaced by slow, uncertain pulses.

“Good,” she praises softly, practically massaging your heart to guide it. “There we are. You’re too strong to quit now.”

Fresh sedation is introduced into your system. You find you can breathe slightly easier, but your chest remains unfeeling, your mind caught in the dreadful awareness of her manipulations. Slowly, your heart stabilizes, though it’s weaker than before. The EKG reads a tenuous sinus rhythm around 80 beats per minute, far from the explosive 180 that had been forced upon it.

You feel her shift her grip on your heart, and then you sense the clamp hooking around something thick and vital. The aorta. She’s actually holding it between her fingers. Despite the sedation, your body tries to recoil on pure reflex, but you can only twitch in your restraints.

Dr. Whitley gently pinches the top of your aorta. “Let’s see how it handles slight occlusion,” she remarks, applying pressure. The EKG spikes with a ragged beep as your heart works harder to push blood through the newly restricted vessel.

“Hmm,” she muses, narrowing her eyes at the monitor. “Systolic pressure is… quite high. That’s very good. Let’s test its elasticity.”

She transitions from using her fingers to applying the clamp. The metal jaws bite into your aorta with measured tension. Your struggling heart falters for a beat, then resumes, pumping fiercely against the partial blockage. The beeping grows frantic again.

Every contraction feels sharper in your remaining sense of your chest cavity—like a muffled wave of pressure fighting against an immovable dam. You can’t produce a coherent scream, but your mouth hangs open in silent torment. You vaguely hear Dr. Whitley ordering the assistant to record the new data points: “Mark the pressure reading at clamp intervals of 10 mmHg. We’ll see how far we can push before distention becomes dangerous.”

She tightens the clamp further. Another beep from the monitors. Your heart lurches like a panicked animal. She glances over with a satisfied curve to her lips. “Remarkably strong,” she comments, the same way a mechanic might admire a high-performance engine. “Even with partial occlusion, it’s still pushing blood efficiently. I wonder if we can refine those glycoside cocktails to build even more force…”

“There,” Dr. Whitley murmurs to someone behind her. “Look at the state of it now. Fat, bloated, and vascular—thoroughly engorged.” She shakes her head in a kind of clinical wonder. “Beautiful, really… It’s still trying valiantly, despite the occlusion.”

“What admirable resilience,” Dr. Whitley says softly, leaning closer, her hand pressing lightly on the top of your heart. Even with sedation muting your pain, the sensation of her gloved palm against the bare muscle is almost unspeakably perverse. “Squeezing so hard… but every contraction meets that clamp.”

She nods to the assistant, and you feel a subtle release of pressure—just a fraction. Your heart leaps, as if starved for the chance to push out a full volume of blood. The relief is fleeting, though, because Dr. Whitley doesn’t actually remove the clamp; she merely adjusts it, letting a bit more blood pass. You can sense your heart throbbing, swelling, pressing outward to fill the newfound space. It’s horrifyingly intimate, feeling that muscle balloon, gulping blood to send it through.

“Look how it squirms,” Dr. Whitley murmurs with a note of awe. it’s struggling to recover from the partial strangulation, but it’s not giving up. Fascinating.”

Through half-lidded eyes, you watch her mouth curve into something like a smile. She curls her fingers around the device, then deftly snaps it off. The clamp—or whatever contraption was occluding your aorta—releases fully. Your heart, no longer choked, thumps in a series of relief pulses that ripple through the cavity. It expands and contracts in robust waves, as if gulping in fresh life. The EKG responds with a higher, steadier pitch, though still faster than normal.

“There we are,” Dr. Whitley says, voice lowered to a near purr. “Look at it—so vigorous now, flushed with blood. The contractions are returning.”

Her hand slides across the muscle’s surface, and you feel your heart spasm under the contact. Another wave of cold floods through your IV, no doubt her doing. Your pulse spikes in response, thumping erratically for a moment until it finds a new, unnatural rhythm. Heat flushes your face, mixing with the chills of terror and the sedation in your veins. Each beat rings like thunder, as if you can hear it in your ears, sense it in your skull.

The difference is staggering—where moments ago your heart was strangled, now it’s unleashed, each contraction deep and forceful. In a sickening way, the sensation is almost euphoric. Your battered organ is desperate to reassert itself. It seizes the chance, pumping with renewed vigor, and the relief is so abrupt it’s disorienting.

Dr. Whitley observes every surge, measuring the bounding pulses with her other hand, as though she can count each gush of blood in her palm. “Incredible,” she whispers. “This subject’s heart is among the most reactive I’ve ever seen. No matter how hard we push it, it clings to survival with remarkable ferocity.”

The assistant steps forward to check the monitors, adjusting dials that control fluid drips, sedation levels, and stimulants. “Systolic normalizing,” he announces, scanning a readout. “If you’d like to proceed with additional tests—”

Dr. Whitley silences him with a subtle gesture, then gives a slight shake of her head. “No, not just yet. Let it recover. I want to see how it manages on its own for a moment.”

She eases her gloved hand around the apex of your heart, as though cradling a fragile artifact. Each throb jars you—mentally, physically, spiritually—knowing she’s effectively holding your life in her grip. Though there’s no direct pain, the knowledge of your vulnerability is more excruciating than any scalpel cut.

Time passes in weighted moments, each of your heartbeats echoing in your ears and throughout the lab. Dr. Whitley hums under her breath, enthralled by the motion of the muscle. The rest of the lab staff stands at quiet attention, letting her examine the heart’s unsubdued recovery. With each contraction, the organ flares, glistening under the intense lights—again, you’re thankful for the sedation that keeps raw agony at bay, but the mental horror is still enough to make your head swim.

“Admirable,” Dr. Whitley repeats, though more softly now. “It’s as though it’s reclaiming lost territory. Even after repeated shocks, high-pressure occlusions, forced arrests… it beats like it wants to take on the world.”

She runs a careful finger along an engorged coronary. “Look how enlarged these are,” she remarks, addressing no one in particular. “They’re inflated, carrying blood to a heart that refuses to quit. Note the color—rich and oxygenated. Subject’s hemoglobin count is higher than baseline, likely a response to the repeated stress.”

Her words blur into clinical jargon. Your eyelids slide lower, sedation tugging you back to semiconsciousness. For a dreadful moment, you see every ripple in the wet muscle, the branching veins like a labyrinth of dark lines feeding the organ.