#Slide Staining Machine

[biogenex-laboratories-blog]

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[laboidasia]

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[elezalabmate]

Automated Tissue Slide Stainer LMATS-A100

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[readwritealldayallnight]

Declined

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Reader

wc: 9.2k words (whoopsies)

warnings/tags: 18+ MDNI, stalker!Simon but he does it with the intention of loving you so therefore I also tag this as fluff, the usual swearing, smut, f!oral receiving, p in v sex, unprotected sex, finishing inside

Continuation of this idea

He almost hadn’t seen you, that very first time

He was begrudgingly on his sixth day of mandatory leave, something he had been pushing Price on for too long now, the Captain finally putting his foot down and saying the Lieutenant could no longer avoid it. Following a couple of particularly brutal operations recently, the higher ups were becoming increasingly concerned as to his mental stability, stating Ghost’s actions and his own written reports reflected an impulsivity and darkness they were steadily losing confidence in.

Ghost found the claims ridiculous. They had shaped him into exactly what they needed him to be on the battlefield, hadn’t they? They’d taken the scrawny runt of the litter and shaped him into a lean, mean, killing machine who never blinked twice as the blood of those lives he’d taken became as permanent of a stain on his skin as the ink from a tattoo gun. What did they fuckin’ care how his bloody mental health was?

Price insisted that the younger man not sulk inside of his flat for the entire duration of what he tried to convince him could be treated as a well deserved rest, encouraging him to get out at least once a day, if only to stretch his legs and prevent him from going truly stir crazy.

“Ye do understand they won’t let you back until they think you’re at least tryin’ to put the work in?” The Captain had told him the last time he saw him, doing his best to remind his second in command of the situation they’d been put into. “Take up fuckin’ yoga if ye think it’ll help ye. Just find something to distract yer mind and have them clear ye to come back sooner than later.”

A distraction huh?

Now, he’s sat at a table in the corner of an already too small and too cramped cafe, nursing a less than mediocre cup of tea on his daily outing, only just looking to help pass the time faster until he could be back on base where he belonged. For no particular reason other than perhaps divine intervention, he had only happened to glance up that time the bell above the door rang rather than the other hundred times it had gone off this morning, and that was when Ghost saw you

You, who appeared as though you’d only stumbled into the shop because a strong gust of wind had pushed you in his direction, your skittish, frazzled appearance making you stand out amongst the crowd of bored looking caffeine addicts stood waiting in queue, hardly sparing you a glance as they awaited their next 5£ fix

You were pushing your hair out of your face as you caught your breath, accompanied by the sound of the bell ringing as the door finally shut behind you, a noise nearly akin to angels strumming their harps up above when Ghost caught his first proper glimpse of your visage

There was something about you that piqued his interest then and there, his eyes never leaving you as you continuously struggled with the stack of books, journals and loose papers nearly slipping from your grasp, your other arm occupied with the so full it could burst tote bag that kept sliding off your shoulder

He had to stop himself from actually scoffing at your appearance, you came across as so opposite to how he carries himself, silent and stealthy, cool and collected, priding himself on being able to slip in and out of rooms unnoticed, even with his huge frame. And here you were, stumbling in like a bull in a china shop and appearing before him like the epitome of a hot mess on legs

He watched you the entire time you stood in queue, he watched you place your order and pay, noting the way his cold, dead to the world heart tried to skip a beat when you smiled at the barista, he watched you glance about the cafe as you waited for your beverage, your gaze somehow never landing on the one that had been focused on you since you walked in

Now, there are countless explanations as to why Ghost did what he did next, many of them could be explained away as being innocent enough, no real ill-intent or harm done, the Lieutenant was simply bored and looking for something to occupy his time with, to entertain his mind, like the higher ups had ordered

Unfortunately for you, he believed he had just found his distraction

It was really almost too easy, any simple civilian could have done it, his SAS skills not even needing to come into play you were making this so simple for him, you might as well have been asking for it

First, he saw your eyes light up when the barista called your name out along with your drink order, giving Ghost the first half of the information he needed. Next, he was watching you walk by his table to collect your beverage, paying him no mind at all as he glanced towards the stack in your arms, your last name practically popping out at him from the top corners of nearly all your loose papers, granting the large men exactly what he’d been hoping to see

You were none the wiser as you happily skipped out of the cafe, bidding the girl behind the counter a happy Sunday along the way, unaware as to the pair of eyes following your every movement, and the traumatized mind behind them who had already begun his plotting

One week

Seven days go by since that first Sunday he saw you in the cafe

And in that time, Simon’s kept himself busy, learning as much as he can about his newest distraction, his new little hobby, his pet project

Equipped with your first and last name tucked into the folds of his brain, it had been all too simple, nearly comical how easy it was for Ghost to look you up online and learn all he wanted to know about you

Thanks to the world wide web, in a weeks time Ghost had been able to discover all those essential details he supposes other men would have had to learn through taking you on date after date, finding out which school you’re attending for your masters degree, gaining access to your class schedule, giving him a glimpse into your routine Mondays through Fridays, discovering which local book store you’re working at part time on the weekends

You’re evidently a clever bird, having your few social media accounts set to private mode, but you’re sweet to think something like that could keep someone like him from getting what he wants

Soon enough, he’s got access to every photo and video you’ve ever uploaded to the web through the years, happy to note that you’ve never posted anything that would hint towards there being a man in your life right now

And really, it isn’t entirely your fault that you’re so open and honest in some of your posts, believing that no one apart from your family and close friends will be reading it, as you had excitedly posted photos of your new apartment last year, writing in the caption how you were eager to start this new chapter of your life, living on your own, all by yourself, not even a dog to keep you company when the floor boards creak at night and branches tap against the windows, just and old blind cat you’d rescued

While your friends had commented on how cute and cozy your decor had been, his own eyes skipped over the overpriced pillows and throws and instead locked on to the windows and doors, noting the standard, or altogether missing, security systems in place

Ghost is thinking about what the easiest way to gain access to your flat’s floor plan would be, he could pretend he’s an interested tenant and reach out to the landlord, hmm but then he’d have to actually talk to someone, something he’s been able to avoid doing so far, avoid leaving any trace- when the sound of the bell ringing above the door lets him know you’ve walked in

Much like last time, his eyes following your figure is the only perceptible movement he allowed himself, guarded by the shadows of his hood over his head, no one would ever be able to notice the steadfast attention he pays to your every single movement

You spend a total of 9 minutes 38 seconds in the cafe this time around, from the time you enter until you’re walking back out with your warm drink in hand, each second being ingrained into Ghost’s mind

A small part of him had almost tried to fool himself in the beginning, attempting to convince himself that this would be enough, learning about a curious little bird from behind a screen and silently watching her bounce around a coffee shop once a week should have been enough to keep his warring mind occupied, to keep the Lieutenant distracted until the higher ups decided enough time had passed to offer him a chance back

That was until, he’d heard you laugh

You were nearly out of the cafe, so close to being an itch he could almost consider satisfyingly scratched and over with, when a woman and her overzealous toddler came bounding round the corner, practically knocking into you with your full arms

But rather than becoming upset at your nearly spilled drink or almost ruined academic papers, you reassured the woman, got down to the tots level to make sure they were alright, and then you laughed with them

Your fucking giggle was to him what children heard when the ice cream truck came driving by, your smile stretching further than it previously had before his eyes, your voice sounding as melodic as the bell above the door did, and that was when Ghost knew, he was fucked

All of the world’s information online couldn’t put into words what he was seeing in front of him with his own two tired eyes; you were sweet

Too sweet, tooth-achingly sweet, sweet enough to trust this cold, dark world and offer it a bright smile in return

He’s seen people killed for far, far less

But not you

He wouldn’t allow such a cruel fate to befall such a darling bird, he wanted to keep you sweet, keep you smiling and giggling without worries of predators watching from the shadows, mouths salivating and jaws itching to clamp down on something soft

Not when you’d flown to close to him twice now, near enough that he can practically feel the wind beneath your wings as you float out of the cafe again, unaware that you’ve stepped into the large, gilded cage that is Ghost’s attention

Another week passes

Ghost takes his curiosity away onto the streets for the first time and counts to sixty before he follows you out of the coffee shop that Sunday, careful to stick close to the buildings and shadows, mingling in with the crowds and keeping a reasonable distance from you as he follows in your steps

He lurks near the crowded bust stop across the street from the moment you walk into your shift at the bookshop, and remains there until the second you step back out hours later, locking up the store behind you and beginning your stroll home

He waits outside your flat, noting which window on the second floor lights up with the soft glow of a lamp not long after you venture into the building, letting him know exactly which one is yours, and which one he’ll be keeping a close eye on from now on

Another week passes

Ghost has most of your routine memorized by now

He knows what time you leave in the morning depending on your classes that day, knows you often don’t make it home until after dark on those days

He knows your shifts at the bookstore every weekend never change, with your Sunday morning visits to the cafe before work being one of the few luxuries you apparently allow yourself

Ghost hangs around your flat often enough that he allows some of the neighbours to begin recognizing him in passing, letting them assume he must live in the building as well

All the better for him really, when the nice older couple doesn’t blink twice as he carefully grumbles about being locked out one night and they grant him their key code to unlock the front doors

Another week passes

Ghost knows you’ve been complaining to your landlord about how the building’s laundry machines are giving you a hard time, though you don’t tell the balding man about how it seems your undergarments are the only thing disappearing from your loads-

He knows where you do your shopping, and how you avoid a certain cashier who never gets the hint when you don’t return his attempts at flirting

He knows your Sunday morning coffee order by heart, knows exactly around what time you’ll be popping into the cafe, always around 8:25am before your 9am shift stocking books six blocks away

Another week passes

Ghost knows you haven’t noticed yet that the nuisance of a cashier at your local grocer hasn’t shown up to work in days now, the Lieutenant having ensured that he wouldn’t be bothering you anymore

He knows you’re running low on panties, considering he has nearly an entire weeks worth of your unwashed garments tucked safely in his nightstand

He knows you’ve started to notice the door leading out to your second storey balcony isn’t always locked when you return home, even though you could have sworn it was secured before you left that morning

He knows you’ve begun to question whether you left that lamp on when you rushed out for school, or if you’d closed your bedroom curtains before bed at night, or where those leftovers in the fridge went-

Ghost knows it’s nearly time to act - his clever bird is slowly catching on as he grows less and less careful, more daring - but it’s on one of those nights that he feels bold enough to slide your balcony door ajar enough for him to slide inside and watch your chest rise and fill with each breath as you sleep peacefully unaware, that his phone rings and nearly ruins everything

It was only in recent weeks that Ghost felt confident enough, or perhaps stupid enough his Captain say, to observe you more closely, taking a more ‘hands-on’ approach. At night, he more often than not occupied the nooks and crannies of your domicile as you tossed and turned in your sleep, mere steps away from the man who simply wished to watch you dream for now

He can’t explain his fascination with you even to himself - it’s as if he awoke one morning to discover he- someone had drilled a hole into his skull and poured your liquid form directly into his cranium

He sometimes wishes you were as easy to catch as a common insect, wishes that he could examine you under a microscope, to pin your extremities down and take a scalpel to your soft flesh to finally peer inside and see what makes you tick- but he knows he must tread lightly, keep you from bleeding out on the table too soon

Always careful and sure of his movements as he inched your bedroom door open that night, he had been preoccupied on watching you for any sudden indication of disturbing and waking you, he’d been entirely caught off guard by the sudden buzzing going off in his pocket

He hadn’t been expecting anything from his cell that night, considering that this was the first sign of life his the device had shown in the month he’d been forced on leave, but he thanked whatever God might still be listening to him that the ringer was off like it always was, saving him from the disaster that would have been his ringtone suddenly waking you just before two o’ clock in the morning to a masked stranger lurking in your doorway

Though the phone call hadn’t woken you, it had startled Ghost enough to throw him off, had him stepping back in surprise and making the near fatal mistake of stepping on one of your cats squeaky toys

The cheap pet store toy goes off in the otherwise deadly silent room, only the light of the moon creeping through your curtains casts a faint glow across your sleeping figure, which to Ghost’s horror, begins to stir softly

Ghost has backed out of your bedroom, slipped out the balcony door, silently shut it behind him and jumped back down onto the street with the agility of a trained professional in their element, all before the call has even been sent to voicemail

He’s ripping the device from his pocket and slamming thick fingers onto buttons as the sudden surge of adrenaline catches up to him- as he realizes just how fucking close that was - daring to glance up and spot a single light turning on in the window he knows is your bedroom

“What?” He asks harshly into the receiver, uncaring to check what the caller ID says- only one person has his cell number anyhow

“I’ll be honest,” The Captain’s accent comes through clear as day, sounding all too chipper for the current time on the clock. “I was expectin’ at least a slightly warmer greetin’ from you.”

“After a month of hearing jack shit from you?” Ghost knows he’s being slightly crueller than he needs to be. He is happy to hear Price’s voice, but the inconvenient timing of this call has him on edge, has him wishing this conversation would end already. His body may be out of your flat, but his mind is still up there with you, wondering if you’ve gone back to sleep yet, if you were convinced it was just the cat moving around at night. “Wha’ is it, Cap?”

There’s silence on the line for a moment, shuffling and the tell-tale sound of the older man letting out a deep sigh as he settles in says, “You’ve been… quiet Ghost. Was expectin’ to have heard from you by now.”

“Ain’t I supposed to be bloody takin’ it easy? As you’d put it? Why would I call when you’re the one that fuckin’ sent me away.” He surprises even himself with his harshness towards a man he holds so much respect for, one of the few people he holds to such a high standard. But the inconvenience of the timing of this call has Ghost on edge, has him uneasy, spitting out any words that will end this call and allow him to let out the breath he feels he’s still holding in.

“Fair ‘nough.” The Captain answers, having already suspected that this would likely not turn into the most joyous of phone calls. “Though for the record, you know it was never my call, Ghost. I pushed against it, vouched for you, they just-” the older man lets another deep sigh before he decides to end that train of thought and get to the point of why he called in the first place. “They’re saying they’re willing to have you come in now, with the time that’s passed. Retake your psych eval. You tell them whatever they want to hear to pass you, and you’re back in, you hear me?”

He can almost picture it, the longer Price goes on

He could pick up the duffel bag he’s had packed and sitting ready by the door since the moment he’d been put on this mandatory leave, drive to base, bullshit his way through whatever fuckin’ questions are meant to determine whether he’s fit for duty or not (even if he risks returning with a mind even darker than when they sent him away-), and be back on the battlefield by the end of the week, gunshots ringing in his ears once more and blood under his fingernails

The thing is however, there’s an itch under his skin he hasn’t been able to scratch yet, a melody stuck on repeat in his mind he hasn’t been able to perfect the tune to quiet yet, a sliver he put into his flesh himself and hasn’t found a way to pry out without making a mess

“Wish it were that simple.” The masked man grumbles under his breath, leaning his head back against the scratchy brick of the building, staring up at the starless sky, the only light he can see is one leading him back towards you

“What was that?” Price attempts to clarify, believing he’s misheard his Lieutenant. From his perspective, this is the news his second in command has been waiting to hear this entire time and he suffered through days of boredom and inactivity. He figured this would be a quick call that ended with his missing task force member returning as soon as possible

“‘Fraid I ain’t quite ready yet, sir. Got something I need to take care of first.”

“You- how do you mean, Ghost?” He asks again, in slight disbelief that the man on the other end of the line isn’t itching to return as he believed he would be.

“Took your advice, Cap. Found a distraction. Can’t go being upset now, to find out I’m distracted.”

It takes him longer than it should, to come up with what he considers as Plan A

Every scenario he dreamt up in his head, every possible meet-cute that could occur, none of it seemed good enough for inserting himself into your life and ensuring his spot became a permanent one

What if he caught you at a bad time and you hardly spared a glance at him?

What if he intimidated you, the way he tended to throw most people off?

What if you found him strange, creepy, scary?

What if you didn’t like him and he ruined any chance he ever had at doing this right?

He couldn’t risk such a thing, not when he intended on keeping you around for a long, long time

He had to ensure that your first meeting went well, was one where you would be just as infatuated with him as he’d been with you

In order for this to work, he had to have you approach him

Either way, he was going to have you, he would just rather if you went willingly and happily

The idea had struck him on a Saturday, as he watched you and your coworker locking up the bookstore one evening, overhearing a snippet of your conversation had a lightbulb appearing above his head

You stood by the shopfront as your coworker tugged on the door handle, making sure it was locked tight for the night, before she mentioned to you; “God, I wish payday wasn’t a week away.”

“Tell me ‘bout it.” You’d agreed, readjusting the strap of your constantly slipping tote bag on your shoulder. “I hope I’ve got enough money in my bank account to cover my coffee tomorrow morning.”

Bingo

He’d shown up to the cafe extra early the next morning, though he always arrived at least a half hour before you did, wanting to fade into the background of the bustling morning crowd before you popped in

He’d considered finding a way to hack your bank cards and have them malfunction, but then thought better of it, curious if he could go about this another way that was less likely to leave a digital footprint

He knew the barista working the counter this morning was a newer hire, hadn’t even been here for a full month yet

He tried to look as non-intimidating as he could as he walked up to her, though that was no easy feat considering his stature alone

He ordered his drink, his fee for being able to occupy the corner table as long as he liked, before he told her he had a strange request to make

He was confident that she wouldn’t tell him no, that she was still new enough to the job that she wouldn’t want to deny a paying customer

He explained that there’d be a woman coming in later, and that he wanted to pay for her order

Ghost could see how the naive girl was almost fooled into believing he was sweet for a moment, perhaps caring even, asking him if he was wanting to start one of those pay it forward trains where everyone pays for the person behind them- before he cut her off

“No.” He’d clarified firmly, seeing her eyes widen only slightly before hastily putting her customer service face back in place. “Only her.”

He said he wanted to her pretend as though your cards weren’t working when you would go to pay- to tell you they had declined or something, before he’d step in and pay for you

“She’s an old friend o’ mine. Haven’t seen her in a while. Was hoping you could help me with this sort o’ … ‘prank’ if you will.”

Any hesitation the woman might have still been harbouring quickly disappeared when a 20£ note was flashed to her

Nearly a half hour later, he watches his plan unfold without a hitch

You think nothing of it the first time the barista tells you your payment didn’t go through, becoming confused when it declines a second time, and increasingly flustered each time after that when every method of payment you have can’t cover your 5£ morning drink

Ghost watches this unfold with a satisfied smirk hidden under his plain medical mask - he thought the balaclava might be a bit too much for your first meeting - enjoying seeing you flounder momentarily, unaware of how everything you know is about to change as he steps closer, extending his gloved hand next to you, close enough to feel your heat radiating through your jacket, before he’s tapping his card against the machine and speaking to you for the first time

“I’ve got tha’ for ya.”

And suddenly, as simple as flicking a switch on, as easy as waking up from a peaceful sleep, Ghost now gets to watch all his hard work pay off right before him, as your eyes meet finally meet his for the first time

He has to actively fight to hear your incessant apologies and thank you’s aimed his way over the thundering of his heart beating in his damaged eardrums, has to refrain himself from grinning as wide as a Cheshire Cat beneath his mask and give himself away too soon

Though his poker experience is usually limited to late nights under foreign stars with the 141, Ghost knows how to play his cards right, especially with you

He turns you down at your first offer to pay him back, letting you stew in the awkward discomfort of a stranger saving your ass in front of other strangers for a moment longer, before you’re saying the exact words he wanted to hear coming from your lips, as though he’d handed you the script himself

“Do you come here often? I just mean that- I come here a lot- sometimes. And if you’re here next time I’m here, then maybe I can pay you back, buy you a drink.”

With a hurried promise to meet him here at this time next week, and a sheepish smile sent his way as you duck out of the busy cafe to head to work, Ghost slips the barista another 20£ in thanks before he’s out of the shop as well, following you from a distance, each step he takes feeling lighter than the next

You can’t keep pretending anymore

Even your friends are starting to take notice

Well, if you can count the people who are forced to spend time with you, your classmates and coworkers, as friends

“You all good over there?” Your colleague asks you as you’re restocking books on the shelves one afternoon, having noticed the way you jumped in surprise when a customer rounded the corner unexpectedly

“Yeah I-” You take a steadying breath, one hand still clutching your frantic heart as it races in your chest. “I’ve just been paranoid recently. Think school’s getting to me.”

You can tell she doesn’t quite believe you, based off the way she’s still looking at you, before she decides to drop the subject for now, going to greet the couple that just walked in

You’re not sure you’d believe yourself either, if you were the one on the outside looking in

While it was true that you were in a particularly busy portion of the semester at the moment, your assignments and grades were unfortunately the furthest thing from your mind

You’d been able to play it off at first, blaming your constantly preoccupied mind and overloaded schedule, how else could you keep forgetting such silly things like turning the lamp off though you could’ve sworn you had- and believing you’d left yourself two slices of pizza when the plate in the fridge obviously only had one on it but wait you only ordered a small and ate half last night how could- and the plants that you knew you kept neglecting suddenly began blooming back to life when you knew you hadn’t watered them in ages

Those strange occurrences, those little blips in your memory were easier to pass off, less difficult to wrestle around in with in your psyche and instead pass off as moments of forgetfulness, a busy student and part time employee with too much on her plate and not enough of a social life

But then things went from being strange, to downright concerning

You knew you had locked the balcony door last night, hell you checked it every damn night, a habit you’d had long before you lived on your own in the middle of a busy city, so why were you not only often finding it unlocked, but one night you found it slightly ajar, the morning breeze rustling the curtains as though they were taunting you step closer

Speaking to some of your other neighbours in passing, none of them had anything close to similar complaints about the laundry machine stealing their undergarments as a price to pay for clean laundry, your panties apparently being the only victims, something you were trying to convince yourself wasn’t as bizarre as it clearly was, especially when you were folding laundry one day and discovered you had quite literally not a single pair of knickers left

And then there were the dreams

If you could even call them that

Dreams where a large, dark stranger creeps into your home, into your bedroom, and simply watches you

Lurks in the corners of your flat and observes your every move, your every breath, never making a single sound, as silent as a ghost

And the stranger never does anything, never says anything, only ever just stands there, until you wake up and you can swear you see his shadow disappearing out of the corner of your eyes as you open them

It doesn’t take long for you to start noticing the shadow when you’re awake too

Disappearing around bends and corners, slipping through grocery aisles and alley ways, blending amongst crowds and backgrounds, vanishing when you turn your head to catch sight of him

You feel like you’re losing your mind

“Why don’t you come out with Jordan and I tonight?” She tries again, coming to drop another box full next to your feet. “Take your mind off of school. We’re going to try that new pub down near Walton Street.”

“I would, but-” You cut yourself off, spotting your manager coming to ring up a customer at the front. The two of you exchange knowing glances and small smiles, knowing your sweet old man of a boss doesn’t truly mind when his employees chit chat together, he says he likes seeing you all getting along, but you still try to keep up appearances

You put your thumb and pinky out to look like a phone before shaking it by your ear, letting your coworker know you’ve got plans for the night as she playfully rolls her eyes at you and mouths “I see, I see” with her hands up in mock surrender, before she’s retreating to gather more boxes from the back

It’s the same plans you’ve had almost every night for going on nearly two weeks now

While it was true that the sudden strange occurrences in your life were preoccupying most of your mind these days, you were still in fact a busy student, and so while you hadn’t entirely forgotten about the stranger you’d promised a coffee to the week prior, you couldn’t hide your genuine surprise at seeing him there that next Sunday

He was sat at a table in the corner, his hands free of any drink, allowing you to pay him back, just as he said he would

What he hadn’t prefaced the last time however, was how quickly he’d make you fall for him

While he might not have been the type of guy you would have originally gone for, unable to deny the intimidating aura that follows him around, you were all too pleased to discover that behind that hardened exterior was someone you got along with without even having to try, discovering he agreed with everything you said, had a lot in common with you, listened attentively to every word you spoke, not to mention he was certainly not hard on the eyes

You weren’t able to sit with him long that morning, explaining to him that the cafe was usually your much needed caffeine stop on your way to work, though you’d walked to the bookstore that morning with a pep in your step, and a new number in your contacts, under the name Simon

It wasn’t even a full 24 hours later when he’d first called you up

You were doing dishes in your flat, getting ready to turn in early that night when your phone rang

You couldn’t help the blush that overtook you at hearing his gravelly voice come through the line, tickling your ear as he apologized for already calling you so soon, he just couldn’t remember the name of that book you’d mentioned yesterday and it was bothering him because he wanted to read it before he saw you again

Next thing you knew, close to three hours had gone by, and you felt like a teenager when you both admitted neither wanted to hang up yet, satisfying one another with a promise to call again soon

Soon, it turns out, was the very next night

And the night after that

And the night after that

And soon, you can Simon were talking on the phone every night before bed, hours and hours racking up as you learned more about each other

It was a nice distraction from the source of your anxieties you refused to fully acknowledge yet, a welcome way to take your mind off the stress you’d been experiencing

If you weren’t already so distracted, you might have been paying just a little closer attention

You might have noticed how skilled he was at deflecting personal question aimed his way, or how he was able to answer without truly answering, always quickly turning the spotlight back to you, making you feel seen and listened to in a way no man had done before, taking the attention away from him time and time again

You might have noticed he agreed with you a little too often, never actually voicing any opinions until he knew what yours was first, never taking a stance unless he knew what yours was

What you really should have noticed was the way he seemed to know things about you that you couldn’t remember telling him, chalking it up to being so tired some nights you must have forgotten sharing that with him

In the end, Simon was saying all the right things at the right time, and you were all too happy to hear what you wanted to hear

It was barely ten minutes passed 9 when you were turning the key in the lock for the night, making sure the doors wouldn’t budge before you tightened your hold on your bag and began the trek home, the butterflies in your stomach begin to flutter at the thought of hearing Simon’s voice through the phone soon enough

Luckily, you were only about eight blocks away from home, and the summer sun had only just begun setting as the last of the customers were dwindling out of the shop, meaning you weren’t walking in total darkness quite yet

Yet somehow, something in the air tonight felt different, had the hairs on the back of your neck rising as though anticipating a predator lurking around the corner, ready to pounce on its unsuspecting prey

You tried you continue convincing yourself you were nothing short of delusional, paranoid, that watching too many true crime docs was getting to you

But then, just as you were waiting for the pedestrian crossing sign to change, out of the corner of your eye, you saw your shadow

You whipped your head around too quickly, straining your neck but desperate to catch a glimpse and prove you weren’t crazy, but as always, there was no one there

The small crowd around you began crossing the street, unaware of the adrenaline begin to course through your veins as you hobbled along with them, noticing with regret that no one else continued in the direction you would have to turn, leaving you to traverse the next few blocks alone

You hurried your pace, trying to shake the undeniable feeling of something being wrong, when for the first time, you heard your shadow

Light footsteps that grew heavier the more you paid attention to them, the kind that weren’t casually strolling by as you might have hoped, but rather were on a determined path, and to your utter fear, were gaining speed

You never once dared turn your head this time, fear convincing you that should you stop and look back, he would be right there over your shoulder, a shadow coming to life just in time to take yours away

With your building in sight, you said fuck it and broke out into a sprint, hurrying towards the main doors and frantically entering in your code before the worst fo your fears could come true, never glancing back as the doors unlocked and you made a mad dash inside and up the stairs

You were barely through your apartment door before your phone was in your hand, dialling the last number you’d called, the only number you called these days

He answered before the first ring had finished

“‘ello?”

“Simon.” You hated the way your voice sounded, trembling around his name and giving away the clear distress you were in, but you couldn’t help it. Your poor heart was racing a mile a minute, you had tears threatening to spill over your lash line at any moment, you were trembling like a leaf and wanted to seek out the only comfort you’d had recently

“Wha’s wrong?” He immediately asked, evidently hearing your panic through the phone

“Simon, I just-” you let out a gasp, no longer in control of the tears that were starting to run down your cheeks. You double, triple checked the lock on your door was secured before on trembling legs, you slowly made your way towards the balcony doors, blood running cold when you spotted the latch undone. “I know this sounds insane but I really need you, I- I swear someone’s been following me and I think he’s outside my flat and I- I’m so scared Simon I don’t-”

“You’re alrigh’ love.” He cut off your rambling, the confidence in his voice lending you a sliver of strength for a moment. “Jus’ breathe, yeah? I’ll be righ’ there.”

True to his word, Simon is knocking at your flat door in less than four minutes, another anomaly you would have noticed had you not been in such a frantic state of mind

“It’s me love. Jus’ me.” You hear his voice say through the door, standing up on tip toes to peer through the peephole and confirm for your own peace of mind that it really truly is your knight in shining armour, hardly paying any mind to the fact that this is the first time you see him without a mask on the lower half of his face

You’re practically banging the door against the wall as you swing it open in a hurry to get him inside, grabbing him by his jacket to pull his figure closer to yours, barely giving him a chance to shut it behind him before you’re clinging to him like a lost pet whose been returned to their owner

You can hear him shushing you, a large hand coming to soothe your hair as another grabs you by the waist and holds you tighter, trying to reassure you between your sobs that you’re alright, that he’s here now, that you’re always safe with him

There’s a fleeting moment where you can’t help but think about how this isn’t you, how you’ve always been fiercely independent, how you’ve never needed to rely on others for comfort before, let alone a man you met all of two weeks ago, but the thought is gone just as quickly as it appeared, when Simon pulls back to hold your face gently in both of his hands, thumbs carefully rubbing tears off your cheeks as he looks at you with such sincerity, you couldn’t care less if you’ve known him for two weeks or two years, right now you just need someone to tell you everything is okay, that you’re not insane

He leads you towards the couch, planting you sideways across his lap as he leans your head on his shoulder and rubs a soothing hand across your back

“Now, try again, love. Tell me wha’s happened.”

And when he’s asking you so sweetly, touching you so nicely in a way no one has in who knows how long, how could you every deny him?

You tell him everything, all of it, the bizarre coincidences you can no longer explain away, the strange happenings that you cannot chalk up to forgetfulness, the odd feeling of being constantly watched you cannot shake, you tell him all of it

And Simon, he listens to it all, every concern of yours, every worry you’d had, he nods along showing you he’s listening, never interrupting you, always rubbing some part of your skin to let you know he’s here, he’s here and he’s got you

By the end of it, you’re no longer crying, your heart has begun to slow to a more normal rhythm, the goosebumps dotting your skin only a result of the large man caressing you as you avoid dribbling snot onto his jumper

“You must think I’m crazy, right? I- I even think I sound crazy.” You admit, avoiding looking at him as you pick at a loose thread on his collar

“Not at all, love.” His words have your eyes lifting to meet his, finding nothing but honesty in his steady gaze.

“W-what?”

“Said I believe you.” He reiterates, giving your hip a slight squeeze before he’s dragging his fingers down across your thigh, rubbing soothing strokes against your flesh. “Everythin’ you jus’ told me, I don’ wanna scare you bird, but I think you migh’ be righ’. Sounds like someone’s been followin’ ya.”

He must see it in your face, the way your heart practically drops to the floor at his words, because he’s gripping the meat of your thigh a little tighter, opening his mouth to continue before you can spiral further

“But you’re so smart, love. You did exactly the righ’ thing, callin’ me. You knew I wouldn’ let anythin’ happen to ya. I’m here now, I’ve got ya.”

His words are akin to stepping into a steaming warm bath at the end of a gruelling day, the exact comfort you needed in that moment, easing you slowly back into a state of calm, though you don’t feel quite out of the woods yet

“Let me take care of ya, huh? Here, follow me.” He gives your thigh one last squeeze before he’s helping you back up onto more stable legs, never going without at least on hand touching you as he guides you towards your balcony door, making a show of peering outside for any lurking dangers before he snaps the lock in place and draws the curtains shut

“C’mon, let’s check all your windows, eh? Can’t be too sure.”

And so you follow him room to room, watching him with growing gratitude as he goes from window to window, ensuring it’s properly shut and locked before moving onto the next, scanning each room for any sign of a disturbance, letting you know everything is clear each time, until there’s only one door left to go through

Simon inches the door to your bedroom open with the toe of his boot, letting it hit the wall before he steps inside, doing a full scan before he nods towards you to follow him in

You take a seat at the end of your bed as you watch him move through your space, checking your window and closing your curtains, even going as far as to open your closet and peek under the bed, something that forces a fleeting smile on your face in spite of the circumstances

“Think that’s everythin’, birdie.” He admits, coming to sit down next to you on the bed, thighs touching, his muscled arm sneaking around your shoulders to pull you into him. “My brave girl. You’ve been goin’ through all this by yourself, huh?”

“Mhm.” You confirm, feeling too exhausted after the rush of emotions and adrenaline let down to say anything more, too tired to notice the way he’s taken to calling you his all of a sudden, especially when Simon’s embrace is so warm, so inviting

“Poor bird. Must’ve been so scary, not knowing who’s out there.” He coos into your ear, brushing your hair back from your neck, letting you feel his hot breath against your skin. “Aren’t you so glad you called? That I’m ‘ere now?”

“Mhm. Thank you, Simon.” You murmur, the events of the day really catching up to you now

“You never have to thank me, love. I’m here with ya. Not goin’ anywhere.” You feel your lashes flutter shut when his chapped lips come to press a chaste kiss to your temple, as gentle as a butterflies wings as this behemoth of a man comforts you. “You jus’ let me take care of ya now, love. Let me make it all better. Make ya feel good.”

There’s a fraction of a second where your mind catches back up to you, where logic floats up to the surface of your consciousness when you feel Simon’s hand sneak under your shirt, something on the tip of your tongue about how this is only the third time you meet face to face, how you haven’t gone on a proper date yet, how you’ve only known him two weeks-

Any common sense flies out the window however when his lips connect with yours

As his calloused fingers manage to rid you of your top before tangling in your hair, your own are grasping on tightly at his collar, allowing him to take control of the kiss, to take control of the situation, to do as he’s promised and make you feel good, make you forget about everything that’s had you so on edge and allow yourself to be taken care of

Simon hasn’t steered you wrong so far, has he? He’s been nothing but kind, nothing but attentive, nothing but sweet and caring and present and-

Fuck can he kiss

Your heart is racing for an entirely different reason as his fingers reach behind you to unclasp your bra, letting it fall haphazardly amongst your sheets before he’s pulling his lips off of yours, kissing and nipping along your jaw, your neck, down your collarbone and sternum until his hot breath is tickling one of your nipples and he sucks it gently into his mouth, teeth playfully skimming the raised bud

You can’t help the way you melt like putty in his hands, unknowingly as touch starved as he is, unable to hold back the sounds of your enjoyment when his other hand comes up to tweak your neglected breast, squeezing and pinching until it’s as taut as the one he’s still slobbering all over

Your fingers are pulling at the fabric of his jumper, arching into his touch and gasping when he lets your breast go with a ‘plop’, before his mouth is trailing wet kisses down your sternum, down your stomach, before his skilled fingers are tugging down your pants

“No panties, hm?” You never could have imagined his voice could be deeper than it already was, but the sound of his gravelly accent has chills running up your spine, blush deepening when you see the dark look in his eyes as he peers down at your bare, weeping slit

You have half a mind to explain that you haven’t had time to run to the shops and replace all your missing knickers, but quickly lose any sense of time and place when his broad shoulders are pushing themselves between your thighs, opening them up for his head to drop down and his lips to wrap around your throbbing clit

You can feel him smirk against your folds at the sound you let out, something between a moan and a gasp, before he’s pulling out more delicious noises from you with his tongue alone

“Mmm, you really do taste as good as you look.” He murmurs against your dripping folds, eyes dancing with mischief before his lips are on you again

You feel like your entire being has been pulled apart and put back together in the blink of an eye, your would be stalker having you fearing for your life, and now Simon having you holding on for dear life

You can both hear and feel him groaning against your pussy, licking up your arousal, probing his skilled tongue around your entrance before plunging it as deep as the muscle will go, reminiscent of a man starved as he devours you from the inside out, with no sign of being satiated any time soon

“Simon!” You plead, toes curling, legs shaking. You can hardly believe this is happening, that you’re on the precipice of cumming on this man’s tongue so soon, when suddenly his thumb sneaks down and slides across your clit engorged clit, rubbing steady circles until you’re seeing stars behind your eyelids, eyes rolling to the back of your head and his name the only word you know as you fall headfirst off that cliff known as ecstasy

You’re gasping for breath, still coming back to yourself when he finally pulls himself away, licking his lips as though this was a five star meal he’s just tasted, the look in his eyes telling you he’s likely to be a returning customer

With the way he’s brought you to orgasm faster than any vibrator ever has, you’re hardly in any place to protest when you hear the sound of his belt being undone, his zipper being pulled down, a ringing in your ears when your eyes land on his throbbing, erect member

You barely get a chance to gasp at its size before Simon is on you again, strong hands dragging you further up the mattress before he’s kissing you senseless yet again

You can feel him pumping his cock with one hand as he takes his time tasting you, having you taste yourself on his tongue

He pulls one of your legs up around his waist, opening your centre up to him before you can feel the head of his prick sliding through your folds, teasing your sensitive clit until you’re practically shaking, rolling your hips up against him

He’s swallowing your gasp when he notches himself at your entrance, wasting no time before he’s sinking himself inch by devastating inch, plunging further and further than you thought was possible, until he’s all the way in, hips flush with yours as he’s sheathed himself completely inside you, a perfect fit

While sweet might have been a word you used for the Simon who talks to you on the phone at all hours, who buys you coffee when your cards decline, you cannot bring yourself to believe that that same sweet Simon is the same man who begins thrusting in and out of you with such vigour, such force, it knocks the breath right out of your lungs as your headboard begins banging against the wall

“Fuck!” He’s grunting in your ear, the sounds of skin slapping and your wetness squelching echoing in the room. “Fuckin’ knew it. Knew you’d be this tight. So warm, so wet for me. Perfect fuckin’ pussy.”

“Simon! Oh, Simon!” His name is the only word your lips can make sense of, the only thing your mind can understand. You’re already headed towards another climax, your body feeling like an instrument he’s spent years mastering the art of playing

“Yeah, you gonna come again, pretty bird? Come on my cock? Just for me?” He’s picking up his pace, intent of meeting you there with his own release, grip tightening on your waist as he plunges in and out of you, feeling your tight walls increasingly gripping his cock. “Say it. Say it’s just for me. Say it.”

“It- it’s for you. Just for you, Simon! You!”

“Fuckin’ righ’ it is. My perfect girl.” He praises, sucking dark purple circles onto your neck, fingers unrelenting in their teasing against your clit. “You want it, pretty girl? Then fuckin’ take it.”

Your vision goes white, body practically going numb the pleasure is so all consuming as it shoots through every nerve ending and back, every star in the galaxy appearing before your eyes as you come on his cock. You’re so lost in your orgasm, you hardly notice when he groans out your own name, hips stilling as he shoots his load into you, rutting helplessly against your overused cunt to drag out every second of ecstasy, making sure you take very last drop he has to give you

If you were exhausted before, you’re practically dead to the world now, uncaring that Simon doesn’t even pull out his softening member as he maneuvers the two of you under the covers, smoothing your hair back as he kisses all over your forehead, your cheeks, your nose, your lips

He rubs soothing hands up and down your naked back, telling you how good you did, how good you are for him, how good he’ll be for you, before he’s reaching to turn your lamp off, casting the two of you into darkness as sleep fights to drag you under

You’re on the brink of slumber, too spent to really think about anything that’s transpired tonight, though just conscious enough to feel the smallest of alarms try and go off in the back of your foggy mind at Simon’s words, the last of your self preservation instincts trying to weave its way to the front of your mind, waving the red flag as high as it’ll go

“Good thing I came over soon as you called. Who knows what could’ve happened.”

Your eyes snap open

You’d never told Simon where you lived

~~~~~

If you’ve made it this far, I’d like to offer you a sticker of appreciation

Thank you, thank you, thank you!!! Thank you for your patience on this fic, I cannot even tell you how many times I felt like this story was ready to be posted, but I’d reread it and wouldn’t be satisfied with how it was. This is probably the draft I’ve spent the most time on, and so again I really appreciate the patience in waiting for the upload

But here she is!!! And I hope she was worth the wait

I know this is different from the usual fluff I post, both with a darker Ghost and smut still not being my forte, but I really do sincerely hope this part 2 was everything you guys hoped for! I had a lot of fun writing it, turned into one of my longest ones, and now I’m excited to get to my inbox and answer more requests from you lovely folks

- M 🫶🏻

[bowtiepasta]

loser barista izuku ♥︎ scribbles notes in chicken scratch on your drinks on days he notices you aren’t as peppy. “you’re doing better than you think”, “proud of you”, “green looks good on you.” -> the last one finally piques your interest. you say hi the next day; he blushes so hard he drops your change.

but his reserve lasts about two days. the following week, he starts getting smart-mouthed.

“interesting outfit choice,” he greets from behind the espresso machine as you stare down a stain by the register. “your usual?”

you raise an eyebrow. “interesting how?” the milk frother sputters from across the room. “..yeah.”

he tucks a napkin under your coffee before sliding it across the table, fingers leaving tiny smudges where his palm meets the worn wood. “just bold, is all.”

“huh.” you take the drink from him, the cup’s rim kissed by condensation. “and by that you mean?”

“told you I liked you in green last week,” he bags a pastry for you, “you’re wearing green today.”

“here. on the house.”

the bag he’s still holding out to you is already bleeding grease into the bottom. there’s a freckle by his jaw twitching every time he clenches it. dork.

you take it from him carefully. your fingers touch.

“I’m starting to think you just like me.”

he looks relieved. “took you long enough.”

[codnasties]

p!link collection 4 👻🚬🧢🧼🪦🗡🐺🦿🇷🇺🦌🤠 (🌽 links)

ghost 👻

ghost always meet bratty manners with some form of punishment, like slapping your ass raw

sucking ghost's soul out as he tries not to buck his hips up and push his thick cock deeper into your mouth

ghost may miss you, but his cock misses you even more. proof of it is how hard he is and how much he cums

ghost pinning you to the bed in prone bone with his whole body, deep inside of you and balls slappign your clit with each thrust

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

price 🚬

freshly shaved pussy? don't worry, price will make sure his pretty cunt stays warm by stuffing it with his fingers

price might me the real much in 141, always between your legs, getting himself a taste

price sending you little videos so you can appreciate his thick uncut cock and fuzzy stomach and pecs

price stretching your pussy out, fisting you until you squirt all over his hairy belly

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

gaz 🧢

coming back horny from deployment, gaz doesn't even make it home, making a mess of himself in the parking lot

gaz loves eating pussy from the back, specially because it gives him full access to your ass

gaz throat training you so you are able to take him full into your mouth and slobber all over his balls

brother's best friend gaz using the chance that he went out to fuck you nicely

gaz loves backshots, nothing compares to the view of your plush ass and the recoil with each thrust

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

soap 🧼

soap is definitely the type to pull you into the closest barthroom and try to get you pregnant at the thought of wife-ing you up

sunset watching date with soap ends with you getting fucked on the hood of the car

soap getting himself a front row seat to your face twisting with pleasure as he fingers you mercilessly

you can't go around the house in pretty sundresses, beacuse soap won't hessitate to spread your legs and eat you out like a savage man

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

graves 🪦

graves' possessive ass won't do threesomes, but he will have a fucking machine plunging into your pussy as he takes your ass

horny graves doesn't even make it to the bedroom most of the time, so he just takes you in the sofa

as much as graves lokes fucking your pussy, he loves cumming in yout pussy, watching his cum drip onto your fluttering empty cunt

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

konig 🗡

having konig take viagra and getting to play with his incessantly hard cock until he's shooting blanks

konig fucking your soft thighs and humping his leaking tip against your plump lower lips

konig is definitely the type to ask you to cosplay his favourite characters just to fuck you

so pent up and with his balls so full, konig has to show you how much the videos you send him make him cum

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

makarov 🐺

makarov is the type to finger you while he drives, sliding your panties to the side and pushing his digits knuckle deep in your soaking pussy

makarov does really try to not cum inside of you when he's fucking you without a condom on, but he can't resist you when you tell him to

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

alejandro🤠

alejandro turning putty in your hands as you use an fleshling on his sensitive cock

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

alex 🦿

alex is a messy eater, tongue lapping at your juices and playing with your pussy until your arousal is staining his chin

[mw00nie]

extra credit

you first see him on a tuesday.

10 a.m. political science. long, cold, fluorescent-lit misery. you only took it because the professor was rumored to be easy. except, twist, he now isn’t, and your attendance is locked in for the semester. brutal.

you always sit in the back. fake typing on your laptop, tabs full of shit you’ll never afford, pretending you’re gonna relisten to the lectures on your phone. spoiler: you won’t.

so, naturally, you start people-watching. it becomes your sport.

guy in front of you sexting someone at 10 a.m. on a tuesday? disturbing. girl next to you writing color-coded notes on an ipad that costs more than your rent? pretentious. two girls giggling over tinder and ranking guys like they’re judging cattle at a state fair? iconic.

then you see him.

front row. every single class. white hair, slightly too long, messy like he cut it himself or forgot to. hoodie with a bleach stain on the sleeve. glasses he keeps pushing up with his middle finger. backpack covered in pins that look suspiciously like anime.

the kind of guy who probably owns a sword. the kind of guy who turns in essays early and apologizes for formatting mistakes. the kind of guy who definitely gets hard when girls yell at him.

you watch him answer a question once, voice so quiet, you can barely hear it from your seat, and it hits you like a truck:

this guy is such a loser. i want him in my bed immediately.

you don’t do anything about it at first. just move closer, row by row, like a predator slowly circling.

he doesn’t notice. he’s too busy actually doing the readings.

every class, he types with those long fingers, hunched over his laptop like he’s coding the next great american novel. he frowns when the professor gets something wrong. he wears wired headphones. wired, for god’s sake.

you can feel it building in you every time he pushes his glasses up. every time he mutters a “yeah, i think that’s actually covered in the assigned paper by—” before trailing off, embarrassed.

you want to climb into his lap and ruin his academic career. you want to know if he’s as nervous with his hands as he is with his voice. you want to see how red his ears can get.

three weeks in, you finally snap.

you catch him right after lecture, halfway to the vending machines, headphones still hanging around his neck. his fingers are tangled in his hoodie strings, backpack slung over one shoulder, like he barely remembered to exist outside of class.

he stops in his tracks when you say his name.

“satoru gojo, right?”

he blinks. once. twice. like you’ve just pulled the fire alarm in his brain.

“…yeah?”

he’s taller than you expected. awkwardly so. broad shoulders slouched like he’s trying to make himself smaller. glasses sliding down his nose. messy white hair that looks like he towel-dried it and called it a day. he smells faintly like clean laundry and caffeine. you hate how much that does to you.

you lean in a little. tilt your head. smile like you know something he doesn’t.

“you’re smart,” you say. “painfully. the kind of smart that corrects the professor mid-lecture and then apologizes for it.”

he flushes, stammers. “i– only if they’re, like, wrong? sometimes?”

adorable.

you step closer. just enough to watch his pupils blow out a little. he’s blinking at you like he’s buffering.

“i need help studying,” you say sweetly. “and you seem.. helpful.”

his mouth opens. closes. “uh– sure?”

“great.” you tilt your head. “library at seven?”

he nods, slow and stunned.

you smile wider. “and if you’re good,” you say, voice low enough to make him swallow, “i might let you kiss me.”

you don’t wait for a response. just turn and walk off, backpack slung lazily over your shoulder.

when you glance back, he’s still standing there. frozen, mouth slightly open, entire brain fried like a cheap motherboard.

you laugh to yourself.

this is going to be so much fun.

he shows up to the library that night. you weren’t sure he would. he seemed like the type to overthink it until he got hives. but there he is 6:57, laptop in hand, adorned in what looked like a bunch of different stickers. the etsy type.

“hey,” you say, flashing a smile as he slides into the seat next to you.

he nearly fumbles his bag off the table. “hey,” he replies, voice quiet. “so… what’re you stuck on?”

you don’t even bother pretending to know. just hand him your notes with a shrug and start watching him instead.

he’s so earnest. brows furrowed. lips pressed together. squinting at your writing like it personally offended him.

you’re supposed to be learning about political theory, but all you can think about is what his mouth would feel like on your neck. how red his ears would get if you sat in his lap right now and pulled on his hoodie strings.

by the end of the night, he’s explained two chapters, drawn a chart, and unconsciously flexed his hands at least a dozen times.

you lean back, stretch, and smile at him sweetly. “you’re a really good teacher.”

he turns a little pink. scratches the back of his neck.

“…thanks?”

“don’t thank me yet,” you murmur. “you’ve got office hours again tomorrow.”

he swallows.

you don’t kiss him. not yet. you let him walk home in a daze, probably questioning whether he imagined the whole thing.

you make him wait.

over the next two weeks, you meet him three more times.

once in the library, once at a coffee shop, and once after class in an empty study room.

every time, he gets a little bolder. not much. just enough for you to notice.

his knees brush yours under the table and he doesn’t pull back. he teases you when you mess up a definition. he looks you in the eye a little longer than he did before, until you’re the one who has to look away.

“you’re learning,” you hum one night.

he just shrugs, smirking softly.

“you said if i was good, i’d get to kiss you.”

his voice is low. deeper now. like he’s starting to realize he has some kind of effect on you.

you smile, sweet and lethal.

“maybe next time.”

you invite him over on a thursday night.

you claim it’s for a “final review session” before the quiz. you text him your address, and tell him to wear something comfortable.

he shows up in another hoodie and sweatpants. his glasses are clean for once. his hair still a mess, but in a way that almost looks intentional.

you pretend to study for fifteen minutes.

fifteen.

after that, you crawl into his lap, straddle his legs, and tilt his chin up.

“still wanna kiss me?”

he doesn’t answer. just leans in and kisses you like he’s been thinking about it for weeks.

and god, he’s so warm. so eager. he kisses like he means it, messy and deep, hands hovering just shy of your waist like he’s scared to hold on too tightly.

you grind down once and he chokes on a moan.

“shit– wait–”

you pull back and grin.

“don’t tell me this is your first time.”

he goes red, but his eyes are sharp now, glinting under the low light of your room.

“…why would you think that?”

you laugh, breathless. “because you’re a loser. you raise your hand in lectures. you wear anime pins. you fumble your phone when i look at you.”

“so?” he murmurs, licking into your mouth, voice rough. “i can still make you cum.”

you blink. stunned.

he grins, slow and devastating. glasses slipping again, hands sliding up your thighs.

“wanna bet?”

you don’t even make it five minutes into the “study” session before he’s got you pinned to the couch.

your laptop’s open on some political science quizlet. long forgotten.

your panties are shoved halfway down your thighs, hoodie thrown on the floor somewhere, one of his hands gripping your jaw while the other is buried deep inside you.

“what happened to all that attitude?” he mutters against your mouth, voice low, breath warm. “thought you said i was a loser.”

you gasp, try to buck your hips, but he holds you still. his fingers curl just right and your entire spine arches.

“fuck– satoru–”

“say it again,” he growls, licking into your mouth like he’s starving. “say i’m a loser.”

you whimper. “you’re– fuck, you’re not–”

“hmm?” his thumb circles your clit, lazy and cruel. “what was that?”

you choke on a moan. it’s disgusting how wet you are. slick dripping down his knuckles, pooling under your ass on the cushions.

he’s still got his glasses on. slightly fogged. his hair’s messier than usual, sleeves shoved up to his elbows. he looks deranged. brilliant. completely in control.

and all you want is more.

“please,” you breathe. “just– fuck me– please–”

he pulls his fingers out and sucks them into his mouth like he’s tasting you.

“you ask so nicely,” he hums, grinning like the devil. “but i think you need a little warm-up first.”

you expect him to drop to his knees.

you don’t expect him to pull you by the hips and throw you over his face.

he lays back on the couch, one arm hooked under your thigh, and drags you down onto his mouth.

“oh– fuck–”

his tongue is obscene. messy. insistent. his nose brushes your clit every time he moves, and he groans like he’s the one getting off.

you’re gasping, grinding against his face, grabbing fistfuls of his hair like a girl possessed.

he pulls back once to breathe and licks his lips, eyes half-lidded, voice wrecked.

“sweetest i’ve ever had in my life,” he mutters. “could stay here all night.”

you cum on his tongue twice.

by the time he lets you down, your legs are jelly. your voice is half-gone. and he’s hard. painfully hard. under his sweatpants.

“c’mere,” he mutters, voice rough. “you owe me something.”

you drop to your knees without hesitation.

he’s thick, flushed, leaking at the tip, and way too big for the loser nerd image he gives off in class.

“god,” you whisper, wrapping a hand around it. “you’ve been hiding this from me?”

“was waiting for you to find out,” he says, pushing his glasses up, totally smug.

you stroke him slow, spit-slick and teasing, then lean in and drag your tongue up the underside.

his breath stutters. “f-fuck–”

you take him in deep, hollow your cheeks. he groans and grabs the back of your head.

“god, you’re good,” he mutters, hips twitching. “knew you’d suck cock like a slut.”

you whimper around him, moan at the taste, the weight, the way his thigh tenses under your hand.

he fucks your mouth slowly. not too deep, not yet.  just enough to make your eyes water.

when he pulls you off, you’re panting, spit dripping down your chin.

“get on the couch,” he says, voice dark. “hands and knees.”

you scramble up, bend over, and he groans.

“fuck– look at that.”

he presses himself up behind you, drags the head of his dick through your folds, and leans forward to whisper against your ear.

“you’re gonna let the virgin loser fuck you like this?” he murmurs, kissing your neck.

“yes,” you whine. “please– satoru, i need it–”

he thrusts in all at once.

you gasp, your eyes rolling back.

he’s so deep it makes your stomach flip, one hand digging into your hip while the other presses between your shoulder blades, pushing you down.

he starts fucking you like he’s been waiting years. filthy, relentless, fast and hard and deep enough you can barely think.

“not such a brat now, huh?” he pants. “still think i’m just some nerd?”

you’re moaning, crying out, face smushed into a pillow as he hits your g-spot with every thrust like a bullseye

he leans down, wraps a hand around your throat, and groans when you clench around him.

“tight little pussy,” he mutters. “knew you’d be like this. couldn’t stop thinking about it. mmph– gonna ruin you–”

he pulls out and flips you over ignoring your whine of protest. pushes your legs up to your chest, and drills into you.

you cum again, shaking, sobbing into his mouth as he kisses you through it.

he pulls back just enough to look at you, sweat on his brow, pupils blown.

“you want it inside?” he grunts, hips stuttering. “want me to fill you up?”

“yesyes– fuck, please–”

“god, you’re filthy,” he groans. 

he cums hard. deep, slow thrusts, hips grinding into yours, breath hot against your throat as he empties inside you.

you’re both panting. ruined. bodies tangled on your shitty dorm couch.

he pulls out slow, watches his cum leak out of you, and smirks.

“extra credit,” he says, breathless. “you definitely passed.”

[writersdrug]

Kinda wanna know what happened with reader's bra. Like did bartender!Simon just keep it ? XD

Well... he told himself he wasn't going to touch it. And for a while, he didn't. It sat there, slung over the back of his chair, taunting him whenever he was in his room.

He was trying to be a good coworker; he wanted to wash it before returning it to you, but then he had to ask - how do you wash a bra? Can he just throw it in the machine with his other clothes and hope for the best? No, he has too many black shirts - your pink lace would probably turn grey if he washed them together.

He used the excuse of needing time to research how to wash a bra, justifying putting it off for so long (let's face it, this was some mission impossible shit); but eventually, you asked him if you could have it back.

Fuck.

He was honest with you, saying he wanted to wash it clean of the alcohol it had been drenched in, he just didn't know how - he left out the part where he was procrastinating purely because he didn't want to let go of it (he hasn't even admitted that to himself).

You tell him it's simple: cold water, delicate, toss it into one of those bra bags you get on Amazon, and any detergent will do. Just don't put it in the dryer, it'll make it shrink. "It's simple, really. I can just take it home and wash it."

Fortunately, you forget to ask for it again at the end of your shift. It's still on the chair in his room, facing him as he lies on his bed, fresh out the shower.

It looks uncomfortable. Doesn't the lace rub against your nipples? Is this your favorite bra, or one you don't really care about? He's trying his hardest not to think about how it looks on you, but he can't stop staring at the damn thing. He's wondering if you have a matching pair of panties, not stopping himself as his hand reaches down to massage his balls; a deep, heavy sigh escapes his lips as he wraps a hand around his shaft and slowly pumps himself. His head falls back against the pillows as he thinks of you, lying on his bed and letting him cum all over your tits. One wank can't hurt, right?

Wrong.

Fifteen minutes later, he's shooting cum all over your bra where it lies on the bed, a deep groan leaving his throat as he keeps pumping his cock, nearly choking it with his grip. The mental image of his dick sliding between your breasts fades away, and he's left with that familiar loneliness; an ache to crush you against his chest and keep you there all night.

He collapses onto his back and pants, cheeks flushed and eyes hazy. He grabs his phone and starts looking for that bra bag you were talking about, reminding himself that he still needs to wash your cum-stained shirt, too.

[abbotjack]

This City Doesn’t Forget (part three · impression management)

part one - part two

summary : Hospitals are full of ghosts. But the worst ones wear perfume and know your full name. What follows is a slow unraveling: whispers among staff, a curated “gift,” a rooftop encounter with Jack, and the quiet realization that the real threat isn’t scandal—it’s perception.

word count : 4,548

content warning: Emotional manipulation, gaslighting, covert workplace harassment, implied power imbalance, past infidelity, family tension, grief, trauma references (including pediatric death), subtle bullying and ostracization, emotionally intense dialogue, mentions of burnout and medical stress, allusions to PTSD, and ambiguous threats. Contains heavy themes of reputation, control, and the weaponization of grace.

a/n : I dedicate this to everyone whos been waiting for part three, deepest apologies.

TUESDAY

The hospital doesn't hum in the mornings so much as it breathes shallowly. Paper rustles. Shoes scuff. Machines beep in staggered time like a slow, mechanical heartbeat. And somewhere between the coffee pot in the lounge and the trauma board, your phone buzzes with a text that shifts the center of gravity under your feet.

URGENT: Compliance Office needs your signature on file. Sublevel 1. Ask for Jenna.

You stare at the screen a little too long. Your fingers are raw from double-gloving. There's a streak of dried something on your scrub top you can't identify, and you haven't eaten anything solid since a protein bar at 6 a.m.

Still, you go.

Because when you're a first-year resident and someone from Admin says "urgent," you don't ask questions. You obey.

The elevator ride feels longer than it should. Sublevel 1 is clinical in a different way than the trauma bay—quieter, unnerving in its civility. The air smells like toner, laminated badge sleeves, and lemon-scented floor polish that always feels slightly inappropriate in a place where so many people die upstairs.

You push open the door to the Compliance suite—and stop cold.

Charlotte Abbot is sitting at a table by the far wall.

The mother. The matriarch. The woman who once held your wrist too tightly at a holiday dinner and smiled with all her teeth while calling your thrifted dress "a brave choice."

Today, she's dressed in something pale and bone-colored that belongs in a luxury SUV ad. Her scarf is knotted with precision. A small gold pin gleams on her collarbone—medical caduceus, stylized and expensive. She looks like she came here to chair a foundation meeting, not ambush her son’s former mistake.

"Doctor [Y/L/N]," she says. Not Ms. Not you. Not even dear. The title slides out like she's trying it on.

Your first instinct is to flee.

Your second is worse: to apologize for something you haven't done yet. Instead, you nod. Not a bow. Not a smile. Just acknowledgment.

"I was told to meet Jenna," you say.

Charlotte gestures to the empty chair across from her. "Jenna's indisposed. I asked if I could borrow a moment of your time. Just a moment."

Her voice is low. Elegant. Practiced. A velvet rope across a locked door.

You don’t sit right away. There’s a French press and two cups on the table—one chipped at the rim, the other stained inside from something darker than coffee. Who the hell brews a full pot down on Sublevel 1? You glance around. No Jenna. No admin staff. No compliance officers lurking in the corners. Just silence and the slow drip of something that doesn't belong here.

Just her.

You sit.

"I'm sure your schedule’s relentless," she says, voice light but eyes tracking you too carefully. "I remember Jack’s intern year—he’d stumble through the front door looking half-dead, still in scrubs, sometimes with blood or charcoal stains on his sleeves. He’d sit down to eat and fall asleep with his fork halfway to his mouth. Hand would shake so bad he couldn’t get it to his plate without missing."

She laughs, like it’s endearing. Like Jack’s exhaustion was some charming, character-building footnote in his medical career. Like nodding off with a fork in his hand meant he was determined, not dangerously burned out. But you weren’t there for that part. Not really. Not when he came home wearing two uniforms at once—one stitched with rank, the other with a hospital badge. Not when the war hadn’t quite let go of him yet, and residency piled on top like a dare. Still, you can picture it. The tremor in his hand that no amount of caffeine could explain. The way a dropped tray probably made him flinch before his brain could remind him he was safe. The tightness in his jaw that didn’t come from stress, but from memory—old, buried, clawing its way back through fluorescent lights and sterile hallways.

You stay silent. Because even if you weren’t there, you know enough to recognize the ghosts.

"It's impressive," she continues, pouring into your cup without asking. "Emergency medicine. That's a battlefield discipline. You always struck me as more of a philosopher."

"I don't remember us talking much."

Charlotte smiles. "No. You were always in the kitchen with the boys. Laughing too loud. Taking up too much space."

There it is.

You wrap your fingers around the cup. It's porcelain. Bone white. The handle too small for a comfortable grip. Made to look delicate even when it's boiling.

"I wanted to speak before the year progresses," she says. "Before people get attached. Or ideas get… cemented."

You raise an eyebrow. "Ideas?"

Charlotte folds her hands. "About what your presence here might mean."

You hold her gaze. "What does it mean?"

"That depends on you."

She pulls a folder from her bag. Cream linen. Gold-trimmed. Heavy paper.

You already know what's inside before she opens it.

"There are other options," she says. "Other programs. Less crowded. Less emotionally… volatile. One of our family donors is on the board at Wake Forest. They’re looking for someone like you. Quiet. Capable. Willing to start fresh."

You don’t touch the folder.

Charlotte sighs.

"Jack is… loyal to a fault," she says. "He carries things long after they’ve stopped serving him. Pain. People. Promises. He’s never learned to distinguish between guilt and love."

You feel something twist in your stomach.

“What happened that summer was… regrettable,” she says, each word carefully chosen, lacquered in control like she’s rehearsed this line a hundred times. “You were young. My other son made foolish choices.” She doesn’t say his name. Doesn’t have to. “But Jack—Jack almost didn’t come back.” Her tone falters just enough to make you notice, but not enough to admit guilt. She lifts her cup, taps her nail against the rim—once, twice—before continuing. “He wrote me from overseas. Said he couldn’t sleep. Said every time he closed his eyes, all he could see were porch lights humming in the dark and knees scraped open on the pavement. He didn’t say your name, but I knew.” Her eyes flick to yours. “He said he felt failure. Like he’d left something bleeding and didn’t know how to stop it. Like no matter how many wounds he patched over there, it didn’t matter, because he hadn’t fixed that one.”

She lets the silence breathe. Lets it grow.

"I won't let him do that again."

You blink. “Do what?”

"Lose himself," she says.

You take a sip of the coffee. It’s not what you expect—light, almost delicate, with some floral note clinging to the edge like perfume on a collar. Not the kind of coffee brewed for comfort or caffeine, but for image. It tastes like someone tried to soften it on purpose, like bitterness was something to be ashamed of. Like someone poured rosewater over something burned and hoped you wouldn’t notice. It tastes like curated grace. Like someone trying to dress a wound in lace and call it closure.

“Are you in on this with him?” you ask. No soft lead-in. No mask of civility. Just truth, raw and bleeding.

Charlotte doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. She picks up her coffee, takes a sip, and sets it down on its delicate saucer like she’s discussing dinner plans—not the fact that her son cornered you in a garage with a decade old photograph.

“I assume you’re referring to my youngest,” she says, tone light, almost bored. “The one you left.”

“I didn’t leave him,” you say, jaw tight. “He cheated on me. He lied. And the second he told me, I ended it.”

“I was wondering how long it would take you to bring the photo up,” she says smoothly, like she’s been waiting for this moment since you walked in.

Your throat constricts.

“You were heartbroken,” she says, like she’s narrating a memory that belongs to her. “And Jack has always had a weakness for things he thinks he can fix.”

Your pulse hammers in your ears. “He didn’t try to fix anything. He listened. He sat with me. I was the one who—”

Charlotte raises a hand gently, silencing you without needing volume. “I’m not interested in the choreography. It’s a mother’s job to notice patterns. That summer—you and Jack thought you were discreet, didn’t you? The long nights. The mornings he didn’t come home. The way you stopped flinching when his name came up. You were both too careful. And not careful enough.”

Your stomach twists. “You knew.”

“I suspected,” Charlotte says. “Then I watched. Jack is many things, but subtle has never been one of them.”

You force your voice steady. “And your other son? He took a photo. He followed me. Cornered me in a garage.”

She doesn’t react. No flicker of surprise. No maternal concern. Just a slow inhale.

“He’s angry,” she says. “And embarrassed. You made him look like a fool. And Jack let it happen.”

“He cheated on me,” you snap. “I left him. Jack didn’t steal me—I wasn’t his to keep.”

Charlotte leans back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other, the picture of composure. “Be that as it may, the story isn’t about what really happened. It’s about what people think they saw.”

She taps one manicured finger against the rim of her cup.

“The image that remains—the one on that porch—isn’t of a woman scorned. It’s of a woman with her ex’s brother, legs around his waist, dress pushed up, eyes closed. You know what that looks like to everyone else? A scandal. A poor decision. An opening.”

You go rigid. “You’re going to use it.”

Charlotte’s smile is thin, almost pitying. “We don’t need to. All it takes is a whisper. A well-timed doubt. The photo is just a prop—your presence here is the real threat.”

“I didn’t come back for Jack,” you say, voice low, sharp. “I came back because I earned this. I built this life without him.”

“I’m sure you believe that,” she replies. “But tell me—how many people will see it that way once the story shifts?”

You stare at her, breath tight in your lungs.

Charlotte leans forward, her voice dropping.

“Reputation is about narrative. And you let yours tangle itself with both of my sons. That’s not ambition. That’s carelessness.”

You clench your jaw. “So this is what? Punishment? Gatekeeping?”

“This is protection,” she says. “For the legacy Jack still has left. For the family name. For order. You weren’t supposed to come back, and you definitely weren’t supposed to matter.”

You push back from the table, heart hammering.

“I won’t let you rewrite what happened.”

Charlotte exhales, slow and deliberate.

“We don’t need to rewrite,” she says. “We just need to remind people what they’re most willing to believe.”

And with that, you finally understand: she’s not afraid of the truth.

She’s counting on no one caring about it.

She stands. Smooths her blazer.

"You’ll think about it," she says. "I know you will. You always overthink things."

She gathers her purse. Steps to the door.

Then pauses.

Looks back.

"Do send my regards to Dr. Abbot," she says. "But let him rest. He’s done chasing ghosts."

She leaves.

And the air doesn’t move for a long, long time.

You don’t go straight back to the emergency room.

You say you’re checking vitals on 3. You say you’re waiting on a consult. You say your badge isn’t scanning on the trauma locker again. All of it is a lie.

You just need a minute.

And the cafeteria, sad as it is, doesn’t ask questions.

You take the far corner, near the vending machine that’s always broken. Slide into a seat against the wall and uncap your water bottle like you’ve got time to drink it. Like your stomach hasn’t been hollow since the moment Charlotte Abbot said “You always overthink things” and left you alone with your silence.

You don’t eat. You don’t scroll.

You listen.

It starts like a faint breeze. Two tables away. Two voices. Women. Breezy, clipped vowels that belong to people who’ve worked here long enough to stop pretending the place is sacred. You catch the first name—Renee—and the lilt of the second—Kirstie, maybe? RN tags. Hair tied back in uneven buns. One’s reading an email on her phone while eating baby carrots; the other’s folding a napkin into quarters like she’s trying to reduce the space she takes up.

“You see her this morning? Came in late. Or maybe she just looked it. Like she’d been crying or hadn’t slept or both.”

“Table Nine girl?”

“Mmhmm.”

“She matched here?”

“Apparently.”

A pause. The sound of chewing.

“Didn’t think they let that kind of drama through the Match algorithm.”

“They don’t. Unless someone made a call.”

That makes your stomach tighten.

You keep your eyes on the condensation dripping down your water bottle. Watch it bead. Slide. Pool against the label like it’s trying to escape.

“I mean, I don’t blame her, really. I’d sleep with Dr. Abbot too.”

“Wouldn’t. Too intense.”

“Exactly why I would.”

Laughter. Soft. Familiar.

“Still. Wild to go from one brother to the other.”

“I heard it happened before the cheating. Like she was already running hot for the older one while she was still with what’s-his-face.”

A beat.

“God. I sat at her table at the wedding. You could feel it. Like… heat. Not the sexy kind. The kind that curdles.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like Jack wouldn’t look at her. But also like he wasn’t not looking. You know?”

“Mmm. Dangerous.”

“Yeah. Like one of those things where no one says it out loud, but everybody knows? And now she’s on the trauma service?”

“What could go wrong.”

They laugh again.

But not cruelly. Not like they mean to hurt you.

Worse.

They sound curious. Intrigued. Entertained.

Like your life is a late-night case they didn’t have to chart.

And that’s what hurts the most.

Not that they’re wrong.

Not even that they’re talking.

But that it doesn’t occur to them—not for a second—that you might be sitting in the same room.

You rise slowly. Controlled. Leave the table. The air behind you buzzing with assumption and familiarity and the easy rhythm of women who’ve worked too many shifts to care about collateral damage.

You’re almost at the door when you hear one last thing—soft, almost inaudible.

“She doesn’t look like trouble.”

“They never do.”

You take the stairwell back up instead of the elevator. The motion helps. Forces breath into your lungs. Pulls your body back into your skin one step at a time.

You tell yourself it’s fine.

They didn’t say your name. They didn’t know for sure. They’re not malicious. Just bored. Just reading the signs you left behind.

But the signs were never yours to post.

They were hers.

Charlotte’s.

And now they’re blooming like mold on the walls of this hospital—impressions, innuendo, a photo no one’s seen but everyone feels.

You push open the stairwell door and nearly collide with Whitaker, who jumps like you slapped him.

“Oh—shit, sorry, didn’t mean to—uh.” He steps back, almost trips over his own feet. “Didn’t know anyone used this stairwell. Thought this was, like… pigeon storage.”

You stare at him.

He stares back.

Then frowns, softer now. “You okay? You look kinda—like your soul left but forgot its keys.”

You force a breath. “Caffeine’s crashing.”

He nods. Way too seriously. “Yeah. I had three Red Bulls before noon and then started crying in the elevator for, like, no reason? So. Vibes.”

His pager buzzes. He checks it. Grimaces.

“I gotta go help Santos find a vein in a dude. But, uh—if you die in the stairwell, just… don’t haunt me, okay?”

And then he’s gone—half-jogging, granola bar still in his pocket.

And somehow, that helps. A little.

You don’t move for a moment.

You just stand there in the middle of the hallway, scrub top wrinkled, ID lanyard sticking to your neck, pulse too loud in your ears.

Because this is the moment you understand something new.

They’re not going to ruin you all at once.

They’re going to let you rot slowly—beneath the surface, behind polite smiles, under the weight of stories that only have to feel true to become fact.

You rejoin the floor. You check on the elbow dislocation. You re-chart the beta. You even manage to laugh—half-heartedly—when Santos makes a joke about Whitaker falling asleep upright in the break room with his eyes open like some kind of burnt-out trauma raccoon.

You act normal. Because that’s what they expect from you. And you’ve already given them enough to whisper about.

You don’t see it until you swing by the resident lounge.

A bag.

Sitting on the counter near the fridge. Small. Black. Matte paper with matching ribbon handles—expensive, but subtle. One of those gift bags that looks like it came from a boutique that sells candles named after abstract emotions.

Tucked inside: tissue paper, crisp and folded. Something pale blue beneath it. And a small envelope. No name. Just your initials. Neat. Slanted. Familiar.

You glance around.

No one.

You peel the tissue back.

Inside: a travel-sized set of things. Lotion. Lip balm. A roll-on essential oil labeled “serenity.” A tin of mints. A tiny mirror shaped like a peony. The kind of kit someone would give a bridesmaid. Or a nervous girl. Or a mess.

Your hands go cold.

You open the envelope.

The card inside is thick, soft cream stock. Gold-foiled edging. Real stationary. Not drugstore. Not impulse-buy.

The handwriting is deliberate. Feminine.

“You seemed overwhelmed at the wedding. A little grace goes a long way. Hope this helps.”

That’s it.

No name.

But you know.

Of course you know.

Because the font on the “grace” matches the embossing on the brochure Charlotte tried to hand you this morning. Because the lotion is the same brand she used to leave in the guest bathroom during holidays, with the lavender sachets and the monogrammed hand towels no one was allowed to use.

Because grace is a word women like her wield like a scalpel.

You set the card down.

Slowly.

Like it might explode.

You want to throw the whole bag out. Shove it in the trash and light it on fire. But that would make it a scene. That would give it shape. And this isn’t a story with witnesses. It’s a pressure game.

You pick up the bag.

And gently—very gently—place it in your locker, behind your trauma clogs and extra compression socks. You close the door like you’re sealing something inside.

You don’t tell anyone.

Because it’s just lotion, right?

It’s just a card.

It’s just concern.

It’s not a threat.

Except it is.

You feel it in your teeth.

The door creaks when you push it open.

You don’t mean to be here. Not really. You’d just kept climbing—one flight, then another—chasing silence like it might let you breathe.

And now you’re standing on the roof of Allegheny General, the wind catching at the edge of your scrub top, the sky that sickly shade of late-shift blue, and the city stretching wide in every direction like it knows how lost you feel.

Your chest’s still tight from the last case. You can feel it in your ribs, in the place behind your sternum where the monitor beeped too long and too steady. You shouldn’t have run it. You weren’t even the first assist. But Langdon barked something about moving faster, and suddenly it was your hands in that kid’s chest, your voice counting off compressions, your breath stuck in your throat while the mother screamed in the hallway.

You keep trying to forget the sound.

You can’t.

The wind’s colder than you expect. It bites at your fingers, tugs strands of hair loose. You cross to the edge of the rooftop and lower yourself onto the concrete, knees drawn up, arms wrapped tight around them, jaw locked as the city yawns open below.

You don’t cry.

You just sit there. Still in the scrubs with someone else’s blood drying under your sleeve.

You breathe.

One in, one out.

Don’t fall apart. Don’t flinch. Don’t let them see it.

That’s what you’ve been telling yourself since orientation. Since you saw the bag. Since you caught the two nurses whispering about you in the cafeteria.

And now you’re here. On the roof. Alone.

Except you’re not.

You don’t see him at first.

But you feel him—before he says anything. That shift in the air. That low, deliberate kind of stillness he carries with him, like he was built in the silence between artillery rounds. You don’t turn. Not right away.

You just stare straight ahead and say, “If you’re here to tell me I’m being dramatic, you’ll have to wait your turn.”

A beat of quiet. Then—

“That bad, huh?”

You glance over your shoulder.

Jack stands a few feet away, hands in his jacket pockets, watching you like he’s not sure you’ll let him near.

“I didn’t know you came up here,” you murmur.

Jack shrugs. “Only on the days that end in Y.”

You almost smile.

Almost.

He watches you for a second longer, then walks over and sits beside you—carefully, like he’s still measuring the space between you, still remembering what it felt like to want more than he was allowed to ask for.

“You good?” he asks.

You let out a laugh that isn’t really a laugh. “I think I broke a rib trying to crack a five-year-old’s chest, so no.”

Jack doesn’t flinch. He just nods.

“That was a shit case.”

You don’t respond. You just look out at the skyline.

Jack leans back, eyes on the clouds. “First time I lost a kid, I punched a vending machine and bled through three sets of gloves before anyone noticed.”

You glance at him.

He looks tired. Not the kind of tired sleep could fix. The kind that lives in your joints, your blood, your bones.

“I didn’t punch anything,” you say quietly.

He turns his head to look at you. “No. You ran it.”

You stiffen.

“Bad call?” you ask.

Jack’s expression doesn’t change. “No. Right call. Just a hard one.”

You nod. But your hands are fists in your lap now.

Silence.

Then—

“You always did show up when it was already burning.”

You say it before you mean to. And instantly regret it.

Jack’s jaw flexes. But he doesn’t argue.

You don’t know why you said it. Maybe because you’re tired. Maybe because you’re still bleeding somewhere inside from the last time you let him close.

Or maybe because being on this roof, with him sitting too near and not saying enough, makes it too easy to remember that summer. His hands on your skin. His mouth at your throat. His voice in the dark, low and wrecked, whispering your name like a confession.

You loved him. You never told him, but you did.

And when he left—God, when he left like that—you told yourself you’d never feel that weak again.

You nod toward the door. “I should head back.”

He doesn’t move. Just watches you rise.

Then, just as your hand touches the door handle, he says—soft, almost inaudible—“You know it wasn’t just about me, right?”

You freeze.

He doesn’t clarify. Doesn’t explain.

But you know what he means.

That it wasn’t just about him staying away.

It was about who else told him to.

Who else never wanted you there in the first place.

You look back at him—just once.

And the thing that breaks you isn’t the distance. It’s the fact that he still looks at you like he wants to close it.

But you can’t let him.

Not now.

Because if you let him back in—if you let any of this happen again—you’ll lose more than your grip.

You’ll lose him.

So you just say, “I know.”

And then you leave.

Because sometimes protecting someone means becoming the thing they believe they’re better off without.

Even when it kills you.

The hallway you’re walking is the kind that always feels too long at the end of your shift—too fluorescent, too still. This stretch of the hospital doesn’t carry voices well. Just the sound of your own footsteps bouncing off cracked tile and the occasional hum of overworked vents. The air smells like bleach and something older, something settled deep in the walls.

You pass a hand sanitizer dispenser that’s half broken, a light that flickers once and dies. And still, you keep moving. Until something catches in your chest and you stop—just for a second. Just long enough to press the heel of your hand to your sternum like pressure might calm the panic clawing up from somewhere you can’t name.

Jack’s words are still in your ears.

You know it wasn’t just about me, right?

You knew. You’ve always known. The whispers at the wedding. The long looks from his mother. The fact that she wouldn’t speak to you unless his brother was in the room.

You remember the way she smiled when you'd leave. The kind of smile that doesn’t reach the eyes. That says: finally.

You make it to the break room without seeing anyone. But someone’s already there.

Langdon’s leaned against the counter, sipping coffee like he hasn’t run three traumas back-to-back. He glances up as you walk in. Doesn’t say anything at first—just narrows his eyes like he’s assessing damage.

“Hell of a shift,” he says eventually.

You open your locker. Your hands are still shaking.

“Rooftop help?” he adds.

You freeze.

Slowly turn your head.

“I was up near Step-Down a few minutes ago,” he says, tone casual but not careless. “Caught a view of the east side.”

You freeze at your locker. Your hands still.

He sips once. Doesn’t blink.

“Saw you and Jack up on the roof.”

The air tightens.

He leans back against the counter, eyebrows lifting, expression unreadable. “You two okay?”

You force your voice not to crack. “Fine.”

Langdon sips his coffee again. “Uh-huh. That why he’s still up there?”

Your blood goes cold.

You blink. “What?”

Langdon nods toward the window. “Still saw him when I came down just now. Just standin’ there. Staring like the whole goddamn city did something personal.”

You don’t respond. You just shove your granola bar into your bag and close the locker harder than you mean to.

Langdon watches you. “You sure you’re good?”

“I’m fine.”

He lets it sit there. Doesn’t push.

But then he says, casually, “There’s been talk.”

Your body goes rigid.

“What kind of talk?”

Langdon shrugs. “Couple nurses. Something about you. Something about Jack. And something about the Abbot family not being too happy to see you walk through the front doors.”

You meet his gaze.

“Let them talk.”

Langdon snorts. “They will.”

You shoulder your bag. Turn to go.

Langdon calls after you, voice low but serious.

“Whatever this is, it doesn’t scare me. But it scares him.”

You stop in the doorway. Don’t turn around.

“Good,” you say. “He should be scared.”

And then you’re gone.

You don’t look back.

You can’t.

Not when the person who’s still standing on the rooftop hasn’t moved an inch since you left.

[laboidasia]

How to Properly Clean Your Laboratory Mixer

Laboratory Mixer  play a crucial role in scientific research and experimentation, aiding in the precise blending of liquids and powders. To ensure optimal performance and maintain the integrity of your samples, it is vital to keep your laboratory mixer clean and well-maintained. In this guide, we will explore the importance of cleaning your mixer, the potential risks of neglect, and the step-by-step process for proper cleaning.

Why Cleaning Your Laboratory Mixer is Essential

1. Prevent Contamination

One of the primary reasons for cleaning your laboratory mixer is to prevent cross-contamination. Residue from previous experiments can contaminate new samples, leading to inaccurate results and compromised data integrity. This is especially critical in sensitive experiments, such as those involving cell cultures, pharmaceuticals, or toxicology studies.

2. Extend Equipment Lifespan

Regular cleaning not only ensures the quality of your experiments but also helps extend the lifespan of your Laboratory Shaker & Mixer. Buildup of substances can lead to wear and tear, affecting motor function and overall performance. By maintaining cleanliness, you minimize the risk of mechanical failures and the need for costly repairs or replacements.

3. Compliance with Safety Standards

Laboratories must adhere to strict safety and hygiene regulations. Failing to clean your equipment can lead to violations of these standards, potentially resulting in penalties, project delays, or reputational damage. A clean laboratory environment is crucial for ensuring the safety of all personnel and maintaining a productive workspace.

Risks of Neglecting Cleaning Procedures

Neglecting proper cleaning protocols can result in several risks, including:

Biological Contamination: In microbiology or biochemistry labs, leftover residues can promote bacterial growth, leading to unsafe working conditions.

Chemical Reactions: Residual chemicals may react with new samples, creating unexpected and potentially hazardous outcomes.

Data Integrity Issues: Contamination can skew results, leading to false conclusions and wasted time and resources.

Equipment Failure: Dirty mixers may overheat or malfunction due to buildup, leading to costly repairs and downtime.

Step-by-Step Cleaning Process for Your Laboratory Mixer

Materials Needed:

Mild detergent or cleaning solution

Distilled water

Soft cloth or sponge

Brush with soft bristles (optional)

Gloves

Safety goggles

Cleaning Procedure:

Step 1: Preparation

Before cleaning, ensure the mixer is unplugged and turned off. This is a crucial safety step to avoid any accidents while cleaning. Wear gloves and safety goggles to protect yourself from potential chemical exposure.

Step 2: Disassemble the Mixer

Carefully disassemble the mixer according to the manufacturer’s instructions. This usually involves removing the mixing vessel, blades, or paddles. Take care not to damage any components during this process. If you’re unsure, consult the user manual for specific disassembly instructions.

Step 3: Rinse Components

Rinse the disassembled parts under warm running water to remove any loose debris or residue. This initial rinse helps to loosen stubborn contaminants. Avoid using high-pressure water, as it may damage sensitive components.

Step 4: Clean with Detergent

Prepare a solution of mild detergent and distilled water, following the manufacturer’s recommended dilution. Using a soft cloth or sponge, apply the cleaning solution to the mixer components, ensuring to clean all surfaces, including hard-to-reach areas. For stubborn residues, a soft-bristle brush can be used to scrub gently without scratching the surfaces.

Step 5: Rinse Thoroughly

After scrubbing, rinse all components thoroughly under running water to ensure no detergent residue remains. Detergents left on the surfaces can contaminate future samples, so this step is essential for cleanliness.

Step 6: Dry Components

Dry all components with a soft, lint-free cloth or allow them to air dry completely before reassembling the mixer. Avoid using paper towels, as they may leave lint or fibers behind.

Step 7: Clean the Base Unit

While the removable parts are drying, clean the base unit of the mixer. Wipe down the exterior with a damp cloth and a mild cleaning solution, avoiding any openings or electrical components. Use a soft brush to clean around any buttons or crevices.

Step 8: Reassemble the Mixer

Once all components are dry, reassemble the mixer according to the manufacturer's instructions. Ensure that all parts are securely attached and in their correct positions to avoid operational issues.

Step 9: Final Inspection

Perform a final inspection to ensure that the mixer is clean, reassembled properly, and functioning correctly. Check for any signs of wear or damage that may need addressing.

Additional Tips for Maintenance

Regular Cleaning Schedule: Establish a regular cleaning schedule based on usage frequency. For high-use mixers, daily cleaning may be necessary, while less frequently used mixers may require weekly cleaning.

Use Appropriate Cleaning Solutions: Always use cleaning agents recommended by the manufacturer to avoid damaging the mixer.

Monitor for Wear and Tear: Regularly check for signs of wear on blades and components, replacing them as necessary to maintain optimal performance.

Store Properly: When not in use, store the mixer in a clean, dry area to prevent dust and contaminants from settling on it.

Conclusion

Maintaining a clean laboratory mixer is essential for ensuring the accuracy of your experiments and prolonging the life of your equipment. By following the proper cleaning procedures and adhering to regular maintenance schedules, you can help prevent contamination, avoid equipment failures, and comply with safety regulations. A well-maintained mixer not only supports your research but also contributes to a safe and productive laboratory environment.

[strnilolover]

NNN - matt sturniolo - period help

You and Matt were laying in his bed together, limbs tangled with one another as your eyes were focused on the movie you were watching. Here and there, matt would make some remark, causing you to rebutted against it — and occasionally your laughs mingling with one another as you joked about the movie.

“No — no, she definitely has feelings for that kid. I mean she literally acts so dumb in front of him and not around anyone else.” you argued, propping yourself up onto one arm as you spoke to matt.

He shrugged, “i don’t know — i don’t see how, i mean she acts dumb around other people too. how can you rule this out to her liking him?” he asked, his hand coming up to poke at your temple. You just rolled your eyes, “I have a feeling.” you retorted back.

He hummed, taking his eyes away from you to train back onto his tv, your own doing the same as you settled back into his side. After a while, you felt the urge to pee — having drank all that water and sodas not long ago.

So you carefully shifted, trying to shimmy your way out of matt’s grasp. But, when you shifted to slide off the bed, you felt the unmistakable feeling of warmth between your legs — and your body froze. Your eyes went wide, looking down to where your body sat on matt’s bed, seeing the stain of red under you.

You squeezed your eyes shut, feeling the embarrassment seep into you. ‘Fuck — fuck’

You shifted uncomfortably, hoping that matt wouldn’t notice how ridge your body went. But to no surprise — matt always being attentive of you — you heard his voice behind you, soft and concerned.

“Sweetheart, are you alright?” he asked, his hand coming out to rest against your shoulder, rubbing small circles. You swallowed, letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

You nodded slowly, opening and closing your mouth a few times before looking over your shoulder at him. “I just — uh —“ you stammered, your gaze falling to your lap and the bed again. Matt furrowed his brows, moving on the bed to sit beside you. His gaze now looking down to where yours was at, and his face softened.

“Oh baby,” he whispered, his hand now resting on your lower back. “Are you okay?” he asked, tilting his head to look at yours better. You looked at him, face red with embarrassment. “mhm…you — you aren’t grossed out?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper. You wanted the world to open and swallow you whole.

He shook his head, his body now moving to stand as he moved in front of you — holding his hand out. “It’s a natural part of you, why would i be grossed out by something you can’t control?” he said, and you head tilted back to look at him before putting your hand into his.

He helped pull you up, the gross feeling still clinging to your skin. “Do you need me to run you a shower baby?” he asked, and you nodded. “yes please.”

He hummed, letting your hand go and walking over to his dresser. He pulled out a hoodie of his and a pair of sweatpants, also grabbing a pair of your underwear you seem to have left here. He walked past you, going out the bedroom door and into his bathroom to start the shower for you — making sure it was hot enough.

When he was done, he came back into the room, you body still planted where he left you. Holding out his hand again for you to take, he tugged you toward the bathroom. “Do you need anything else while you’re in the shower? snacks, heating pack?” he asked softly, letting you step into the bathroom as he began to turn away.

“Uh…some of those rice cakes with peanut butter and a heating pack please.” you muttered, and he smiled, walking away toward the kitchen as you closed the bathroom door.

When you were finished with your shower, getting dressed into the clothes matt picked out for you and using a pad (or tampon) from the pack you kept here just in case — you wandered out of the bathroom.

You set the towels in the washing machine before pivoting and walking into matt’s room. The sheets on the bed were already changed and the things you requested were already there waiting for you. You smiled softly, walking over to the bed. You didn’t hear matt’s footsteps behind you, his arms wrapping around you.

You jumped slightly, a giggle then following. “There’s my pretty girl.” he mumbled into your neck, pressing a few light kisses there. You couldn’t help but smile more, letting your head tip back to rest on his shoulder. Matt pressed one last pec to your neck before pulling away, “I got everything you requested and-“ he paused, bringing something around in front of you. “- i figured you might want this guy.” he held mr.wrinkleton up in front of you, swaying him back and fourth.

A big grin spread across your face as your hands reached to grab the stuffed pug, wiggling out of matt’s grip to turn around. “You’re the best, did you know that?” you said, pressing a light kiss to his jaw. He chuckled, his hand coming up to rub the small of your back once more. “I mean, i’d do anything to make you comfortable — i hope you know that.” he admitted, and you nodded in understanding.

“So — want to get back into bed now?” he asked, already detaching himself and going to his bed. You gave him a look that already spoke for itself, walking over to the bed and climbing in under the covers.

Once you were situated, you turned your head to matt, holding his stuffed pug close to your chest. “I do want one more thing though.” you said, and matt’s eye brow raised slightly. “Yeah? what’s that?”

You smiled, scooting closer to him and swinging a leg over his slowly. “Lots and lots of cuddles.”

[syrecjh]

──★ ˙☕ ̟!!Name on the Cup

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ || katsuki bakugo x cafe worker reader, pure fluff

It starts with a hiss — the espresso machine sputtering to life as morning light spills through the fogged-up windows of the café. You’re barely caffeinated, hair half-tied, apron slightly stained with yesterday’s caramel drizzle, but you’re there — behind the counter, pen in hand, ready to face another slow sunrise of sleepy orders and mismatched playlists.

And then, he walks in.

Every day at exactly 7:42 a.m., like a controlled detonation. He pushes the door open like it offended him, brows knitted, jaw tight, black hoodie pulled up like he’s hiding from the world. Like he hates everyone in it — especially whoever made mornings mandatory.

His name? Katsuki Bakugo.

But you?

You call him whatever you damn well please.

“Caramel macchiato, extra shot, scalding hot,” he grits out, voice low, rough like gravel under boots. The kind of voice that sounds like it growls in dreams. He doesn’t look up, just slides a crumpled bill across the counter, waiting.

You take your sweet time writing his name. Slowly. Carefully.

“Katsucki.”

The first time you did it, it was an accident. Sort of. His glare nearly curdled the milk. But now, it’s a ritual. A game. A rebellion. You’ve called him everything from “Kacchan” to “Katspuke” to “King Boom.” The names change daily. His order never does.

“Are you doing this on purpose?” he snapped once, gripping the cup like it had personally insulted him.

You only smiled. “What gave it away?”

He stared at you. Hard. Like he wanted to set something on fire — maybe you. Maybe your terrible Sharpie penmanship. But then he muttered, “Dumbass,” under his breath, and walked out with his cup steaming, ears red.

But the next day, he came back.

He always comes back.

The other baristas avoid him like he’s a bomb with a faulty timer, but you? You lean into it. You talk to him. About the weather. About the songs on the radio. About how the espresso machine makes weird noises when it's tired, and maybe he’s not so different.

And sometimes, sometimes, he answers.

One morning, he tells you he’s a pro hero. “Dynamight,” he says flatly, like it should mean something. You blink. Nod. Pretend you’re not impressed. But later, you Google him. And yeah, okay. He’s kind of a big deal.

But here?

He’s just the grumpy guy who insists on his coffee being hot enough to melt steel.

And somehow, you like him better that way.

Then comes the Thursday where it shifts.

You hand him his drink — “Blasty Boi” scrawled on the cup this time, extra hearts and a smiley face for good measure. He stares at it for a beat too long, then back at you.

And he says, very calmly: “If you spell my name wrong one more time, I’m blowing up your espresso machine.”

You grin. “You’d miss it too much.”

His mouth twitches. Almost a smile. Almost.

And then, just as he’s turning to leave — same way he always does, fast and sharp like he’s late for an explosion — he pauses.

Looks over his shoulder.

“...You gonna keep makin’ my coffee or what?”

You raise an eyebrow. “If you ask nicely.”

His eyes narrow. “Give me your number.”

You blink.

He scowls. “For, you know. Future orders. Or somethin’.”

You smirk. Write it down on the side of the cup, just under the heart-shaped foam art you never admit to doing on purpose.

He takes it. Doesn’t look back.

But the next day?

You get a text at 7:41 a.m.

\[Unknown Number]: don’t forget the extra shot dumbass

\[Unknown Number]: and spell my fuckin name right this time

And from then on, every cup still has a wrong name.

But now?

He drinks them with a smirk.

And he stays a little longer at the counter — just to watch you laugh.

[theloveinc]

jason todd x reader - boobies and entrails, entrails and boobies. 1.3k

(warnings: afab!reader who has bio baby and is called "mama," mentions of giving birth and post-birth body, nipple worship, kinky and weird SORRY i went insane, one instance of gore, jason is pretty teasing and suave, but so are you. mature themes, be warned.)

Jason and his staring problem—

At you, mostly (he gets it from the whole “being a vigilante” thing, he says when you point it out. It has to run deeper than that, though—because it’s not just tactical scans and daggers you catch him shooting, but the most heinous pair of bedroom eyes, as well, even in the most public of places), but also… at every single thing around you, too. Not a single trip out of the house goes by without him inspecting the scenery, the bus, the people around you both with those searing blue eyes. If he were anything like Superman, your whole neighbor and everyone in it would’ve been burnt to a crisp before you even managed to move in.

But also, Jason and his staring problem now that you’re lactating, as if he’s always desperately waiting for the moment your shirt comes off for whatever reason, to feed the kid or you to change your clothes. 

(He knows it’s perverted, but it’s tender in a way, too, and there’s nothing he likes more than being tender with you, having you in ways no other person can.)  

In fact, the cosmic energy of his ogling problem is probably the reason that you’re leaking through your shirt right now, breasts stiff and heavy from waiting for your baby to wake up from their snooze to be fed, and from the intensity of your lover, just watching, just waiting–

(He claims that it’s simply because he’d hate for anything to happen to either of you in such a vulnerable moment, that he can’t stand the thought of any kind of disturbance during baby’s feeds, even if it’s just the doorbell, the fridge’s automatic ice machine, or the sound of sirens outside.)

But just like their father on the nights he isn’t tossing and turning and sweating, your baby is a heavy sleeper, doesn’t exactly snore (yet) but you can always hear their little puffs of their breath through the monitor at night. It’s… cute (just like Jason is, when he’s able to fully relax). 

You’re only just coming out of the nursery when you catch sight of the stains in the hallway mirror–right where your nipples sit, over the large Wayne Enterprises logo of your shirt–cussing because now you’ve gotta change clothes and you're unsure if your raw nipples can take the friction of another bra and t-shirt sliding over your chest. 

Jason hasn’t exactly hid the nipple cream, but he keeps it on his side of the bed so that he can do the honors of applying it for you, which would be weird, but…you’ve seen his entrails on multiple occasions, plus you birthed his baby and the entire time, he had his head between your legs to watch. That aside, however, he actually knows what the hell he’s doing, cupping and kneading your chest before bed each night, one last round of filling up your pump for his shift to feed the baby before licking up the rest himself. Then, he’s slathering you in lotion, fully assured that you’re empty and content enough to sleep until it’s your turn for the baby.

(You’ve found that you’ve come to love his calloused and rough hands even more than you did previously: the ridges and notches of skin scratching every itch, feeding every urge, and serving to answer to your every need, grounding you in ways you often don’t always notice, but instead, always feel.) 

But then the man himself is appearing in the threshold, acting smug and surprised to see you as though he wasn’t already on his way to pester you in the nursery, where he’d likely pull you from your fussing with folding and refolding the baby clothes so you could sit on his lap in the room’s armchair and eventually fall asleep with your face in his neck. 

And he’s walking up and pressing his belly to yours, your sore tits nudging against where he is most firm and they are swollen, causing you to inhale sharply, huff just a little out of surprise—

Before you realize Jason’s cornered you on purpose.

(You can’t escape those eyes, not even for a second, always catching the smallest of things; the dribble of spit about to land on your shoulder when you’re burping the baby, the air bubbles that haven’t quite yet settled in a freshly made baba, the single loose thread about to unravel their little crocheted hat.)

One side of his lips tilt up, and you glare—not annoyed so much as unimpressed by his scheme. You’d much rather his initial plan, or the one that ends ups up with you in your own bedroom, taking advantage of the next 45 minutes without a baby in either of your arms, than be out here, cranky from the chill of your milk cooling on your shirt, leaving wet marks your husband will both enjoy and tease you relentlessly for (both verbally and physically). 

“What?” you mutter, trying not to shirk away from his prying gaze, unpacking you the way he’s always been able to (even now that the two of you have softened in ways only parenthood can allow for), with caution and vigilance lingering in every small movement.  

“Nothin’,” he smiles, leaning in to press his nose to yours, hands wrapping around your hips to cup your ass and pull your hips to his. You can feel the outline of something in his pants–not yet fully tented, but still chubbing with heat, and you barely brush against it when you move to curl your fingers in his belt. 

“You’re lying.” 

(Jason seems to like this domestic life he has with you, a little more than he cares to admit–out loud, at least.) 

“Just wanted a kiss, maybe,” he feigns innocence, teeth visible through his sly grin. “‘not gonna make me ask for one, are you?”

You exhale sharply, and though you raise an eyebrow, you also lift your chin, welcoming the way his mouth settles heavy on yours, curving against your lips, pressing them open wetly until your eyes are closing and you’re leaning into his frame where his arms are waiting to pull you as close as possible.

Jason pulls back, but doesn’t quite recede from you; his eyes dark and pretty eyelashes heavy in the low, evening light of the hallway…so you wait (letting him give you more delicate pecks on the mouth, cheeks, eyelids, in between each of his breaths) and wait and wait, til his hands finally start to creep, up from your hips, where his thumbs tickle your belly, still soft and wrinkled from your labor, to your waist where they begin pushing up your shirt. He fingers the low edge of your nursing bra, tickling the soft underside of your boobs as he begins to move the band upward. 

“Todd…” you warn, fidgeting in his hold as his form, his hands, his eyes overtake you, slowly stretching the elastic up and over, until it has crumpled the fabric of your t-shirt against your collarbones and your tits are free.    

Still, his eyes only crinkle at the sides, as they have started to do more and more the longer you’ve been together.

“You’re leaking, mama,” he whispers, moving his hands from your bra to where you’re now exposed, heated flesh going chilly from exposure, warming where he cups 

“And?”

He smirks, “‘just wanna help, is all.”

One of his fingers glides down your nipple gently, and milk starts to bead when he presses (not hard enough to bruise, but enough to have you keening, your at least for a second, til his hand is swiping your skin and he’s sucking the fatty drippings into his mouth and sucking. Hard. 

“Yeah?” you breathe, staring into his eyes, watching just the same. “Then why don’t you go and get my pump?”

(He does, obediently, not before turning back to give you those eyes one more time, as if to say, later, soon as baby is fed–

And boy, does he make good on the wordless promise: Jason has you howling on his thigh later even with a mouth full of milk.)

[cup1drul3z]

★ — After Hours

ᴄᴜᴘɪᴅꜱ ᴏɴᴇꜱʜᴏᴛꜱ!

ᴄᴀꜰᴇ ᴡᴏʀᴋᴇʀ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ x ꜰɪʀᴇꜰɪɢʜᴛᴇʀ!ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ | 3ᴋ ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ

TAGS : Size Difference, Age gap, semi-public sex, oral (r!reciving), fingering, on the counter

A/N : starts crying

SUMMARY : You’re a shy barista. She’s a bold firefighter who keeps coming back—just for you. One night, she shows up after close… and takes exactly what she wants.

The bell above the café door jingled—low and lazy—right as you were wiping down the counter for the third time that hour, trying to stay awake during your afternoon shift. You barely looked up at first. The place had been dead all day.

Then boots. Heavy ones. A shadow cut across the floor, long and slow like it had nowhere else to be.

You glanced up—and choked.

She stood tall in the doorway, tugging off thick gloves and tucking them into her belt. A black fire department T-shirt clung to her broad chest, streaked faintly with soot. Her cargo pants hung low on her hips, stained and dusty, and her sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, showing arms that had definitely done some damage.

"Afternoon," she said, voice low and smooth as smoke. Her eyes scanned the chalkboard menu, then dropped down to meet yours. "You the barista?"

You nodded too fast. “Y-Yeah. I mean—yes. That’s me. Hi. Hello.”

Her mouth twitched, one brow arching. “Cute.”

You wanted to die. Instead, you scrambled behind the espresso machine, praying the hiss of steam would cover how loudly your heart was trying to beat out of your chest.

She stepped up to the counter, pulling out her wallet. “Got anything strong enough to make a night shift suck less?”

“Um—yes, yeah. Our espresso blend is really strong. Like, double-roasted strong. Bold. It’s bold.”

She tilted her head slightly. “Bold, huh?”

You nodded. Your hand shook a little when you grabbed the cup. You prayed she wouldn’t notice.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?”

You blinked. “M-Me?”

That earned you a soft laugh. “You see another flustered barista hiding back there?”

You told her. She repeated it under her breath, like she was committing it to memory.

“Pretty name,” she murmured, sliding a twenty across the counter. “Keep the change.”

Your eyes widened. “That’s—that’s like a fifteen-dollar tip.”

She shrugged one shoulder, already walking toward the door. “Consider it a donation to the poor, broke college kid fund.”

And just like that, she was gone. Left you standing there red-faced, gripping the cup she never even touched.

You were sure you looked like a complete idiot—fumbling your words, face hot, apron twisted.

There was no way she'd come back.

Right?

The next afternoon, the café was a little busier—enough to keep your hands moving but not enough to drown out your thoughts. You were still cringing over yesterday. Every awkward stammer. The way your face had burned like you’d been cooked alive. You were halfway convinced she only tipped you out of pity.

You were wiping down the espresso machine when the bell jingled again.

You didn’t even look up this time. Not until someone leaned an elbow on the counter and said, smoothly—

“Bold, double-roasted, huh?”

Your heart skipped.

You turned—and there she was again. Same black T-shirt. Different pair of pants, same low hang on her hips. Her arms were even dirtier this time, smudged like she’d been in a crawlspace or a burning basement. She looked like sin in combat boots. And she was smirking.

You immediately forgot how to speak.

“I—um… hi.” You tucked a piece of hair behind your ear, then immediately dropped your hand, thinking it looked weird. “You came back.”

Her gaze dragged down your body and back up again, lazy and obvious. “Yeah. I got a craving.”

Your stomach flipped. You turned to start her drink without asking what she wanted, because god, of course you remembered.

She watched the whole time. Didn’t scroll on her phone. Didn’t look around. Just… leaned on her elbow and stared, like it amused her to see how red your ears were getting.

“Long shift today?” she asked, as you poured the espresso shot.

You nodded, biting your lip. “Till six.”

“Must be brutal.” She folded her arms, flexing just enough to make the fabric of her shirt strain. “Poor thing. Still working through school?”

You froze mid-syrup pump. Slowly nodded.

“Still broke?”

You flushed. “...Yeah.”

She pulled out her wallet again. You tried to wave her off—“You don’t have to, seriously—”

“Relax.” She slid a five across the counter. “Just buying the view.”

You made a sound that could only be described as a dying noise.

She chuckled, deep in her chest. “God, you’re cute when you blush.”

You nearly dropped the milk pitcher.

She took her drink, sipped it slowly, then held your eyes for just a second longer than necessary.

“Same time tomorrow,” she said. “Don’t let anyone else take my order.”

And she was gone again.

You stood there stunned, breath caught in your chest, pulse fluttering behind your ears.

This time… you hoped she came back.

It became a pattern.

Every afternoon, like clockwork, that damn bell jingled—and there she was.

Sevika.

Always a little dirtier than the day before. Always smelling faintly of smoke, sweat, and whatever soap they used at the station. Always leaning on the counter like she owned the place. Like she was there for something more than caffeine.

And maybe she was.

Because she never ordered anything different. Never asked your coworkers for help. Never looked at anyone else.

Just you.

“You gonna remember my drink today, or should I start quizzing you?” she teased on day three, when your hands fumbled the cup lids and one fell to the floor with a clatter.

You bent to grab it, cheeks blazing. “I—I remember. I’ve got it.”

“Good girl.”

Your stomach flipped. Your knees almost buckled. You didn’t know if she meant to say it like that, but from the slow curl of her grin, you were pretty sure she absolutely did.

You gave her her coffee without meeting her eyes. She handed you a ten.

“I’m supposed to tip the service, right?” she said, voice low. “And you’ve been very… attentive.”

You looked up at her through your lashes, trying not to visibly combust. “You’re such a menace.”

“And you’re such a mess when I walk in,” she murmured, leaning just a little closer. “It’s adorable.”

You swallowed.

The café was quiet. No one else in line. Her eyes dragged down to your lips and lingered for a beat too long.

“I’ve got tomorrow off,” she said casually, taking a slow sip. “Thinking I might stop by after close. When it’s just you.”

Your breath hitched. “Wh-why?”

She licked her lips. “Thought I’d ask what else that mouth can do.”

Your heart stopped.

Then she winked—and walked out the door.

You stared after her for a solid minute, trying not to melt straight into the floor.

The café lights were half-dimmed, the floor already mopped, and you were elbow-deep in wiping down the counter when the bell over the door jingled.

You didn’t even glance up at first. “Sorry, we’re clo—”

Then you saw the boots.

And the ash.

And the dark, sweat-clung curve of muscle under a black T-shirt.

Sevika stood there in the doorway, hair damp and wild, soot streaking her jaw, her arms, her neck. Her fireproof pants sat low on her hips, suspenders hanging loose at her sides, and her shirt—God, her shirt—was nearly see-through in the places where it clung.

You straightened so fast you nearly dropped your rag.

“Y-You’re—uh, you’re back,” you stammered, pushing your hair behind your ears with both hands. “But we’re—I mean, we’re almost—closed. I haven’t locked up yet, but—”

“Yeah?” Her voice was lower than usual. Rougher. She stepped inside, letting the door swing shut behind her. “Guess I got lucky then.”

You blinked at her, stunned. “Were you… on a call?”

“Kitchen fire. Dumbass left oil on the stove. No one hurt.” She walked toward the counter slowly, eyes dragging across your frame like it was the most interesting thing in the room. “Thought I’d stop by before hitting the showers.”

You swallowed hard.

“I—I didn’t think you were serious. About coming after close.”

She tilted her head, her smirk lazy and knowing. “Why? You hoping I’d forget?”

“No! I mean. Not—not forget. Just. I don’t know.” You looked down at the counter like it could save you. “I figured you were just messing with me.”

Sevika leaned her arms on the counter, close enough that you could smell the smoke still clinging to her skin. “I don’t come back to places for jokes, sweetheart.”

You looked up at her—and the heat in her gaze nearly knocked the air out of your lungs.

“I like watching you squirm,” she added, almost sweet. “That shy little act you pull. The way you bite your lip when you’re nervous.”

“I do not—”

“You do.” Her voice dipped, soft and amused. “You’re doing it right now.”

You clamped your mouth shut, biting your lip on instinct.

She laughed.

“I mean,” you mumbled, reaching for the rag again even though the counter was already spotless, “you really know how to mess with people.”

“I only mess with people I want to touch.”

You froze.

Her eyes locked with yours. The air in the café was suddenly too warm. Too tight. Her voice dropped again, low and close:

“You gonna lock that door, baby? Or should I do it for you?”

Your heart pounded like it was trying to climb out of your chest.

Sevika just stood there, staring at you—so casual, like she hadn’t just set the air on fire with one sentence. Her forearms flexed as she leaned on the counter, ash smudged along her jaw, her lips, the curve of her throat. She looked like heat made flesh. Wild and wrecked and too goddamn beautiful to be real.

You swallowed hard. “I should… lock the door.”

“Yeah,” she said, watching your every move. “You should.”

Your legs felt like jelly as you walked to the front, turning the deadbolt with trembling fingers. You flipped the sign to CLOSED and turned back slowly.

Sevika was already around the counter.

Inside your space.

You froze, hand still on the doorknob.

She moved closer, slow and heavy-footed, like a storm rolling in. “You looked real cute with your hands all busy on that counter.”

You laughed nervously, backing up until the register bumped against your hip. “That’s because I’m a very professional cleaner.”

“Oh yeah?” She stopped inches in front of you. “Bet you’re real good with your hands, huh?”

You bit your lip—and immediately regretted it, because the second her eyes dropped to your mouth, something in her shifted.

She stepped into your space, boxing you in, one palm planting firm beside your waist on the counter, the other brushing your wrist so lightly you could barely feel it.

But you did feel it. Every nerve lit up.

“Gonna let me find out?” she asked, voice rough.

You couldn’t even think. “I—I don’t usually—”

“Yeah, I figured.” Her lips twitched. “That’s why I’m asking.”

Your breath hitched.

You could smell the heat on her skin. Her sweat. The hint of smoke curling off her shirt. Her eyes never left your face, watching for the tiniest flinch. The smallest opening.

“I want to touch you,” she said, almost softly. “Tell me I can.”

You nodded before your brain could catch up. “Yes.”

Her hand slid up your side, slow and reverent, fingers dragging over the fabric of your uniform shirt, brushing just under the hem until her palm met bare skin. You gasped—quiet and sharp.

She leaned in, mouth grazing your jaw.

“Didn’t think you’d let me,” she murmured, lips ghosting toward your ear.

“I didn’t think you’d actually come back,” you whispered.

She chuckled, low and warm against your skin. “Yeah. You’re fuckin’ adorable.”

Then her mouth was on yours.

It wasn’t soft. It was hungry. Like she’d been waiting—like she’d wanted this since that first awkward stammer out of your mouth. Her hands grabbed your hips and pulled you forward, up onto your toes. You moaned into her, gripping the front of her shirt, fingers sliding across ash and sweat and heat.

She backed you into the counter behind you, lifting you up with both hands until your ass hit the surface, your knees parting instinctively.

Her mouth moved from your lips to your neck, biting just hard enough to leave heat blooming under your skin. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

You shook your head, dazed. “Don’t.”

She grinned against your throat. “Good girl.”

Her hands were already under your shirt. Up your thighs. Her touch was rough but deliberate—like she wasn’t here to play. Like she wanted to wreck you.

And God, you wanted to be wrecked.

Her hands gripped your thighs—firm, calloused, warm—fingertips digging into the soft skin just beneath your shorts as she pulled you forward on the counter. Your legs parted around her automatically, wrapping loosely at her waist as her body slotted between them, solid and hot and unbearably close.

“You gonna be a mess for me already?” she murmured against your neck, her voice a low rumble that made your pulse stutter. “Didn’t even touch you properly yet.”

You whimpered as she kissed up your throat, slow and biting, her teeth dragging over your skin before her tongue soothed it. Her hands slid under the hem of your shorts, fingers dragging over your inner thighs—up, up, up—until her thumb brushed right where you were pulsing through your underwear.

You jolted. “S-Sevika—”

She hummed, deep and pleased. “Fuck. You’re already wet.”

You nodded helplessly, breath catching in your throat. “I—I’ve been thinking about you all week—”

That made her groan, full and low in her chest. “Say that again.”

“I think about you,” you whispered. “Every day. Every time you come in.”

She pulled back just far enough to look you in the eye, one hand still resting between your thighs, fingers pressing the damp fabric closer against you. Her smirk was all heat and hunger.

“You touch yourself thinking about me?”

You flushed hard, nodding.

Sevika growled.

“Then I’m not being gentle.”

And she wasn’t.

She tugged your underwear to the side, her fingers slipping straight through your slick folds with zero resistance. You cried out—sharp and breathy—as she pressed her middle finger inside, slow but steady, dragging it out just to thrust it back again, harder.

“Goddamn,” she muttered, eyes locked on your face as you gasped. “So fucking tight. Bet no one’s ever had you like this.”

Your head fell back, fingers clutching the edge of the counter. “N-No one—like this—”

That made her grin wickedly. “Good.”

She added a second finger, stretching you just right, her palm pressing against your clit with every curl of her hand. You bucked into her touch, moaning loudly—thankful the café was empty, the lights low, the door locked.

Your shirt was bunched up now, your back arched, thighs trembling as she fucked you on the counter like she’d earned it. Like this was inevitable.

“Look at you,” she said, voice rough with want. “Sweet little barista getting fingered where she serves coffee. What would your manager say?”

You whined, too far gone to answer.

She leaned in close, her lips brushing your ear. “You gonna cum for me right here, baby?”

“Y-Yeah—please—”

“Then do it. Let me feel it.”

Her thumb finally pressed tight against your clit, circling hard and fast, and your body snapped. The orgasm hit so hard your whole body tensed, legs locking around her waist as your back arched and your moan punched out of your throat.

“Thaaat’s it,” she whispered, watching your face the whole time. “Fuckin’ beautiful.”

You sagged back onto the counter, shaking, panting, legs still wrapped around her.

She didn’t move—just watched you come down, her hands stroking your thighs gently now, slower.

“I’m gonna be late to work every damn day,” she said finally, voice low and satisfied.

You let out a breathless laugh. “You better leave a tip.”

She grinned, pressing a kiss to your knee. “Sweetheart, you are the tip.”

You were still catching your breath, legs loose around her waist, your heart stuttering from the aftershocks when Sevika leaned in again.

She kissed the corner of your mouth—slow, almost tender—before dragging her lips down your neck, over the sweat-slick curve of your throat. Her hands never stopped moving, rough palms sliding up your trembling thighs, across your stomach, under your shirt.

“You think I’m done with you?” she murmured against your collarbone.

You whimpered. “I—I didn’t think—”

“Didn’t think you’d be such a desperate little thing either.” Her hands squeezed your hips, pulling you forward again on the counter. “But here you are. Still soaking. Still mine.”

She lifted your shirt up over your head and tossed it aside, leaving you bare except for the panties already stretched out of place. Her eyes dragged over your chest like she was trying to memorize every inch of you.

“You're so fucking pretty,” she said roughly, cupping your tits in both hands. Her thumbs brushed over your nipples, slow and firm, and you gasped, hips jerking forward on instinct. “Bet you don’t even know how pretty.”

You flushed hot, trying to look away, but she grabbed your chin and forced your eyes back to hers.

“No hiding.” Her thumb dragged across your bottom lip. “Not when I’m about to make you come again.”

Before you could answer, she dropped to her knees.

You barely had time to process it—her shoulders pressing between your thighs, hands gripping your hips like handles—before her mouth was on you.

Heat. Tongue. Pressure.

You nearly screamed.

She licked you like she was starving, slow drags from your entrance to your clit, teasing at first, then suddenly firm—perfectly firm—her tongue flicking over you just right until you were clawing at the counter and moaning her name.

“S-Sevika—f-fuck—oh my God—”

She groaned into you, the sound vibrating through your whole body. One hand slid up to grab your breast, squeezing, tweaking your nipple as she sucked hard on your clit. The dual sensation made your body jerk, your head drop back as another wave hit you, harder than the first.

You came with a cry, thighs squeezing around her head, your body arching into her mouth like you needed it. Like breathing.

She didn’t stop until you were twitching, panting, too sensitive to take any more.

Only then did she rise—slow and smug—her mouth shining with you, her chest rising and falling like she’d just pulled someone from a burning building.

You looked dazed. Boneless. Ruined.

She smirked and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Bet you make a mean cappuccino, sweetheart,” she murmured, voice wrecked, “but this?”

She leaned in, her forehead pressing against yours.

“This is my new favorite afternoon routine.”

[cvnt4him]

Hello! I’ve never requested smut before and I’m kind of embarrassed as hell, but you write so damn well I will gladly power through it for you. 🫡

So…fem reader pegging Izuku…? 👀

dropped everything for you

Izuku is very open sexually. He wants you to know there's nothing he won't do for and with you. He likes to stay open minded in the bedroom with you because he's never had anything like this before. Also not that you don't already know; he's a huge pervert. He loves trying new and stimulating things that he believes you will also like.

Izuku has watched all kinds of pornography, there are some he likes and others he isn't a fan of. He's come across a lot he definitely would love to tell you about one day. It isn't normal for you to be nervous about telling izuku things, even when regarding the bed.

However as much as you know about his sexual fantasies you aren't sure if he's ever been interested in something like this.

You're sitting in your shared bed straddling his lap he moans into your mouth while your tongues dance together swapping spit as you gently grind in him. You can feel his hardened cock grinding against your inner thighs as he bucks his hips up into you, holding you firmly by the waist.

You're swallowing all of his whimpery moans, his brows furrowed and hws rutting into your thighs tensing as his heart is pounding out of his chest. You pull apart from his rough plump lips to kiss and nip at his sensitive, freckled neck.

You can hear his breath hitch as he lets out a whimpery "oh". He cooes whiney mumbled words I to your ear that only eggs you on. There's so many things you want to do to him, so many things he'd look sexy doing. The thought alone had you leaving harsh hickeys all over his neck. He loved when you marked his body in anyways you could, with lipstick staining his body, hickeys, or even scratches all over his back.

You couldn't contain the nervousness and excitement swirling in your stomach. He was growing more rowdy by the second, he was going to cum soon maybe this was your chance. Of course it's not as if he can only cum once, that guys a fucking machine.

You pull away from his neck and face him, your hands dropping from his neck and sliding down to gently massage his shoulders earning an earnest groan from him. The slight tinge of pain making his eyes flutter open to look at you. There was a small wobbly smile on his face, a dust of red painting his freckled cheeks as he struggled to keep eye contact.

“ hey..”

His voice was taken over by lust and came out as a breathy mewl. He chuckled breathily as his fingers kneed into the rough of your hips. You smile back at him lovingly, you can't get the question out but you have to. You feel like you'll die without ever getting to have in such a way..

“ zuku,.. would you ever wanna try something....new?”

Izukus formerly squired eyes widened, he sat up the best he could with you sitting on his lap humming and turning his head to the side like an adorable puppy. He rubs circles on your hips and smiles warmly at you.

“ well what do you mean love?”

You chew on your bottom lip and fiddle with the hem of his shirt. You struggle to keep eye contact with him your eyes trailing down as you can feel your nerves eating you alive. You can feel your heart leap into your throat, beating loudly inside of your ears as well. You swore you were going to puke.

You were clearly stuck in your head whatever it is you were thinking about you were absolutely stuck. Izuku hummed to himself before he cups your face in his large calloused palms. He sighs and kisses you gently all over your face small giggles leave you as you seemingly relax in his touch.

He smiles at you, the smile reaching his eyes and making the corners crinkle cutely. You smile back and lean your forehead against his. You were still wildly nervous but it was nice to know you had him.

“ y'know whatever it is, you can tell me.”

He spoke softly to you, trying to make sure you knew this was a safe space for you. It's not like he's ever given you a reason to feel like you would be judged by him. He's the sweetest thing ever. I mean sure he has his moments full of sass, but don't we all.

You wrap your arms around his neck and sigh shakily. This is it, you're finally going to get an answer.

“ ...could I maybe.....peg you..”

You could hear a small noise leaving izuku at the request. His eyes were blown wide and his face was flushed red, like I said izuku has seen all kinds of porn. He knows what he likes and what he doesn't. He has always been curious about pegging but he can't say he's exactly...thrilled

As you pull away from him to look him in the eye, the silence being so overwhelming and scary you clear your throat and watch as his eyes just stare blankly at you. His mouth slightly agape as you search his face for an answer.

“ ...izuku..?”

“ uh..”

Just as youre about to apologize profusely at the absurd request and run to hide in your bathroom he speaks over you just in time.

“ ...if that's something you think you'd be interested in..I don't see why not.”

He gave you a small nervous and unsure smile. You gasped at his answer and a large smile flew to your face as you scoffed in shock. You honestly thought he would've let you down, gently of course.

“ but!!! of course let's do our proper research! I don't want anything to break....”

You giggle at your boyfriends words and nod to him kissing his face making him chuckle along with you. You both talked about it more before you decided to finally test it..

Izuku was laying on his back, he was nervous so he asked if you could do it with little to no light. Of course you wanted your partner to be comfortable so you left your curtains open to let the moonlight provide. You rubbed your hands up and down his abs as he let out small whines, his eyes lifted as you gently fingered him. Two of your fingers working inside of him to test the waters.

You curl your fingers with expertise to see what feels good for him, his body jolts up at the slight prodding he feels inside biting harshly down on his bottom lip. You could feel him absentmindedly tighten around your fingers while you slowly pull them in and out

His head lets back a little at the repeated motions of them going in and out his whines growing longer and louder.

“ is this good baby? does it feel okay?”

His words can hardly even come out as he squeezes his eyes shut. He has a hard time looking at you while this is happening. It's not as if he's humiliated or anything but he's just having a hard time.

You move your hand down to his thigh and rub it to try and soothe him before he nods in response. You hum displeased with this, you want him to use his words with you just to ensure that he's really telling the truth.

“ use your words...please?”

He whines at this, opening his mouth before a stuttery moans escapes unintentionally. You giggle but keep it under wraps to not startle or upset him.

“ yes...god- yes.. feels good..”

You can tell he's trying his hardest to keep him composure. Your heart absolutely melts as his hand shakes and tries to find its way to yours. You wrap your hand in his ass his body shakes, you hadn't touched his cock once just to see how this felt and if he could cum without the simulation. Y'know, an experiment.

His eyes shot open as moans continued to slip past his open lips his breathy moans left him so beautifully as she squeezed your hand tight. His eyes trailed to you staring you deep in the eyes, you swore you seen hearts in his eyes.

You can hardly make out what he's saying due to the moaning but you will yourself he's trying to tell you he's close. He normally is very vocal with you and when he's near, of course you don't hold his lack of speaking against him with this being a new experience and sensation.

His eyes squeezed shut as you hear him groan as he clenched his jaw and grits his teeth. His whole body shakes as spurts of cum comes shooting out of his cock all over your wrist and your joined hands. It's as if all of the breath in his body vanished with the orgasm he has.

Izuku was lightheaded and could hardly think, his whiny moans silencing as his body twitched and he nearly choked on the sharp inhale of air he took. Your heart swelled at the sweet sight of him blissfully lying there. You rub your thumb if the back of his hand and gave him a small squeeze.

His eyes flutter open slowly as he focuses back on you. You can hear him grumble and moan out lowly as you slowly remove your fingers from him.

“ you ready?”

Izuku gulps and nods to you as you wipe off both of your hands. You were already ready for this, having everything on standby the second he told you he was ready.

You mouth an okay to him and bring a quick kiss to his forehead. You have him prop his legs up momentarily as you click the strap onto yourself. You were far more excited than izuku was, that was plain to see. Infact, he was really nervous. Despite all the prepping and mind preparing things he did, he was in fact nervous

Your eyes flicker from the dildo to him, his nervous eyes widening and staring right back at you. You sigh to yourself and just pull him into a quick hug, leaning down onto him and placing kisses in his forehead.

“ are you sure you're okay with this. you can say no, izuku.”

You can hear a small scoff leave him, he placed a kiss to the crook of your neck and pushes you off with your forehead still connected.

“ I know. I promise, I'm ready.”

Izuku was so pleased to know you genuinely cared about his comfort and about him. You nod once to him and pull away to line yourself up with him biting your lip to contain the smile creeping onto your face. Izuku kept his eyes closed throughout the whole ordeal. Despite how ready he was for this new experience he was still anxious.

You slowly slide into him in one swift movement forgetting to give him a minute he yells out an unknown noise that sounds like a shriek for help yet one of pleasure at the same time. His hands squeezes yours tightly as yours tightly as he lies against the pillow. He didn't know how to describe what he was feeling but he was sure feeling it.

You kept your thrusts soft and slow shushing him as small mewls left him, his breath seeing as if it was being knocked out with your little thrusts. You and izuku have had sex in all kinds of different ways and positions. It's funny to think the small thrusts you're giving is leaving him breathless

You keep your eyes on him the entire time. You watch as his brows stay knitted together and how he keeps his teeth sunken into his lower lip. His breathing seeming steady for the most part. Just as you're about to ask him if he's okay it seems that one sharp thrust you gives him hits the right spot, his back arches off of the bed and he throws his head back with a loud moan leaving him.

Now this was downright pornographic. You can't help but to smile yourself as he tells you to keep going, his thighs shaking but you can see he's finally getting into the groove of it. You move your hips faster and add a bit of force to it. your pelvic slapping against the back of his thighs with a snap that's only growing louder and louder

You lean down and let him wrap his legs and arms around your body, it's like he was trying to pull you closer. His face was buried in your neck and you could hear all of the sweet noises he sang to you, sniffles and hiccups leaving him as he begs you to keep going. This must be how he feels when you're beneath him.

His body was sweaty against yours and he was only growing closer. One of his hands sinks in between your bodies and strokes his fat cock, dribbling with cum. You're unsure if he's cum already or if it's just from the last time he came.

“ oh fuck, please..”

His voice is so whimper and full of air, whined leaving him as he yells out for you. You kiss his nose a couple of times still trying your hardest not to laugh. You were really enjoying yourself, really getting off to this. Your big strong boyfriend was beneath you begging for you, aching for you to get him there.

“ fuck.. y/n— oh fuck...”

He could hardly speak with the mind numbing pleasure you were giving him. Your breath is fanning his ear with each harsh thrust you give him, his tears falling into your shoulder as he holds you for dead life.

“ c'mon zuku,... cum for me.”.

You didn't need to tell him twice. He could hardly even keep himself from blowing his load and even as he began cumming and shooting thick spurts of cum you kept thrusting. It slipped your mind to slow down he was practically wailing like a baby at this point. It had your heart aching as you shushed him.

“ wait.. wa- wait! please stop!”

He was sniffling and shaking in your arms, you immediately stop pulling back to see him completely broken. This wasn't something he's done before and neither of you knew how he'd react. Honestly this isn't what you imagined but you definitely enjoyed yourself. You just hoped he did too.

“ sorry handsome, I didn't mean to overwhelm you..”

Izuku can't quite find his words yet, still very delirious off of the pleasure. You pull out and place a kiss to his wet tear stained face and clean him up, he came all over his body and your shirt he could use a clean up.

Izuku immediately passed out. You just hoped he could've told you how good he felt. By the morning he was sure to tell you everything and to give you notes, he definitely would want to do more of this in the future.

[arimoonlight1]

𝐒𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐞 𝐂𝐮𝐩𝐬~ 𝐒𝐚𝐦𝐦𝐢𝐞 ˣ 𝐟𝐞𝐦𝐏𝐨𝐜!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐰𝐜:𝟏.𝟑𝐤

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: 𝐀𝐭 𝐚 𝐜𝐨𝐳𝐲 𝐜𝐚𝐟𝐞́, 𝐛𝐥𝐮𝐞𝐬 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐚𝐦𝐦𝐢𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐬𝐤𝐬 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚 (𝐘𝐨𝐮!) 𝐡𝐞’𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐜𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐧— 𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐡𝐲 𝐠𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥.

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝐉𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐅𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟!

𝐑𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭!: @𝐥𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐥𝐱𝐳𝐳𝐳

𝐈 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐈 𝐝𝐢𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐲𝐚 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐞 😔 𝐄𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲!

You’d worked at The Blue Note for just over a year now—long enough to learn the regulars, memorize the creaky spot on the floor near the back table, and perfect your morning playlist rotation. The place was known for its velvet couches, jazz-stained walls, and blues that poured like warm molasses every Friday night.

And Sammie was part of that rhythm.

He’d first walked in one spring evening, guitar strapped over his shoulder, looking like he’d just stepped off a train from somewhere important. He wasn’t the loudest guy in the room. He didn’t demand attention. But somehow, the moment he walked in, the air shifted.

“Double espresso, no sugar,” he said every Friday, always with that same slow smile, like he was testing a joke only the two of you understood.

“You ever try anything else?” you asked him once, sliding the cup across with a teasing raise of your brow.

He leaned forward, his voice low. “Don’t fix what already keeps me up thinkin’ ‘bout you.”

You laughed it off, but your heart stuttered a little, like it had missed a step. He’d left the cup half-empty that night, but stayed later than usual, just strumming soft chords even after the set ended, eyes occasionally flicking up to where you were wiping down tables.

Weeks passed, and the flirting became routine—if a little shy. He’d linger longer, sit closer to the counter. Once, he brought you a record from a local shop, wrapped in brown paper.

“Thought you’d like this. Got a voice kinda like yours—smooth, but got bite.”

You turned it over, reading the label. “Mmm, Ella Washington. I’ll give it a spin.”

“She might not be better than you, though.”

You raised a brow. “You haven’t heard me sing.”

“I don’t need to. Heard you talk.”

That stuck with you for days.

One Friday night in August, you were elbow-deep in dishes when Sammie showed up earlier than usual. He walked in like the summer heat was chasing him and stopped just shy of the counter.

“Hey,” he said, voice a little hoarse. “Got somethin’ new tonight. Thought I’d try it out.”

“Original?” you asked, drying your hands on a towel.

He gave a slow nod, brown eyes not quite meeting yours. “Yeah… Been sittin’ on it a while.”

“Well,” you said, leaning in, “I’ll be listening.”

The place filled up fast—folks packing in like it was church. The scent of coffee beans and cinnamon rolls wrapped around you like a shawl. Sammie stepped onto the stage just as the golden-hour light dipped behind the windows. He tuned his guitar, cleared his throat, then looked straight at you.

“This one’s about someone who makes the best coffee I ever had. But it’s not the coffee that keeps me comin’ back.”

Your breath caught, towel frozen mid-fold.

Then he played.

𝑺𝒉𝒆'𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒉𝒚𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎 𝒊𝒏 𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒆𝒕,

𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒖𝒈𝒂𝒓 𝑰 𝒅𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒅,

𝑨 𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒌 𝒃𝒆𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓

𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒎𝒂𝒌𝒆𝒔 𝒂 𝒈𝒓𝒐𝒘𝒏 𝒎𝒂𝒏 𝒃𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒆𝒗𝒆.

His voice was warm and a little frayed at the edges—like the last note of a long day. The whole café hushed. You could hear a spoon stir, a breath hitch. But mostly, you heard him. Really heard him.

𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒎𝒂𝒚𝒃𝒆 𝒊𝒇 𝑰'𝒎 𝒍𝒖𝒄𝒌𝒚,

𝑺𝒉𝒆'𝒍𝒍 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒊𝒕 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒖𝒏𝒆,

𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑰'𝒗𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒆𝒕𝒍𝒚

𝑺𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒔𝒕 𝑭𝒓𝒊𝒅𝒂𝒚 𝒊𝒏 𝑱𝒖𝒏𝒆.

You stood frozen behind the counter, the heat from the espresso machine rising behind you. Every line sank in, delicate and slow. You didn’t know where to look except at him, and he never looked away from you.

When the song ended, the room burst into applause—but Sammie didn’t seem to hear it. He stepped off stage, guitar still in hand, and walked straight to you.

“Well?” he asked, voice barely above the hum of the ceiling fan. “Too forward?”

You blinked, feeling warm. “I—no. It was… beautiful.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding it all night. “Been workin’ up the nerve to ask you out for months now. Kept waitin’ for the perfect moment, but turns out they don’t really come. So I made one.”

You smiled, heart pounding. “So this is you asking me out?”

He nodded, finally brave enough to hold your gaze. “Would’ve done it sooner, but you always look so busy. I figured you’d say no.”

“Then you don’t know me that well.”

He tilted his head, hopeful. “So that’s a yes?”

You tapped your fingers against the counter like you were playing a piano key. “Only if we split fries. And I get first pick on the jukebox.”

Sammie grinned, dimples deepening. “Deal.”

Later, at Melba’s Diner, the two of you slid into a cracked red booth under flickering neon lights. The place smelled like fried catfish and vanilla milkshake. You shared a plate of golden fries and laughed at how sticky the menu pages were.

“So,” Sammie asked, sipping sweet tea, “what’s your dream? Can’t imagine you wanna sling lattes forever.”

You smirked. “Actually, I want my own spot one day. Something cozy—vinyl records, poetry nights, live sets. Maybe call it Sugar & Sound.”

He whistled low. “That’s got a ring to it. Sounds like a place I’d wanna play.”

“You’d be on the rotation,” you said, popping a fry in your mouth. “But only if you write another song about me.”

He chuckled. “You keep makin’ me nervous behind that counter, and I’ll have a whole album before you know it.”

You tilted your head, watching him closely. “What about you? This always the plan?”

“Always,” he said, running a thumb along the rim of his glass. “But lately… I’ve been wantin’ more than just songs.”

The silence that followed was thick—but not uncomfortable. You let your hand drift over the table, and he met you halfway, fingers brushing. Soft. Easy.

The jukebox kicked into Otis Redding’s These Arms of Mine, scratchy and soulful. Sammie leaned back, watching you with the kind of look that could melt the ice in your cup.

“Guess I got lucky,” he murmured.

You smiled, letting your fingers stay tangled in his. “Yeah. I think we both did.”