#and to return to it.. after all this time..

[lovebugism]

Thunderbolts prompt: fake dating with them oh my lordy

ty for requesting :D below you will find four separate blurbs for the thunderbolts (bucky, yelena, john, and bob), each with their own separate summary and warnings! enjoy!!

BUCKY BARNES X READER — you pretend to be bucky's wife to help his image during the election (friends to lovers, pre-thunderbolts but also kinda canon divergent | 0.8k words)

Bucky Barnes never lets go of your hand. He never stops smiling either, at the sporadic camera flashes that threaten to blind him while the elevator doors squeak to a close. Only when the two of you are finally alone, away from the leering eyes of the press, can Bucky take his first good breath of the evening. Only then does he let go of your hand.

You migrate to opposite sides of the small lift and bathe in the welcome silence after a too-long night of shaking hands and people pleasing. Bucky sighs and tips his head back against the wall. “I’m sorry about this,” he mumbles beneath the ding-ing elevator. “Again.”

Despite the ache in your feet from a long night in heels, you manage a small, tired laugh. “You don’t have to keep apologizing, Bucky— Valentina put me up to his, alright? Not you.”

“No, I know, I just…” he trails off with an awkward chuckle, loosening the knot in his tie with two fingers. “I just know you’d rather be anywhere else in the world than here, you know, with me. I know how boring these things are, trust me.”

He tilts his head to flash you a tight-lipped grin, ocean eyes dark and weighed down with a visible fatigue. You give him a much more apologetic look in return.

“Actually, I’m kinda happy I’m here,” you correct and avert your gaze. “I know Valentina did all… this,” you wave your hand vaguely between the two of you. “But if pretending to be married helps you get elected, then I’m happy to do it. I seriously think you could do some good— like, world-changing good, so… I wouldn’t wanna be anywhere else.”

Bucky’s chest warms with an unfamiliar feeling. Something fuzzy, like television static or crackling embers — the kind of feeling he only gets whenever he’s holding your hand. It feels strange now, not to be touching you after spending a whole evening at your side.

He flexes his flesh hand and tries to ignore the ache while the numbers on the elevator continue to rise — 27th, 28th, 29th… 

“I know neither of us wanted to be here, but… Out of everyone Valentina could’ve picked, I’m glad it was you.”

“I’m sure you are,” you quip, trying not to be as vulnerable as you feel. “Considering her first idea was pairing you and Walker to go on, like, pretty public missions together.”

Bucky’s face screws. “No, it wasn’t...” he groans.

“Yeah. Like, saving kittens out of trees— Real serious stuff.”

He makes a pained, grumbly noise in his throat. “Well, now I’m extra glad it’s you.”

The two of you exhale soft laughs and stare ahead at the closed doors before you; more specifically, at the bright red numbers above them — 41st, 42nd, 43rd — praying silently that they’ll slow down.

“And even though Valentina did all those for show… You know, the whole married Avengers thing…” Bucky trails off and clears his throat, trying to find the words to say. “Every time we kissed, every time we pretended to be in love… It was real to me. It was always real to me.”

You exhale a heavy breath. Like his words have physically punched you in the stomach. 

“And if you don’t feel the same way, I get it. Okay? I do,” Bucky rambles, preparing himself for an inevitable rejection. “But when all this dies down, whether it gets me elected or not, I’d like to take you out on a real date.”

“No press?” you ask, peering at him from beneath your lashes.

Bucky shakes his head in agreement. “No press.”

“Even if you don’t get elected, and all of this ends up being for nothing?”

“Well, it… wouldn’t have been for nothing.”

You exhale a breathy laugh. “You know, despite what Walker says about you, you still know your way around women, Sergeant Barnes,” you quip beneath the ding of the elevator. 

Bucky’s brows furrow in confusion as the elevator doors whir open. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he calls to the back of you as you step out onto the fifty-third floor.

He doesn’t follow you — equal parts because he feels like his feet are glued to the floor and because his real room is a floor above the one Valentina booked for Mr. and Mrs. Barnes. 

You flash him a look over your shoulder, eyes dolled up and magnetic like a siren’s gaze would be. “It was real to me, too, Bucky,” you murmur, so quietly he barely hears it, then remove every ounce of vulnerability from your being. “Now, do you wanna come in for a night cap or what?”

You walk off before he can answer. Bucky catches the closing door with his vibranium hand and rushes to follow behind you.

You share a bed that night, like many nights before, but this time with the knowledge that everything will be different when you wake up the next morning.

YELENA BELOVA X READER — yelena wants to show her parents that she's doing okay after the death of her sister, and recruits your help to do so (friends to lovers, post-thunderbolts | 1k words)

Yelena Belova’s trying to prove that she’s okay. Alexei and Melina were worried that Natasha’s passing had ruined her, which it had — and that a life without her sister had left her all alone, which it did. But, in an attempt to stave off the weepy conversations and squishy-eyed gazes, Yelena decided to bring a companion to the family dinner. 

You were her teammate, first and foremost, and the only one she could tolerate long enough to pretend to date for a night. And, besides, you were too soft for your own good to deny her of anything.

You were too perfect a choice, turns out, ‘cause her parents end up taking to you like a third daughter.

Yelena groans with her head in her palms when Alexei returns from the bathroom, modeling his original Red Guardian supersuit like he does every time they visit Melina’s country house. The spandex gear was created in the early eighties and smells like it, too. The thing gets tighter every time Alexei shoves on it, but he wears it with a bright smile on his bearded face anyway.

“Still fits!” you exclaim kindly from the kitchen table as the older man poses in the doorway.

“I told you it would!” Alexei slurs in his deep Russian accent. “Forty-one years old, this is! Can you believe it?!”

“Yes, I can,” Yelena mumbles into her shot glass before swallowing its golden brown contents in one go.

You shake your head with a polite smile. “You don’t look a day over thirty, Alexei.”

“Oh, you flatter me,” the man chuckles from the depths of his round stomach, then deflates with a realization. “Ah, drisnya— I forgot the, uh… the…” He trails off, motioning vaguely around his head as he searches for the English word. “The helmet. I just— I ruined this whole thing…”

Melina smiles at the pouting man she used to call her husband (and still does, on occasion). “No, you didn’t, my love,” she coos, voice low as honey. “You look great.”

Alexei shakes his stubborn head, swiping a calloused hand through his long, greying locks. “No, I have— I have to do it all over again. Just… wait. Wait here, da?” he scurries back down the hall, searching for the helmet he’d left behind.

Melina deflates with a sigh. “We’re going to need a lot more alcohol than this,” she mumbles, rising from the table and taking the half-gone bottle of whiskey with her.

“Maybe something a little stronger?” you quip.

The older woman smiles down at you. “Now, you’re speaking my language, solnyshko.” 

You wait until she’s left the room to lean over to Yelena, “What’s sul-nish-co?” you whisper.

“It’s solnyshko—” she corrects in perfect Russian. “—And it means sunshine.”

You smile, warmed by the term of endearment. “That’s nice…”

“Don’t get used to it,” Yelena scoffs and takes another shot. (Her tenth, or maybe hundredth of the evening).

Your brows furrow at her words. You flinch slightly, like they’ve physically pained you in some way. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means this isn’t real,” she says, motioning wildly between your bodies. “But those idiots think it is, and they’re getting attached— which means they’re going to wonder why I don’t keep bringing you around— which means I didn’t solve any problems, I just made a new one.”

She points an accusatory finger at you. You blink back burning tears.

“You invited me here, Yelena… I don’t deserve the blame for this…” You turn to your own shot glass, which has been sitting on the table ahead of you for some time now, and finally find the courage to take it. “…Whatever this is.”

Yelena watches with an apologetic look in her eyes as you down the whiskey in one swallow. She can’t help but smile softly to herself when you grimace at the bitter taste.

“You’re right. It’s not your fault. I’m sorry,” she mumbles, so quiet you barely hear it, as she rakes her fingers through her chopped, box-dyed locks. “They’ve just been so worried about me since ‘Tasha died… I wanted to prove to them that I still had someone who cared about me. Even if it was just pretend.”

You smile at the sullen Russian girl. “It’s not pretend, Yelena. You have people who care about you— The entire team would’ve shown up if you asked them.”

Yelena gives you a knowing look in return, doe eyes shadowed with smoky liner.

“Well… Maybe not Walker,” you correct yourself, gaze flitted to the ceiling. “Or Ava… Or Bucky— But Bob definitely would’ve been here, and you know it!”

“Exactly,” the blonde girl says with a soft, gravelly laugh. She fails to meet your piercing gaze and fidgets nervously with her empty shot glass instead. “You’re the only one who cares enough to pretend to like me.”

You feel her tense when you put a soothing hand on her denim-clad thigh. She peers at you beneath her lashes with a shy ocean gaze, chest warming something fierce when you smile. “It’s not pretend, Yelena…”

She falters, unable to tell if your words are some kinda confession or if you’re still just being nice. Her eyes dart across your features, like she’s looking for an answer inside them. Before she can find one, Alexei stumbles in from the bedroom.

“I thought we agreed, no PDA,” the grown man whines, still in his too-tight suit but now sporting the matching helmet. “It’s nasty, ‘Lena, I can’t stomach it.”

“Yeah, well, I can’t stomach you,” the girl retorts instinctively.

You smile in the face of their banter. “You were right, Alexei— It definitely needed the helmet.”

“I told you!” the man exclaims, voice booming as loud as his wide smile. “I told you it made the outfit better— In your face, ‘Lena!”

Yelena shakes her head, but can’t help but smile to herself. 

She figures she could get used to this.

JOHN WALKER X READER — john takes care of you after a mission gone wrong, like the doting husband he's pretending to be (enemies to lovers, pre-thunderbolts, cw for mentions of injuries | 0.8k words)

John Walker is just trying to survive — or, at least, that’s what he keeps telling himself. Valentina pairs the two of you on a mission nothing short of life and death. “You’ll draw less attention as a couple,” the woman smiled, passing you an envelope with a forged marriage license and two golden wedding bands inside. “Trust me. You guys are pros at this— What could go wrong?”

The answer to that question was easy: everything.

It was good until it wasn’t. John posed as a business exec Monday through Friday, nine to five, where he would then return to his ‘house’ in the suburbs with a cold beer and a home-cooked meal waiting for him. White picket fence, rose garden, backyard with a pool — the whole nine yards. As far as he was concerned, the only problem was having to share it with you.

You pretended to be his housewife. You went to book clubs, pilates, and over-priced grocery stores, all in the name of fitting in with the rest of the Stepford wives around you. While John got close to the bigshot CEO that Valentina wanted dead, you played nice with his wife — pretty, a little stupid, and satan reincarnate. 

It went on like that in an unforgiving cycle. You received intel in the name of petty gossip and found ways to busy yourself until Walker got home; you had parties, get-togethers, and barbecues to blend in with the community, pretending to love each other all the while.

It was nothing short of your own personal hell. 

The mission was inevitably a success, though not without a couple casualties. You and Walker managed to make it out with a couple scrapes, a few bruises, and only a single gunshot wound — which isn’t so bad, all things considered. 

You think you’re taking a bullet to the stomach much better than your faux-husband is.

“Jesus Christ, you’re a fucking idiot,” John mumbles under his breath as he stitches your weeping wound with careful hands. 

He only managed to stop panicking when he got you to the safe house. Before then, you thought he might cry. You would’ve made fun of him for it if you'd stayed conscious long enough on the ride here.

“Wow,” you scoff, tilting your heavy head against the pillow to glare at him. “Your bedside manner is impressive, Walker. Truly.”

John’s face twists with a palpable irritation. “You don’t get to make jokes right now, alright?” he grouses, snipping the remaining thread from your sutures.

You laugh despite the stinging in your side. “Why not? I think now’s a perfect time, honestly—”

“Because you almost died!” John shouts over you. 

“What the fuck do you care?”

“Uh, because we’re married,” he monotones like it’s obvious, flashing the wedding ring on his left hand, now stained with your blood. 

“No, actually, we’re not—” You wince when you try to sit up. John reaches for you on instinct, helping you prop yourself on the pillows he’s piled beneath you. “—And I’m totally divorcing you when we get home. Just, by the way.”

“Trust me. The feeling’s mutual,” he deadpans, towering over you as he wipes the blood from his hands on a towel. “But we’re probably gonna be stuck here awhile. Valentina’s not getting in a hurry to send any backup, so…”

“What a fucking bitch…” you sigh and tip your head against the bedframe.

“We only have to play husband and wife for a few more days. Think you can handle that?”

“It wasn’t so bad…” you shrug, eyeing John with lidded eyes as he rounds the mattress to the right side — which had, over the course of eight months, become his side. He sits down gingerly, careful not to make any sudden movements that might hurt you. You melt into his warmth on instinct, leaning your shoulder against his broader one. “…Until you got me shot, anyway.”

“Hey, you did that yourself— No one asked you to protect me.”

“Sorry for saving your life, you idiot.”

“I’m a super soldier!” he laughs. “I can take a hit! You can’t!”

“I think I took it pretty well, actually,” you scoff, face screwed in offense.

“Yeah…” John sighs despite himself. “You kinda did.... Just don’t let it happen again.”

“But I like watching you dote on me,” you joke, tilting your head on his shoulder to see him better. 

Your noses nearly brush at the proximity between you, which would border on romantic to virtually anyone else. But, for the two of you, it’s your job — and you’ve gotten used to playing your role to perfection. Being close to him now is like muscle memory. 

“You don’t have to almost die for me to take care of you,” John chuckles. “You know that, right?”

You shake your head. “No, actually. I didn’t.”

“Well…” John shrugs. “Now you do.”

It’s just as much of an admission of love as the blood on his hands from patching you up, or the bullet fragments in your side from shielding him from gunfire. All the rest of it goes unsaid.

ROBERT REYNOLDS X READER — you and bob pretend to date because it's easier than trying to convince everyone you're just friends (friends to lovers, post-thunderbolts | 1.2k words)

Robert Reynolds didn’t want to be alone, and neither did you. The decision to attend Valentina’s wedding together was as mutual as it was unsaid, just like most of the time you spent together. 

You haven’t been apart since the day you found him in New York. At first, it was just babysitting — making sure he didn’t turn half the city into a shadow again — but then you grew rather fond of his company. And eventually, neither of you could stomach being without the other. So you never were. Ever.

It was all completely, utterly, and unequivocally platonic, but the rest of the team convinced themselves otherwise. After a year or more of constant prying, it just got easier to let everyone else believe what they wanted. And, besides, pretending to have a boyfriend got you out of a ton of unwelcome social interactions. 

The team wants to get a beer after a mission that totally drained your social battery? Oops, sorry, I have to get home to Bob before he thinks I’m dead.

Old acquaintances from high school want to hang out with Bob now that he’s quote-unquote famous? I wish I could, but my girlfriend’s super sick. Maybe another time?

You and Bob were best friends and nothing more. But sometimes pretending otherwise had its benefits.

“Isn’t wearing black to a wedding bad luck?” Bob mumbles as you enter the elaborate dining hall side-by-side. (Valentina’s wedding had only two rules: all guests must wear black, and absolutely no kids.) It made Bob nervous, as most things tended to.

“It’s her fourth marriage,” you shrug. “It’s basically a funeral, anyway.”

You’re bombarded on entry by Alexei, who by the looks of it, had already pre-gamed in the Avengers Tower before coming.

“Ah! It’s the lovebirds!” he shouts, voice booming over everyone else’s. He turns to a total stranger passing by and motions to the two of you. “Aren’t they cute?” he asks the strange man, who just gives him a weird look in response. Alexei smiles anyway. “See? He agrees with me.”

“I don’t think he does…” Bob murmurs sincerely.

“It’ll be your turn next, eh?” Alexei chuckles, hitting the boy hard on the shoulder. Bob flinches under his tattooed hand despite being the most powerful Avenger the world’s ever seen. “Getting married. Being all… married.”

Bob hesitates, looking to you for an answer ‘cause he’s never been the best liar. You just smile, like it all comes too naturally to you. “Only if you promise to officiate the wedding,” you croon and wrap your left arm around Bob’s right one.

Alexei’s smile ebbs into a look of shock. His eyes go soft around the edges, filling with tears at the kind gesture.

“There would be no greater honor—” he tells you, Russian accent deep in his throat as he takes a step closer. He holds Bob’s wrist in one hand and yours in the other, shaking them for emphasis. “—Than uniting the two of you in marriage.”

You realize how seriously he’s taking it and start to flounder. “Well, you’ll be the first one we tell, Alexei,” you mumble awkwardly and slide your hand from his grip. “I promise.”

You’re dragging Bob away before the man can go on another half-drunken rant about a faux relationship and a wedding that will never happen.

You weave through the bustling crowd, hands instinctively entwining to stay together. 

“Do you think anyone would notice if we left?” Bob mumbles, nervously adjusting his tie with the hand not holding yours.

You look around, then shrug. “I don’t think I care.”

You end up sneaking into the kitchen before cocktail hour even starts, stealing a tray of sweets on your way to the wine cellar. Bob trails behind you like a lost puppy, distantly fearful of getting caught (because his omnipotence has yet to cancel out his perpetual anxiety.)

He paces back and forth while you try to pry the cork out of a vintage Merlot.

“I’m starting to feel bad,” Bob blurts suddenly, sweaty hands wringing into knots.

“Why?” you scoff with your mouthful, chewing through a tart chocolate-covered strawberry. “It’s just wine. No one will even know it’s missing—”

“No. About… lying to everyone.”

You freeze with half a strawberry still wadded in your cheek. “Oh…” you mumble, then swallow the rest of it down. You adjust the wine bottle between your anxious hands and stammer for a response. “Do you wanna… Do you wanna stop?”

The concept of stopping is slightly foreign to you. You've gotten so used to pretending to date him that sometimes you forget you're not actually dating.

Bob pauses his pacing to shift his weight on his feet. He shakes his head and answers honestly, “No. I don’t wanna stop, I just… don’t wanna lie.”

It’s a confession, albeit a vague one. He eyes you with a wide, attentive gaze and prays you get the hint. He can tell, by the sudden fearful look on your face, that you do. 

Your eyes flit to the ceiling as you smack your lips against your teeth, as though deep in thought. After a moment or more of silence, filled only by the distant swelling of violins, you nod. 

“Okay,” is all you say as you spin on your heel and turn away. You can’t face the vulnerability, so you choose to pick your battles and search for a cork screw for the impossible-to-open wine.

“O-Okay?” Bob stammers, nearly stumbling over himself to follow behind you.

“Yeah,” you shrug. “I mean, we were already kind of doing it, so… We’re basically halfway there anyway, right?”

Bob’s sigh of relief comes out like a laugh as he leans against the counter beside you. “I just… I didn’t think it’d be that easy,” he chuckles, crossing his arms over his chest in a feeble attempt to still his racing heart. “I would’ve asked you out forever ago if I did.”

The cork exits with a low, smoking pop. You inhale the scent of bitter grape as you bring the heavy bottle to your mouth. “How long have you been planning this?” you wonder with a laugh before taking a lengthy sip.

“Not long,” Bob insists with a shy shrug. “Maybe about… a year?”

You nearly choke on the dry wine. “So… Since we met?” you press, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

“Uh—” Bob trails off, voice an octave higher than usual, as his eyes dart to the ceiling. He tries to do the calculations in his head, but the days have all blurred together since the Sentry Project. All he knows is, at the very least, that he’s been in love with you since the day he met you. “—Yeah. That sounds about right.”

“Here,” you blurt, offering him the too-expensive bottle of wine in your hand. “I think you need this more than I do.”

You can’t help but falter at his admission — that all the time you spent together wasn’t just pretend. Not entirely. 

Every time you held hands in front of the team, cuddled on couches during movie nights, pretended to make out beneath the blankets so that whatever unfortunate team member was sent to recruit you for an early morning mission would leave the two of you out of it — some of it was actually real.

You can rest easy now knowing that you weren’t the only one who’d somehow fallen in love along the way. 

It was all Bob’s fault, really. 

But he’s more than happy to take the blame.

[venomvalley]

NEON CARNIVORES

dom!sevika x fem!reader x pathetic!vi | 5.9k words

SUMMARY: You're Sevika's long-time girlfriend. Vi is Sevika's new roommate. What could possibly go wrong?

TAGS: 18+ only! smut (porn w/ plot, voyeurism, fingering, oral, threesome). angst, addiction, mental health issues, sex as therapy. modern!zaun au. complicated character dynamics.

NOTES: been working on this for so long and i just hope its good. split this into two parts btw so.. look out!!

-> READ ON AO3 | ARCANE MASTERLIST

Saturday morning rolls around with a blare of your work alarm—an early shift to cover for your sick coworker, with the added bonus of overtime for this pay period.

Sevika isn’t too happy about seeing you go, arm wound tight around your waist, grumbling out a throaty protest when you try to wriggle beneath her hold.

You spend every weekend at your girlfriend's new apartment. Twice the size of her last, with an extra bedroom neither of you ever use outside of temporary storage. She’s been weighing the idea of getting a roommate, with the recent hike in rent by her scummy landlord, and you would jump at the opportunity, if not for her insistence that you take things slow.

(You’ve been dating for two years. In Zaunite terms, you might as well be married already.)

Ten minutes later, after wrestling for your freedom from the cage of her bed, you shuffle into the kitchen with a loud yawn. Wearing nothing but a long shirt and a pair of random underwear.

You freeze at the sight of an unknown woman stood at the sink, scrubbing a dish. Pink hair, broad shoulders, intricate tattoos. Dressed similarly to you.

Who the fuck…?

“Uh, hi,” you say, hid half-behind the wall to conceal your state of undress. The woman turns to look at you, and—

(Pot of boiling water, meet frog.

Inevitability is a crazy, crushing thing when combined with your power of extreme denial. One moment, you're sitting in a jacuzzi, and the next, your skin is peeling away from the bone.

A slow, sanguine death.)

“Oh, hey,” she replies, reaching to dry her hands off on a nearby towel. “You're Sevika's girl, right?”

You nod your head and offer up your name, stepping out to stand behind the lip of the counter.

“Name’s Vi. I'm the new roommate.” Ah. Would've been nice if Sevika had warned you beforehand. “I'm just gonna,” a thumb points to the once-spare bedroom, “crawl back in my hole now.”

“Right. Good morning, Vi.”

“Yeah. Morning.”

You return to Sevika’s bedroom with a scowl on your face and a complaint on your tongue, shutting the door a bit harder than you meant to. Her shape beneath the sheets jolts at the sound, head popping up from the pillow.

“Why didn’t you tell me that you had a new roommate?”

She blinks, swiping her palm over each eye, jaw dropping to make room for a loud yawn. “Oh, her.”

“Yeah. Her.”

“Relax. Vi stays in her room all day,” spoken mid-stretch, her lone arm reaching for the lip of the headboard.

“That’s not the point. What if I had walked out there naked?”

“Then she’d get one hell of a show.”

You physically deflate, shoulders curling inward, and shuffle over to the bed. Sevika scoots over to give you room, then lifts the sheets in invitation.

“You know I'm joking, right?” she asks, the curve of her nose brushing against your cheek.

“I know… ‘m just embarrassed.”

“Don't be. Vi has three braincells to her name. No chance she even noticed.” Sevika pauses a moment, then gives a lazy shrug of her shoulder. “Probably.”

Thus begins a new era of your relationship: Roommate Woes. Except, Vi isn't the problem here. She keeps to herself, does her chores, pays rent on time via her night shift job (whatever that is). Sevika, on the other hand, never learned subtlety, and coupled with her insatiable libido, you experienced PDA on levels previously unknown to humankind.

But gone are the days of her bending you over the kitchen counter, or fucking you on the couch, or being as loud as she wants—just to spite the cantankerous old lady living next door. While Vi works, Sevika sleeps. Opposite schedules that leave you no room for sexual intimacy. As such, both you and Vi share in this odd stall-state of perceived encroachment. Her, encroaching on your relationship; you, encroaching on her home.

So. In an amiable show, you decide to talk with Sevika about inviting her to your weekly movie night.

The two of you stand in the kitchen mid-discussion, making food to much on as the television plays the movie's menu screen on repeat.

“But why do I have to ask her?”

“Because this was your idea in the first place.” Sevika steps away from the counter with a sigh, hand adorned with a sickly-pink, heart-patterned oven mitt (she swore when you bought it for her that she would never wear it, and now it's the only one she uses). “She won't bite.”

“I think she hates me.” At the crook of her brow, you scoff, voice veering toward whiny. “I’m serious. Every time I come over, she scurries off to her room and I don't see her the rest of the weekend.”

“She does that anyway.”

“It's different, though.”

“… Just knock on the damn door.”

Against your better judgement, you trundle off and away, stopping before the looming pane of wood that separates you from Vi's bedroom.

Really, it's not a big deal. It shouldn't be. But your girlfriend's roommate is a pink-haired enigma, a puzzle stuck in a perpetual state of unsolvable. A disappearing act that, you gotta admit, hurts your ego a bit. You don’t recall saying anything wrong, but maybe, given the circumstances, you should double check that your presence is even wanted. Vi lives here, after all.

So you knock on the door—a few quick raps of your knuckles, just loud enough to grab her attention. You wait for a beat, then another, then another, and just as you turn to leave, the door swings open in a rush of cool air.

Some sort of fan whirs a steady noise from inside her bedroom, the floor strewn with clothes, room dark except for the blue-light halo emanating from her computer. She starts at the sight of you, jolting half a step backward before collecting herself.

“Oh. Sorry, I thought you were—”

“Do you wanna watch a movie with us?” The question comes out in a rush, your synapses a live-wire of anxiety.

Shit. You just want her to like you. Better for all parties involved when you show up every week without fail.

She blinks the kitchen light from her eyes, hand slipping beneath her shirt to scratch at a hip. “What?”

“A movie? Neon Carnivores just came out, and Sevika picked up the DVD after work. It's supposed to be this noir-horror filmed in the Lanes. Thought you might like it.”

“Uh,” a quick shake of her head, “yeah. I'll be there in a minute.”

Then she slams the door in your face.

You shuffle back to the living room, head emptied of all thought. Bewildered. Sevika sits on one end of the couch sans prosthetic, munching on a slice of pizza fresh from the oven. Carefree and oblivious.

“How'd it go?” she asks, bumping her shoulder into yours when you sit down beside her.

“She slammed the door in my face.”

Sevika has the audacity to laugh. To say, “Oh, she's got it bad.”

You land an admonishing smack on her thigh. “Stop, Sev.”

“It's true.” Another bite of her pizza. “You’re all she talks about.”

“What, about how much she hates me?”

“Do you want her to hate you?”

“No.”

“Then shut up.”

Your mouth drops open in half-serious shock, but she continues to eat her stupid slice of pizza and stares at you like she said nothing wrong.

Vi's bedroom door creaks open. A beat of awkward silence passes before she appears in the corner of your eye, weighing her choice of couch or recliner. One glance at Sevika makes up her mind, and Vi takes the cushion beside you. She offers up a tight-lipped smile when you meet her gaze, turning away before you can reciprocate.

The rest of the evening follows a similar pattern: Vi curled up against the armrest while Sevika cuddles you against her side, the movie you chose bathing the room in colors of neon velvet. An indie-arthouse flick hallmarked by practical effects and unusual cinematography.

Sevika spends the last thirty minutes of the movie with her head tucked to her chest, vehemently arguing against the idea of exhaustion every time you wake her up and tell her to go to bed.

When the credits roll, Vi excuses herself, and your girlfriend finally succumbs to your prodding. Kisses you goodnight and shuffles off to bed.

So here you sit, stretched out on the cushions, cold and lonely and mourning the loss of Sevika's weight against you. Some game show continues in the background as you scroll through your phone, leagues away from the exhaustion that usually sends you to bed.

“Hey.”

The sudden greeting jolts you, and you turn around to find Vi stood at the entrance of the small hallway, housing her bedroom on one side and bathroom on the other. Scarred knuckles curled over the wall's edge, almost skittish in her stance.

“Oh. Hey.” You sit up against the armrest, elbow denting the back cushion.

“Where's Sevika?”

“In bed.”

“This early?” A click of her tongue, arm swinging a lazy rhythm as she steps into the living room. “Somebody's getting old.”

The first conversation you've ever had with her, aside from the greetings-in-passing on your way to Sevika's bedroom. But those don't count, right?

“Yeah, I tell her that all the time.”

Then silence. Vi remains awkward behind the couch, glancing around the room as if seeing it for the first time. Your teeth tug at a piece of stubborn skin on your bottom lip. The show drones on, forgotten in the wake of her presence.

“So. How long have you two been together?” she asks, hands finding comfort in the pockets of her sweatpants.

“Two years tomorrow.”

She exhales a sound halfway between a hum and a grunt, brows lifting clear to her hairline. “Shit. Practically married, huh?”

“Something like that.”

Sevika doesn't believe in marriage. A piece of paper solidifying love? Bunch of bullshit, far as she's concerned. And it isn't that you don't agree, but… well. It would be nice to have the option this deep underground. That useless piece of paper is only reserved for pilties.

“She’s happy with you.”

You blink, and she's circling around the couch. “You think so?”

She plops down in Sevika's recliner, one leg thrown over the armrest. (Sevika would kill her if she knew, but you swear yourself to a vow of silence. An olive branch for a budding friendship.)

“Definitely. She helped me out a few years back. Less of an asshole now, with you in the picture.”

So, they know each other. That makes more sense than Sevika inviting some random stranger to live with her. She's made too many enemies to consider such an idea.

“How'd you two meet?”

Her foot jitters back and forth, shaking the armrest. “She knew my old man when they were young, and when he died a few years ago, she kinda… took me under her wing.”

Vi says nothing else, and you don't intend to pry. But you're curious. Who wouldn't be? Sevika stays tight-lipped whenever Vi’s name comes up in conversation, and she’s the only person you know to answer all your burning questions. Aside from the woman herself.

But you're not there yet. Your nosiness will have to wait.

So you smile and say, “Yeah, that sounds like her.”

When she smiles back with a lopsided quirk of her mouth, you think you might be kind-of-halfway friends.

—

A simple text changes everything.

Hey. Turn your tv up.

Sender: Sevika. Recipient: Vi.

A heat-of-the-moment decision from a brain fogged by hormones and the sight of your bare tits in the mirror while changing into pajamas. Post-anniversary date, mid-makeout in her bed, she grabs her phone and sends The Text.

What follows is a marathon of impressive proportions. A box of sex toys, a bottle of lube, and two very insatiable libidos. You expected this after teasing her all night—kissing her neck on the drive to the restaurant, groping her ass during the post-check bathroom break, babbling about your ideas for sex after the two of you make it home.

She fucks you like she's trying to leave a scar in the mattress, maybe carve your body into the wrinkled sheets. Heavy and hot. Angry. Staking her claim. A routine of feeding you her cock until you cry, then soothing the ache with her mouth, then flipping you over and doing it again.

Then, a shadow under the door, shifting its weight. Sevika doesn't notice, too busy lapping at your wet cunt, but you do. Head tipped upside down over the side of the bed, that little patch of inky darkness is all you can look at.

For a moment, you contemplate saying something. You should say something, but you're selfish, and the looming orgasm that numbs you down to the bone steals away every braincell capable of thought.

You know Vi's been listening. Sevika and subtlety mix as well as oil and water. That fucking text. Her shadow lingers under the door like a spilled-ink stain as you whine and whimper through orgasm number three. Even when your world shifts, and Sevika kneels over your prone form, your gaze remains on the shadow beneath the door. A constant, an anchor to the real world.

Strap buried inside your cunt, Sevika flattens herself along the expanse of your back. The soft plush of her lips ghosts over the shell of your ear.

“We have a visitor,” she mutters, and you shudder beneath her. “What do you say? Should we ask her to join?”

The scary part? You actually think about it. Not exactly crossing the line to consideration, but you entertain the idea. The width of Vi's shoulders spreading your thighs, the softness of her mouth against your skin, the layers of her mullet caught in your fist—

Okay. So you consider it.

“Seriously?” you ask, voice a hissing breath of disbelief.

Sevika mouths along your pulse, the cold metal of her prosthetic hand smoothing up your spine. “She's standing outside for a reason.” A sharp bite to the curve of your shoulder, and an inhale catches between your teeth. “That reason isn't me.”

“I—”

Her posture softens, and her voice along with it. “Just think about it, okay?”

Sweet and tender, a facet of Sevika that she reveals only to you—almost comedic given the circumstances. Dangling the idea of a threesome in front of your face, so blasé about the whole thing that you're afraid to take her seriously. No, it's nothing more than dirty talk. Fantasy.

(The disappointment that knots in your gut doesn't actually exist.

Right?)

Things become… weird after that night. Tense as a band waiting to snap. Vi avoids you like you've caught the plague, lurking at the corner of your vision but never daring to approach. No more late-night conversations on the couch, or sharing the burden of dishes, or trading memes back and forth during the week. Like she never even existed at all.

You fucked up. You don't know how, but you did.

Her absence shouldn't bother you so much, but Sevika obviously cares about her to an extent. Why wouldn't you want Vi to like you? And yeah, maybe you enjoy her being around. She's easy to talk to. A comforting presence that reminds you a lot of Sevika.

Given her indefinite absence from your life, you don't expect your phone to blare with her ringtone on a typical Wednesday night (three thirty-two a.m. to be exact) long after you've fallen asleep. You paw at the nightstand for the familiar rectangle of your phone, bleary-eyed and frustrated at the interruption.

At the sound of her voice when you answer the call, you bolt upright in bed.

Slurred and trembling, weak:

“Fuck, it's late, I know, but my boss won't let me walk and I can't call Sevika like this. Can you just—” rustling on the end of the line, a muffled exchange between two voices that you can't quite hear, “I need a ride home.”

Before she can finish her last sentence, you’re throwing a coat on and snatching your keys from the coffee table. “Where are you?”

“Um,” she sniffles, “Apex Eleven. It's this club near the apartment.”

“I'll be there. Wait for me inside.”

She mumbles in agreement then hangs up.

You know that place. Sevika took you there when you first started dating, and though the night started out awkward in that new-romance-learning-curve way, you eventually coaxed her onto the dance floor after a shot or ten. You shared your first kiss in the parking lot outside, right before throwing up all over her pants.

In the heart of the Lanes, the streets awaken at night. Traffic thickens as you near the strip of bars and clubs and brothels, neon signs blinking in rhythmic disorder. Crowds of people stroll down the sidewalk on either side of the street, a jumble of conversation and thumping music intruding on the silence inside your car.

You pull into the club's parking lot then beeline for the front door. One ID check later, and you step inside the club to meet a thick wall of smoke and the smell of sweat-masking body spray. The floor sticks to your shoes as you skirt the outer edge of the dance floor, pinballed between drunken bodies. A party of overstimulation.

Vi sits slumped at the bar, her pink hair a stand-out amongst the sea of clubgoers, undeterred by the lights that cloak her form in multicolor strobes. The tattoos branching up her bare arms ring familiar.

You sidle up beside her, shaking her by the shoulder. “Hey.”

She sits up at the sound of your voice, eyes squinting in confusion, body drawn tight and angular—preparing for a fight.

After a long, breath-stilling moment, she relaxes. “Oh. Hey.”

You nod toward the exit. “Let’s get you home.”

“Whatever. This place sucks anyway.”

Now, the hard part: dragging her to the car. A task she makes no effort to help you with, still sat at the bar, eyes never leaving your face. Low-lidded and darker than you’ve ever seen them.

“What is it?” you ask, shifting back and forth on your feet. The atmosphere of the club renders you drunk by proxy.

“Fuck, you're pretty.” A hand reaches out to touch your face, palm sweatslick against your jaw, fingers ice-cold as they follow the curve of your skull. “Anybody tell you that lately?”

You grab her wrist and step away, a suggestion written in the tug of your hand. “Sevika. Ya know, my girlfriend?”

She slithers out of the chair, balance precarious as her brain struggles to command her feet. One step, then another, until her shoulder collides with yours. You steady her with an arm slung across her back, wincing beneath the drag of her weight as you begin to walk.

None of your Vi-shaped puzzle pieces fit together. No red string to connect all the details. During all your conversations, she kept topics shallow, information casual: likes the color blue, and exercise, and video games; grew up rough; has a sister and a nameless ex. Harmless breadcrumbs to leave behind.

And now there’s a brand new tidbit, filed away under ???????

Fuck, you’re pretty.

She’s far from sober. People say anything when they get a few drinks circulating in their blood, and she passed that threshold a while ago. Mystery solved.

Vi climbs into the passenger seat of your car and curls up against the console. When you buckle her seatbelt, she barely stirs. Something tender and aching rises at the sight of her, impossibly fragile and motionless, just before you close the door.

The drive back to her shared apartment is silent. She adjusts her position every few minutes, grumbling something under her breath—thankfully, still breathing.

Dragging Vi over to elevator is another mountain to climb. She stubs up once she recognizes the run-down shell of her apartment building, slurs something about Sevika and disappointment, and you don't understand the issue. There's no way you could drag her up four flights of stairs to your elevator-less apartment.

“Besides,” you continue, “Sevika's asleep. It'll be alright.”

It takes even more reassurance before Vi finally agrees to walk. You lead her through the small hallway, into the elevator, and up to the third floor.

Before you can find the key in one of Vi's many pockets, the apartment door swings open, and there stands—

“Sev. I didn't think you'd be awake.”

You find no anger in her features, but they contort all the same. Behind her shines the kitchen light, a small halo that cuts through the empty shadows plaguing the small living room.

Her eyes cut to Vi, sharp and piercing. “Women's intuition.”

"How'd you know?” Vi asks, head lowered, unable to meet the gaze of the woman before you.

Already, she stands a bit straighter, weight easing off your shoulder. No doubt sobered up by shock.

Sevika shrugs. Takes a drag of her cigarette. Says nothing, but steps aside to allow you both entry. And once inside, she takes Vi by the arm not slung over your shoulders.

“I got her, honey,” she says, stepping forward in silent request for you to take the cigarette from her mouth.

They disappear into Vi's bedroom. You take a seat on the couch and pass the time by chewing on the filter and watching the paper burn with each lung-filling puff. A fitting end to a night of self-destruction.

A few minutes later, Sevika comes back. Worn down to the bone, wet around the eyes.

“Is she okay?” you ask, scooting over to give her room to sit down.

She collapses beside you, head tipping back against the couch. “I don't know.”

A bad sign. Whatever they talked about, Sevika can't immediately fix, and the worry carves wrinkles into her brow.

Your fingers find the soft thickness of her thigh, comfort stamped in the press of your lips to her shoulder. She's warm, impossibly so. Worked up. Angry, even.

“The deal when she moved in was that she stayed sober.” She scrubs her hand over her face, frustration tangible, thickening up the air that surrounds you. “I told her that job was a bad fucking idea.”

“Is that what you helped her with a few years back?” you ask, voice never daring to rise above a whisper. “Getting sober, I mean.”

“She told you about that?”

“She just said you helped her with a situation.”

A stretch of tense silence, where nothing you say can fix the situation, and Sevika has no interest in wasting the energy on words.

“She wants to talk to you, by the way. You don't have to, but… Vi's a good person, she's just…”

“Been through a lot.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

You're not angry. Worried, yes, but angry? Your Vi-shaped puzzle sharpens into view: a bad childhood, a sister she either doesn't talk to, an ex she refuses to name, a struggle with addiction. One awful event after another, woven into bone and muscle and joint and tendon. Staining everything she touches.

(Really, you don’t know why you care so much.)

When you open the door to Vi's bedroom, she’s laying in bed, tucked beneath the sheets. Staring up at the ceiling, she wipes her face on her shirt.

“Feel like company?” you ask, offering up a smile when she cranes her head to look at you.

The room lay dark, her form a deep splotch of shadow against the wall as she sits up. “Yeah.”

You sit down on the edge of the bed and wait for her to speak.

“I just wanna say that I'm sorry for tonight. I know I should've called Sevika but I was terrified that she would,” she shakes her head, “kick me out.”

“She wouldn't.”

“Well, I know that now, but… sorry for being trouble.”

You shrug. “Better you call me than something bad happen.”

She snorts, pillows creaking beneath her weight. “The worst already has.”

Your jaw aches from the force you exert to keep it shut. Curiosity rears its ugly head once again, but now isn't the time for indulgence.

“You can ask. If anybody deserves to know, it's you.”

“When Sevika helped you a few years ago, what was that about?”

“Oh, that? Funny story, actually.” A sharp sniff. “I was living on the streets at the time, going to bars and clubs every night, fighting for money. Literally, by the way. And one night, this woman walks up to me and says she knew my dad, Vander, before he died.

At that point, I’m ready to knock her out and go back to drinking, but she starts giving me details about his old life that nobody would know. So we go back to her apartment and she’s an asshole about the whole thing, but she helps me get my life straightened out.”

“And after that?”

“I move out on my own. Things are good for a while, but… life always catches up with you, I guess. I start thinking about Vander and my sister and—and Cait, and I start to spiral again. Go back to my old ways.”

Cait. A name for the unforgettable.

“It’s easy, isn’t it?”

The shadow moves, and you think Vi nods her head. “Yeah, it is.”

In a stroke of courage, you move from the end of the bed to its head, and after a bit of searching, you find Vi’s shape beneath the sheets. You lean into her, throwing your arms over her shoulders in an awkward hug. The smell of vodka leaks from her pores, skin sweatslick and sticky, and you can only hope that this brings her comfort.

“You’ll be okay. Maybe not for a while, but horrible things don’t last forever.”

Her hands press against your back, following the curve of your spine. “I’ll take your word for it.”

—

Vi loses herself for a while. She regresses back to some younger, weaker version of herself; back when everything was too much and too big and too scary. She quits her job at the club and starts sharing Sevika's bed at night. Another presence to drive out the demons that plague her.

It happens in the dark.

You're trapped between two very warm, very clingy bodies after a long conversation about boundaries and adaptation and how Vi fits into your life. Sevika tells you that you don't have to stay, that she isn't your responsibility, but you aren't gonna just leave her like this.

(You don't know why you care so much.)

“Can I kiss you?” Vi asks, whispered against the shell of your throat.

The world stops turning. She leans back and rests her head on the pillow, bright eyes wide, bottom lip sucked between her teeth.

Sevika lay right behind you, fitting perfectly against the curve of your spine, arm slung over your waist. That arm tightens, tugging you impossibly closer.

“It's okay,” she says.

Her hips grind against your ass, soft enough that you almost believe it an accident. Soft enough to jump-start the pulse between your legs.

You can't come back from this. Once your lips meet, it's done.

Does Sevika really not mind? Watching you kiss her… whatever Vi is? Friend, responsibility, something inbetween?

Fuck it.

You meet Vi's gaze and nod your head, and her smile flickers beneath the light of the television. As she leans in, her nose brushes yours, and Sevika's buries her face in your shoulder.

Vi kisses you like she loves you, all passionate and needy. Like you mean something to her, for all the ups and downs of your short relationship and her isolating tendencies.

Before Sevika, you never experienced love as a universal truth, giving or reciprocal. No butterflies, or fuzzy feelings, or giddiness at the sight of a lover. But when Vi kisses you, it feels… right. Comfortable. She licks into your mouth and she's warm and soft and impossibly sweet. Tender and careful and savoring.

She pulls away with a sigh, and the hand on your belly moves to cradle your jaw. A turn of your head, and Sevika sucks Vi's taste off your tongue.

It happens quick. The pulse between your legs sparks a fire that threatens full-body consumption. The women that sandwich you in take turns stealing the breath from your lungs, over and over and over again. A competition brews between the two regarding who can turn you into the biggest mess, and while one kisses you, the other nips at your neck and gropes your tits and teases at the seam of your underwear.

You don’t know how things turned out this way, but you aren’t complaining. Not when Vi rucks up your shirt and sucks a nipple into her mouth, and Sevika's lips feel like home against yours. Too much yet not enough, brain dizzy from overstimulation.

“Wait, fuck,” you gasp in a breath when they both part from you, “I just—I need a second.”

So horny you could honestly cry. If Vi wasn't here, you'd be begging Sevika for the strap, face buried in the sheets, ass in the air. They give you time to calm down, and you mourn the loss of their weight and warmth, skin buzzing from the ghostly stamp of their hands.

“Are you okay?” asks Sevika, nosing at the divot of your temple.

“Yeah, just…” you try and fail to suppress the stretch of your lips, “I didn't think you liked to share.”

She exhales an unamused breath, eyes darting to Vi when the latter drapes herself over your middle, hair tickling your chin.

“I'm a special case, right?”

Sevika shoves her off by the shoulder. Says, “Shut up. At least I don't listen in on my roommates—”

Vi stutters a moment then holds up a defensive finger. “Okay, that happened once. Once.”

“Porn exists.” A beat of silence, and Sevika laughs under her breath. “But you don't want porn, do you?”

You're definitely missing context for this conversation, but they argue like you don't even exist in the room.

“Don't,” Vi hisses, rising onto an elbow to glare at Sevika through squinted eyelids. “Seriously, I'll kick your ass.”

“Just ask her.”

Finally, you chime in. “Ask me what?”

Vi's glare turns to pleading, but beside you, Sevika remains stalwart.

“Ask me what?”

“Vi wants to fuck you.”

You blink. The neurons in your brain short-circuit. “For how long?”

“A while,” Vi grumbles, turned on her side, facing away from the two of you.

It's not the idea that surprises you, but the verbal admission. You know how to take a hint, and Vi's slip-up at the club cemented what Sevika already told you as fact.

“It doesn't bother me, if you're worried about that. Brat wants to feel good and she trusts you.” A lazy shrug that jostles your shoulder. “Your choice, honey.”

You look over at Vi to gauge her reaction, and find her already staring at you with pleading eyes. Tender as a healing wound.

It's an easy decision. Easier than your conscience allows. Your memory returns to the night Vi stood outside the bedroom door, when Sevika teased you about inviting her in. She recognized your own attraction before you did. That soft spot on your heart for an unsolvable woman.

“Let's do it.”

The once-playful atmosphere thickens into something anticipatory when Vi crawls between your legs, and your nerves might fray to breaking if not for Sevika’s presence at your side. Always doing what she does best—why you stayed despite her every effort to snuff your relationship out.

As Vi's hands find your inner thighs, Sevika kisses you soft and slow in an effort to tame the wild buck of your pulse.

“Go easy on her,” Sevika says to you, lips stretched in a teasing smile. “I'm sure it's been a while.”

“Fuck you,” Vi mutters, but says nothing in her own defense.

As if it even matters. Your girlfriend serves as the warden of your pussy, and she loves to bark an order or ten. You’re in good hands.

Off come your clothes while the other two remain dressed, a feeling of stark vulnerability that seeks to fry the white matter of your brain. Sevika rubs a comforting hand over your belly, while Vi shoulders your thighs apart.

The first thing you do is reach down to run your fingers through her hair. Soft as you imagined.

She dives in tongue-first, licking you from hole to clit, and groans when your thighs close around her head on instinct. It's all soft, wet heat. Messy from her spit. What she lacks in technique, she makes up for in enthusiasm. Moans so loud against your pussy that you almost believe she can feel your pleasure.

Sevika doesn't let you forget her. She murmurs praise into your ear, teases you for being so wet, asks you how good Vi's mouth feels. You've made it clear how her voice affects you, and she wields dirty words as a weapon any chance she gets.

Good girl.

You look so pretty like this.

How's it feel, honey?

You kiss her just to shut her up. The burn in your belly turns to a blaze embarrassingly fast, and when Vi slides a long finger into your cunt, stars burst behind your closed eyelids. There's no holding back your orgasm when her tongue circles over your clit, slick and hot and—

You turn away from Sevika's mouth and fist Vi's hair in both hands, the muscles in your thighs twitching. "Fuck, please."

"Come on, honey." A pair of plush lips trail down the line of your neck, nipping at your drum-beat pulse. "Let her make you feel good."

That's all it takes. Permission. Weeks without so much as a finger on your clit leads you to a breath-stealing release, and your hearing blots out as you grind against Vi's face. So selfish, needing more, craving the impossible: inevitability.

When the pleasure breaks, you sink into the mattress with a heaving sigh. Each lobe of your brain makes a slow return to normal, and when you blink your eyes open, Vi's face sharpens into view.

Wide-eyed and nervous, she smooths a hand up and down your thigh. "Was that okay?"

All you can do is giggle and nod your head. Too fucked-out to form words.

To your left, Sevika wraps a thick arm around your ribs and pulls you to her. She knows you too well. A long cuddle is neccessity after an orgasm, and she's warm and soft and her chest makes a great pillow. And if you fall asleep for a few minutes, you're none the wiser.

You open your eyes again to Vi gently cleaning you with a washcloth. Sevika sits beside her, nursing a glass of water.

"Hey, Vi." They both look down at you. "Want me to return the favor?"

She shakes her head, slick lips stretching into a dopey grin. "No. I got what I needed."

When Vi moves to lay back down, Sevika catches her by the shoulder. "Wash your face."

"Why don't you clean me up?"

You watch the exchange half-lucid and half-listening, until their voices filter through a lens of fading lucidity. What they both fail to realize is how alike they are, and suddenly everything makes sense.

That's why you care so much.

[mggslover]

SWEETER THAN DREAMS — spencer reid

In which Spencer helps you make your wet dream come true.

genre smut (18+) cw established relationship, consensual somnophilia, groping, grinding, male masturbation, kinda perv!spence, tit play, oral (f receiving), p in v wc 3,2k a/n this turned out a lot sweeter and cuter than i expected it to be (still hot though) (hopefully) let me know if you enjoyed it! kinkfest: somnophilia

Spencer wasn’t made for summer weather. He hated how stuffy and thick the air felt. How it seemed to cling onto him, warming his skin like his sweater vests used to do during winter. 

Getting through the day was difficult enough, but the nights? Those were horrendous. 

You had bought him a cooling pillow, knowing how much he struggled in bed. In theory, it should work. They were made of a phase changing material, similar to the ones NASA invented for the temperature fluctuations of astronauts, but it seemed like the one you bought was a total scam. Or maybe he was so hot that he burned right through the fabric. 

He turned his pillow over for the millionth time that night. He kept still as he lay on his back, staring at the ceiling and listening to the peaceful sounds of your sleeping in an attempt to find rest again. 

For a minute, it seemed to work. He even closed his eyes, ready to drift off, but then his eyes shot open when he heard a small noise coming from you.

He tilted his head on the pillow, eyes adjusting to the dark room as your figure slowly materialized. 

“You okay?” He whispered, carefully reaching out to brush a sticky strand of hair from your forehead. 

You responded with another soft whine, followed by a small moan.

Spencer sat up straighter, slightly hovering over your form. “Having a nightmare, baby?”

He leaned in to press a kiss to your face, and that’s when he noticed it: you were burning up. You hadn’t mentioned being bothered by the heat before, probably seeing no use to it after his endless complaints. His stomach churned in guilt. 

“Let’s get these blankets off of you, okay? It’ll help,” he speaks to you, although he doubted you heard him. 

Carefully, so as not to disturb you, he pulls the thick material away. His hand stops mid-motion, swallowing when he reveals your naked upper body. It’s then that he notices your top and pajama pants are thrown in a heap on the floor, probably having taken them off in the middle of the night. 

Enticed by curiosity, he pulls the blanket further down, and indeed, he finds you to be completely naked. The curve of your ass and the length of your legs are bare, covered only in a light layer of sweat. 

For a moment he doesn’t know what to do. He just takes you in, counting every freckle on your skin. It’s not the first time he’s seen you naked, far from it, but he usually sees you naked when having sex. And with sex comes him being too horny to take his time. Sure, he worships you and pays attention to your body. But it’s not like this. Now he has all the time in the world to just look at you. 

Or, well, that was his plan before his cock started stirring in his pants. 

Morning wood isn’t a rare occasion for Spencer. When he’s on his own, he’s a restless sleeper. It’s inevitable that all his moving and turning around leads to the stimulation of rubbing himself against the mattress. Not forgetting to mention the dreams of you. When he’s with you, though, there are other things plaguing him, like the warmth of your body, the sweet scent of your hair. He’s pulled in like a moth to the flame, and it’s only natural that his length stiffens when it’s pressed against the plush curve of your ass.

He’d often wake with your plump lips wrapped around his cock. Tongue swirling around the head before pulling back with a giggle. It was his favorite way to wake up, but he had never returned the favor. You’re so lucky, you know that? I spoil you too much, you had commented after one of your morning sessions. Your tone was playful, but he could tell there was a hidden annoyance. 

It’s not like he didn’t want to return the favor. Jesus, there was nothing he wanted to do more than to wake you by making you come all over his tongue. His cock, even. But his mornings were either a rush to get to Quantico, or he was so fast asleep in your arms that you awoke before him. 

But a situation like this has never occurred. Maybe he could—

Another small sound left your lips. “Spence.”

No. 

You having a nightmare is not the moment.

Still, he could touch himself. Right?

There was not a lot of time to ponder over the decision, his hand already having made its way under his loose pajama pants, gripping his shaft tightly. 

He hissed at the touch, his cock feeling hot and heavy in his fist as he tightened his hold around himself. 

His head fell back onto the pillow, tilting his face to take you in. Your lips parted as you breathed softly (a sound Spencer couldn’t hear because of how hard his heart was beating in his chest), your chest rose and fell in the same gentle manner, and Spencer’s gaze fell to your breasts. He let out a grunt, seeing how your nipples stood perfectly peaked despite the warmth of the room. 

With slow strokes, Spencer moved his hand along his length. All the tension and frustrations of the day melted away under his fingertips as he felt himself sink deeper into the mattress.

“You’re so beautiful, baby,” he muttered to the silence, swiping his thumb over his slit, coating the digit in precum. 

He grew into a rhythm, intently watching you while pumping his cock. Every time you moaned or let out a small whine, he groaned in response, closing his eyes and imagining your moans were ones out of pleasure. It felt like he was dreaming, a dream so real he could almost reach out and touch it. But the only person who was dreaming was you. 

Whatever fantasies were playing in your head, they led you closer to Spencer. He actually shuddered when the bare skin of your back made contact with the expanse of his chest. You hummed, wiggling your ass against his thighs and nudging further into him. Spencer gasped, fisting his hands to keep himself from pulling you flush against where he needed you most. He softly whined, cock aching in desperation now that he had removed his hand. A mirrored sound came from you, and he noticed the frown on your face and the pout on your lips. 

You always wanted to be held, and your body instantly notices when he doesn’t have his arms wrapped around you. In no universe would he be able to deny your needs, so with a small sigh — one that started as resignation but he breathed out in content — he pulled you in. A sweet hum left your chest as he pressed a kiss to your collarbone. 

Momentarily, he believed that he could forget about his situation. But you kept making those sweet, little sounds and rolling your hips into him.

“Baby,” he cried against your neck. “Can’t resist myself when you do that.”

He nipped at the curve of your neck, palm splayed flat across your stomach as he moved his thumb in soothing circles.

You wiggled in his grasp, legs moving around until you locked them around the covers. It was then that he noticed that your restlessness wasn’t a result of the heat, nor a result of needing his closeness, but a move you made out of pure desire. 

With your thighs wrapped around the sheets, you start grinding your pussy. Moans tumbled from your lips each time you rubbed your swollen clit against the fresh cotton.

Spencer watched, slack-jawed, as you got yourself off right in front of him.

“Mhm, Spence—“

His brain finally caught up, and he let out a deep sound of longing, tightening his hold around you. 

His hand trailed up from your stomach to your breast, firmly squeezing the skin. “My sweet girl, is this what you wanted?”

He watched the way you bucked your hips. A shiny, wet spot has formed on the cloth between your thighs. 

Spencer tested the waters, twisting your nipple with his thumb and pointer finger, enticing you to sweetly moan his name.

“That’s right,” he hummed, attaching his pink lips to your neck. “It’s me. Even in your dreams you know that it’s only me who can make you feel this good.”

Spencer rasps his light stubble against you as his kisses make their way down the slope of your neck. He darts his tongue out at your sensitive spots, applying a wet pressure and heightening your senses by blowing gently on the skin. 

You whined, arching your back into him. It was so easy to turn you around, pin you down on your stomach, and slide his throbbing cock into your warmth. But then he’d make the situation about him again, and today was all about pleasing you.

The bed creaked underneath you as Spencer hovered on top of you, placing a knee on each side of your body. He unlocked your legs that were wrapped tightly around the covers, groaning loudly seeing how your pussy glimmered in your wetness. It had dripped down your inner thighs, creating a reflection in the dark room, guiding Spencer precisely to where you needed him most.

Carefully — so not to wake you — he changed positions, lowering himself on his stomach in between your thighs while placing your legs on top of his shoulders. Your body easily obeyed, feeling light in his arms as he held you by your hips and scooted you forward.

He licked his lips, fighting the urge to attach them to your pussy and not stop until you’ve come on his tongue. Twice.

Instead, he diligently trailed a finger over your folds. He watches you clench around nothing, lifting your hips in search of more. 

“Not yet, angel,” he teased. “Let’s warm you up first.”

His words were ironic due to the fact that it was the heat that had gotten you to this point. 

Spencer traced his lips over your inner thighs, mapping out a road and marking his favorite locations by leaving red and purple bites, until he eventually reached his destination.

“Jesus, baby,” he muttered as he spread your folds open with his pointer fingers, revealing your aching cunt. Your clit stood swollen, begging for attention, and your labia looked just as puffy from your earlier ministrations against the blanket. 

Driven by desire, Spencer stuck his tongue out and firmly lapped your clit. You twisted in the sheets, legs pulling up and a whine leaving your mouth.

“It’s okay,” Spencer cooed, placing a soft kiss on the bud. You moaned at that, a sweet, gentle sound, and he repeated the action until your body relaxed under his touch. Spencer drew lazy circles on your hips as his lips kissed you all over, coating his chin in your wetness as you got more and more excited.

Then, he tried again: tongue flicking out to tease your clit. This time a little whimper falls from your throat, and you keep your legs spread open. Spencer hums in satisfaction, circling the nub once more before closing his lips around it, gently sucking. 

There was no sweeter sound than the moans you made. No sweeter taste than the honey that dripped out of your needy hole. With a groan, Spencer curved his knee on the mattress, the other leg still lying flat as he found himself in the perfect position to get off: his cock rubbing against the sheets every time he pulled himself up to drag his tongue over your folds.

“Spencer,” you murmur, your feet locking over his back.

He looked up at your face with hooded eyes, catching the fluttering of your eyelashes. You were waking up.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he spoke ever so softly, as if he wasn’t ravishing your cunt just a second before.

Little by little, you gained consciousness. You blinked. Once. Then twice. And then your lips curved up in the most lovable smile Spencer had ever seen. 

“Good morning to me,” you breathed out in a pleased tone.

Spencer laughed, pressing a chaste kiss to the inside of your thigh. “Good morning, angel.”

“I didn’t tell you to stop,” you groan playfully, your hands tangling into his brown locks and pulling him in as you lift your hips.

“Not gonna,” he whispered, his mouth finding your pussy again.

A warm sensation spreads through your body, the feeling igniting sparks in the places you’re most sensitive. Spencer was so, so good at this, and with your mind still feeling sleepy, there was nothing to overthink. You could just lie down, accept the pleasure, give yourself over to the feeling, and let go.

Your orgasm doesn’t come in one smooth, long wave but in several shakes of your body, each one pulling you under more. Your toes curl around his back, the back of your head presses into the pillow underneath you, and cries of his name leave your lips as you grab fistfuls of his hair. 

“Oh, that was so nice,” you giggle as you catch your breath.

Spencer returns your smile, sitting up on his knees and carefully taking your shaking legs off of his shoulders. Looking at his frame, you catch the length of his cock that’s proudly standing up. His tip shines an angry red, making you imagine how long he’s waited to take you.

With a firm grip, Spencer bends your knees and presses your legs toward your chest. The curve of your ass is slightly lifted off the mattress, and your pussy is on full display as your boyfriend hovers over you. 

“Not done with you yet,” he announces and takes hold of his cock before rubbing the thick head over your folds.

With your cunt still soaking wet, it didn’t surprise you when he accidentally slipped in.

“Oh, angel,” Spencer whined. He folded you double by pressing his hands harder on your knees, giving him access to smoothly thrust into you. 

In an instant, you had your hands on his face, pulling him in and roughly meeting his lips. Spencer didn’t waste any time, invading your mouth with his tongue, quickly dominating yours. Eagerly you returned the kiss. It was sloppy, not only the kiss, but the whole occurrence. Your whines matched the wet slaps of skin against skin, the rustling of the sheets sounded just as soft as the moans that tumbled from his lips, and the creaking of the bed frame added as a background noise to the melody that you created.

He slightly pulls back, his mouth attaching to your neck before a disappointed groan can leave your lips. 

His hot breath tickles your ear. “What did you dream of?” 

In hazy flashes, the memories in your mind returned, showing pictures of dreams where Spencer’s body was entangled with yours. “You.”

Spencer moaned, muffling his own longing sound by grazing his teeth against your ear. “And what did I do?”

Apparently it was possible to get more turned on than you already were. 

“You… hmpf… you woke me up like this. With your mouth on me.”

His eyes searched for yours, hazel irises turned dark. “Yeah?”

You nod your head into the pillow. “And then you fucked me,” you recalled, letting your nails roam over his back. “Fucked me so deep, Spence.”

“Fuck,” he breathed out, and you could feel his cock twitch inside of you. He swallowed, leaning back and adjusting your legs so that they were wrapped around his torso. Then he leaned back in, his cock sinking into you.

“Like this?”

A sharp cry escaped your throat, feeling Spencer fill you up to the hilt. His hot body pressed against yours, your soft breasts embracing his solid chest. 

“Y-yeah, like that. Fuck, that feels good.”  

His thrusts are minimal. He wants to stay inside of you. Can’t even handle the idea of pulling his hips back before he dives back in. Instead, he grinds himself into you, rubbing that sweet spot inside of your pussy over and over again. 

“I touched myself to you,” he admitted sheepishly, eyes locked onto yours as his curls fell over your face. 

“You just— you looked so beautiful. You look so beautiful,” he corrects. “Couldn’t help myself.”

It was easy to picture: his large hand wrapped around his cock, thumb stroking the head in the way he likes so much. Hips bucking into the air. His teeth biting down on his bottom lip, turned pink and plump, trying to swallow his sounds of pleasure. Next time you’ll pretend to be asleep just so you can catch a glimpse of that.

“Did you know you moaned my name?” He asked in a groan, heart fluttering at the memory. 

“Studies proved that dreams show a subconscious reflection of how you feel about a person.” He pressed his forehead to yours, looking at you in full awe. “Means so much to me, angel. That you think so well of me.”

“You are good, Spence,” you affirm. Tears pricked in your eyes because of the intimacy. “You are so good to me.” 

He nodded, believing you, and then locked his lips with yours. You clenched around him in response, resulting in him pounding into you faster. He reached for your hands, intertwining your fingers, and then placed them above your hand, keeping the both of you grounded as you got lost in the heat of the moment.

At some point you had lost your ability to kiss him back, your lips too busy singing a melody of moans. That didn’t stop Spencer from kissing you, though. He had kissed the side of your mouth, his kisses then trailing to your chin and eventually ghosting over your neck. You felt him everywhere. He had enveloped all your senses, and besides that, your mind was fully consumed by him and the growing heat that flamed deep in your core.

Your nails dug into his skin, creating crescent moon indents as a reminder of tonight. 

“Coming,” you gasped. You arched into his grasp, feeling like you were levitating as your orgasm washed over you. 

Your vision was hazy, but you could make out the way Spencer’s mouth opened, the way his eyebrows scrunched. Your hearing was muffled, but you could understand his cries of your name. Your body felt numb, but you could feel his warm release filling you up. 

Spencer’s legs gave out, and he gently let his head fall onto your chest, covering you up with his messy, sweaty curls. 

You detached your fingers from his, wiggling them around to relax them from his tight grasp. When you got some feeling back in them, you used the back of your hand to gently caress his face. 

“Should’ve returned the favor sooner,” he murmured, placing a kiss to the side of your breast.

You let out a breathy chuckle. “Don’t worry about it. This really made up for it.”

He tilted his head to look up at you, his hair tickling your chest. “Oh, we’re not done yet, angel. Just catching my breath.”

[princesssmars]

thinking some more on this idea of caitvi x high femme reader <3

nsfw. fxfxf relationship + smut. reader is ofc high femme, portrayed as wearing feminine clothes, wearing makeup, etc. switch reader, normally tops but switches caitvi. oral and fingering (cait receiving), mentions of reader and vi receiving.

wc : 2.262

"darling i really don't think we should be- oh, oh..."

"come on, caity, i cant help it, you looked so pretty."

you knew you would be in big trouble for this later, but you knew it would be so worth it.

you loved your girlfriends, truly, you did. there was an unbreakable bond between the three of you after these few years spent loving and crying and laughing together, and each day you woke up feeling like the luckiest woman on the planet.

but sometimes you just loved to push them.

your previous partners had been rather... uncompromising, when it came to your dramatic style. they didn't understand how you managed to wear makeup nearly every day, why you bothered wearing such bright and girly outfits, not to mention the maintenance costs just for your hair.

but when you met caitlyn and violet it just seemed to click. caitlyn had grown up around the upper echelon, already accustomed to the intense grooming and pampering that went into your looks.

vi had seen it done, was used to living around and with people who had to get crafty to upkeep with the latest trends, but she hadn't seen it done to your scale. you could still remember the first time you slept over and the bewildered but curious expression she wore when witnessing your extensive skincare routine and the process of wrapping up your hair for the night.

"you're not exhausted after all that?"

"why, are your propositioning me?"

"well i wasn't but now i am-"

yet no matter what, they remained completely supportive of your lifestyle. they helped move in all of your pink and pastel furniture and knick-knacks into their shared apartment, caitlyn routinely buying you your favorite flowers to decorate the space. you even somehow managed to rope the two of them into attending a pilates class with you, barely holding in your amusement when you returned home, only for the both of them to flop onto the couch.

but as selfish as it sounded, you really loved when they paid for your stuff.

vi had more of a hands-off off at first when it came to your beauty and upkeep, sending you a quick cash-app payment every other week and telling you to 'do whatever it is that makes you always look so pretty, and send me a few photos after'.

you had attempted to include her in the process of it all more, showing her a lost of nail shapes and styles and asking which she thought would look best on you.

"soooo, what do you think?"

"uhhhh...whichever you like best."

"cmon, vi!" you groan, nudging her shoulder with yours.

"alright, alright! then how about...these ones?" her finger points to the screen, hovering above the first shape.

"vi, that's 'natural', that's what my nails already look like!" you groan.

"and they're pretty, just like you are." she presses a comedic and sloppy fat kiss to your cheek, giggling when you squeal about her messing up your makeup.

you decide on your own, hiding your nails after your appointment until you drag her into your bedroom, laying her down on the bed and gently commanding her to stay in place. she's excited at first, cocky smile gracing her face as she watches you remove your clothes, until she spots them.

she never thought of herself as the most possessive person, but seeing your fuschia colored fingers tugging down your panties and dragging them up and down your cunt, your wetness visible even from the other side of the bed.

you wore that nail color often after that, always with the knowledge that it'd end up with vi's face buried in your pussy as your hands gripped onto her hair, begging and thrashing as she kept begging for you to cum just one more time. if you were lucky she'd even let you rub her clit until it was nearly unbearable, the sight of your bright pink nails bringing her to a hot release making it all that more intense.

caitlyn, on the other hand, understood your beauty practices quite well. she had been born and raised in a world where appearances were everything, so she wasn't at all surprised by your constantbeauty and fashion regimens. she would even participate on occasion, both of you helping each other with your daily makeup looks and planning spa days so you could relax together.

and, when she was feeling extra indulgent, she sponsored your extravagant shopping sprees. you could confidently say a fourth of your closet was paid for by your girlfriend, the blue haired woman dismissing your unserious insistence that you could pay for your own things with a wave of her hand, a kiss to your cheek and a firm 'get in the car, love." before you were both off.

but just because she had control over the spending didn't mean she had control over you.

when it came to your sex life, you were definitely a bit of a princess. it wasn't like you didn't enjoy watching your butch and femme fall apart underneath or above you, but when they constantly insisted on bringing you to your peaks first it wad hard to flip the tide over the two of them.

but you had noticed the shift in caitlyn as soon as you woke up, how her long limbs held tighter to you to silently persuade you to stay in bed just a little bit longer, how she stayed shoulder to shoulder with you in the kitchen while she prepared some morning tea for the both of you, and how her face seemed to flush when you asked her to come into the first dressing room with you.

caitlyn was feeling needy, you were feeling horny, and there was a victoria's secret just down the way of the mall. was there a better combination?

"let's go in here, cait. i still need some new bras after a certain someone we know tore some of mine off too roughly."

caitlyn giggled at the memory of your girlfriend ruining your underwear, but you could feel her arm tense under the hold of your hands.

"if you say so, my love. you know i'll buy you whatever you need or want."

"awww you're too sweet to me. but i think i'm gonna need you to come try them on with me."

"you cant be serious."

"please, caity? for me?"

and when your hands came up to either side of her face and brought it down just the slightest bit, standing on your toes so you could press a slow kiss to her lips, you already knew she wouldn't be able to say no.

"well, i suppose if it's what you need..."

it was just too easy. just as easy as it was to pick out some matching bras that you knew would look great on the both of you, and just as easy as it was to sneak caitlyn into your dressing room and get her like this.

"darling please, i don't think i can, f-fuck-"

your response is muffled by your mouth being buried into her cunt, tongue wiggling around inside her hole until her hand is coming down to your head and digging into your hair. for a second, you think about how cute it is that she's having a miniature dilemma about her pleasure, at one moment yanking you away before pushing you right back into her.

you decide to test her by lifting your face away from her pussy, already yearning for her taste to be back in your mouth but settling for licking off the remnants of it that sit around your lips.

"c'mon, caity. aren't you and vi always telling be to 'be good and take it'? what, can dish it but you cant take it?"

a high-pitched whine bubbles out of the brit before she's raising one hand to brush her hair out of her face and the other hand up to her mouth, one knuckle between her teeth as she helplessly tries to muffle her moans lest you both get caught and banned from the store.

your teasing wasn't pulled out of thin air, though. you'd need multiple hands to count the amount of times cait had brushed off your pleads and mewls when she insisted on bringing you to come just five one more time, to be a good girl for her and vi and listen without crying.

it was completly empowering and sent a rush of heat to your head and your cunt to see just how badly she took the roles being reversed.

cait's never been the quickest to bring over the edge, requiring a bit more finesse and care before she had a lengthy and powerful release. neither you nor vi minded it, always delighted to see her shake and bite her lip as she gradually felt the pleasure you'd brought her increase over the span of a beautifully drawn-out minute. but right now, you genuinely needed her to come, because yeah, you really weren't trying to get kicked out of this store before you got to buy your cute new sets.

so you start to work her even harder, gently adding your fingers to the mix as your manicured nails curled and prodded inside of her tight heat. you immediately noticed the shift, how her long legs start to tremble and her breath starts to stutter while still in her chest. in desperation her hand that's not muffling her sounds comes back down to your hair and digs in, pushing you back and forth as she downright fucks your face.

and oh, do you take all of it, tongue sticking out for her to grind into as your eyes look up at her, because if one person loves to lock eyes during sex, it's caitlyn kiramman. you make eye contact as her eyebrows scrunch up and she mindlessly starts nodding since she's unable to whisper out any pleas for you to keep going, like you'd even think of stopping now.

your fingers crook and push against that spot deep inside her, thrusting in and out as your other hand circles at her clit, happy little giggles ringing from your throat when she finally comes in your mouth. she fucks into your mouth harder, eyes squeezing shut as her hand that was in your hair slaps on the door to hold herself up and her orgasm absolutely wrecks her.

it's a beautiful and delightful minute of having your gorgeous girlfriend release and shake as she tries her hardest to be as quiet as possible, ending when she un-gracefully plops down onto the dressing room seat.

you peacefully lick her release off of your fingers, making sure to clean off whatever is left on your face before fixing up your clothes and hair. by the time you finish, you turn to cait, only to see her still looking downright shell-shocked. you giggle when she wistfully blinks up at you as you carefully move some streaks of her navy hair from her face, pressing a lingering kiss to her bitten lips and smiling when she follows your mouth after you pull away.

"you look so pretty all fucked out for me, caity."

she groans, resting her head in your shoulder. "please don't rub it in. you're so...tempting, do you know that? i swear one day you'll be the death of me."

"well i sure hope not, that means i wouldn't get to make you tremble like a leaf for me again."

after a few more teases and helping make sure caitlyn looks and walks presentable enough to leave, you gleefully wrap your hands around her arm and head to the checkout counter, placing the items on the counter and perkily swiping caits card over the reader.

when you return home you feel like you're floating on air, skipping through the doorway before squealing and jumping into vi's arms when you see her standing in the kitchen.

"woah there, muffin. looks like someone had a good day, huh?"

you nod up at her, taking a glance back at cait who totally not suspiciously rushes into the bedroom with your bags still in her hands.

vi raises an eyebrow, looking at your girlfriend's retreating body before turning back to you, waiting for your answer.

and yeah, you could play coy, spare caitlyn the embarrassment, and pretend she was just feeling tired from a long day out shopping. but when the memory of her pretty face looking down at you buried in her cunt runs across your mind again, you decide you'll take your chances.

"caitlyn took me shopping so i ate her out in the dressing room."

vi's staring at you with her mouth agape, at first unbelieving, before she hears a loud accented groan from deeper in the apartment that only confirms your statement. she begins trailing after you when you start to head into the bedroom to take a relaxing bath after such a long day.

"oh, so this is what i miss after passing on your bra shopping? you two better invite me next time, and i mean it. i'll cram all of us in a dressing room if I have to."

[connection-terminated-blog]

Connection terminated. I'm sorry to interrupt you, Elizabeth, if you still even remember that name, But I'm afraid you've been misinformed. You are not here to receive a gift, nor have you been called here by the individual you assume, although, you have indeed been called. You have all been called here, into a labyrinth of sounds and smells, misdirection and misfortune. A labyrinth with no exit, a maze with no prize. You don't even realize that you are trapped. Your lust for blood has driven you in endless circles, chasing the cries of children in some unseen chamber, always seeming so near, yet somehow out of reach, but you will never find them. None of you will. This is where your story ends. And to you, my brave volunteer, who somehow found this job listing not intended for you, although there was a way out planned for you, I have a feeling that's not what you want. I have a feeling that you are right where you want to be. I am remaining as well. I am nearby. This place will not be remembered, and the memory of everything that started this can finally begin to fade away. As the agony of every tragedy should. And to you monsters trapped in the corridors, be still and give up your spirits. They don't belong to you. For most of you, I believe there is peace and perhaps more waiting for you after the smoke clears. Although, for one of you, the darkest pit of Hell has opened to swallow you whole, so don't keep the devil waiting, old friend. My daughter, if you can hear me, I knew you would return as well. It's in your nature to protect the innocent. I'm sorry that on that day, the day you were shut out and left to die, no one was there to lift you up into their arms the way you lifted others into yours, and then, what became of you. I should have known you wouldn't be content to disappear, not my daughter. I couldn't save you then, so let me save you now. It's time to rest - for you, and for those you have carried in your arms. This ends for all of us. End communication.

heyy can we do a sexy roleplay where im a prince from a fallen kingdom and youre the powerful warrior who has taken me for their own pleasure. yes? yipeeee ok so before we start first here's a google doc with the whole history of the fictional land we're both from and the intricate geopolitical workings of the- oh yeah and here's a supplementary doc on the agriculture and trade routes of said fictional land and stuff and yes this is important. the dirty talk has to be lore accurate

[natsaffection]

Full throttle. | N.R

Older!Natasha x Younger!Reader

Warnings: 18+! MINORS DNI!, Age gap, bike riding, begging, crying, holding down, fingering, multiple organs, overstimulation

Word count: 2k

A/n: Returning something.

The engine purred beneath them like a living thing, raw and powerful, as the city blurred past in streaks of light. Natasha handled the motorcycle like she was born on it, confident, controlled, dangerous in all the right ways. You sat behind her, arms wrapped tightly around Natasha’s waist, chin just barely brushing the woman’s shoulder as the wind rushed over your bodies.

But the longer you rode, the more distracted you became.

At first, it was just the thrill of the ride, the speed, the scent of leather and fuel, and the way Natasha’s body moved so effortlessly in front of you. But then the vibrations started to settle in, low, constant, and absolutely maddening. The steady hum of the bike beneath you made your thighs clench, your pulse thrum.

You shifted slightly on the seat, pressing closer to Natasha, as if it would help. It didn’t. The denim of your jeans felt suddenly too thick and too thin all at once. You bit your lip and tried to focus on the road, the skyline, anything but the way the vibrations teased you. God, you needed to focus.

But then Natasha shifted gears, and that subtle growl of the bike deepened, richer, rougher, it rolled up through your spine and straight between your legs. Your breath caught, and you had to fight the urge to arch into it. Subtly, too subtly, you hoped, you adjusted your position, just slightly, trying to get the angle right. But it wasn’t enough. The denim, the seat, the teasing hum…it was torture.

Unbearable, delicious torture. And all the while, Natasha didn’t say a word. You tried to convince yourself the older woman hadn’t noticed, she was focused on the road, after all. But Natasha Romanoff was an assassin. She noticed everything.

And she definitely noticed this.

When they finally pulled into the garage under their building, you were practically throbbing with unsatisfied need. Natasha cut the engine, the sudden silence almost deafening in its contrast, and slowly pulled off her helmet, shaking out her hair.

You hadn’t moved. You couldn’t..Not yet.

“You good back there, kotenok?” Natasha asked, voice calm, and..amused. Too amused.

You swallowed hard and slid off the bike, trying to keep your composure. Your legs were a little shaky, but you hoped Natasha wouldn’t notice. (She definitely would.)

“Yeah..” you said, your voice a little too high, too fast. “Just…adrenaline.”

Natasha smirked and turned, stepping close, invading your space like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Mmm.” she hummed, brushing a gloved finger lightly under your chin, tilting it up. “Adrenaline, huh? Not the vibration?”

Your eyes widened. “I- what? No, I didn’t..-“

“You’ve been squirming on the back of that bike since we hit the bridge.” she murmured. “Thought I wouldn’t notice you chasing that little pulse between your legs?”

Heat exploded in your cheeks..and lower, much lower.

“Nat…”

“You think I didn’t plan that route?” Natasha’s voice dropped, smoky and low. “You think I didn’t know what that engine would do to you?”

You froze. “I d-don’t know what you mean, Tasha.”

And that..that, was the final crack. Natasha’s jaw clenched. Because you knew exactly what she meant. And you were still playing dumb. And god.. she loved the fight. But not as much as she loved winning.

Natasha stepped in until her body brushed your front, close enough to trap you without touching. Her breath was warm when she spoke.

“I felt every little shift. Every roll of your hips. You were riding that seat like it could fuck you if you just angled right.”

You whimpered, so soft, like you didn’t even mean to. Natasha smiled slowly. “There she is..”

Your eyes fluttered shut.

“You think you can just walk off my bike, flushed and wet, acting like your pussy wasn’t pulsing the whole time?” Natasha’s voice dipped low. “Sweetheart, I felt it through the seat.”

Another sound left your throat, half breath, half moan. Natasha leaned in and smirked against your ear. “Still don’t know what I mean?”

Your silence was all the answer she needed.

“Good.” Natasha murmured. “Because now you’re going to get back on.”

Before you could react, Natasha’s hands were on your waist, strong, firm, already in control. She lifted you with practiced ease and placed you right back on the bike.

You didn’t fight it. You just exhaled, eyes hazy, body melting under Natasha’s hands like you’d been waiting to be put back in your place.

Natasha moved behind you, slow, intentional. She swung her leg over and settled down, chest pressed against your back, her thighs bracketing yours.

Then she placed a gloved hand on your inner thigh, possessive and controlling. Natasha leaned in, lips brushing your neck.

“Now you stay still.” she whispered. “Because this time, you’re not chasing the vibration.”

Her other hand reached for the key. “I’m giving it to you.”

The engine roared to life beneath you, and you gasped as the vibrations rolled through your body, stronger, more focused than before, and now with no distractions, no city, no excuses. Just you, the machine, and Natasha’s hands on your hips.

“That’s it.” Natasha purred. “Ride it.”

She reached around you slowly, deliberately, and took both of your wrists in her hands. She dragged them forward, placing them firmly on the handlebars.

“Don’t move them.” Natasha said, her voice like gravel and smoke. “I’m not going to tell you twice.”

You swallowed. Your thighs were already trembling, the vibration of the engine pulsing between your legs like it knew every inch of your body. And now, your arms were caged in place, Natasha’s hands wrapped over yours on the bars, holding you tight, forcing you to stay.

“Nat-” you breathed, trying to shift your hips. Natasha tightened her grip.

“Sit still.”

You whimpered. “Feel that?” Natasha murmured against your neck. “That’s what you wanted all along. You just didn’t want to say it. You wanted to sit here, legs spread, wet and needy, letting the bike fuck you until you fell apart..”

Your hands gripped the handles like lifelines. Your head fell forward, your breath stuttering as your core clenched around nothing but need. You shifted, instinctively grinding down, this time not holding back.

Natasha pressing kisses down your neck, whispering filth into your skin. “Keep going. Let it fuck you. Let me watch.”

One of her hand slid from the handlebar down your front, pressing into your lower belly, forcing your hips down, into the vibrations. “You’re gonna take it..” she whispered. “Right here. You’re gonna come with my hand holding you in place and your thighs wide open. And you’re gonna say thank you when you’re done.”

You shuddered, back arching against Natasha’s hold. Natasha leaned in tighter, lips brushing your ear. “Do you understand me?”

Your voice broke. “Y-Yes. Yes..yes, Natasha..”

She didn’t let go. Not when you started to shake. Not when the whimpers turned to gasps. Not even when you started begging, legs trembling, voice cracking, hips jerking helplessly against the relentless hum.

Her other hand ghosted over your stomach, then dipped between your legs, palming the heat there through the denim, pressing you down even harder against the seat.

“Feel that?” she whispered, voice rough and trembling with her own restraint. “The way the bike’s humming right on your clit?”

You whimpered, utterly wrecked, barely able to breathe, and Natasha just smirked against your cheek. “Let’s make it worse, hm?”

She revved the throttle slightly, just enough to spike the vibration, no movement forward, just power, steady and thick between your legs. The engine purred louder, and the new intensity made you gasp, hips jerking.

“Uh-uh.” Natasha pressed her thigh down harder, forcing you still.

“Ride it.” she hissed. “Rub against it. You want to come? Then grind.”

You let out a strangled moan as you obeyed, hips rolling against the seat in slow, desperate circles, the vibration perfectly centered, Natasha’s hands guiding every movement.

“That’s it.” Natasha murmured. “Use it. Use my fucking bike to make yourself come.”

You were crying out now, soft, breathless sounds that you couldn’t stop, couldn’t care to hide. Your thighs were shaking violently under Natasha’s hold, your hands white-knuckled on the grips.

“Keep your hands there..” Natasha reminded, biting your neck. “Don’t you dare stop.”

She rocked your hips faster now, pressing her fingers hard against the seam of your jeans, dragging it back and forth in time with the engine’s pulse.

“That’s it. That’s the spot. You feel it, don’t you? You’re about to soak the seat, baby.”

You sobbed a moan, mouth falling open as your orgasm hit like a crash, blinding, uncontrollable, your entire body trembling as you shattered, still pinned in place, still forced down onto the engine’s relentless rhythm.

But Natasha didn’t stop. She kept you there, hands firm, body caging you in.

“Look at you..” she whispered, voice thick with lust. “So fucking perfect when you come for me.”

You slumped forward, breath ragged, body limp. And still, Natasha stayed behind you, stroking your thighs, kissing your neck, voice softer now, but no less firm.

“We’re not done until I say.”

And the engine kept purring. You were still slumped over the bike, shaking, thighs twitching as the last pulses of your orgasm bled through your limbs. Your cheek rested against your forearm, breath ragged, body boneless. The engine had gone quiet, but the ghost of its vibration was still humming between your legs, so much that you couldn’t tell if you were still coming or just remembering how it felt.

And then Natasha moved. Slow and precise. She didn’t ask. She didn’t check. She knew.

One hand slid down your back, fingers tracing your spine with maddening gentleness. The other returned to your thigh, coaxing it open again as she leaned down, voice soft but lethal.

“Natasha, w-wait, wait..”

“No.” Natasha breathed, lips brushing your ear. “You don’t get to come once and be done. Not when I’ve been holding back this whole ride. Not when you were grinding against me, making these pretty little sounds.”

Her gloved fingers moved between your legs again, right over the soaked seam of your jeans, and pressed. Your whole body jolted.

“N-Nat-!” Your voice cracked, breath hitching into a sob of overstimulated shock. But Natasha only purred.

“Oh, baby, you’re already soaked through. And you’re still so sensitive, aren’t you?” She ground the heel of her hand slowly into your core, right where the vibration had left you raw and throbbing. “That means you’ll come even faster this time.”

Your hands scrambled at the grips, trying to pull away, but Natasha’s body was right behind yours, trapping you, and her hand moved fast, purposeful now. She wasn’t teasing anymore..She was claiming.

“I said don’t run.” Natasha growled. “Don’t you dare pull away from me.” You let out a desperate whimper, your voice caught somewhere between protest and surrender.

“I-I can’t, please..”

“Yes, you can.” Natasha whispered fiercely. “You will.”

She grabbed one of your hands and slammed it back onto the handlebar, pinning it down with her own.

“I’ll hold you through it.”

And she did. She pressed her other hand back between your thighs and started rubbing hard, tight circles over your clit through the soaked fabric, relentless, timed to the rhythm of your breath.

Your whole body was on fire, twitching with too much sensation, too much pressure, but it was all centered there, between your legs, where Natasha wouldn’t stop.

“God, listen to you..” Natasha groaned against your shoulder. “Whimpering like you don’t love this. Like your pussy isn’t pulsing against my hand already.”

You sobbed. “It’s too much!” you gasped. “I-I can’t- Nat, please-”

“Begging already?” Natasha hissed. “You’re not even close yet. But you’re going to be. Right there..feel that?”

You screamed when Natasha pressed just right.

“You’re coming again.” Natasha growled. “Come for me. Fucking come.”

And you shattered..Again. Harder and louder. Your whole body bucked and locked, thighs trying to snap shut, but Natasha held you wide, rubbing you through it, drawing it out, forcing you to stay there, helpless and overstimulated, twitching and sobbing against the handlebars.

Only when you were slumped, boneless and barely breathing, did Natasha finally ease her hand away-, glove soaked, lips brushing along your jaw, whispering, “That’s my good girl. Every last drop of you belongs to me.”

-

-

-

-

[deikshen]

Shen Yuan, who opens his eyes and has just transmigrated into some strange demon deep in the Endless Abyss. Well, GREAT! He's a demon, and while he's not OP, if he behaves and doesn't mess with Binghe's women, maybe they could even be traveling companions. Cool! Incredible!!

It doesn't take long for him to find Luo Binghe in the Abyss some time later. He leaves a trail of carnage... And he's speedrunning!! Ignore the wife and solo plots, just mow down monsters and charge forward! He's awesome!

Shen Yuan tries to avoid the red flags that the stallion protagonist isn't, well, forming a harem. Maybe he would form later, when he had more power!! He's not exactly sure in which narrative arc are.

However, his days of watching Luo Binghe through the shadows are soon over. Luo Binghe catches him!! He has obviously noticed Shen Yuan following him. What does he want? Is he looking for him to kill him?

Shen Yuan ducks out a bit, but ultimately decides to impart his honed Abyss 101 knowledge from months of Wiki editing. He disguises himself as a demon who has been searching for a way out of the Abyss, and he knows that he can only do so with Xin Mo, but he knows he doesn't have enough power to wield it. So, he will tell Luo Binghe where the portal-opening sword is, if he allows him to travel by his side and accompany him when he leaves!!

... It's very easy to become travel companions after that.

Luo Binghe is suspicious (of course he would be!! After all, who wouldn't be?!) but he's nice when he's not on his monster-killing rampage. Shen Yuan kills minor monsters, but in reality, he might be getting into more trouble than he should... spiritual flora, ancient artifacts! Luo Binghe should collect them and become more stronger with them! Shen Yuan rambles a lot: he talks about flora, beasts, monsters, demonic history, he throws out fact after fact of PIDW backstories that never got fleshed out from the old demonic civilizations, banished kingdoms, people literally turned into black jade statues...

Luo Binghe seems to find it irritating that he's talking at first, but actually... It's like he can't stop looking at him afterward. Shen Yuan guesses that he must be considering getting rid of him, sometimes: Luo Binghe looks at him with an expression of dismay and doubt. It's like he's searching for something in him. Like he sees something familiar, but Shen Yuan finds it ridiculous. Bah!! As if there's something familiar about him to some random NPC in the world!

One day, after several weeks of traveling, Luo Binghe asks him: "Little Demon. Do you have a name?" And it's not like Shen Yuan has introduced himself, but he considers saying "Shen Yuan" to him not to be wrong.

After that, Luo Binghe... gets worse? He also becomes a little more talkative, which is good, they can have conversations. Shen Yuan enjoys learning little things about his favorite character: how he likes tea, what he misses most is not water or clean clothes but being able to cook with spices, his favorite food, his mother's favorite recipe, about his life on Qing Jing Peak...

That's when everything goes to hell.

A kind Shen Qingqiu? What the fuck? Luo Binghe speaks about his Shizun with more passion than he has spoken about Ning Yingying or any other person or thing. That he had had this horrible qi deviation, but right after, he had been so kind, giving him medicine, a new cultivation manual, fair training, even letting him live in the bamboo house! For the past few years, Shen Qingqiu had practically spoiled him: the best missions, all the running of the Peak, he was basically the head disciple in all but name.

That Luo Binghe had fallen in love with him. Deeply, devastatingly. And Shen Qingqiu had pushed him into the Abyss when his heritage was revealed. However, Luo Binghe will not doubt! He will leave the Abyss, return to his Shizun, and show him that his heritage does not determine who he is. He will become a righteous cultivator and will have his respect to reach his heart.

OOC! So OOC! What the fuck!? Where was the scum villain!? Why is Luo Binghe gay now!? What weird fanfic did he end up in!? Actually, Shen Yuan supposes, well. That means at least he wouldn't destroy Cang Qiong and all that. Wow. Dramatic but calm ending. A better world!! And worse for him, being a demon. Maybe Could he find a way to disguise himself as a human? He believes he has already won Luo Binghe's friendship and sympathy. Maybe he'll even help him to disguise.

Revelations are a rare thing, but Shen Yuan guesses, it's okay. They continue their travel, collecting flowers along the way (for real, not meimeis) who improve the cultivation, and occasionally fight for their lives. Shen Yuan has defended himself very well with his claws so far, but Luo Binghe teaches him how to use a sword, and it's nice to have one.

Shen Yuan has drawn a map, more or less: it is the path that must be taken to reach Xin Mo. He knows that some of those places will be more difficult than others; he explains to Binghe many times that collecting things to strengthen him is necessary: it's a waste of time for him to meet with his Shizun now, but he'll be grateful! He'll need to get strong fast!

Shen Yuan shamelessly takes advantage of all his knowledge of the plot: he teaches Luo Binghe everything he knows, all the weaknesses of the beasts, all the strengths of certain flowers or roots. However, the more Shen Yuan teaches him over the weeks of their travel together, the more Luo Binghe seems... weirder. If he looked at him too much before, now it's incredibly worse. Sometimes he even asks extremely specific questions and seems frustrated when Shen Yuan doesn't answer exactly as he expects. Once, even, when they are crossing some paths surrounded by magma and the heat is suffocating, Binghe improvises a folded fan of leaves for him, and he seems clearly aggrieved when Shen Yuan's first instinct is to fan Binghe!

Luo Binghe is a frustrating little creature who seems to be testing him. Constantly. Shen Yuan assumes it's normal, but still!! He thought he had the protagonist's confidence!! Something seems to sparkle in his eyes when Shen Yuan stops halfway to explore a forest of giant mushrooms and talks at length about the properties and, above all, about the mole-squirrels who get high off their asses biting mushrooms, and he even seems fucking frustrated when he offers some weird herbal blend similar to a bitter tea and Shen Yuan accepts it just out of politeness because it tastes awful. It's like they're running in circles!!

Still, they continue on their way.

There is still a large stretch of the map to go, which Shen Yuan translates into a few more months of travel, when they are cornered by some beasts. They're horrible, disgusting spider-beetles the size of a fucking elephant; it's an unfair fight, seven against two, and even with their swords the bugs are fast, their legs sharp, and Shen Yuan is too exhausted after hours of only being able to defeat two of them.

Luo Binghe fights majestically, but even so, there is one thing Luo Binghe cannot fight: being outnumbered. And when Shen Yuan sees the giant insect's attack at Binghe, his only instinct is to get in the way.

The insect's leg pierces through him. It doesn't quite touch Binghe, but Shen Yuan isn't even aware of the pain from the way his nerves have been ripped apart. He's stunned, disoriented, and only a moment later Luo Binghe enters that desperate berserk mode that the protagonist only got once every two hundred chapters. The horrible insects fall, and Shen Yuan doesn't even know why he's still alive.

He supposes that dying while Binghe is fighting is a bit anticlimactic. He's in a pool of his own blood and he's sure that not even the blood parasites will be able to regenerate any of it. He's dying, he knows it, and from the way Binghe drops to his knees beside him after defeating the insects and holds him, Binghe knows it too.

"It's okay," Shen Yuan manages to speak, weakly patting Binghe's face, "follow the map, leave the Abyss and meet your Shizun. I bet you'll scare him to death, but hey. You're a great boy. A very good one. Show him there's no one better than you for him."

Luo Binghe holds him. Shen Yuan is aware that there were blood parasites in his food months ago, but oh well. Nothing can be done now. It's too much.

Actually, he wants to say something else, something other than a pathetic goodbye talking about how the ex-stallion protagonist should go after his Shizun's bone, but while he recognizes that he is dying (he already died once, damn it, he recognizes death) a blue screen flashes in his head.

[ Recalculating data... Correcting recipient... Downloading files... Importing... ]

[ Bugs fixed! ]

[ Returning the Host to his main user... ]

At the exact moment Shen Yuan dies, Shen Qingqiu wakes up in Qian Cao with a gasp, suddenly touching his chest where a second ago he had felt a hole that pierced him from side to side. His head hurts, his muscles burn, and someone definitely screams in surprise because a bunch of disciples call out to Mu Qingfang and, damn, it's fucking chaos.

He's apparently been in a coma for the past eighteen long months since the Immortal Alliance Conference. A qi deviation? No one knew. It was as if he were just asleep, but nothing woke him. His vital signs were normal, low, but active. Except for Without-a-cure, there was nothing else in his spiritual veins, and Without-a-cure could not cause his current state.

Now, with a huge headache, Shen Qingqiu remembers. He remembers not only the last year and a half with Binghe in the Abyss, but his last years as Shen Qingqiu. And he remembers that, just after of pushing into the Abyss, the fucking System COLLAPSED! Damn SHITTY AI! And Shen Qingqiu believed that he was really going to deport him back to his body even if he pushed Binghe into the Abyss! ... But he hadn't. Just to a random demon's body until the system repaired itself.

The story he tells to Mu Qingfang about the qi deviation after Binghe was swallowed by the Abyss is as good as any. So, Mu Qingfang finally lets him rest until he recovers, and Shen Qingqiu accepts it.

During the Abyss, he had been... Free, somehow. He had no memory of being Shen Qingqiu, and he hadn't had to pretend to be anyone else. It had been the greatest freedom he had had since he arrived. Fuck, he has a lot to think about. How, above all, what the hell he's going to do now that, damn it, he knows Luo Binghe has somehow fallen in love with him. Fuck.

... Well, at least the other transmigrant on the scene will surely have something to say. Eighteen months in a coma! Ha! Shang Qinghua wouldn't even know what hit him.

[pagesfromthevoid]

"it's so hot when you talk like that" for Mr. Bob Reynolds! ❤️

It's not often that Bob loses his temper. Actually, she can count on one hand him getting angry for whatever reason.

This...this is one of those times.

The mission was supposed to be straightforward. Simple. Get in, take out the target, get out. And it was simple --until Walker decided his plan was the right plan, after they had all agreed it wasn't.

That is when things went south --fast.

Instead of focusing on the exit strategy, he decided he was going to take out the weapons system. Which, okay, yeah --that makes sense, sort of. But only if the rest of the team is on board.

Bob doesn't take part in missions, but he listens on the comms, just to make sure everyone is staying in contact. And to make sure she gets home safely. But when Walker makes his play, and Bob suggests that this isn't a great idea...then Walker shuts the comms off...Well, he doesn't hear from the team until they get back. And he's starting to panic.

So when they return to the tower --more worse for wear than anticipated --Bob is already expecting the worse. She limps off the carrier, holding her side with a look of disdain and pain. A busted lip is the most obvious thing he sees, but her suit is peeled halfway off her torso with makeshift bandages covering a wound on her shoulder.

Bob...kind of starts seeing red at this point.

"Are you out of your fucking mind, Walker?" He demands, practically charging the supersoldier as he exits the carrier.

"You wanna calm down there, Bobby?" Walker snaps back, eyes narrowed as he throws off his helmet.

"You could have gotten them killed," Bob snaps, poking Walker in the chest aggressively. He's not purposely using his strength, but Walker is pushed back just a step. "What the hell are you thinking? You're not in charge, you asshole!"

"Calm down, both of you," Yelena orders, though she's just as bad off.

Bob swallows hard, looking between Yelena and her, and everything is suddenly very loud in his head. Everyone else takes a solid step back from him --except for her. She steps forward, holding up good hand --though it's covered in blood.

"Bob," she insists, "C'mon. It's fine --we already handled him --let's just get to the med bay before I pass out."

He thinks, briefly, that Sentry might make an appearance. That he can feel all that power stirring under his skin, and his hands ball into fists at his sides. "You could have been killed."

"But I wasn't," she reminds him, pushing him back some with her bloody hand on his chest. "Go. Please."

He hesitates, not budging for a moment, before he finally nods and lets her lead the way out.

The walk to the bed bay is silent for the most part, aside from heavy footsteps and even heavier breathing. Before they turn the corner to get there though, she pulls him aside and into a corner out of view of the cameras. They're squeezed together, and Bob has to focus on not grabbing her by habit. She's hurt, and he doesn't want to make it worse.

"What's wrong?"

"Not that I'm encouraging it," she starts, but she has one hand on his stomach and the other on his jaw. "But it's so hot when you talk like that."

"R-really?" He stammers out, and he can feel himself flushing --and the heat dropping below his waist.

She nods with a little smirk on her face. Her hand trails behind his head, tangling her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck. He hums in response, biting at his lip to avoid making any sort of sound that would get them caught. Not that it'd be the first time.

"Reminds me that you got a little bite, even if you act like you don't."

His hands finds her waist, and he pulls her flush against him --though he's mindful of her wounds. "Only a little?"

"I'm willing to be convinced otherwise."

He lifts her up suddenly, wrapping her legs around his waist. She winces --and he stops, but she shakes her head, crashing her mouth against his. Bloody lip and all, he doesn't care as he deepens the kiss, tasting the salt and copper on his tongue. Her back presses against the wall as he ruts against her, clothed cock pressing against her core. She moans into his mouth, tugging at his hair.

But then, he drops her and she falls against the wall with a heavy breath. She looks annoyed, flustered and heaving some.

"We should get you cleaned up," he says flippantly, like he wasn't just shoving his tongue down her throat and tasting the blood on her lips.

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"You're a fucking tease," she complains as he takes her hand, pulling her out of the corner.

[connection-terminated-blog]

Connection terminated. I'm sorry to interrupt you, Elizabeth, if you still even remember that name, But I'm afraid you've been misinformed. You are not here to receive a gift, nor have you been called here by the individual you assume, although, you have indeed been called. You have all been called here, into a labyrinth of sounds and smells, misdirection and misfortune. A labyrinth with no exit, a maze with no prize. You don't even realize that you are trapped. Your lust for blood has driven you in endless circles, chasing the cries of children in some unseen chamber, always seeming so near, yet somehow out of reach, but you will never find them. None of you will. This is where your story ends. And to you, my brave volunteer, who somehow found this job listing not intended for you, although there was a way out planned for you, I have a feeling that's not what you want. I have a feeling that you are right where you want to be. I am remaining as well. I am nearby. This place will not be remembered, and the memory of everything that started this can finally begin to fade away. As the agony of every tragedy should. And to you monsters trapped in the corridors, be still and give up your spirits. They don't belong to you. For most of you, I believe there is peace and perhaps more waiting for you after the smoke clears. Although, for one of you, the darkest pit of Hell has opened to swallow you whole, so don't keep the devil waiting, old friend. My daughter, if you can hear me, I knew you would return as well. It's in your nature to protect the innocent. I'm sorry that on that day, the day you were shut out and left to die, no one was there to lift you up into their arms the way you lifted others into yours, and then, what became of you. I should have known you wouldn't be content to disappear, not my daughter. I couldn't save you then, so let me save you now. It's time to rest - for you, and for those you have carried in your arms. This ends for all of us. End communication.

[ahdanqar]

Please don’t ignore this. I’ve been calling out for months, but my voice is small and unheard.

Many celebrities and influencers saw my campaign—and stayed silent.

But maybe you will care. Maybe you will be the reason my daughters survive this.

My name is Ahed. I’m a father of three daughters from Gaza: Fatima (9), Iman (6), and Noor (1 year and 3 months).

Since the beginning of the war, we’ve been displaced again and again—living in overcrowded shelters, lacking privacy, and struggling without clean water.

My daughters slept on hard floors, exhausted and anxious, longing for a life that once felt normal.

After months of displacement, we returned to what was once our home—only to find it completely destroyed. No roof, no walls, no doors—just broken concrete.

And just days ago, our home was bombed again. This time, it disappeared completely. There’s nothing left.

We are now living among the ruins, exposed to the burning sun, with no shelter, no income, and no support—just my daughters’ eyes looking at me, waiting for hope.

I’m not asking for the impossible. Just help me provide them with safety… a simple life where they can be treated with dignity.

Share my story. Donate if you can. Your support is all we have.

@dirhwangdaseul @b0nkcreat @tamamita @chokulit @3000s @apas-95 @pitbolshevik @ot3 @punkitt-is-here @vampiricvenus @turtletoria @paper-mario-wiki @valtsv @omegaversereloaded @i-am-a-fish-stinks @catsgifsarefun @spongebobssquarepants @postanagramgenerator @feluka @nyancrimew @90-ghost @beserkerjewel @neechees @memingursa @certifiedsexed @afro-elf @11thsense @sawasawako @spacebeyonce @skipppppy @beetledrink @fools-and-perverts @dailyquests @evillesbianvillain @wolfertinger666 @taffybuns @ankle-beez @sabertoothwalrus @meshugenist @isuggestforcefem @hotvampireadjacent @marxism-transgenderism @aimasup @722z @jehovahhthickness @vxpo @hachibani

@wolfertinger666

[azzibuckets]

sweet [part seven]

paige bueckers x azzi fudd

a/n: the queen of underdeveloped series is back…sincerest apologies for the long wait! im glad you guys have stuck around despite my inability to ever stick to a reasonable schedule

masterlist | series masterlist | sweet masterlist

Time heals all wounds.

It’s a mantra Azzi finds herself repeating in her head all too often. She repeats it when she breaks up with Micaela, although she realizes that the statement would've been more helpful for her now ex, who leaves with angry tears and a litany of curses trailing her wake, than herself, who merely takes a seat on the couch and stares aimlessly at the walls. She knows she should feel more than this—more sad, more upset, more regretful. More of anything. But she's so fucking tired of crying and feeling sad all the time, and Azzi can't really summon energy to even feel bad about the look on Micaela's face when she'd ended it so indifferently.

Again, Azzi repeats the mantra when she flies back home to Virginia after the Big East game, after the night she’d held Paige to sleep, the morning that she’d left her other half crying in the hotel room. And god, Azzi knows that for all the daggers she’s thrown at her best friend, all those furious accusations of how Paige has hurt her, she’s been hiding under it too. That deep inside, she knows full well that she's just as guilty, that she's driven the knife into Paige just as much. But hasn't it always been easier to avoid taking the blame, to scream at someone else instead of confronting your own demons?

It’s better for both of them to have space, Azzi justifies. And time. The further they are away from each other, the less likely they’re able to hurt each other. She has one more month of rehab in Virginia before she returns to Storrs for the rest of season—some state of normalcy will have to have returned by then, right?

Admittedly, she’s not in the best place mentally. She’s separated from her favorite people, forced to cheer them on through a TV screen and text them congratulations while pretending like the ugly, insecure voice in her head doesn't resent them for doing everything while she is capable of nothing. Azzi hates it when those thoughts invade her brain, but late at night, when her knee is screaming for relief and she feels so fucking alone, they take over and they don't stop. Lord knows how many sleepless nights she's spent digging herself into a mental spiral of anger towards herself and everyone else.

Azzi's been through this before, and she knows that pain is part of the process, but still, there are times she dreads having to wake up. Rehab is grueling, and she loves her parents, she does, but sometimes they get so overbearing. It’s not until her teammates come and visit that her moods finally lightens, and she finally feels a semblance of her old self again.

They surprise her, showering her with silly string and confetti. Azzi rolls her eyes, but she can't really hide the smile that breaks out on her lips. Even Kayla shows up, and the two nights they fill her house with chaos are the best of the entire month. She plays board games and hops on Fortnite and has mindless conversations with her teammates, things she missed so terribly, and tries not to feel bothered by the fact that Paige hadn’t come with the rest of the team. Neither had Caroline, and KK tells her that Paige hadn’t wanted to leave their friend alone in the dorms. Azzi can’t find it in herself to hate Paige for that, even though she suspects that that wasn’t the only reason for her keeping her distance.

When the first rolls around, Azzi is nervous. It’s been four weeks of no contact—the closest thing they’d gotten to interacting was Azzi liking Paige’s new Instagram post, for fuck’s sake. She’d stared pathetically for about forty-seven minutes, studying each of the slides, debating whether or not she should leave a comment. It had been a battle between the selfish side of her—the side that had wanted to pop up in Paige's notifications and force her to remember that Azzi still existed, make her feel some of Azzi's torture of always thinking of Paige—and the reasonable part of her, her conscience that said you are the reason why you can't even do something as simple as like a post anymore.

Even more overwhelming is the cycle of what-ifs when she thinks about having to face Paige again. The radio silence between them left no room for more arguments, but now she’s completely in the dark about what Paige’s current feelings are towards her, and she really can’t blame her if it’s anger, or resentment, or something worse, but still, the mere thought of Paige ignoring her or refusing to talk to her hurts Azzi more than she wants to admit.

Trying to focus on the positive, or basketball, or really anything besides Paige, Azzi is thankful when she returns to Storrs with much funfare. As soon as she opens the door to her apartment, there’s a mess of balloons and cheers, and a welcome back cake on the table. It’s a good distraction, until she scans the room and is hit with the fact that Paige isn’t there, again, and an ugly knot begins to form in her chest.

“You good?” Azzi, trying to stress eat her way through her worries, is spooning a piece of sugary cake and whipped cream into her mouth when a hand rubs her shoulder.

“Hey, Nika,” she greets the brunette, pulling her in for a brief hug. “Yeah, I’m good.” She doesn’t miss the way Nika eyes her up and down, clearly seeing right through her.

Azzi hesitates, tapping her fork against her plate, nerves jumping all over the place. She’s not sure how much Nika knows, being Paige’s closest friend and her go-to confidant, but she thinks that she’d be remiss to assume that Paige had said nothing about the ongoing tension between the two of them. But the curiosity in her is too intense for her to tamp down, so she asks anyways. “Thanks for putting all this together. Where’s, uh, Paige?” She winces immediately, knowing her attempts to be nonchalant had grossly failed.

She swears she sees a sliver of a smile on Nika’s lips. “She’s studying right now. Has an exam in an hour.”

“Oh, okay. Makes sense.” Azzi shovels another bite of cake into her mouth, trying to shut herself up before she says anything stupid, but as soon as she swallows, more words are escaping her mouth. “Does she know that I’m back?” God, way to play it cool. But Azzi isn’t all that shocked with herself; she’s never been good at controlling herself when it comes to a certain blue eyed blonde.

Nika’s eyes narrow. “You injure your head too?"

Azzi blinks at her.

Shaking her head, Nika jostles her arm playfully. “Of course she knows your back, dumbass. She was tracking your location and shit. Lili was about to choke her the way she kept bothering her to leave early so you wouldn’t have to wait at the airport.”

“Oh.” Azzi is stunned, the knot in her chest loosening slightly at this new piece of knowledge.

“She missed you, you know.” The older girl studies her carefully with a cocked head. “Refused to admit it, but everyone could tell. We were watching Frozen and all she could talk about was ‘Azzi loves this movie, Azzi’s favorite character is Olaf, oh Azzi laughed so hard at this scene last time we watched.'” Nika rolls her eyes affectionately at the memory. “It’s like she forgets we're your teammates and know you too."

Azzi laughs off-handedly, but inside she's frozen. What does it mean when two people can't stop staying away from each other? What does it mean when Azzi had pushed Paige away, had kept running, had hated Paige for not chasing when that was what she told her to do? Azzi thinks she would've deserved it if Paige never spoke to her again, if Paige refused to even look her in the eye. But no—here Paige was, telling people that Azzi's favorite Frozen character is Olaf, as if that wasn't the most stupidly cute thing Azzi had ever heard her do. Azzi's temples throb. What does it mean that she'd just spent an entire month trying to get rid of her feelings, listing out all the reasons why her and Paige shouldn't be together, but came right back to Storrs loving Paige just the same?

༉‧₊˚✧

The morning of her second day back at UConn, Azzi wakes up to a message from the athletic trainer requesting her to come in as soon as possible to start their rehab regimen. Groaning, Azzi throws on some booty shorts and a tank top, planning to get through the appointment as quick as possible then come back to her bed to sleep all her problems away.

When she walks in, they're wrapping up with the volleyball team, so Azz slumps down in one of the chairs to wait. Her head tips back against the wall; maybe she'll be able to catch a few minutes of rest before the trainer calls her in. She's almost nodding off when she hears a familiar hum followed by increasingly louder footsteps. Eyes flying open, she watches as Paige turns the corner and walks in, typing away on her phone. Azzi’s heart skips a beat when she realizes that she’s not wearing a shirt.

And okay, maybe she’s seen Paige in just a sports bra a million times, but what’s that saying? Time heals all wounds Distance makes the heart grow fonder? Because she swears Paige has never looked this alluring, skin gleaming with sweat, the lean muscle in her arms tensing as she walks. She has the post-workout glow, a happy haze coming off freshly released endorphins, and Azzi's hormones start firing in overdrive when Paige's shorts ride up slightly as she walks, giving a glimpse of the smooth, sinewy muscle of her thighs. It’s even worse that Azzi can just close her eyes and remember, remember the way those same thighs had closed around her face, or had tensed up when her hand had been between working between them and — God fucking dammit. She’s literally falling apart on a cold metal chair in an office. Berating herself, she sits a little straighter as she waits for the inevitable.

Paige’s eyes widen slightly when she finally tucks her phone into her back pocket and meets her stare, but it’s quickly curbed into into a mask of indifference. Azzi clears her throat hesitantly, deciding to go with a small, harmless wave. But it’s awkward, God, why can’t she be normal for two fucking seconds, and she instantly regrets it.

“Hey, Azzi.” Paige’s tone is sweet, and even she seems slightly taken aback by the softness in her tone when it leaves her mouth. But slowly her lips turn into a small smile, and Azzi finds herself smiling as well. It's like two school girls seeing each other again after a long Christmas break, shy with hopeless crushes, and Jesus, Azzi had missed the innocence and blissfulness of just being a high schooler toeing the brink of this devastating and forceful thing called love.

Paige takes a furtive look around before plopping down in the seat next to Azzi. A long exhale leaves her mouth as she extends out her legs. Azzi has to physically turn her head this time in order to stop staring, trying to ignore the fact that Paige has somehow gotten tanner in the winter season. For a split second, Paige’s foot knocks against hers. Azzi is ashamed to say that the brief moment of contact sets her entire body alight with nerves. “How are you?” Paige breathes out finally.

Azzi fixes Paige with a raised eyebrow, half amused as her lips almost twitch into a smile. Normal, she reminds herself. Be normal. “Are you really trying to make small talk?”

Paige laughs a little, and Azzi pretends that the sound doesn’t send a pleasant flush through her body. She knows she’s missed Paige’s laugh, but now she realizes that maybe she’d missed being the cause of it more. “No. I’m really tryna know how you are.” The older girl heaves another big sigh, always one for dramatics. “I’m sorry for not going with the team to visit you in Virginia. Or going to your welcome back thing. I know how it looks after how our last conversation ended, but I wasn’t tryna be salty or prove a point or anything, I swear.”

Paige and Azzi have been to hell and back the past couple of months, yet through it all, the one thing that’s stayed true-blue is their honesty, at times painfully so. Azzi trusts Paige, more than anyone in the world, so she believes her without a doubt. Except she wants to know one more thing. “Would you have ever reached out though? If you hadn’t seen me here?”

Paige nibbles on her bottom lip. “I don’t know,” she admits, her voice barely audible. “I’ve never been good at staying away from you.” She looks away as she says this, as if she's scared to see Azzi's reaction, like she expects for it to be negative, and Azzi so badly wants to reach for her face and say me too, ask is it killing you like it's killing me?, and her hand lifts up of its own accord, and she's so close, so close to admitting everything she's always been too scared to say out loud, but then one of the trainers call for her, and Azzi stands up so quickly that the chair screeches back and almost falls over. Thankfully, Paige catches it before it does, but now Azzi can’t stop staring at her hands, big and veiny, gripping the metal like it used to grip her. She looks up, but Paige’s eyes are already on her, raking over every inch of her body, of her thighs and tummy and clavicle, like someone starved. Azzi stumbles, feeling lightheaded under the older girl's burning stare. "Gotta go,” she stutters. “I’ll - I’ll see you around.” Paige blinks rapidly then nods, as if she didn't hear her.

When Azzi has finished, she's surprised to see Paige still in the same spot as before. "Still waiting?" she questions, sitting down next to her to slide on her shoes.

"No." Paige lifts her arms and stretches, and Azzi swears she can see her v-line poking out from beneath her boxers. "Just finished up like, half an hour ago."

"Oh." Azzi loops her shoe strings together into a tight knot.

"Well, I guess I was waiting."

Azzi's hands still.

"I was waiting for you." Paige pulls the sleeve of her hoodie over her hands nervously. "Was wondering if, um, you'd be down to do something?"

"Do something?"

"Nothing weird!" Paige interrupts, a blush setting into her cheeks. "Just like, something normal. And friendly."

Azzi finishes tying her shoelaces and sits up. "That sounds good."

"Forreal?" Paige doesn't even try to hide her surprise, and Azzi winces. Is this their new reality? Her hurting Paige to the point where she sets her expectations so low that Azzi can't possibly hurt her again?

"Well, yeah." Azzi stands up and grabs her backpack, trying not to let her conflicted feelings show on her face. She's always been an open book. "When?"

"Maybe like, right now? If you're up for it. I know the rehab sessions are tiring, so no biggie if you can't."

Azzi smiles. She's tired, but she's missed Paige, and she's standing there so eagerly she can't find it in herself to say no. "Okay. Can we get ice cream or something?"

"Whatever you want, princess," Paige teases, then she seems to realize how flirtatious her tone sounds and she immediately shuts up. An awkward silence falls between them and Azzi inwardly groans.

"You're weird," Azzi says. Then she punches Paige in the shoulder and starts walking. "Catch up."

"So, like..." Paige stuffs her hands into her pockets, trying to look as nonchalant as possible. "Like, I know you're a strong and independent woman and shit."

"And shit?" Azzi echoes, shaking her head in disbelief.

"Yeah. And that you can handle your own."

Azzi narrows her eyes. "I can."

"Yup." Paige nods vigorously in agreement. "But like, your backpack looks big as hell. And you're lowkey tilting to your right when you walk. And like, I'm not even carrying anything, so it might be easier for you if I just take your backpack."

Azzi scratches her head. "You did all that buildup to ask if you could carry my backpack?"

Paige flushes an even darker red. "No! I mean, yeah," she laments. "But like, not in a girlfriend way like we used to. Not like, we were girlfriends or anything." Paige groans at herself. "But like in a friendly, your knee is hurt and I wanna help, kinda way. You know?" When Azzi stares at her again, she backtracks, "I just — I don't wanna do anything that makes you think I'm trying get with you, okay? I wanna be a good friend."

Azzi smiles softly. "Don't overthink it." She slips off the strap and pushes her bag into Paige's chest, who accepts it with a grin. "I'm actually insulted you didn't ask earlier."

"Alright, whatever," Paige grumbles, then mumbles "princess" again, under her breath, but it's not awkward this time, and Azzi shoves her and they both laugh, arms brushing as they walk side by side, admittedly a little closer than they should be.

"What should I get?" Azzi muses, her finger skimming over the glass as she stares at all the different flavors.

"You always spend thirty minutes debating just to end up always getting the same thing," Paige accuses. She quickly scans the menu before flagging down the attention of the worker. "A cone with two scoops of vanilla and a cup with two scoops of cotton candy, please."

"Hey!" Azzi objects. "You didn't even give me a choice to decide!"

"I gave myself the choice of choosing between happiness or waiting two days for you to decide," Paige shoots back.

"You never know." Azzi crosses her arms pointedly. "This could've been the day I finally decided to try banana."

"Be so for real right now, Azzi," Paige groans. "You don't even like normal bananas."

"I fucking love bananas so I don't even know what you're talking about." Azzi turns away, pretending to be upset, when she feels hands skim her waist.

"Don't be mad, Az." Paige's hands squeeze a little, and Azzi lets out a small little sigh at the feeling of finally being touched by her after so long. "Come on, lemme see that pretty face," she prods. The younger girl turns around, and suddenly their faces are close. Too close.

Paige immediately takes a step back, her hands jerking away from Azzi's waist as if they'd just been burned. Azzi looks at her, confused at the sudden motion, but they're disrupted by the worker calling out Paige's name.

They walk back to Azzi's apartment, eating their ice cream, but the tension is too palpable for them to ignore anymore. Azzi's heart clenches when Paige shifts away when their elbows almost brush as they walk silently, so far from how they'd been pressed together an hour earlier. You have no right to be upset, she reminds herself. But her heart has never really followed her mind, and so she's upset anyways.

"Thanks for coming." Paige tosses her empty cup and spoon into a nearby trash can and turns to face Azzi. "I had fun."

"I did too." Azzi ducks her head. "Thank you for paying."

Blue eyes shine brightly at her. "Of course."

Azzi unlocks the door as Paige leans against the opposite wall, watching her. As her key slots into the door, memories flood of Paige wrapping her arms around her waist, chin digging affectionately into Azzi's shoulder as she'd opened the door, and they'd stumble in together, giggling like fools.

But she turns around, and Paige's hands are still in her pockets, too far to touch even if she'd reached out. "Bye," Azzi says. "Walk safe."

Paige nods. "See you."

༉‧₊˚✧

Things almost return to normal, except for the fact that Paige's refusal to touch her doesn't stop that night. No brushing away a curl for her when she's lifting and her hair falls over her eyes, no hand resting on her lower back, no contact between their thighs whenever they sit together. When Azzi invites Paige over for a movie night, just the two of them, in hopes of restoring their friendship, Paige is overly polite, conversing like normal but maintaining a respectful distance of at least two feet at all times. But Azzi is optimistic, even though she doesn't feel happy. Paige is doing everything she asked her to — tamping down her feelings (while Azzi's, if anything, are getting more out of control), staying respectful, keeping their boundaries. So why does Azzi still feel so empty?

It's a Friday night when she gets a text from Nika with the message "You've been too stressed lately...let's get lit" and an address attached.

When Azzi enters the bar with Aaliyah and spots a familiar blonde by Nika, she curses, knowing by now that her, Paige, and alcohol don't make a good combination.

But honestly, this really isn't even her fault. She hadn't even known Paige would be at this random ass bar half an hour away from Storrs. I mean sure, it made sense, since Nika was the one who'd invited Azzi and Paige tagged along with Nika almost everywhere as her self-declared twin, but still. How could've Azzi really, surely known?

Azzi immediately knows that Paige is already too far gone when the blonde approaches her with a dopey, tired smile, arms stretched wide for a hug. Azzi reciprocates loosely, hands patting her back before falling back to her side.

She immediately accepts a shot from Aaliyah once Paige leaves, determined to forget about her for one night, except Paige had apparently just gone to the bathroom and was right back within minutes, arm slipping through Azzi's easily, like she'd always belonged there. Azzi sighs. It's not easy to forget someone that's attached to you, and Paige is doing just that, refusing to leave her side for even a second throughout the entire night.

Aaliyah quirks an eyebrow at them. "This should be good," she mutters to Nika, who only smirks in return.

“You drank too much,” Azzi chides Paige as she sits in a bar stool, head tucked into the crook of Azzi’s shoulder while Azzi stands between her legs. But the dark haired girl has always been a softie for drunk, clingy Paige, so she doesn’t push her away like she know she should, instead pulling her closer and resting her cheek to the top of the older girl's head.

"Can I tell you something?" Paige whispers out of the blue.

Azzi strokes her fingers through her hair, enjoying the way the alcohol has made her feel ten times lighter. "Mm."

“Missed you,” Paige whispers. “Packed my bags three different times. Got into my car every single one of those times and was this close to driving all the way to you.” Paige holds up her pointer and thumb finger, pinching them together so that they’re almost touching. "Had my fucking maps navving to your address and all." Then she falls back into Azzi, as if that small action had exhausted her, and tiredly nuzzles her face into her neck. “But then I'd remember the look on your face—and I knew that I couldn’t—but shit, Azzi, I was thinking about you the whole time. Couldn’t stop if I tried. Killed me not being able to talk to my best friend.” Paige's words slur together, but there's a raw honesty in the way she says it so earnestly.

“Did you ever hate me?” The question slips out of Azzi's mouth before she can stop it. She tenses as she waits for the answer.

“Could never hate you, Azzi. Look at you. So fuckin perfect and sweet and pretty, pretty, pretty.” Paige presses a smacking kiss to her shoulder, and although her mouth and Azzi's skin are separated by multiple layers of clothing, somehow the desperation with which Paige mouths at her over her jacket, the way her eyes linger unashamedly on Azzi's face, is far more intimate than anything they’ve ever done before.

Azzi doesn't know how they end back on campus, how they end up in her room. She must be more intoxicated than she thought, even though she only had a couple of drinks. She undresses into her pajamas, and Paige sits on the bed, watching with glazed over eyes.

She makes quick work of her top, throwing it to the side. Thankfully she chose to wear her nice bra, not one of her frayed sports ones. Next is her shorts; she yanks her zipper, but to no avail. It's caught on the denim of her jeans. And she know she could probably fix it if she twisted just a little bit harder, but the way Paige is looking at her, and the way she aches to feel Paige's touch, has her calling her over, voice raspy and breathless. "Can you help me? It's stuck."

Paige's fingers make nimble work of the zipper. When it's pulled all the way down, exposing the white of Azzi's underwear along with the soft skin of her lower tummy, she swears and looks up, meeting Azzi's eyes. "Fuck, Az," she says, voice low and heated. "You have no idea what you do to me."

Azzi subconciously pushes her hips forward, and a strangled sound leaves Paige's throat as her hands press into the groove of her hip, fingers tense and trembling against the denim of her shorts. They haven't even had skin to skin contact, and Paige is already gone. “Azzi,” she begs roughly. “Tell me to stop.”

Azzi doesn’t tell her to stop. She doesn’t tell her that her touch feels like the most right thing in the world. She doesn't tell her that she can't remember why she ever let Paige go, when Paige looks at her like she's the only person in the goddamn world. Azzi doesn't say anything, instead covering Paige’s hand with her own, guiding it up past the safety of her clothes and onto her waist. Paige's fingers splay out against her ribs. They’re cold, and Azzi shivers.

"Don't stop," she whispers, and Paige moves forward, mouth fitting on Azzi's so perfectly she forgets how to breathe. Her tongue, wet and curious, brushes Azzi’s bottom lip, and Azzi’s lips part. They’ve never kissed like this — slow, soft, relishing in each other’s taste. It's always been heated, desperate, but now it feels like they're getting lost in each other before they lose each other completely.

Azzi forgets her shorts are still unzipped until Paige's hand falls back on, tracing the waistband and then her belly button. “Can I touch?”

Azzi nods, guiding Paige to kneel down on the carpet before her. Her best friend kisses her piercing, then licks at the skin around it, wet open mouthed kisses that have Azzi grabbing her head and moving it closer to her skin, chasing the feeling of more, more, more.

“My girl,” Paige slurs as she makes her way down her stomach. “My fuckin girl.”

The pet name slips out, and Azzi used to hate it when guys called her ridiculous names like those, but when it comes out of Paige's mouth, lovely and honeyed, she realizes just how much she loves it. And not just the way it sounds, but how everything Paige does always feels so much sweeter than from anyone else. She grabs Paige's face and pulls her up, kissing her hard, and they're making out for a few minutes before Paige puts a hand on Azzi’s chest, gently separating the two of them. She can feel Paige's heart pounding through her chest, matching her own erratic heart beat.

"Why'd you stop?" Azzi says, chasing Paige's lips, but Paige strokes her chin.

"Azzi, you're crying," Paige whispers, and only now does Azzi see the concern pooling in her eyes. Her thumb brushes ever so gently across the younger girl's cheekbone, coming away glistening with a tear drop.

“No." Azzi shakes her head. "I’m sorry," she chokes out.

“Baby.” Paige’s voice is tender and soft and worn, like it’s been on the tip of her tongue, waiting to escape her mouth and sound so perfect. “What’re you sorry for?”

“For running away."

The blonde inhales, thumb still rubbing soft circles on Azzi's cheek.

"For being too scared."

“Azzi."

Azzi leans forward. The tip of her nose brushes against Paige’s, and she hears the older girl let out a whimper. “You love me?” she asks, even though she already knows the answer.

“I do.” Paige’s thumb strokes across her skin, across the bottom of her shorts. “God, you know I do.”

“Good. Because I love you.” Azzi's lips brush the corner of the older girl's mouth, fleetingly, and Paige can only stare at her as her heart thumps faster, all her jagged edges softening and melting away.

“You were right. I was scared before.” Azzi presses a kiss to the other corner of Paige’s mouth. “And I know I’ve hurt you. I’m sorry.”

“You have.”

“And I’m dumb and I’m selfish, and it probably won’t be the last time I hurt you because somehow I always manage to say and do the wrong thing.”

Paige half laughs, half sobs. “Only sometimes.”

"But if it's not too late," Azzi kisses the little scar above her eyebrow, then the bridge of her nose, "I want to try."

"You want to try?"

"You're worth it." Azzi presses one long kiss to her forehead, cupping her head in her palms. "You're worth everything."

"Do you mean it?" Paige's fingertips graze her wrists, voice strained. "Cause I know I'm drunk, but you're drunk too. And—and I don't think I can take waking up in an empty bed. I can't handle another fight, Azzi. I can't."

"That's the truest thing I've ever said," Azzi promises fiercely. "I swear to you."

"Okay." Her lips find the inner softness of Azzi's wrists, kissing the skin there. "I trust you."

"You trust me?" Azzi can't help but be a little wondrous that through it all, Paige is so willing to give her such a big piece of herself.

"I trust you and I love you and I want you." Paige reaches for her waist, movements slow and reverent. "Can I show you?" Her voice is soft, trembling, vulnerable, eyes searching Azzi’s.

Azzi's pulse skips a beat. Her grip tightens on Paige’s shoulder, fingers digging into her skin with pure desire that sets every part of her body aflame. “Show me.”

[maemae2998]

Dante Sparta x reader:

Prompt: Sex pollen trope

My partner @rook-the-took and I watched the new Devil May Cry anime twice now and have seriously gotten hooked. Dante is everything I love about fictional dorky men. I wrote this largely for self indulgence and because I’ve never tried this prompt before. Enjoy! I know I did 😉

You helped Dante down into the sofa, where you both collapsed in a heap. Dante sighed with relief and began to pull off his coat.

“Man, that venom packed a punch. I’m still feeling weird. Kinda hot and bothered.”

“I’ll grab you some water. Let’s just rest and chill.”

“Good plan,” Dante replied with a groan.

Tonight’s Demon Hunt proved to be a challenge, even for the pair of you. Their target had been a cross between Humanoid and scorpion. Their stinger head managed to cut Dante on his side. His injury was already improving but it had left him out of sorts and lightheaded. Good old demon DNA to help him heal quickly.

He watched you walk off and found his eyes wander down to your swaying hips. He forced his gaze away, all too aware that now was not the time to proposition you. He busied himself with finding a movie for y’all to watch and pulled off his boots. You returned after a few minutes with drinks and snacks, settling next to him on the sofa.

You handed Dante the glass and he took it with thanks, greedily taking several big swallows.

You laughed and raised your own glass, “Cheers, to your health,”

A little of the drink spilled from the corner of your mouth, running a trail down your neck. Dante’s eyes tracked it to your collarbone, immediately wanting to lick it away. He wanted to latch his mouth to your neck and leave a collar of hickeys. He wanted to hear you gasp and moan for him.

“…I-I’m gonna get changed. I’ll be right back,” Dante excused himself and darted into the bathroom. He changed into loose, fitted shorts and a T-shirt before splashing cold water down his face and neck. Once he felt brave enough to face you, he went back out into the living room.

Yo had also changed into pjs, a blue tank top with long bottoms. The sight of you cozy and relaxed made his heart pound and his cock twitch. He tried to shove the thought aside, but no luck. He wanted to fuck you so badly it started to hurt. But now was not the time. Plopping himself down into the couch, he grabbed hold of his patience and held a pillow in his lap.

He did his best to distract himself with the tv show, snacks, and cold drinks, and it worked for a bit. He certainly felt better now that he had something on his stomach. Yet, when a commercial came on, he saw you shift in his peripheral vision. You stretched your arms out big and he loved watching your muscles flex.

You scooted closer and draped yourself in his lap. Dante’s hand immediately moved to comb through your arm, both in affection and to keep you from moving too much. “How are you feeling, love? All good now?”

“Yeah, yeah. Better thanks to you,”

You rolled over onto your back to look up at him. Dante spotted the outline of your nipples poking through your shirt, and sucked in a deep breath. He found you attractive at almost all times, but right now you were the finest meal he had ever laid eyes on and he was a starving man. He let his eyes linger for a few more seconds, and then tried to focus back on the TV. He knew he was holding himself too stiffly, but what else was he to do When all your little movements sent shocks straight to his cock?

After several painfully long minutes, you sat up and hit the mute button on the remote, “ all right, out with it.”

“ I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Dante attempted.

“Something has you distracted, or riled up. So what is it?”

Dante‘s cheeks reddened as he slowly pulled the pillow out of his lap.

You giggled and squeezed his hand, “Oh, is that all?

“Baby, I feel like I’m gonna explode. Uh, I think this is a side effect of the venom.”

“Oh. No wonder you’ve been acting jumpy. You usually love having me sit in your lap for chill times.”

“I need relief. I-I can go take care of this myself if you aren’t comfortable…” Dante moved to leave, but you grabbed his wrist.

“Hang on, big guy…I think I’m feeling it too,” you replied with a soft smirk.

His eyes widened at your words, “Really? How? You didn’t get stung.”

“I thought maybe the effects were contagious. Or perhaps you’re just giving off a shit ton of pheromones.” You scoot closer, taking his hand to place a kiss.

“…So, you’re okay with this? All of this?”

You leaned down by his ear to whisper, “Love, my panties are soaked through. I want to ride you until I see stars.”

Dante needed no further encouragement. You two quickly stripped each other, trading kisses as you went, and Dante pushed you down into your back with a thud. He attacked your neck with a hunger that left you gasping. He cock hung heavy and flushed red with painful blood flow. He let out little grunts each time it made contact with your skin. You reached down to toy with the head a bit, and he let out a sinful moan.

“Fuck, baby. Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?” Not one to be shown up, Dante slipped his hand down toward your folds and was blown away by your wetness.

“About what you are doing to me, I’d say.”

With a grin, he slid his fingers inside with ease, humming, and satisfaction as you clenched around him. You both rubbed into each other‘s hands, desperate for more friction, more of each other.

“More,” you beg, “Please give it to me,”

Dante growled and flashed that signature grin before lining himself up with your hole. He sank into you, hot inch by inch. You both keened when he bottomed out, panting with the relief it brought. This is what you both needed. ‘Fuck your brains out’ Dante was just the animal you needed to make the world go fuzzy.

He began to thrust in and out with a slow drag, savoring the bliss. Gradually, he picked up the pace faster and faster, turning more needy and desperate as he went along. His hands grappled at your hips, your tits, your shoulders, and your legs, anything to get to ram himself into you. Each thrust was punctuated by growls and moans, filthy words fell from his lips without a trace of shame.

“Fucking hell, baby. You, you feel even b-better than usual. I feel like I’m ready to blow,”

“Inside!” You ordered as you grabbed Dante’s hand, “Cum inside me, D. I want you to!”

Dante pounced on you for kisses and placed one leg down on the floor. At this angle, his cock massaged against your g-spot. Your eyes rolled backward with pleasure, writhing and squeezing with your whole body. Dante laughed into the kiss and continued thrusting. Just as you felt you might break, Dante lightly rubbed your clit. Stars exploded behind your eyes and you came with a muffled scream. Every inch of you caught fire, including where Dante continued to rearrange your guts, prolonging the orgasm.

At last, he grunted and groaned his way through his own release, with a cry of “Angel”, he came. Hard. He then slumped on his side, with his cock still buried inside your cunt. He pulled you to his chest while he caught his breath, kissing along your sweaty skin.

“That was a-amazing, big guy. I can’t complain about these side effects,” you joke as you stroke his cheek.

He laughs and the vibrations spread throughout you. “I loved it too. You make the prettiest sounds…But I’ll admit I’m not done having fun.” You looked up at him with a questioning smirk, “I’m still rock fucking hard, angel.”

You pressed your hand to his chest to get him to sit up, “Oh? Let me help with that. I want to make good on what I said.”

Dante’s eyes widened and his smile melted you. He settled back into the couch and placed his hands on your hips. You raised yourself up on your knees and sank back onto his cock. The cum still inside you made a sloppy, wet sound that gave you both chills. The slap of skin on skin joined the chorus of your moans. Any coherent thoughts from that point on we’re replaced by the hungry ache for each other’s bodies. You both looked down to find the absolute mess where you were joined together. Your combined juices shined brought and sticky on your skin, slick and arousing. Dante wrapped his arms around your waist to pull you in closer, pressing his ear to your chest.

“This is easily the loudest, wettest sex we’ve ever had. Fucking filthy with all that cum.” He punctuated his words with a hard thrust and toying at your harder nipples. You could have made a porn star blush with your moans.

“I f-feel so full, Dante. It’s like you were m-made for me.”

Dante lifted his head to suck at the sensitive spot below your ear, “Mine. All fucking mine,” he groaned. Your next orgasm was fast approaching, especially with every bounce, your clit rubbed against his bush at the base of his cock. Finally, you felt wave after wave of pleasure crash into you, biting down on his shoulder and digging your nails into him.

Dante hissed at the sharp stings of pain, but it also made something rumble deep in his chest. As you went boneless against him, Dante doubled his efforts and began to piston into you, “Whoa, you came so much, hun! Yer s-squeezing down so tight around me. Shit, yer making me cum! Every part of me just says ‘cum!’”

With one more pump, Dante spilled his load into and screamed. He nutted so hard he thought he went blind for a second. He fell back onto the couch, and pulled you with him, gentle kisses as he went.

“ I would call this a very successful hunt,” you teased, and grinded your hips a bit for emphasis.

“ I have to agree. I never knew you could make sounds like that. fuck it if the neighbors complain.”

“Oh yeah, screw them.”

“I thought I was screwing you. I could keep going.” He teased back and nibbled at your ear.

You swatted his shoulder lightly, “ You dork. And yes, please. Let’s move to the bedroom.”

Without missing a beat, Dante scooped you up and bridal carried you to the bedroom. There were indeed noise complaints from the neighbors, especially once they heard the headboard banging. The two of you apologized, but felt zero shame in your indulgence of each other.

[connection-terminated-blog]

Connection terminated. I'm sorry to interrupt you, Elizabeth, if you still even remember that name, But I'm afraid you've been misinformed. You are not here to receive a gift, nor have you been called here by the individual you assume, although, you have indeed been called. You have all been called here, into a labyrinth of sounds and smells, misdirection and misfortune. A labyrinth with no exit, a maze with no prize. You don't even realize that you are trapped. Your lust for blood has driven you in endless circles, chasing the cries of children in some unseen chamber, always seeming so near, yet somehow out of reach, but you will never find them. None of you will. This is where your story ends. And to you, my brave volunteer, who somehow found this job listing not intended for you, although there was a way out planned for you, I have a feeling that's not what you want. I have a feeling that you are right where you want to be. I am remaining as well. I am nearby. This place will not be remembered, and the memory of everything that started this can finally begin to fade away. As the agony of every tragedy should. And to you monsters trapped in the corridors, be still and give up your spirits. They don't belong to you. For most of you, I believe there is peace and perhaps more waiting for you after the smoke clears. Although, for one of you, the darkest pit of Hell has opened to swallow you whole, so don't keep the devil waiting, old friend. My daughter, if you can hear me, I knew you would return as well. It's in your nature to protect the innocent. I'm sorry that on that day, the day you were shut out and left to die, no one was there to lift you up into their arms the way you lifted others into yours, and then, what became of you. I should have known you wouldn't be content to disappear, not my daughter. I couldn't save you then, so let me save you now. It's time to rest - for you, and for those you have carried in your arms. This ends for all of us. End communication.

but i stay silly :3 but i stay silly :3 but i stay silly :3 but i stay silly :3 but i stay silly :3 but i stay silly :3 but i stay silly :3 but i stay silly :3 but i stay sillybut i stay silly :3 but i stay silly but i stay silly :3

[myownwholewildworld]

A DARK TASTE ― a Boston QZ!Joel oneshot

series masterlist | ao3 | notifs blog pairing: Boston QZ!Joel x f!reader. summary: joel talks you through your first hand job and blow job. warnings: 18+, mdni. oral (m! receiving). joel guides you through the whole of it, such a good teacher. you are training to become a cock connoisseur. oral creampie. innocent/virgin!reader. small reference to fingering (f! receiving). humping. mind the hefty but legal age gap (reader is 19, joel is 55). an unhealthy use of “kiddo” and other petnames. sir kink. ddlg dynamics. a sprinkle of slut shaming. you are in the first few days of taking the contraceptive pill. reader is a blank slate with no backstory, has hair. only reader's pov. no use of y/n. w/c: ~2.9k.

“On your knees, kiddo,” Joel muttered softly, the pad of his thumb brushing over your mound, his other fingers possessively splayed across your pussy lips, cupping it gently.

You gazed at him like a baby deer blinded by sidelights in the middle of a road. Still out of breath after a sloppy make-out session, perched sideways on his lap with his right forearm wrapped around your waist and his hand buried in your panties, you dazedly gave him a shy nod.

Joel had done many indecencies to you but was yet to break your pussy open for the first time. “Not yet, sweet girl, need those pills you’re taking to work their magic first,” he’d tell you over and over again.

He’d only given you the tip of his ring finger so far, didn’t want to stretch your cunt before you took his cock. Having Joel only shallowly finger you was a fucking torture, a penitence for which your patience was running out.

You’d been counting down the days since you first took the combined pill five days ago, eager to have him, to know how his dick felt like when he’d spread your cunt out for himself. He’d not even let you pleasure him yet in any way, because “darling, I always come inside, not gonna waste a load like that. If I can’t have your sweet tight cunt yet, neither can you have my cock.”

You were tired of hearing the same excuse, so when you offered him your mouth instead a minute ago, he’d reconsidered his boundaries.

Excited to finally meet him, you jumped to your feet, giddy and nervous at the same time. Joel parted his legs in invitation, and you knelt between them, his muscular thighs framing you.

“Have you done this before?”

You shook your head. “You know I haven’t, sir.”

Joel’s serious façade folded for a brief second, a sleazy grin curling the corners of his lips before his steadfast expression returned.

“Unused pussy, virgin mouth. You really are a gift,” he gritted out, his calloused palm cradling your chin.

Molten lava ran through your veins, your core tingling with anticipation, saliva pooling in your cheeks. Your clit throbbed in your seam, the idea of giving him head stimulating enough. Your fingers squeezed around your knees—you wanted to get started now.

“Gonna put your mouth to work, kiddo,” Joel husked out, his fingers working fast to unbuckle the belt.

You caught a glimpse of the unruly curls peeking through the open zipper—he was wearing no underwear at all below the worn jeans. Unconsciously, your tongue darted out to wet your lips, scooting closer to his groin, your fingers reaching for his knees to grasp him, afraid this vision was going to vanish the moment you blinked.

“Will you talk me through it, please?” you asked in a whisper, batting your eyelashes at him. “Wanna do good, want to make it worthwhile for you, sir.”

Joel’s brows bunched up, scowling. A deep-rooted groan rumbled through his chest at your request, sliding the belt off the loops of his jeans before he discarded it to the side.

“Of course, sugar. I’mma teach you how to suck me good. Look at ya, all eager to get started and do some learnin’, aren’tcha?” You nodded, his hand condescendingly patting the crown of your head. “Bet you were the teacher’s pet in the QZ school.”

You barely heard his words, zoned in on the pubic hairs greeting you. Nodding mindlessly, your hands stroked his clothed thighs, moving dangerously close to the focus of your desire. Glancing up at him, you silently asked for his permission.

“Alright, go ahead. Take my cock out,” Joel rasped, guiding one of your hands.

He let go of you when your hand dipped in his jeans, blindly patting inside until your fingers curled around his girth for the first time. You marvelled at how soft he felt under your touch—warm, hard velvet. Thick, so much you wondered if he’d ever fit inside your mouth, let alone your pussy. Just the thought flustered you, the doubt flickering in your blown pupils.

“It’ll be fine, kiddo,” he reassured you with a knowing grin. “Trust me. Now, careful there.”

Giving him a little, testing squeeze, you managed to take his dick out of the imprisonment of his trousers. His cock swayed in front of you—veiny, thick and long enough to make you question all the decisions that led you here. Under your gentle hand, he throbbed and then you noticed how flushed his cockhead was, weeping and a white, slimy substance beading on the slit.

Your querying eyes shot up to his, an unspoken question dancing in your irises.

“No, I haven’t come yet, kiddo. That’s precum,” he explained calmly, although his jaw was locked.

“Oh,” you mumbled, your attention returning to his cock.

Delicately—you didn’t want to hurt him—you curled your fingers around his base and gave him a soft tug. Your eyes darted up to his again when Joel groaned, his hips twitching slightly. Immediately you removed your hand, afraid you’d done something wrong.

“Nuh-uh,” Joel tutted at you, grabbing your wrist to usher your hand back to his growing erection. “You’re being too gentle, need to add more pressure.” He wrapped the back of your hand with his palm and curled your fingers around his girthy cock, hashly pressing your palm around him and leading you, moving your hand up and down his shaft with a tight grip. “Yeah, like that. Keep going’.”

You couldn’t take your eyes off his cock as you pumped him with determination now, peeling the skin back and then covering his glans with it, pinching it slightly at the end. Joel growled, his head tilting back and a jaw tic palpitating on his mandible. His reaction spurred you on, getting more confident with every jerk.

It was fascinating to see how his reddened cockhead got wetter by the second, that pre-cum he’d told you about pearling and coating his sensitive skin. Would it taste good? Because from here, it looked fucking delicious.

“Stick your tongue out of me, kiddo,” Joel spoke, and you were certain he could read your mind.

Obediently you did as told, your fingers draped around the base of his manhood, keeping him still in front of your agape mouth. Then your tongue slid out timidly, your eyes searching for his reassurance—but he wasn’t looking at you. Joel’s sight was focused on your parted, waiting lips.

He tapped the crying mushroom tip on your tongue, pressing it down on your wet muscle where it rested heavily.

“Have a little lick,” he commended you, his thumb stroking your cheek.

You wasted no time and kitten-licked the slit in his leaking cockhead once. Your brows instantly knitted together, trying to decipher the taste—salty but musky at the same time, warm and thick, manly. It was not what you had expected, but it wasn’t disappointing either. Just… different. Very much so.

“Like it, kiddo?”

“Not sure,” you replied, your head tilted to one side as you tried to decide.

“Here, have another taste,” Joel gritted between clenched teeth, pressing the tip of his dick against your plump lips. “Open up for me, little girl.”

Again you obeyed, parting your lips for him as Joel slid the first inch of his length into your mouth. Still debating, your tongue tentatively swirled around his glans, your brows bunching up as you twirled it around his cockhead again for good measure. The taste was much better this time—more intense, sweetly masculine.

“Don’t worry, kid, it will grow on you. It’s like the first time you try beer—you ain’t sure if you like it at first, but will end up loving it, craving it,” Joel assured you condescendingly. “Now suckle on it, like a pacifier.”

Whimpering a little, you sucked in his cockhead, a sharp inhale filling your nose with his virile scent. Your cheeks hollowed as you suctioned, eyes fluttering while you got used to have him in the wet warmth of your mouth. The flavour was ardent now as your taste buds began to appreciate what you were savouring. He was candied like a lollypop.

“Attagirl,” Joel mumbled, caressing the crown of your hair. “You’re doing well so far. Now you gotta use your tongue more. When you kiss my tip, twirl it around, and pump me good at the same time. Then sink my cock in your mouth. Change the pace a little too. Go ahead.”

You dutifully followed his instructions. Sucked, pumped, stuffed your mouth with as many inches as your untrained mouth could take.

“Well done, just like that, kiddo. Alright, reckon you can take more inches in that little pretty mouth of yours?”

With his mushroom head slotted between your lips, you gave him an innocent nod—his cue to push your skull down his length a little, enough to feel the underside of his cock sliding down your tongue. Your top teeth grazed him, and Joel’s fingers grabbed a fist of your hair to stop you.

“No teeth,” he warned tugging at your hair, tone coarse but controlled. “Cover ‘em with your lips.”

“S-s-sowry,” you apologised, mumbling around his girth but unable to pronounce the word properly.

Joel released the purchase on your hair, letting you find your pace. You bobbed your head up and down on his lap, never taking more than three inches. The way his thickness stretched the walls of your throat was something very new, comforting in a way. Knowing that his muted moans were all due to you made you drunk with a power you didn’t know you held over him.

His cock throbbed in your mouth, the rushing surge of blood announcing a potent heartbeat coming from his shaft. It surprised you, your eyes quickly flying up to his, silently checking in in your progress.

“You’re doing great, kiddo. Sucking me so good,” Joel growled, his brows furrowed, lips fallen in a flat line, as if he was holding back. “You’re a fast learner.”

You beamed at his compliment, his cock popping out of your mouth with a loud squelch. Pausing for a breather, your hand pumped him steadily.

“It’s ‘cause you’re a good teacher,” you giggled, bowing down again to press a sloppy kiss to his red, almost purple tip.

“You see the slit?” You nodded. “Poke at it with your tongue, try wiggle your way through. Then aspirate as if you’re drinking with a straw.”

You did exactly as he’d indicated, a deep, throaty moan breaking free from his lips, his hips twitching in need under you. Sealing your lips around just the tip of him, you siphoned him again. The pulse that came from him was way more intense now.

“Fuck, kid. You’re good, so fucking good,” Joel almost whimpered, pinching the bridge of his aquiline nose.

Encouraged by his praise, you took him in your mouth again, and this time around, his weeping glans hit the back of your throat. A sudden need to retch overcame you, swallowing hard to keep the bile at bay, your oesophagus itching.

“Easy there, darling. Don’t choke,” his thumb brushed away some tears you had not felt falling down your face. “Look at’cha, tryna give head like a grownup.”

You wanted to retort back, “I am a grownup!” but his manhood was taking up all the room in your mouth, so you could only grumble a faint “Immhmmphaghhmrownhpmhup.”

Joel laughed at you, his cock gently vibrating in your mouth.

“Sure are, kiddo,” he replied, almost patronisingly.

If you could have pouted, you would have. Instead, you made a point of sucking him deeper. Tomorrow you’d have a stiff neck, but that didn’t stop you from bobbing up and down, his throbbing dick almost breaching past the resistance at the back of your throat. By that point you were loudly gagging, drunk with his taste and musky smell, drool cascading down the corners of your mouth and chin, making a mess of his jeans and the neckline of your t-shirt.

“Fuck, yes. You love it now, don’t you? Sucking me like a fucking whore.” It didn’t feel like an insult but quite the opposite—a compliment. “Can’t believe no one has ruined your mouth before, you’re such a dirty little girl.”

You mewled in response, your body awakening. Your nipples were perking up, tenting your shirt, and your pussy tingled and gushed, leaving a wet spot on your panties. The need to hump something was severe, your clit throbbing while you ate Joel’s cock as if it was the last meal you’d ever taste. Your hips rocked slightly on their own accord, and Joel noticed.

“Is your pussy wet, hm?” You were barely able to nod, mouth busy pleasuring him. “Poor kid, wanting to get off. Here.” Joel’s frame shifted as his torso tilted to one side, his arm reaching behind you to place a pillow between your thighs. “Hump that, will make you feel all better.”

The moment you began riding the pillow, the blow job became messier. Your boobs were bouncing between his knees, Joel’s throbbing cock furrowing his way down your throat easier now. The need to heave was still very much there, but you fought it back with all your might.

Grinding on the pillow felt too good, chasing a built-up release. That now familiar feeling of a coil tightening low in your belly started to form, to take shape—your bundle of nerves scraping the lining of your panties, intensifying the overwhelming sensation to pee. And then the coil snapped suddenly, and you wailed like a bitch in heat as you came, drenching your underwear and the pillow tucked away between your thighs.

“Such a good girl,” Joel grunted, his control slipping with every stroke of your mouth. “You’re gonna take a big, fresh load, kiddo. M’gonna fill up your sinful mouth to the fucking brim. Milk me fucking dry, won’tcha?” Joel almost heaved, his chest rising up and down as he neared climax. “It might startle you, feeling me cum, but just stay put f’me, sweetheart. It’ll be alright.”

Even with his forewarning, when the first ropes hit the back of your mouth, it shocked you a little. The strength with which his seed collided with your uvula almost made you falter and spring back, but in the last moment, you didn’t. Still hazed by your own orgasm, you let Joel stuff your mouth full of his white, tacky spent.

His seed had that salty, musky taste to it, but much more powerful than when it was just pre-cum. It coated your mouth, your taste buds flaring alive as you registered every subtle hint of his flavour—a metallic tang you hadn’t noticed before. Was there such a thing as a cock connoisseur? Because that was a career you’d like to pursue with him as your mentor.

Joel sighed heavily above you, your eyes meeting his while the hardness of his erection lost its turgidity, becoming soft in your mouth.

“What a pretty picture,” he lazily smiled at you, stroking your cheek again. “Shoud take a picture, frame it and have it on display. I’m gonna pull out now, I don’t wanna see any of my cum leaking out, okay, kid? You keep it in that mouth of yours.”

You nodded submissively, still cock drunk from the whole experience. Joel palmed your forehead and pushed you back a little, his half-hard dick slipping out. You kept your lips sealed as he’d indicated, his musky sperm pooling on your tongue.

“I want you to swallow, darling. Gulp it down, keep it safe in your tummy for me, will ya?” He asked, bowing down and pressing a sweet kiss on your forehead.

Completely uninhibited and surrendered, you forced his cum down your throat—it skidded down your oesophagus with such ease, it was as easy as drinking water.

“Let me see?” Joel inspected your open mouth and gave you a gentle pat on the cheek when he found no white remnants. “Attagirl. Now run your lips down my cock, kiddo. Clean me up. Can’t leave me with such a mess, would be rude of you.”

“Of course, sir,” you rapidly agreed.

You lapped at his length on all four sides, his now limp cock sparkly clean. Sitting back on your heels, you admired him, impressed with yourself—you’d taken all of that in your mouth and didn’t throw up. You snickered, chancing a glance at him.

Joel was lazily smiling at you through heavy eyelids, a hint of pride glittering in his eyes. He really was proud of you for doing such a good job. You bit your bottom lip down as you stood up to sit on his lap again, draping an arm around his neck.

“So? What’s my grade, professor?” You joked, nuzzling the crook of his neck.

“A solid eight out of ten,” Joel conceded, his palm possessively rubbing the small of your back. “Not giving you the ten yet because there’s always room for improvement, sugar, but you’re a natural. Had I known how good you suck dick before, I would have let you have a taste sooner. And talking about taste, did you like it?”

“It’s sweet and salty at the same time, such a weird combination!” You sighed dreamily, resting your face on his shoulder. “At first I wasn’t sure, but I think you’re right—with practice, I just know I’m not gonna be able to live without it.”

Joel chuckled, his other hand squeezing your thigh. “Daily practices from now on, kiddo. Gonna have to train your throat so you don’t gag so much, you poor little thing.”

[nineteenninety-six]

Totally respect the ocd response

Maybe just Jack abbot with teen daughter who gets overwhelmed easily?

Pairing: Jack Abbot x Daughter!Reader

AN: I'm sure this is not what you wanted but I struggled with this so sorry :( This is only 500 words.

Warning: panic attack-ish (kinda)

Easily overwhelmed. That's how your dad described you, and it was true, you were. Crowded hallways, loud voices, packed shopping centres, busy streets, they made you dizzy and your stomach twist. Your tendency to overthink always caused you to fall into a never-ending cycle of anxiety, stress and sickness.

You don't exactly know what set you off that morning, it wasn't any of the usual suspects but you were currently curled up on the floor of your shower, the water now cold, drenching you in freezing water as you stared blankly at the wall. You were only brought out of your state when you heard the telltale sounds of your dad's truck pulling up and the garage door opening.

You sit up straight with a stuttered gasp and you turn your shower off with shaky hands and stumble out of the shower, wrapping yourself in your robe. Your steps are slow and shaky as you made your way to your bedroom and you distantly hear your dad enter the house as you check your phone and gasp at the time. You were meant to be at school hours ago and your dad was not going to be happy especially not after a twelve-hour night shift.

Your dad pauses what he was doing when he hears you stumble down the stairs, a frown forming on his lips as he speaks to you, "It’s nine in the morning, what the hell are you doing here? Why aren't you at school?"

“I-I don’t’ know…” You shrug helplessly at him, your voice hushed “All I can remember is a few minutes ago when you got home.”

Your dad takes the moment to really look at you and his expression transforms into one of understanding, his previous frustrations melting away as he realises what was happening.

“You hungry?” Your dad asks, his voice soft, “I can whip up some eggs and toast for us.”

You slowly nod and your dad smiles at you, “Why don’t you go get changed into some comfortable clothes and it’ll be ready when you’re done.”

You nod again and disappear upstairs, hoping that a few hours spent with your dad before he inevitably passes out on the couch will make things better for you.

Sure enough, when you return to the kitchen there’s a plate of breakfast waiting for you alongside a mug of tea.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” Your dad asks after he takes a sip of his decaf coffee.

“I’m not sure what there is to talk about…I think I just got caught up in my head.”

“Why? Do you have any exams coming up?” Your dad presses.

“No,” You shake your head, “Usually I remember what the trigger is but not today.”

“Okay,” Your dad looks at you with his doctor eyes, “You can rest today but I expect you back at school tomorrow.”

“Sure.” You were already feeling better anyway.

Your dad finished his breakfast and dumped his plate and mug in the sink, “You joining me on the couch? I’ve got maybe fifteen minutes of consciousness if you wanna talk more.”

You quickly stuff the last mouthful in your mouth, dumping your plate with his as you follow him into the living room bringing your tea with you, “I’m coming!”

[haztory]

the lonely fight.

— masterlist | part one | part two — jack abbot x fellow f!reader; attending/fellow dynamic, age-gap (unspecified but reader is late 20s and up, jack is mid 40s), heavy plot, slow-burn, this is a crack/fluff followed by angst, alcohol consumption featuring the night shift team and team bonding exercises, more yearning, more wanting, escalation of tensions, city girl confronting jack's deep rooted issues, jack being a traumatized man — word count: 6.3k — summary: Karaoke night is supposed to be a morale boost for the team. It only escalates tensions even further for you and Jack. 

It’s late into your shift on Wednesday when Ellis and Shen find you in the brief lull. 

Saying the night has been easy is an insult, one you’re not keen on doling out without proper padding and a roll of sterile gauze clutched to your side, battle tested and ready for war. You’re down an attending, the three residents that were scheduled for tonight have been reduced to one, and two nurses have been cut early in the night due to budget constraints. Leaving only a skeleton crew to man the deck for the night. 

You manage. You all do. With gritted teeth and the incessant propensity to keep moving.  

Would manage even better in between putting your notes in for the girl in Room Three who got an earring stuck inside of her lobe if the network for the EHRs wasn’t experiencing a statewide slow-down. You’re one more loading screen away from punting the computer altogether when the two doctors brace either side of your work station. They settle next to you with a tired air—one not quite exhausted but close enough to know that they’re counting down the minutes until sunrise.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” You ask the two of them, eyes locked on the buffering screen in front of you. 

“We might have to go to paper.” Shen says.

Your eyes find him, quickly. “Who said that?”

”Richmond’s on the phone with admin.” Ellis says, leaning her chin into her palm. “They’re talking about it.”

You sigh, waving the white flag with the computer. “If they want handwritten notes, they’re not going to be up to standard and I don’t want to hear shit about it. I have three patients that need to get logged in and more that are going to come in soon.”   

“Broken left hand. X-rayed. Fixed.” John supplies, dryly with a pantomime of his hand writing on paper. You snort in agreement. Shen bobs his head from side to side as he looks around the floor. “At least it’s quiet.” 

Your head snaps to him just as Ellis’ falls into her hands and groans. 

“What is wrong with you—“

“—do you ever learn—”

Shen shrugs you both off. “You guys are so superstitious.”

“We need a smarter attending on the floor.” Parker sighs, dragging her hands down her face. She looks at you, desperately. “How long before your boards, sunshine?”

You laugh at her, pitiful and flat. “Don’t count on me so soon. I’ve still got time.”

“We need more attendings who don’t play with God on the floor.” Parker pins an ugly stare at John, just as he shrugs in return. 

“Jokes on you, Parker. I feel like I play with God everyday.” You tease, but you sympathy for her sorrow and continue, offering your answer as a means of consolation to her. “I take them in six months.”

Thing One and Thing Two nod slowly, digesting the words in what should be a passing understanding. But—there’s a look in their eyes. Too knowing, too conspiratorial, to be considered innocuous. 

Your eyes narrow at them, “What?”

”What?” Parker parrots.

“Why do you guys have that look?”

John turns his head to Parker, then back to you. “We don’t have a look.”

”You’ll be here, right?” Parker ignores your question, giving her own. “After you pass?”

John seconds Parker. “Not going back to New York?” 

”Or Florida?” 

“No.” You tell them, skeptical at their line of questioning. Still, you give the truth. “Pittsburgh is home for a while.”

“It’s the winters, right?” John asks. “Keeps you coming back?”

Parker scoffs. “No, it’s definitely Eliza Furnace Trail. The smell of piss and shit, just addicting.”

“There’s reasons to stay.” You tell them, finalizing your notes on the system and returning to the home screen. A shadow moves in the corner of your eye, drawing your attention to it quickly. You spot Jack exiting North 10, speaking quietly to Anna Maria as the two head further into the hallway. 

You turn your attention back to the Scooby and Shaggy, only to find them staring curiously at you. Then, with glib interest, you tack on, “And maybe it has something to do with you two.”

“Oh, sure.” 

“Yeah, totally.”

Your laugh is light and the two smile knowingly. Peace settles in the air, complimented by the steady beeps of the machines in the examination rooms and the soft chatter across the floor. 

Ellis clears her throat. “You’re coming, right? Friday night?”

You nod. “I am. Taking roll call?”

“Gotta make the reservation for the table.”

“Who’s going?”

“Us, Hilly, Anna Maria, a couple of people from day shift.”

“You guys ask any other attendings?”

“Basu’s doing a double, Robby gave a hell no, Walsh is on the fence and we’re fine with that. And we were going to ask Abbot, but—” Ellis’ voice trails off and she weighs her hand like a scale. 

Shen cuts in, dryly. “We were hoping you would do it.” 

Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum remain pointedly innocent even as your glare turns deadly on them. 

“You both have to stop this.” You grit out. “Why me?”

“Because you guys got that weird telepathy thing going on.” Shen provides, simply. As if it was the most obvious thing in the world. He looks to Ellis for backup, which earns a supportive smile from her.

“He will give you the same answer that he will give me.” You insist for the hundredth time, punctuating the statement with an eye roll for emphasis on exactly how you feel about it.

They both stare blankly at you. Not that you blame them entirely. Try as you might otherwise, even you can hear the gentle deceit on your tongue when you insist on normalcy between you and the attending. 

If anyone asks, it’s respect. Admiration, trust, and all the sister siblings of a well-meaning accord that force you to hold the man in high regard. Nothing more. 

You keep the low pulse of hope and longing that toils within your stomach pointedly quiet.

“Just ask.”

“You guys are ridiculous.” You stand from your desk, deciding the moment has dragged on and you’d rather not be caught in the crosshairs of further investigation. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to check on my patients before Shen’s curse catches up to us.”

“Tell him we’ll cover the beer!” John calls after you as you make your way down the hall, conveniently in the same direction Abbot went down. 

You wave your hand in the air, brushing the two of them off. “I know how to do it.” 

They wait until you’re a safe distance away from earshot before turning to each other. 

“Good work.” Parker tells John, holding her fist out to him. He bumps it in relaxed victory. “You adjusting?” 

He shakes his head, his lips turning downward in a frown of intrigue. “Nah. I still think that it happens before the boards.”

“I’m switching to eight months.” Ellis supplies lowly. 

“Why eight?”

“When she gets results back and passes, that’s when it happens. Abbot’s not going to fuck a fellow, too much of a power thing.”

“I don’t know. I don’t think he’d fuck any fellow, but he’d make an exception for that one.”

“My money is on when she becomes an attending. Abbot would fuck an attending.”

“So… you’re saying I have a chance.” John says and Parker shoves his shoulder with a laugh. 

—

Luck is something rarely afforded to the ED. It’s sheer will power that things manage to work, human perseverance and triumph even in the moments of clear sabotage as the unit is denied more staff, denied more resources, forced into a corner to fend for themselves with bare threads of patience and the bottom of the barrel that nobody else wants to touch.  

The floor isn’t lucky that the number of people waiting for care is relatively tame at the same time that the hospital's servers are undergoing an update that’s halted everything in its track. Luck implies something good, something that changes the tides for the better. The floor is just coincidentally in the eye of the hurricane at the moment. One ambulance away from teetering over the edge and plunging the unit into the swirling winds and drowning rain. 

Jack doesn’t count his blessings. That’s asking for fate to be tempted. He watches the time tick on his watch and waits. Listens for the distant sounds of thunder approaching, finding only the soft squeak of sneakers on the tile floor.

He hears you before he sees you. The familiar sound of your steps, the steadied pattern, the jingle of your badge against the swivel clip on your chest

He’s standing beside the rolling cart outside of North 15, having given up on any attempt at reviewing the team’s charting notes when the screen gave its fourth error message. You lean against the door frame, watching him. 

“I talked to Richmond. We’re switching to papers.”

“Medieval times.” His expression flickers with disbelief, before smoothing into one of calm neutrality. His jaw clenches, tight for a second. “We’ve been through worse.”

“Don’t speak too soon. The psych eval that was about to get sent up just got delayed because they can’t get access to his medical history. Probably going to get worse for my other three that were ready for transfer to different units that also have their records in a system that is shut down.”

“You’ve gotta be shitting me.” He meets your eyes, unabashed in his displeasure.

“I wish I was. I called, tried to strike the fear of God into Psych but those people aren’t scared of shit. They said it’s too risky.”

He scoffs. “If they really want to know risk, why don’t they come down and see how the other half lives?”

“That’s what I said. I was able to pull a favor with Ortho. On the record, they’ll accept four so long as we provide them with some form of medical history.”

He raises a brow, “Off the record?”

“They said they want a sticky note, minimum, but can be convinced for oral presentation as long as we’re available for any questions. I told Shen and Parker to choose the most important to go up. Just need your sign off.”

The still nonchalance cracks slightly. He smirks. Impressed. “Done. Good work.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re scary, you know that?”

“You like it.” You smile and he shakes his head slowly, but he doesn’t deny it. And you know then that you’ve caught him ripe enough to push further. “By the way, Shen and Ellis want to know if you’re going to the karaoke night thing on Friday.”

It draws a narrowed stare your way. “You their messenger now? That’s the third time this week.” His eyebrow raises, entirely unamused at the prospect. 

You take his annoyance to be directed at the invitation. He’s concerned by the fact that the two doctors know to send you.  

You push past it, giving it little thought. “Are you?”

“…No.” 

You catch the hesitation. Brief, but there. “Why not?”

“I deal with this place enough, I don’t need it cutting into my day off.”

“C’mon. It’ll be good for morale.”

“If I wanted to be tortured I’d pick up a double, not sit and listen to you all scream at the top of your lungs.”

You hold your hands up in surrender, “Fine, be a grouch. If you happen to find yourself free on Friday night, we’ll be at Riley’s. Eight o’clock. I’ll be wearing a blue sweater and singing ‘Single Ladies’. Can’t miss it.” 

Jack looks at you from beneath lashes. “Don’t do Beyoncé like that.”

You pull your head back in amazement. “I’m surprised you even know who Beyoncé is.”

He steps towards you, his hands falling to hold the stethoscope around his neck. His gait is slow as he crosses the small distance from the cart to the other side of the door frame. You can see how he’s favoring his left leg yet makes no betrayal of that on his face. “I’m not that out of touch.”

“Had me fooled. You’re allergic to fun.”

“Our definitions are drastically different.”

“And what do you do for fun, Dr. Abbot?” Your head tilts. He leans against the other side of the frame and folds his arms across his chest. Your eyes flick quickly to the sight, tempted by muscle and veins. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” His smile slants. Hung and crooked, like a crescent moon in the sky. It creases into his skin gracefully and the urge to bask in the luster that shines from the rarity of his smile surges within you tenfold. 

“I would, actually. I’d like to know what you get into on your days off. Except for building furniture for sleeping people.”

He huffs a breath, his head tucking down to his chest. Not in embarrassment, but shyness at the reminder of his good deed performed by the other side of Jack Abbot. One revealed to you in parts, with his hand lingering on your back, his eyes fixed on you, and care imbued in the small things he does. 

He peers his head out of the doorway, looking over the floor before meeting your gaze. He thinks, for a moment, before deciding that disclosing is low in some kind of risk.

“I run.”

“Really?” 

“Yeah really. Good for the heart.” He bats.

“Bad for the knees.” You return.

“Good thing I’m already down one.”

You hum, amused. Delighted to know more. “What else?”

“I read.”

“Yeah? What do you read?” 

Jack shrugs, blasé. “Whatever catches my eye.”

“Romantasy, right? You seem the type.”

“Is that the elf shit the nurses are talking about?”

“Faes.” You correct.

“Whatever the fuck that means. Pointy-eared weirdos frolicking in flowers.”

“God, you are old.” Your laugh is soft, gently reverberating through him and he finds himself leaning into it. Watching it, letting it wash over him like a warm sip of coffee on the long shift. A sweet relief. “I’ve got some good recommendations if you want them.”

“I don’t want to read fairy porn.”

“No, I save that for the people who will appreciate that. I’ve got some memoirs, good educational reads, fun stuff. We can start our own book club.”

“A book club?” He repeats, eyebrows raised on his face in disbelief. “Now who’s old?”

“Well, the difference here is that I go out and have fun while still embracing old people things.”

A message interrupts, then. It sounds over the intercom and both your attentions are called to it. It’s over as soon as it happened, one of the nurses announcing someone’s name and instructing them to see The Hub, but it’s the disruption to the easy rhythm. A reminder to you both in your respective yet silent realizations that there is a world outside of this moment—one that was easily forgotten, for a second.  

You tap his arm, voice earnest as you appeal to him, just before either of you can be called to duty. “Come to Riley’s on Friday. I’ll let you pick what I sing.”

Jack shifts on his feet, settling his lean further against the door frame. His shoulders, broad and sturdy, sway before finding stillness again. “You’re stooping to bribery now?” 

“This is part of my tactic. Warm you up, bribe you, profit.” You explain. “I’ll pull out all the stops if I have to, which includes giving you the first pick of my song.”

“Your tactic needs some work.” He cocks his head at you. “You shouldn’t give someone that much power. Could land you in big trouble.”

“And yet, I’m giving it to you.” 

The banter stills. Halts completely, only the low hum of the fluorescent lights filling in the space. 

It’s not the first time you’ve said something to that effect—a seemingly simple declaration. Spoken as easy as you breathe, as if you haven’t further fractured the barely held boundary that lies blurred and frayed between you two. This tiny truth of yours isn’t a simple compliment. They’re windows of implications into something deeper. Something more volatile that simmers under the warmth of your skins and behind each tease. 

It happens, then. The inevitable, the familiar, the expected. The song and dance that has become so routine that escape seems futile. 

The induction of the soft feelings. The confusing ones.

Jack stares straight into the fire, unconvinced that you don’t know what you’re doing. Unconvinced that he should walk away.

“Beer will be on Shen.” Your voice lilts into a song, a means to diffuse the tension. 

“That’s a terrible idea.” He says disapproving, but there’s no malice in it.

“Whatever gets people to come.” A beat passes and you know that, at the very least, he’s considering the offer.

“Tell Shen and Ellis to stop making you do their dirty work.” He says quietly. You shake your head softly, suppressing the want to tell him that talking to him is the farthest thing from dirty work. It’s an easy task, one you look forward to most days.  

“I’ll consider it.” You say instead. He nods, knowing that the two will keep going to you for as long as the affinity he has for you is as obvious as it feels. 

“So…” You kick your foot out, tapping his leg gently, “Are you coming?” 

His lips curl, slightly. “…I’ll see.”

“Good.” You move from your place on the door frame, inching backwards into the hallway. Back into the rush and chaos of a world that feels so far away from this little bubble the two of you made. 

“By the way, Shen said the “q” word, so prepare.”

Jack sighs, heavy and annoyed. Luck and fate tempted once more. 

“Does he want a black eye?”

— 

The door to Riley’s opens with a squeal at 9:15 PM on Friday. The sound is drowned out entirely by the screams that erupt from the crowded establishment when someone’s voice tilts falsetto at the opening line of Gloria Gaynor’s ‘I Will Survive’.

Jack’s eyes look to the stage, only moderately surprised to see Shen delivering the performance of a lifetime. A bottle of beer is clutched close to the man’s chest as he hits notes only a prepubescent boy could to a crowd more than supportive of his endeavors, a red flush to his cheeks. 

He wasn’t going to come. 

A morning traffic jam that resulted in a six car pile-up on I-279 this morning led to a late exit for Jack which led to an even later morning trying to tackle all of the things he wanted to do for the day. Grocery shopping for meal planning, a stop at a supply store to fix the rubber seal on his leaky kitchen faucet, start his week’s worth of laundry, fit in some semblance of sleep in there (maybe). Top it all off with ESPN and a beer. 

It wasn’t in the plan to come. It just didn’t fit.

…but then you sent a photo. 

A picture of you seated at a table with a smile so bright it could single handedly illuminate the dark and dingy bar surrounding you. Parker sits to your left distracted by something off camera with John standing behind the two of you, a peace sign thrown up as he leans down to stay in the frame. And to your right, an empty chair. Your text saying: Saving you a seat!

So he came. Because the promise of free beer and a means to decompress after a shitty week of long and trying shifts was enticing enough. 

(And because you asked, but he stomps out that answer like a low broiling fire needing to be put out.)

He finds you immediately in the surge. Blue sweater at the middle table and an empty chair beside you. Just like you said. 

His steps are cautious, dodging moving bodies and his own discomfort as he zeroes you in his sight. He fits in beside you just as your hands raise upward shouting a song lyric with the singing group, sliding into the seat as if he just came back from the bathroom instead of making his grand entrance. You notice the movement, your singing faltering as you look to defend the empty chair from pilfering. Your hair is loose from the usual style you have from work, strands framing your face, your body relaxed from the alcohol you’ve no doubt been drinking. There’s a scrunch to your face as you look at him that immediately peels into one of joy when you realize who it is. 

“You’re here!” You shout, your excitement bringing you closer to him. Your touch is liberal, spurred by the haze of drunken inhibitions. Leaning into him, your hands fall onto his shoulders, grabbing onto him as if you were afraid he would disappear. He lets you, watching amused as you fail to contain your elation. Affected, as you bleed into him. 

There’s a dry resignation on his face, like he finds this to be equal parts burdensome and amusing. But he makes no move to put distance between you two. “I’m here.” 

“Do you want a beer?” You shout over the noise, “Come on, I’ll get another one too!”

“How many have you had?”

You hold his gaze for a moment, smile turning sheepish. “I don’t know.”

“Let’s get you some water instead—” He moves for the pitcher of water in the middle of the table, grabbing a plastic cup sat beside it and filling it up.

“No! C’mon!” You grab onto his forearm, halting him from pouring anymore, “I don’t work tomorrow. Let me have fun.”

“You’re going to wake up nauseous and knee deep in regret tomorrow when you realize everyone’s recording you guys.”

“I don’t care.” You laugh, earnestly. “I don’t regret the things that I want, Jack.” 

As his hand hovers over the pitcher, yours falls onto his arm nearest to you. Grasping onto the breadth and holding him tightly. Even in the slur of your words, he sees the honesty behind it. How intently you say it, mean it. Might mean something else behind it all, too. 

“Come on.” You begin again, a siren song on your tongue perfectly heard even in the shrieks of the bar. “Grab a beer, have fun with us. With me. You held up your end of the bargain, I’ll keep mine.”

He looks over your shoulder, relieved to find that the table is too entranced by Shen’s glorious rendition of the ballad to be concerned with the intimate moment behind them. 

“I haven’t gone up yet. You get to choose my song.” 

Your eyes are warm, beautiful. And close. Too close.

“I was promised Beyoncé.” He says after a second, softer than the moment calls for, softer than he intended it to be. 

You smile happily at him. “Beyoncé and a beer, coming right up!” 

The soft feelings, the confusing ones, slip into the narrow space between you. 

Despite it all, Jack is steady. Sipping casually at his Miller watching person after person head on the stage and make a fool of themself. It’s that steadiness that has you drawn to him. Not sloppily or messily, but just teetering past a point of buzzed and into the embrace of loose. 

Your thigh touches his underneath the table mistakenly. Once, twice, four times. He presses back into you, comfortingly. You lean into him when you laugh, mutter the smart quip and teasing joke at a certain performance that he shakes his head at. His arm slings around the back of your chair, only slightly brushing against your shoulders. 

And it’s easy.

“This is for you, Abbot!” Shen calls over the microphone an hour later, his face flushed red with his drunken stupor as he clutches the microphone like it's his last chance. The static from the speakers blows from how close he holds it to his mouth. “This is dedicated to that epic pericardiocentesis you did the other day that I’m still thinking about, you handsome man.”

The rushing piano of “I Need a Hero” plays and it’s the first time you see Jack’s shoulders shake from laughter as he raises a beer up to Shen. The song progresses to an ensemble as the team all shout the lyrics, their fingers pointing back to Jack at each proclamation of needing a hero throughout the song. And you swear, swear, that a flush rises up his neck at the lavish attention paid his way. His head tucks into his chest, and his eyes narrow like the sound of Shen’s voice is physically causing him pain but you can see it as clear as day. 

He’s happy. And it dredges up a tingle in the depths of your heart that surges like a rushing tide you can’t hold back. 

It soars even higher—feels even worse—when it’s your turn. Microphone shoved in your hand, dance moves pulled out as you sing about needing a ring on your finger and feeling Jack’s stare bore into you the entire time. 

A smile, free, unabashed, admiring permanently fixed on his face.

—

“Someone get Mel home!” You call over your shoulder into the bar as you make your exit, the clock just creeping past midnight. Jack’s arm sits firmly around your waist, thick and corded as it supports and holds you steady. “I want her tucked in and sung to, precious girl.”

“Easy.” Jack’s voice is husky beside you and colored with a slight twinge of amusement. Startling, almost, as you’re reminded of how near he is. It’s rough and jagged and it flares a heat within you that has you whipping your head to look at him. 

“Don’t want you spilling guts all over me.” He’s firm and warm next to you, a beacon of quiet strength. You’ve always known Abbot was broad from his forearms alone. Seeing it is one thing, feeling it around you? It’s something else entirely. Temptation sings for you to fall into him. 

It’s hard to recover from it, taking much longer than you’d like to admit as your tongue feels thick in your mouth and your heart pounds in your ears. You blame that on the environmental circumstances of the night. 

“Don’t forget, old man.” You poke just as his arm tightens around you. Your own hand falls to his wrist held right against the front of your stomach, falling in step beside him as he guides you through the bar’s parking lot. “I’m from the city. I can handle my alcohol.”

His interest is piqued, despite all well-meaning efforts to hide it. “I know. You don’t let anyone forget it.”

“Watch it. Don’t make me mad, I can take you if I need to.”

“Yeah? Gonna go for my ankles?”

“Oh please, this again—”

“You gonna slide across the floor again for my feet?”

“He was running away with a catheter in him. If I didn’t take him down it was going to be golden showers for all of us.”

“Yeah, but going for the feet puts you in the direct line of sight.”

“Alright, then next time you stop the meth head, Lieutenant Dan.” 

“And get a mouthful of urine? I’m not kinky enough for that.” He says nonchalantly and you guffaw, your hand landing a smack at his chest. His walking slows as he approaches his truck towards the end of the parking lot. Shiny and well-taken care of, the car you remember him driving you home in before.

He guides you towards the passenger side of the car, loosening his grip on you as he fishes his car keys from his pocket. “All I’m saying is that the Giants missed an opportunity in their draft pick.”

Separating from him, you slump against the passenger door, watching him pull out the key fob. “If the Giants put me on the roster, we’re coming out with a ring every year, baby.” You hold your hand up for emphasis, pointing at each of your fingers. “You can kiss ‘Single Ladies’ goodbye.”

A beat passes. Jack’s eyes bore into yours. “Nevermind, let’s call the Steelers.”

You laugh echoes around the empty parking lot. A song on the wind, a hymn in an empty church as it bounces into the night. Your head leans back in joy, resting against the side of his car. Relaxed, easy, happy. 

“Tonight was fun.” You hum. Jack nods, slowly. Carefully, guarded. 

You see it, even in the sway of the uncountable number of drinks you’ve had that only makes you slightly unsteady—you see it clear as day. The way he is bobbing and weaving, ducking and side stepping a truth he’s not quite ready to admit yet. Not as though it’s a particular harrowing one. Your eyebrow flicks up, curiously.

“I didn’t know Shen had that in him.” He says, pointedly neutral. 

“Neither did I. You must have brought it out.” You push. “Everyone was really happy to see you.”

A grimace pulls to his lips, small yet noticeable. It confirms a suspicion, then. 

Jack Abbot can banter without issue. He can do the sincerity and the comfort when it comes to someone else needing it. But in this moment, cool, confident, and steady Jack Abbot actively avoids acknowledging a truth that implies something good about him—admitting that people wanted him around and that he actually had a good time.   

“Someone just needed to make sure you guys didn’t burn down half of Pittsburgh. And drive your drunk ass home.” He demeans, disguises, dissuades.

Maybe it’s not that serious. Maybe it’s just a defense mechanism he uses when near drunk people, a release of a pressure gauge but for some reason you’re not having it. Blame it on drunken fixations, but they’re the heart of sober thoughts. You’re on the crux of something, inching closer and closer to the soft center of the man. Spurned on by little more than his continued dodging and the need to know, you ask. “Why did you come tonight?”

Surprise colors his features for a second before he schools it. “Morale boost.”

“For the team or for you?”

“Does it matter?”

“I think that you wanted to come out this whole time.” You dig. He stiffens, minutely. 

“You promised ‘Single Ladies’. It was too good to ignore.” He says, stilted. Almost forced. 

“No, before that. You wanted to come. You’re just using that as an excuse to justify it.”

“What are you trying to say?” His gaze turns stony, his voice curt. 

His lips are drawn tight as he stares the particular Dr. Jack Abbot speciality into you. You should probably feel intimidated, should probably be scared into a dynamic of hierarchy between you two, should probably heed the warning signs that crease in his crow’s feet and settle in the lines of his small frown that tell you to stop where you stand. 

You don’t. You stare back, equal in your press into him. 

(Because you’ve seen the softness before, know it exists. It was only a few weeks ago that he drove you home, sat at your table, talked to you like it was the easiest thing in the world. Only a few months ago Jack made it a habit to start meeting you at each of your shifts with your coffee mug in hand, a quiet check-in in his eyes. Only a few days ago the two of you lost yourselves in the safety of a bubble built by the two of you in the midst of a chaos. 

You know where the softness sits, you know it will keep creeping out. 

And right here, right now, you can see how he tries to lock it away. Pretends that it doesn’t exist with all of the good in him.)

“I’m saying you’re allowed to want something for once, Jack.” You tell him, honestly. “You’re allowed to want, and to hope, and to have faith that for a moment something good will happen if you let it in. You’re allowed to want something and have it, because you deserve it.”

He says nothing. Only stares. A charged silence buoys between you two, lit only by the haziness of the street lamp. A warmed yet dulled light that casts a gentle halo around the suppleness of your face—soft and angelic as you peer up at him.

To anyone else, your words would be the ramblings of a drunken woman. Let off the tongue with nonsensical meanings. Prompted by nothing, and supported by whims. To Jack, it’s something else entirely. Not the once foreboding noose— the omen of the invitation, the threat of giving in. What he thought would be a long fraying rope beckoning for the sounds of his choking is replaced instead with you. Your hands, warm, and soft, and well-meaning that wrap around his throat and squeeze until his breath gets caught in his chest. Your nails digging in the skin in search of something he has long since buried. Fingers tenderly massaging out the truth, his reckoning, his undoing.

The in-between of your words isn’t hard to make out. Something good will happen if you let it in. 

If you let me in.

He wonders if you know how close you are to getting to it. He wonders if he even knows how close it is to being released.

The night hums softly. Beckoning a closeness that is filled with a hostile tensity. Like peace and war, heat and ice, fusing into one. Becoming the energy that you both fuel. That something—the one that seems to follow you two when moments like this fall, when it’s quiet and the two of you acknowledge that the air feels weird—is here. 

Loudly silent. Quietly screaming. 

“Well, I’m here, aren’t I?” He gives, finally.

“Yeah. You are.” You huff out a breath. Then, with the familiar sound of a door being knocked on, you say. “I’m glad you came out. It made my night better, too.”

Your eyes flick down to his lips. His do the same. A question sits in the air. 

Will you let me in?

He swallows, then makes his choice. Buckles the armor up his chest, shuts the door that has been creeping open all this time, that you’ve been pushing against. He locks it, keeps you barred on the other side.

“You gonna get in?” He asks, nodding his head to the car. 

The air spoils as quickly as it was heated. Now cold and void with all of the things left unsaid. 

You nod, simply. Leaving well enough alone. “Yeah. Okay.” 

He opens the passenger door for you quietly, his hand hovering over you slightly as you step up into the seat, but he never touches you. You buckle yourself in, silent as he enters through the other side. Then he drives you home. It’s quiet, a suffocating, choking quiet, but neither of you make any effort to break it. The radio buzzes on the lowest volume, only barely filling the void. 

You thank him for the ride when he gets to your apartment. He nods his head. You go inside and he watches until you're safely inside before peeling off on the road.  

He pointedly tries not to think about anything the whole way home. Puts it onto the shelf, blocks it out, does everything to not remember how earnestly you looked at him, to not remember how you were the most beautiful thing he’s seen in a long time. But it’s his luck—the old funny thing called karmic fate that this night is the first night that he dreams of something other than the tense soundscapes of agony and grief that plague him and draw short bursts of sleep. 

He wakes up with his mouth dry, sweat beaded on his temple, his heart pounding, and the phantom feel of a hand on his chest. 

He dreamed of you. Eternal, effervescent, you. 

Shrouded in the warm hazy light of a bedroom, your laugh on the wind. A quiet moment of serenity, peace. Enjoying the stillness of you two, basking in the feel of giving in before it transformed into something else. You, then, bare on a bed beneath him, your wistful sighs in the air of his room. A prayer on your tongue, the words that fuel his desire, unlock all that he’s kept held back and that’s released something he hadn’t allowed himself to yearn for. And he knows then that the door that was slightly ajar by your gentle hand, the one he so quickly and concisely shut earlier, has now been thrust open by a gust of wind from his exhaled shaky breath. 

“Shit.” He thumps against his pillows in defeat, his hands rubbing at his face harshly. 

He admits, here, in the dawn of his bedroom with sunlight slowly filtering in through the curtains, the long held truth. The guilt is tumultuous; roiling and biting. Shredding through his skin, through muscle and tendon and into the marrow of his bones as he realizes, harshly, violently, with a voracious sense of betrayal and fear—

—that he liked it. He liked seeing you in the after hours with your hair down and your smile effortless. Liked seeing you in something other than scrubs and liked hearing the squeal of your laugh. Liked the way you leaned into him throughout the night. Liked watching you, liked being watched by you.

Liked, liked, liked.

For the first time in years, he laughed—truly, belly achingly laughed— and the burden on his shoulders levied just as the lowlights of the bar fell onto the sweetness of your smile. In the sanctity of a spartan bedroom lingering with the last remnants of a life long lost and hollow of his own that aches to be filled, he admits it.  

The familiar something that exists everytime the two of you meet has a name. 

Want.

And Jack wants you. 

All of you.

a/n: imma be real i don’t love this chapter but we need it before we get into the meat and potatoes. i was second guessing myself the entire time and then i remembered this is fanfiction so who CARES

this chapter was inspired by "the lonely fight" by mk.gee :)