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slater-baby · 6 months ago

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Money Shot

Simon "Ghost" Riley x f!Reader

Tags - Squirting, voyeurism, toys, mentions of breeding

“Simon?” Price calls from the head of the boardroom, arms crossed in deep contemplation, “What do you think? Is it feasible?”

“Feasible? Sure,” He glances at the tactical plan with a minute shake of his head, “Advisable? Not so much. I mean, that structure is...what? Three, four meters? Unless the drop point is on the fuckin' roof, there’s no way the cunts won’t see us coming.”

“Hm,” Price grunts, running a hand through his beard. Around the boardroom, various members of the congregation shift in their seats.

“What about…” Gaz begins, and then, Simon hears it.

BZZ.

“Goddamnit,” he whispers beneath his breath, leaning forward in his chair to pull his phone out of his pocket. Just recently, he’d installed a set of cameras about the house and porch.

‘Just for extra security, love,’ he’d told you. Since you moved in with him—and what with your name now written into his will—his time away on deployment and in the office had become…a liability, to say the least.

On a good day, Simon didn’t like to leave you by yourself. But for extended periods of time? When he couldn’t so much as pick up the phone to send you a text?

His fried nerves had all but demanded it. The cameras were his only failsafe. His only means of connecting with you, even when you were oblivious to it. In his mind, when he was deployed to some desolate war zone, slumming it in drafty safehouses, sustaining himself on MREs and cigarettes, then just seeing you quiet and content in your usual place on the sofa, flipping through a book or doing a face mask, would be enough to tide him over.

Though, he’d failed to consider just how goddamn annoying the notifications would soon become.

Hurriedly, he glances at his phone under the table, halfheartedly listening to the meeting.

‘MASTER BEDROOM - MOVEMENT DETECTED,’ his phone so helpfully supplies him.

He scowls.

Movement detected. Yeah, right. Just like the other twenty times it’d told him that in the past hour alone. He digs his index finger into the ringer switch, but just at that moment, another notification comes.

And with it, another…And another…And another….

‘MOVEMENT DETECTED’

‘MOVEMENT DETECTED,’ it says to him yet again, as if he were an idiot too dull to even read.

“MOVEMENT DETECTED!! INTRUDER ALERT!!!” It seems to screech, “GRAB YOUR GUN, SOLDIER, THE DAY ISN’T OVER YET!!’

Annoyance climbing by the minute, Simon hurriedly flicks through his apps, all too eager to return to the meeting at hand. Within seconds, he’s staring at the grey display of your sparsely lit living room.

If anything, it’s a bit messy, but hardly remarkable. The TV is on, some soapy romance show still rolling in the background. There’s a pillow on the floor. The cat is lounging in a flickering patch of dying sunlight. Nothing out of the ordinary.

He switches to the kitchen. Nothing but the hum of the old fridge greets him. And in the dining room, it’s a similar story. So, attention wavering with every word that Kyle speaks, he angrily flicks through the porch cameras and straight to the master bedroom.

And that’s when he hears it.

The smallest, weakest little voice…

“God, Simon…”

At the sound—barely audible over the noise of Price’s lecture—his heart rate spikes.

Physically, he can feel his blood rushing, nerves shredding themselves to pieces as he hurriedly presses the rotate button on screen. Slowly—almost as if to taunt him—the janky camera begins to turn. And with every second longer he has to wait, darker possibilities begin to flood his synapses.

You’d fainted.

You’d fallen.

You’d broken a bone.

Or, perhaps the very worst, he’d find someone else standing over you.The exact reason he’d installed the cameras in the first place.

He waits with bated breath, practically unblinking, until he finds the source of the movement. The blankets atop the bed jostle, and he breathes a sigh of relief when he sees your familiar form swathed in pillows and fluff. Safe, warm, and most importantly, alone.

“Simon…” you say again—voice strained. Almost as if you were…crying?

Again, he glances at Price. The man is distracted, going on about the MTC once more. Surreptitiously, Simon looks back down at his phone, confused.

Were you sick? Laid up in bed with a fever?

No, somehow that didn’t feel like the right description. Last month, when you’d caught the flu, you could hardly stand to sit still. Simon practically had to chain you to the bed just to force you to get some decent rest.

Then, what could it be?

Did you miss him, perhaps?

At the thought, his chest warms. In all his years of service, Simon never had someone to miss him. He had his friends, sure, but they were his home away from home, the family he’d never known he’d find. Off service, however, before he’d met you, home wasn’t warmth. It wasn’t happiness. It wasn’t dear to his heart. Hell, it was little more than a house, with a sofa and television.

But when you came along….

You, with your shining eyes, witty jokes, and unending support…

He’d never known that the most precious gift a man could receive is someone to come home to at night and to miss him when he leaves in the morning.

Fondly, he looks at his phone screen, hardly listening to the meeting at hand.

Within your cradle of old blankets and sheets, you shift, a whimper escaping your mouth. It echoes in the grainy speakers of his phone, and he hardly even thinks to lower the volume…

That is, until you move again, and the blankets fall down.

One of your arms pushes the blankets down, and suddenly, Simon has an eyeful of your bare tits. Naked, shining with sweat, and nipples raw from being tweaked.

Instantly, his eyes go wide, and he jolts forward to hide his phone in the shadow of the conference table.

Not crying. Definitely not crying, his brain rambles, watching as the curve of your breasts squish into the mattress as you twist beneath the sheets. The flimsy fabric, threadbare after so many long nights together, wraps around your legs like a vice.

And that is exactly when he sees it.

Your back arches way from the mattress and your entire body thrums with electricity, hips moving fast and hard, every roll just as desperate and jagged as when you slide into his lap during movie nights, unbuckling his belt before he can even think to open his mouth.

“Fuck!” You nearly scream—and Simon literally flinches, hurriedly whipping his head around to look at the other men.

“Simon?” Price suddenly questions, “You alright? Was that your phone again?”

“Um,” he begins tactfully, clearing his throat, “Yeah—just m’girlfriend walkin’ in front o’ the camera again.”

“Oh,” Price nods, “She doing alright? Haven’t seen ‘er recently.”

“Yeah—she’s…” he huffs, blindly rapidly down at his phone where you writhe against the sheets, fingers thrusting between your thighs.

“She’s doing…great,” he manages, swallowing thickly when you reach a hand up to squeeze your bouncing tits.

“Well, give ‘er my regards next time you talk to to ‘er.”

“‘Course, sir.”

“Now, back to what I was saying about the perimeter…”

With that, Simon holds his breath for a few torturous minutes. However, when the other men continue on as if nothing had ever happened, he surreptitiously leans back in his chair…and looks down at the phone again.

His hearing fades to nothing but a distant buzz, pulse racing in his chest, like his heart might explode at any moment. And even though he’s muted the volume, he swears he can hear your moans ringing in his ears, vibrating in his very bones.

In the black and white video, you throw your head back against the pillows, hips jumping so hard the flimsy sheet falls down to your ankles. And soon enough, he can see every part of you. The softness of your heaving stomach, the sweat against your cheeks, the delicate shine of slick between your sweet folds…

Your entire body tenses, and undoubtedly you cry out again. He already knows what you’re saying, even if it’s all but silent in his hands.

His name.

You’re there, needy and alone, a wet spot between your legs on the sheets, shouting his name like there was any hope of him actually hearing it—as if there was any hope of him finding you, filling you up, and giving you what you truly need.

At that thought, pride wells up in his veins, hot and bubbling. And before he knows it, his blood is rushing south at an alarming rate.

“Please,” he can imagine you begging him, “Please….Please, Simon, just a little. Just the tip…”

You’d say it with heat in your cheeks and a pout on your lips, wrapping a shaky hand around his hip so that he couldn’t pull back, so that he couldn’t tease you any longer. You’d whine and whimper, tears gathering in your eyes, as you weakly pulled him forward, just enough to wrap one of those precious hands around his leaking cock.

You’d guide him forward like that—in a way he couldn’t deny—and you’d sit there, batting your eyelashes, sliding your wet cunt over the tip of his condom-covered dick, like that might tempt him just enough to take it off…to fuck you full and hard, until he was leaking out of your fluttering pussy and into your ruined panties.

He bites his lip.

You’d begged him before. On your knees, kissing the head of his cock. On your stomach, pushing your ass up against his hips. With your face buried in the pillows, nearly sobbing for it.

“Just once, Simon. Please—I promise. Just a little bit. Just the tip,” you said every time—as if those words made the act any better.

And, god, Simon wanted it. He wanted it so, so badly. To feel the warmth of your body, the heat of your bare skin against his own…to feel your pulse thumping between your legs as he fucked his cum right into the seat of your very womb.

So far, you hadn’t manage to take him raw just yet. If not because he had the patience of a Saint, then for the fact that your doctor kept rescheduling your birth control appointment.

Yet, looking at you now…

He breathes in low and deep, watching as your legs shake, toes curling.

The sheets fall off the bed.

And with another cry, you pull the dripping dildo from between your legs, curling your thighs together in absolute ecstasy.

Jaded, he looks at the damned toy. A cheap replica of his own cock. You’d given him a mould on Valentine’s Day—mostly as a joke…until next deployment came around, and you all but begged him to do it.

He still remembers how ridiculous it felt, looking down at your satisfied smile while you licked him clean afterwards, merely as a ‘thank you’ for all his hard work.

Beneath the shadow of your dangling calves, he can see the promise of your dripping cunt tucked between your sweet thighs. Desperate, wet, and wanting…

He scowls.

Pills, doctors, and implants be damned. If Simon had it his way, you’d be filled and sated, womb swollen with his seed, evidence of all the love he had yet to give you. It’s a tempting thought—one that nearly drags him into his mind once and for all.

However, a sudden movement on the camera catches his attention.

The toy is still in your hand. Strings of slick drip off of it and onto the flat of your thigh. With your other hand, you spread your abused folds, barely able to pull them back with how wet you’ve become. Impatiently, slide two of your trembling fingers into yourself, head tossing against the pillows.

“Please,” he swears he can hear it, “Please, please, please—”

You thrust into yourself ruthlessly, flecks of slick flying just at the movement. God, the sound of it must be nothing short of obscene. He can only imagine.

Your offhand tightens around the shaft of the dildo, and this time, when you tense up, the movement is so utterly enrapturing he swears he can see drops of saliva spill over your lips. You yank your hand out of yourself. Your stomach flexes. You yell into the bare room.

And that—that is when he sees it.

Suddenly, a rush of slick squirts out of your cunt and onto the bed, hips flinching as you soak through the sheets beneath your ass. Fuck, even through the horrible quality of the film, he swears he can see the walls of your pussy clenching, opening up around every wash of rushing liquid.

It splatters over your thighs, makes your toes curl into the sheets. The fabric sticks to your skin as you continue to ride out the waves of your orgasm, and when you reach a hand down to rub over your swollen clit, little spurts of it squirt over your naked body in time with every press of your fingers.

Before he even knows it—before he can feel ashamed for it—he’s rock hard against the fly of his jeans, cock pulsing beneath the fabric as he watches you lay panting and flushed in a puddle of your own cum.

“Yes,” he sees your mouth move, cunt still dribbling onto the bedsheets, “God, yes…”

Hands positively shaking, you lift the toy again, clumsily rubbing your ruined pussy over its shining length.

And, god, he’s helpless to imagine himself in its place. Helpless but to imagine himself between your legs, covered down to his knees in your shining spend. Fuck, it’s intoxicating, and it hits him harder than any drug he possibly could have taken.

Listlessly, he looks at your beautiful face through the film grain…

“Simon,” you whisper to yourself, lazily rubbing your cunt against head of that stupid toy, “Simon…”

Easily, he gets lost in it.

Lost in the sound of your voice saying his name.

Lost in the heat of your expression.

Lost in the need he feels welling up inside of himself…

Lost in the feeling of his hand palming over himself, hidden by the shadows of the looming conference table.

“Simon?”

The sound of his name—and in the voice of a man no less—makes him jump in his seat. On reflex, he closes his phone.

“What?” He answers cluelessly, slapping his hands down on the surface of the table, like he hadn’t just been thrusting into his own hand mere seconds before.

“I asked you what you thought about it,” Price jammers on, oblivious.

“About what?” he says.

At that, Price raises an eyebrow.

“About the risk assessment results. Y’know…what we’ve been talking about for the last five minutes.”

“Risk assessment,” he uselessly repeats, “Yeah. Well, I…”

Price scrunches his face, glancing between his asinine powerpoint and Simon’s covered face.

“Have you been listening?” He huffs, sounding bored.

“Of course,” he clears his throat, hurriedly absorbing the information on screen, “It’s just—I had a question about that. Must’ve left me for a second there…”

“Uh-uh,” Price glances at his wrist watch.

Simon swallows, cock pulsing rapidly in his pants. He scoots his chair in closer to the table.

“If we go in via the rear entrance, then—then I think would should recruit at least one more person for overwatch. Y’know…At the height of the lower wall, I think it might be possible to put a man on the roof. As—as contingency.”

“Sounds fine to me. You think they’d have a decent shot?”

“Well…” he blinks emptily, “At that angle, I think that...”

The clock continues to tick.

Soap yawns at the other side of the table.

Price looks as if he’d rather be anywhere else than here.

And Simon…

God, his mind is still stuttering, heart racing with adrenaline.

Distracted, he’s stuck on where his phone lies innocently atop the table…and what he knows is happening just beneath the cover of its black screen.

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abbotjack · 3 months ago

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Don't Make Me Someone You Can't Have

pairing : dr. jack abbot x resident!reader (afab!reader)

summary : The fallout didn’t start the day of Pitt Fest—it started when you told Jack Abbot how you felt and he told you he didn’t want you. A week later, grief, jealousy, and everything unsaid ignite into something impossible to bury. (Lowkey inspired by Big Love by Fleetwood Mac—because obviously.)

warnings/content : trauma aftermath (mass casualty event), hospital setting, attending x resident dynamic, mutual pining, emotional repression, angst, jealousy, possessive behavior, verbal rejection, explicit sexual content (f!receiving, protected sex), semi-public/backseat sex, emotionally loaded dialogue, swearing

word count : 4,212

18+ ONLY, not beta read. Please read responsibly.

a/n : I am just so obsessed with Abbot, like oml I do not need a new hyperfixation at this point of the semester but here we are. Hope you guys enjoy this!

There’s blood on your forearms.

Not a lot—just the dried trace of a life you couldn’t save, stuck to your skin even after the first scrub. You’ve already changed out of your soiled gloves and gown. You sanitized twice. But still, you scrub again, because your hands won’t stop shaking and focusing on the motion keeps you upright.

The shooting at Pitt Fest has left the trauma bay soaked with the sound of screams you can’t forget. The floors were slick. Supplies ran out faster than anyone could track. You can still hear the rhythmic buzz of the trauma pager, the overhead call for more gurneys, the shrill monitor that never quieted until it did.

Your white coat is somewhere in the hallway—discarded and stained, a casualty of triage. There’s a bruise blossoming on your cheekbone, just beneath your eye. It’s from when the mother of the boy thrashed in panic, her elbow colliding with your face. You didn’t notice it at first, not until someone pointed it out with a grimace. Said it was turning purple, already swelling. Said you should ice it. You didn’t.

You press harder on your hands.

Jack Abbot hasn’t spoken to you since he snapped orders across the gurney three hours ago, voice razor-sharp, eyes like flint. He’d taken over compressions without blinking. His personal protection gear streaked in blood. His shoulders set like stone. His voice—steady, calm, cold.

You’d hesitated.

Just a second. Maybe less. But he’d seen it.

“You’re too shallow—switch out. Now.”

He hadn’t looked at you when he said it. Just stepped in, hands already moving, chest compressing with the precision of someone who’d done it a hundred times before. Because he has.

He moves like he did on the field. You’ve heard stories—Jack the soldier, desert heat in his lungs, fingers suturing flesh with a kind of brutal grace. You’ve seen glimpses of it before, but tonight? Tonight, it wasn’t a glimpse. It was a full transformation.

You backed away, stunned into silence. Not because he took over. But because of how he did it. Like you were a liability. Like you didn’t belong.

You told yourself it was adrenaline. It wasn’t.

The door creaks open behind you, and you don’t have to turn to know it’s him.

You keep your eyes on the mirror—don’t move, don’t breathe—until his reflection comes into focus beside yours.

His eyes go straight to your cheek.

The bruise.

His posture changes. Shoulders tense, mouth tightening. He doesn’t say anything, but the flicker of something behind his eyes is unmistakable. Not surprise. Not guilt.

Anger. Not at you—but at the fact that you’re hurt.

He doesn’t speak. Just leans against the counter. His eyes flick to your cheekbone again. The bruise is deeper now, ugly in the fluorescent light.

“You paused,” he says finally, voice low.

You dry your hands slowly. The paper towel crinkles between your fingers.

You turn, sharp. “I froze because I’ve never had to treat a gunshot wound in a fifteen-year-old while their mother screamed in my ear.”

You don’t stop.

“She was grabbing my sleeves, pulling at my hands, sobbing and shouting his name—over and over. She kept trying to touch his face. I could barely see where the blood was coming from. I wasn’t even sure where to start.”

Jack doesn’t flinch. “That’s what the job is.”

You laugh, and it sounds like it’s clawing its way out of your chest. “Don’t lecture me on what the job is, Jack. I’ve been here three years. I know what this place does to people.”

His jaw tightens. There’s something in his eyes—anger, maybe. Or guilt. You can’t tell with him. You never can.

He pushes off the counter.

“You think I don’t know what it does to people?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Not when he steps closer, the air between you tight enough to snap.

“You think I wanted you in the bay?” he asks.

You blink. “What?”

Jack’s voice dips lower. “I saw your name on the call sheet. I almost pulled you off rotation.”

Your breath hitches. “You don’t get to do that.”

He’s close now—too close. He smells like hospital soap and something else beneath it—deep, expensive cologne that cuts through the sterile air. Teakwood. Mahogany. That warm, slightly spiced scent that always lingers a second too long after he leaves a room. Clean. Controlled. Intentionally chosen. Just like him.

“I don’t want to watch you fall apart,” he says.

Your heart slams. The words hit harder than they should, because they’re the first ones he’s offered that sound like anything real. Not just protocol. Not just war-worn discipline.

“I already have,” you whisper. “And you didn’t notice. Not when I told you how I felt. Not when you shut me down like it meant nothing. Like I meant nothing.”

He swallows hard. His posture stiffens.

“You didn’t even look at me after that,” you say, voice shaking. “I told you I had feelings for you, and you acted like I’d crossed some unspoken line. Like caring about you was a mistake I should be embarrassed by.”

Jack doesn’t say anything.

You shake your head, eyes burning. “For you, it’s easier to pretend this thing—whatever it is between us—doesn’t exist than admit you’re scared of something real.”

You don’t have to spell it out. You’ve seen the way he distances himself—the way he locks things down before anyone even gets close. You’ve felt it.

The silence now is a living thing. Loud. Brutal. The air is laced with too many unsaid things.

You can feel it—beneath the calm, beneath the scrub shirt and military precision—Jack is burning.

But he still doesn’t reach for you.

So you do what you always do.

You leave before he can stop you.

You don’t get far.

The trauma bay doors hiss shut behind you and the night air hits your face like a slap—cool, sharp, soaked in hospital exhaust and rain-soaked concrete. You pace once. Twice. You don’t cry.

You breathe. You think you might scream. Instead, you lean back against the cold exterior wall of the hospital and close your eyes. And there it is—the echo of his voice, thick with something too raw to name.

“I don’t want to watch you fall apart.”

But it wasn’t just tonight that gutted you. It started before. When you said too much and he gave you nothing.

It was three days ago. Late enough that the hospital had gone quiet—the kind of quiet where your thoughts get too loud, and nothing feels safe to admit.

You were both at the nurses’ station. Jack sat at one of the desktops, the screen glowing pale blue in front of him, his fingers motionless on the trackpad. You were across from him, one hand hovering over the keyboard, the other absently toying with a pen.

You’d been circling it for weeks—maybe longer. This thing between you. It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It lived in the quiet, in the unspoken, in the almosts. In the way your skin prickled when he entered a room. The way air shifted when he stood behind you—close, but never touching.

It was in the way his gaze found you during rounds, lingering just a heartbeat too long. The way his voice dipped when he said your name, soft and unreadable—like a secret slipping between his teeth. The way your breath caught when he brushed past you in the hallway, the fabric of his scrubs grazing yours, sending a bolt of something electric down your spine.

It was professional. It had to be. But it never felt neutral.

Every look felt like contact. Every silence, a dare.

The tension wasn’t dramatic. It didn’t need to be. It sat just under the surface—constant, quiet, undeniable. Like gravity. Like something pulling you toward him whether you wanted it or not.

But it wasn’t just you.

Jack watched you, too. Carefully. Deliberately. Like he was trying not to want you and failing anyway. He always looked away too slowly. Cleared his throat when your laugh caught him off guard. Said your name differently than everyone else—lower, rougher, like he was holding it in his mouth too long.

There were moments you caught him looking at you like he was already sorry for it.

Like he knew what it would cost if he gave in.

There were nights you couldn’t sleep without replaying the way his hand brushed yours, or the heat of his body behind you in the elevator, or the flicker of something in his eyes before he shut it down again.

You weren’t supposed to notice.

He wasn’t supposed to let you.

But you did.

And he did.

And both of you kept pretending it wasn’t real—even as it took up more and more space inside your chest.

You hadn’t planned to say anything. You hadn’t rehearsed it. It just… happened.

“I care about you,” you’d said, voice soft but steady. “I’m not trying to ruin anything. I just need you to know.”

Jack didn’t look up. Not at first. He just sat there, shoulders stiff, jaw set like someone had flipped a switch inside him. When he did meet your eyes, it wasn’t with warmth. It was with something colder. Sharper. Like he was bracing for impact.

“This can’t happen,” he’d said. Quiet. Controlled. Like he was reciting a rule he’d memorized a long time ago. “You’re a resident. I’m your attending. You know that.”

You’d nodded, tried to smile, tried to make it easy for him. Tried to act like it didn’t sting.

But he kept going.

“And even if you weren’t… it’s not a good idea.”

He hesitated. Just a second. But enough.

"You don’t know me," he added, eyes hard. "You think you do, but you don’t. You see what I let you see. And that version of me—that's not real."

And then, like he needed to twist the knife just to make sure it stuck :

“Whatever you think this is—I don’t want it. I don’t want you.”

You knew, even as he said it—he didn’t mean it. Not like that. But he wanted it to hurt. Needed it to. Like if he made you hate him, it would make walking away easier. That was the part that stayed with you.

You hadn’t cried then. Not in front of him. You nodded again, eyes dry, throat burning, and told him you understood. But you hadn’t said anything else. Didn’t argue. Didn’t ask him why.

And he hadn’t offered.

Not an apology. Not an explanation.

He hadn’t said a single word to you since—not until today, when his voice finally cut through the chaos to order you off the boy’s chest. Cold. Clinical. Like nothing had ever passed between you at all. Like you were just another resident.

But you’d felt it. In the way he walked into a room and wouldn’t look at you. In the way his voice would hitch when you brushed past. In the way his fists curled tight at his sides, like he wanted to reach for you but refused to let himself.

He was trying to be cold. Trying to keep the line drawn.

And still—still—he’d almost pulled you from trauma rotation tonight.

You open your eyes. The ache in your chest feels ancient. Familiar.

Big love. That’s what it was. The kind that never had a chance to grow, but still bloomed under your skin like it owned you.

And Jack? Jack let it die before it ever had the chance to live.

It’s been a week since Pitt Fest.

The hospital has started to settle into something like normal, but you haven’t. You still flinch when a trauma page comes over the comms. Still hear that mother’s voice, shrill and ragged. Still feel the ghost of Jack’s hand brushing yours when he took over compressions. That wasn’t the moment you broke, but it was the moment you knew you couldn’t pretend anymore.

So tonight, you go out. Against your better judgment.

Whitaker begged you. Santos threatened to show up at your apartment with a bottle of tequila. King and Mohan promised only one drink, just one, come on, you need it. Javadi was supposed to come too, but she bailed last minute—something about studying for boards and not wanting to get caught at another bar underage.

So now it’s the five of you crammed into a booth at this dive bar near the hospital in downtown Pittsburgh, the one with sticky floors and pool tables missing half the balls. The music is too loud, but the company is easy. Whitaker is doing some elaborate retelling of a patient who tried to fake a heart attack to get out of paying his copay. Mohan is crying from laughter. You’re sipping something sweet and strong and trying to let it all melt away.

It’s working.

Until you see him.

Jack.

He’s across the bar, half-shadowed under the neon sign, nursing a beer like he doesn’t want to be seen. But he’s not alone.

Robby’s with him. Of course he is.

They’re leaned in close, not talking much. Just sitting. Watching.

No—he’s watching.

You.

Your drink stills halfway to your mouth. Your stomach twists, not violently, but enough to knock the wind out of you. Jack doesn’t look away. Not immediately. Just holds your gaze like it hurts him. Like it should.

You force yourself to blink, to laugh at something Whitaker says. You pretend your hands aren’t shaking. You pretend you don’t feel your entire body tuning itself to the sound of his silence.

He rejected you. You know that.

But the way he’s looking at you now? It doesn’t feel like rejection.

It feels like longing.

And maybe that’s worse.

You down the rest of your drink in one go. It burns less than it should.

There’s a man at the bar. Mid-forties, maybe older. Salt-and-pepper beard. Expensive watch. He catches your glance and offers a smile that’s a little too polished, a little too practiced—but you return it anyway. Because he’s older. Because he’s sharp-eyed. Because he reminds you, in all the wrong ways, of someone else.

You excuse yourself from the table before anyone can stop you.

You take your drink, your heels, and your broken pride, and you slide onto the stool next to him.

Jack sees. Of course he does.

You make sure he does.

“Can I buy you another?” the man asks, nodding to your empty glass.

You smile. “Yeah. Why not?”

You laugh too easily. Let your shoulder brush his as he leans in. He says something you don’t hear because your pulse is thundering in your ears.

Across the bar, Jack’s jaw is tight. His hand clenches around his beer bottle, the label peeling beneath his thumb.

You tilt your head back and laugh again—this time louder, brighter, crueler.

Because if you’re going to hurt, you want him to feel it too.

And he does.

You can see it in the way he breaks eye contact first.

You can see it in the way Robby says something and Jack doesn’t respond.

You can see it in the way he stands up a minute later, like he can’t stand to watch anymore.

But he doesn’t leave.

He moves.

Across the bar. Slow, deliberate. Controlled rage in every step.

Robby calls after him, eyebrows lifted, confused—but Jack doesn’t answer.

He stops a foot away from you, the stranger mid-sentence, and you feel it before you even look up—heat rolling off of him like a storm about to break.

“Can I talk to you?” Jack says. Voice low. Measured. Barely held together.

You arch an eyebrow, take a long sip of your drink. “Busy.”

The man beside you glances between the two of you, sensing something sharp in the air. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to.

Jack’s eyes are locked on yours. Not the stranger’s. Not anyone else’s.

“You need to come with me,” he says, lower now. “Now.”

And it’s not a command. It’s not even a plea. It’s desperation wrapped in control, fraying at the edges.

You consider refusing. You want to.

But you rise anyway.

And follow him out the door.

The air outside is colder than you expected. Or maybe that’s just him.

Jack doesn’t speak right away. He walks fast—toward the lot behind the bar, where his car is parked beneath a crooked streetlamp. When he finally stops, it’s with his back to you. One hand on his hip, the other raking through his hair. The kind of stillness that comes right before something breaks.

You follow, heart hammering. He turns.

“What the hell was that?”

Your arms fold across your chest. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

His eyes flash. “The guy. The flirting. You were trying to—”

“Trying to what?” you snap. “Move on? Isn’t that what you wanted?”

Jack exhales, sharp and uneven. “You don’t get it.”

“No, Jack. I really don’t. You said this couldn’t happen. You told me to forget it, forget you. And then you stare at me like that? Like you’ve got any right to be angry?”

“I’m not angry,” he bites out. “I’m—”

“Don’t lie to me.”

Silence stretches. You can hear the distant music from inside, laughter spilling through the front entrance. But here? It’s just you and him, and everything you haven’t said.

“I didn’t want to do that to you,” he says finally, voice frayed. “Push you away. I just… I didn’t know how else to make it stop.”

Your voice lowers. “Why would you want it to stop?”

He steps forward once. Close, but not touching. His hands stay at his sides like he’s afraid of what will happen if he reaches for you.

“Because it scares the shit out of me,” Jack says. “Because you matter more than you should. And because I don’t trust myself not to fuck that up.”

Your heart twists. “So instead you say things to make me hate you?”

“I thought if you hated me, it would be easier for both of us.”

You laugh—soft, bitter. “It’s not.”

His voice breaks. “I know.”

You look at him. Really look at him. There’s pain there—old and festering. The kind that has nothing to do with you and everything to do with whatever he’s been dragging behind him since the war, since before.

You take a breath. “So what now?”

Jack steps even closer. You can feel the heat of him again. His eyes drop to your mouth, then snap back up like he’s furious with himself for even looking.

“You came out here,” you say.

“I didn’t want to watch someone else touch you,” he admits.

“Then don’t make me someone you can’t have.”

There’s a beat.

And then he’s kissing you.

Rough. Desperate. Like he’s been holding it in for years and it’s finally breaking loose. You answer it without hesitation, fisting your hands in his shirt, dragging him down like you’re daring him to finally stop pretending.

He presses you back against the car, one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your waist like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. His mouth is on yours—hungry, ragged—like if he slows down, this will disappear.

“Back seat,” he growls. His voice scrapes through your chest.

He opens the rear door behind you, hand never leaving your hip, guiding you with him. You climb in first, crawling across the backseat with your heart in your throat. By the time you turn, he’s already sliding in after you, pulling the door shut behind him with a solid, final thud.

He grabs your face with both hands and kisses you again, harder this time, like his life depends on it. You climb into his lap, straddling him now, knees on either side of his thighs, your bodies pressed close and flushed with heat. He shoves your coat off your shoulders, pushes your shirt up. You tug his top over his head and toss it somewhere in the car.

“God,” he mutters, eyes raking over you. “You’ve been driving me insane.”

“Then do something about it.”

He does.

He unhooks your bra with one hand—like muscle memory—his mouth already on your chest, teeth and tongue working in tandem. His other hand splays across your lower back, holding you close as your hips grind down into his.

You’re panting. He’s shaking.

You reach between you, working open his belt, and feel him throb beneath the fabric. Jack shudders when your hand slips inside, groaning low into your skin.

“Wallet,” he mutters against your neck, voice breathless. “Inside pocket.”

You grab it. Your fingers move fast, practiced by adrenaline. You find the condom tucked there, tear it open, and hand it to him. His eyes meet yours as he rolls it on—slow, deliberate. Controlled, even now.

You brace yourself on his shoulders and lower down onto him, taking him inch by inch until he’s seated fully inside you.

The stretch burns in the best way. You gasp. He swears.

You don’t move. Not yet.

He kisses your jaw, your collarbone. Holds your hips steady with both hands like he’s savoring the feel of you. And when you start to move—hips rolling slow and deep—he leans his head back and groans your name like it’s the only word he knows.

“You feel—fuck, you feel like heaven,” he breathes.

You ride him hard, your rhythm building, mouths colliding again and again between moans. His grip bruises your thighs as he thrusts up to meet every movement, his control slipping with every second you stay on top of him.

Then suddenly—he shifts.

His arms wrap under your thighs, and in one smooth, powerful motion, he lifts you.

You gasp as he turns, guiding you onto your back across the seat. He stays inside you the whole time, never letting go, until your back hits the cool leather and he’s towering over you, braced between your legs.

“You okay?” he asks, breath ragged.

You nod, already whining for more.

Then he starts to move again—deep, relentless, rocking the car with every thrust.

He shifts, bracing one hand beneath your thigh to push your leg higher, opening you up to take him deeper. The angle hits something devastating—you cry out, fingers clutching at his shoulders.

Jack leans down, mouth hot at your neck, breath ragged.

“You’re mine,” he says, voice cracked and raw. “Say it.”

“Yours,” you gasp. “I’m yours, Jack.”

His hand slides down your side, gripping your hip for leverage—then slips between your bodies. His fingers find your clit and start to circle, firm and focused, his pace never faltering.

It sends you over the edge.

You break apart beneath him—back arching, thighs trembling, his name ripped from your mouth like a prayer you didn’t know you were saying.

You’re still shaking when he comes—groaning into your shoulder, his rhythm faltering as he buries himself deep one last time and lets go.

Afterward, you don’t speak right away.

You’re tangled together. His chest is against yours. His arms still hold you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he loosens his grip. Your heartbeat stutters beneath his palm. The windows are fogged, the car soaked in heat and the weight of everything that just happened.

You stroke a hand through the back of his hair, calming him more than you.

Finally, he shifts, settling beside you, your body still half-curled on top of him.

And quietly, you say:

“I followed you out because I thought you were going to leave again.”

He freezes.

You feel his breath catch against your shoulder.

“You left once,” you say. “After I told you how I felt. You didn’t look at me. Didn’t say anything. Just made it clear I’d imagined all of it. And tonight? I thought you were about to do it again.”

His voice is tight when he finally speaks.

“I almost did.”

You nod slowly. “Why didn’t you?”

Jack exhales hard. “Because I saw you with him, and I knew—if I walked away again, I wouldn’t just lose you. I’d be choosing to.”

He turns your face toward him.

“And I couldn’t live with that.”

You search his expression. His hand brushes a strand of hair from your face, and then settles on your cheek.

“I tried to kill it,” he says. “Tried to convince myself it wasn’t real. But it is. And it’s too big to ignore.”

“Big love,” you whisper.

He nods. “Yeah. The kind that burns everything else down.”

You press your forehead to his.

“I waited. Through all of it—every time you pretended you didn’t feel this, too.”

His eyes close. Like the truth hurts more than anything else tonight.

“I don’t know how to want you without wanting all of it,” he admits.

And you don’t need him to explain what all of it means.

The chaos. The risk. The weight.

You nod. “Good. Because I don’t want halfway.”

He leans in—presses a kiss to your cheek, then your lips, soft now. Careful.

And finally—finally—he says, “Then I won’t run anymore.”

You believe him.

But only because Big Love doesn’t let you run.

It lives. Loud. Messy. Permanent.

And tonight, in the heat of a parked car, Jack finally lets it have him.

#i got too carried away #jack abbot #jack abbot x reader #the pitt #the pitt x reader #shawn hatosy #dr abbot #dr abbot x reader #jack abbott #the pitt 2025 #the pitt hbo #the pitt fanfiction #smut #angst

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tfatwsbarnes · 19 days ago

Text

we can’t be friends | bob reynolds

read pt. 2 here!

summary: bob always wondered why you didn’t favour him over the rest of your team. until he learned that you had unsettled the bones of the tva.

pairing: bob reynolds x fem!reader

word count: 4.1k

content: just a silly fic! heaaaavy amount of dialogue. bob is a yearner for readers attention, yelena being a menace, tva mentioned (not entirely accurate for the sake of the plot), a little bit of angst between two lost soulmates. finding nemo mcu crossover if u look into it

a/n: inspo taken from the we can’t be friends mv! i love a good invisible string soulmate trope. i have an idea for a pt 2 but idk if this is a good read to start off with

Bob didn’t understand.

There he was, swaddled in self-conscious agony, hands wrung when he stammered out to you to ‘break a leg’ for the upcoming mission that he and — on this occasion — Yelena Belova had been benched for. The widow sat at the alcove in the Living Quarters with her eyes glued to the New York City skyline when Bob queried if she would wave the rest of the team off.

She did not.

Courageous enough, Bob waited on the sidelines for you to finish the prep of your tactical gear, a faint smile on his features when you returned his gaze. It was on the cold side, your fleeting glance, that is, and Bob swallowed the lump of shyness in his throat to just talk to you.

The conversation concluded how it always had. You thanked Bob for his well wishes, a strained smile that never met your eyes and Bob couldn’t quite pinpoint what your problem with him was. You were never inherently mean to the guy, relatively polite in minimal conversation before scarpering off to the other end of the room before Bob could finish his sentence. He started to joke that you were his own version of an Irish Goodbye.

He awkwardly waved at your back, quick to make it look as if he was catching a fleck of dust when he noticed you didn’t spare him a look over your shoulder.

There was something niggling in the bones of his body about you. A magnetic force that kept drawing him to you, and yet, you would repel in the opposite direction and Bob was left gluttonous, the need to around you was much greater than any embarrassment he momentarily felt when you stepped away to leave him high and dry.

Of course, Bob wasn’t harassing you. In fact, you had your own little quirks that explained to him that you were happy to be situated in proximity to him; just not long enough to delve deeper into each other’s personal lives.

Valentina Allegra de Fontaine had recruited you out of the blue, and the Thunderbolts* — now reclaimed as the New Avengers — were left scratching their heads at the newest addition after New York Times had printed the heroes cemented in the group in black and white. She had hinted that you were potentially a temp, community service if you read between the lines.

Nobody had heard of another vigilante scouring the streets of New York. Yelena, naturally, wanted to peek at the cards close to your chest. Albeit a fond friendship that blossomed between Yelena and you, she hadn’t quite cracked the code to opening Pandora’s Box.

Whilst the perplexity of you weighed heavy on Bob’s shoulders, he retreated back to the Living Quarters to spend the time benched with his nose in a book for distraction. He supposed Yelena would still be brooding in the alcove, the injury sustained caused her to be seen as a liability when Bucky Barnes discussed tactics for their mission. Either way, Bob encouraged quiet time, even if he was in the same room as his friend.

“I’m bored.” Yelena spoke freely after thirty minutes of silence. Bob pinched the sentence he had read up to and looked up to the blonde. She exhaled deeply, knife twirled in her hand, “Can we do something fun?”

He’d bookmark the page for now.

Bob closed the book, “Are—Is this not fun?”

“No.” Yelena was truthful, he’d give her that. Her temple pressed against the glass of the window, “I want to move my limbs, Bob. You should to.”

“I did. I washed the dishes.” Bob said obliviously and Yelena scoffed. He added quickly, “What, uh, what do you wanna do then?”

Yelena sat up, “A little birdie told me there are a stack of confidential files in Valentina’s office. She’s not here. I say, let’s go have a look.” Bob shook his head and Yelena threw her hands up, “Come on, Bob. This is exposure therapy to adrenaline. Minimal chance of us getting caught but if we do, I’ll take the hit.”

The peer pressure was all too soul consuming and that led to Bob jittering behind Yelena whilst she picked the lock to Valentina’s office. He bounced on the balls of his feet, head almost turning 360 degrees at any sudden noises that alerted him of being caught red-handed. Yelena seemed to be taking her sweet time for being a trained assassin, although Bob knew it was partly to make him squirm.

Just as he began to form a sentence to usher Yelena along, he looked back to see the door click and the handle go down with ease — Yelena quick to throw a smug look over her shoulder. They crept in, Bob bumping into the back of Yelena with a mutter of an apology for not paying attention.

“Stop being so twitchy.” Yelena whispered, “It’s OK.”

“Sorry.” He apologised again and his eyes scanned the office for any obvious sign of stacked files that screamed confidential.

Yelena spotted it first. Manilla folders atop of the glass table she would occasionally sit at if genuinely required within the Watchtower, — much to John Walker’s dismay — Yelena pounced at the opportunity to have them in her grasp, fingers smoothed over the red stamp: CONFIDENTIAL.

Quick to open, she handed a random one carelessly to Bob as she flipped the first file in her hand open, eyes dropped down the page before scoffing and throwing it to the side.

“Boring.” She muttered continuously.

Bob stared down at the manilla file in his hand, hesitant to open it. There was something about a breach of privacy that made Bob’s skin crawl. Whoever, and whatever was within these files weren’t meant to be seen for his eyes. His sense of anxiety washed up to the feet of Yelena who halted her actions to stare up at him.

“You only have the one file, Bob.” Yelena explained the obvious, “You’re practically innocent with just one file. Read it and we can go.” Bob went to argue his case and Yelena held up a finger, “Uh-uh. Exposure therapy.”

“Right. . .” Bob heeded instruction and delicately opened to the front page. His throat constricting to see an image of you — no — a mugshot of you brandished in a beige jumpsuit with the letters TVA stamped across the right-side of the clothing. Your face struck with confusion in the photo, eyes wide with a collar round your neck. His brows pinched, “Yelena, what is the TVA?”

Yelena repeated, “The TVA? No idea.”

He went to look at your file again, your name typewritten along with other details of your being, your arrest ID and ultimately, your charge. It read: sequence violation and that meant nothing to Bob. Suddenly, he felt rather protective of your file, lifting his gaze to where Yelena sat with her feet up on the desk, invested in whomever it was in the sixth file she had picked up.

He went back to scanning the thick wad of pages in your file, counting his lucky stars that he was an avid reader and could retain information without dwelling on the page for too long at any given time.

Turns out, you had been arrested four times. For the same reason, a sequence violation. Page flipped, Bob felt his mouth run dry at what he could presume was a recitation of your words from the moment you had arrived at the facility where you had been arrested. It started off with questions, you were worried coated with confusion as to where you were. Then, like a sucker punch into his chest, the wind was knocked out of Bob when he read over the sentence in which you asked to be returned to him.

“Have you got anything good?” Bob slammed the file shut when Yelena snapped him back to reality.

A vigorous shake of his head, he stammered, “Uh, no. No I don’t. Just a low level criminal.” The file slowly went behind his back as he talked, “Why do you think Valentina has all these files?”

“I don’t know. I was kind of hoping I’d find something on you know who.” Yelena wiggled her brows and stood, the files slapped against the desk carelessly. Bob gulped as she rounded the desk, “Oh well. I’m going to go eat. . . You coming?”

“Sure.” Bob followed the blonde out, his eyes drifted back to the office as he fidgeted with your file tucked into the back of his pants.

Successful in not being caught, it had been hours since Yelena and Bob’s escapade with the Confidential Files which led Bob, to well, petty theft — but rightfully so — and three hours of endless reading of your script whilst contained at the so-called TVA facility. Things didn’t add up, you were talking in circles, begging to see Bob one more time before they pruned you. He didn’t know what any of it meant. It looked as if it were a knockoff time travel script for a television show.

He would have to ask you.

Once he returned the files to you.

That was also the other complication he faced. He had invaded your privacy, even if you didn’t have knowledge toward the said file. It would be a given that you wouldn’t welcome his questions with exceedingly overwhelming enthusiasm, but as Yelena Belova had boldly put it; it would be exposure therapy.

On the second last page, the elevator dinged and the doors slid open. The selected team bottle-necked out with nonchalant expressions, Alexei going to greet his daughter whilst the rest of you dispersed.

Bob caught you trudging alongside Bucky Barnes, your voices low before you split. On queue, you caught Bob’s attention aimed toward you and offered a meek smile that once again didn’t meet your eyes. He stood, file still tucked into the band of his pants. He was going to do it. Bob had to do it.

Feet shuffling, his body felt aflame when it came close to you. The air thickened with a tension that only he was aware of. Bob was so concentrated on achieving a subtle beeline to you, that his brain stopped sending signals to the movement of his feet, sending him flying across the floor after he tripped over his own foot.

Hands came out to brace the impact, a lot softer than anticipated, Bob looked up to see Alexei who gripped onto the collar of his favoured blue sweater, exposing his midriff and ultimately, the files hidden beneath the fabric.

Curiosity killed the cat and Alexei plucked the folder from Bob’s waistband.

“Now, what do we have here?” Alexei boomed as he held the folder that Bob had pickpocketed from the locked room. Pinched between two fingers, it dangled in front of Bob like bait. Alexei shook it a little and one sheet of paper floated to the floor.

Chaos ensued as Walker, Yelena and Bob went to grab the paper, two for inspection, one for protection. Bob felt Yelena push on him, her teeth grit from the force it took. Walker managed to grab the paper from Yelena’s weakened grasp, his hand crumpled it slightly as he snatched it; grunting as he stood tall with pride.

Bob immediately let Yelena out of his grasp, a protest formed on his lips when Walker smoothed out the page, his brows furrowed as he drank in the contents of the paper.

Blue eyes shot up from the page and to you.

You let out a nervous laugh and set your mug down on the countertop just as Yelena snatched it from Walker and scanned it briefly; her eyes matched John’s to stare at you.

“Have I got something on my face?” Your joke was weak, unnerved by the silence that was met after reading a bit of paper. Anxiety coiled up in your stomach, “Seriously guys, you’re starting to freak me out.”

Yelena plucked the page out, her glance not missing Bob as he cowered in shame when she passed. You watched her with worry as she crossed the gap and extended her hand, the crumpled page flimsy in structure as it exposed its contents to you with ease. Brows pinched, you took the paper and read through it, a flash of realisation crossed your face before it dissolved; replaced with a confident streak.

You huffed a falsified laugh, handing the paper back to Yelena, hands clasped around your mug — Bob not missing the way it shook — as you took a large swig of scolding hot tea, not phased.

“Are you going to explain that?” Walker prodded at your nonchalance.

“There is nothing to explain.” You replied, eyes flicked to Bob for a brief millisecond, “It’s a fake document. Valentina called it some Witness Protection decoy — I don’t know.”

“It’s quite specific.” Yelena added.

“Right. Specific in nonsense.” You slipped off of the barstool, “They’ll come up with anything these days—Bob? Can I speak to you about that Monstera plant you’re taking care of for me? I found some Classical music I’d like you to play it.”

“I don’t, I don’t have a Monstera—”

You spoke with urgency, “Shostakovich’s 11th Symphony.”

Bob didn’t get your reference, but he sensed it had some underlying code word for ‘We need to talk. Now’ and he adhered, muttering about how he did in fact have a Monstera plant and followed you out of the kitchen and into the hallway, where you were quick to yank him into the Cleaners cupboard.

Door slammed shut, you tugged at the light string and Bob jumped at the rage in your face illuminated by the weakened lightbulb above.

“What the fuck are you playing at, Bob?” You seethed in a whisper, your face red hot as you tried to comprehend the implications of your exposed files.

Bob held his hands up in surrender, “I—Yelena said it was exposure therapy. Breaking into Valentina’s office and looking through files.” He watched as your eyes nearly popped out of your skull, “I didn’t know your file was in there!”

“Why did you take it?”

“I don’t know!” Bob pressed the heel of his palms into his eyes. “I—I panicked when I saw that it was you. It felt wrong that anyone else had it aside from you. I was going to give it to you, I promise.”

You stared at him for a long minute. Eyes pinned him to the spot as you sussed his honesty. Bob, from what you had known, was a man of the incapability to lie. To you, that is. Weakened by your presence, in every Timeline, you could disarm the man with a minute long stare and he would fold easily.

Bob shifted from one foot to the other, lips pulled into a thin line as he awaited your response. Awkward under your gaze.

“OK.”

Bob repeated, “OK.”

“This is fine.” You breathed.

Bob nodded for reassurance. “Fine.” He felt himself emphasise the nod, “Could you maybe explain what it means?”

“Oh god, this is not fine!” The palm of your hand slapped to your forehead as panic weaved through your voice. You began to mutter incoherently and Bob tried to reign you back in which only flared your panic more. “You weren’t supposed to find out, Bob. I promised.”

“Promised who? Hey—That doesn’t matter.” Bob shook his head, “Hey, look at me. It’s OK. This is my fault. If you don’t want to explain it, then I can live with that.” You nodded along to Bob’s words, hanging onto every syllable. He smiled genuinely, “You don’t owe me an explanation.”

Your panic soothed, “I will explain it.” That took Bob by surprise as you added, “I can explain it to you.”

“OK. Great.”

“. . . I’m not explaining it in the Cleaners Cupboard, Bob.”

Bob felt his face grow hot, “Yeah, of course. That makes sense.” He caught your eye, “In your room?”

“The kitchen, preferably. I’d rather a neutral ground when I tell you.”

Foreboding. But, Bob respected your request. Head peered out of the Cleaners Cupboard, Bob ensured that the coast was clear before he ushered you out and he watched the back of your frame scarper off to your bedroom, head down as you ignored John Walker speaking directly to you on your way.

Neither of you peeked your heads from your rooms until much later after endless pacing performed by the pair of you, in every square footage of your bedrooms.

The sky grew dark, your ear pressed against the wood of your door as you heard the rest of the team retreat to their rooms for an early night after the escapades on the mission — minus Yelena who still went to bed early in a sulk. Once you had heard Ava’s door click shut, your door swung open at the same time as Bob’s; the pair of you warmed with embarrassment.

“Tea?” You offered once you had reached the kitchen in hushed tones and tip-toes.

Bob sat at the counter, ankles crossed as he tapped his index fingers against the marbled surface.

“No. Thanks.” He declined, his head crammed full with an abundance of questions to ask you. Tea was last on his list of priorities.

Once finished with your brew, the chair scraped against the flooring next to Bob and you took your perched with a weak smile — this is the longest you had spent within close proximity of Bob Reynolds.

It felt unnatural.

“Where do I even start?” You asked rhetorically, breaking the silence and Bob was quick to respond with ‘The beginning.’ with attentive wide eyes. Chest constricted with the weight of your woes, you exhaled and began your explanation, “OK. I suppose you read a lot of the—my files?” Bob nodded, “To water it down, the TVA, Time Variance Authority, preserve what they call the Sacred Timeline. There is one designated Timeline that exists and, on the occasion that it alternates, they enforce arrests and erasure of that said branched timeline for restoration purposes.”

You continued, “Something happened to me, that was viewed as a threat to the Sacred Timeline, and the next thing I know, people armed to the teeth appeared through a portal and took me with them where I was arrested on the charge of a sequence violation.”

“Which was?” Bob encouraged.

“Which was, after the Blip, I had found a company that could wipe memories. Wonder Inc. The Blip haunted me for years after. There was this impending doom that it would happen again, and I desperately wanted to erase those five years.” You paused as Bob slid your mug of hot tea toward you, “I went in, they made me sign a waiver and next thing I knew, the Blip never happened in my head. I came home—bang—TVA were in the house and I was taken away. From my life. And, from you.”

“I have spent years in this endless cycle with the TVA. They took my life away from me and I have chased it back down to where they can’t find me.” It was tedious to explain, but you maintained for Bob’s sake more than anything.

Bob cleared his throat, his heart thumping in his chest, “When you say your life, do you mean—” He gestured between you two and you nodded with a wince. Bob hummed his attention drifting beyond the existence between the pair of you, in the kitchen of the Watchtower at two in the morning.

It was a lot to digest. Even having read the pages — front to back — within your file. It seemed more palatable to Bob when he could read it in black and white. As if it were some conjured up fantasy that stretched beyond the limitations of his own imagination. There you were, explicitly beautiful under the warmth of the candlelight, mapping out a scenario that was far fetched but Bob drank every word you spoke dry.

There had been a life. You and Bob. Intertwined in a daily life and more to the point in love from what Bob assumed. It made his head spin as the steam from the tea you had made him made his face perspire. At least, that’s what he put it down to.

He was brought back when you waved a hand in front of his face. Features expressed concern, a little regret for unfolding a complex situation on a staggering level.

“We can leave it there.” You mumbled and Bob was quick to jump to your defence, his hands reached for yours in a plea, warmth spread through your body from his touch; as if you had been shocked.

“Please.” He almost begged, “I want to hear it.”

“OK. . .” You scratched your brow bone with your thumbnail, “Cruelly, they showed me tapes of my life from the Sacred Timeline, my What If. I was told that, in every lifetime, we are thread together. Defined as soulmates in the entirety of the universe. Every Variant of me, has a Variant of you.”

“Really?”

“We were—are Clownfish in one reality.” You shrugged, “Lifelong mates, with our first batch of eggs. They pruned me, and, well I suppose you’re having to raise a bunch of kids.” You blew into your hot mug of tea with a casualness that brought wonder to Bob. Actually; you sounded insane.

A memory bubbled to the front of his thoughts, “Is that why you got me that Clownfish mug for that holiday?”

“Yes.” As if you sensed his thoughts, you added, “This can all remain hypothetical to you.”

“How many, uh, Timelines, did you—did you go through to find this one?” He ignored your remark. He didn’t want to run on hypothesis. You held five fingers up and Bob swallowed, “And, how did you know this one would work?”

You kissed your teeth, “I didn’t.”

“But, this is as far as you’ve gotten to get back to. . . Me?” Bob pulled at his earlobe.

“Yes.” You leant back in your seat, “I guess — my idea is — there’s been no physical intimacy between us and that means we haven’t branched from the Sacred Timeline. Because, from what I’ve been shown, whenever one of my Variants has kissed you, the screens of the TVA almost blow out.”

Bob could feel himself sweat.

“Oh.” Kissed. You and him. Kissing.

The delicate subject thickened the air and you tapped at the ceramic of your mug, “Which is great news for you. You don’t have to kiss me—Yay!”

“Yay.” Bob stuttered. Was it great news? A little blurred on that one.

Regret filled your chest.

“On that note. I think I’m going to turn in. You should too after that overload of information.” You dropped from the stool and took your favoured mug to the sink. Bob stared at the back of your head, unable to make himself move from his cemented spot. You turned on your heel with a brow quirked, “Bob? You OK?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. I’m—I’m OK.” He huffed out.

The pair of you said nothing else. A comfortable silence blanketed over your shoulders as you walked in unison through the darkened halls of the Watchtower — muffled snores heard from multiple rooms. Arms bumped as you walked, you let a soft smile grace your features from the relief of being able to finally speak to someone about your precarious circumstances.

You hadn’t anticipated that said person to be the very core of your being. Longed for from a distance, perhaps more cruel now that, plagued with the knowledge of your love in every lifetime; you could never fully pledge yourself to Bob Reynolds on Earth-616.

Hand on your door handle, you heard the faintest of clicks to inform you that your bedroom door was now unlocked. Door creaked open just a crack, your actions halted when Bob’s voice cut through the silent air.

“Hey—” He spoke your name and your heart jumped. You turned to look at him, his hair disheveled and eyes bright under the moonlight tones. Just as you remembered him in every lifetime. Bob continued with your devoted attention, “What did you mean by Shostakovich’s 11th Symphony?”

You let out a laugh, “Oh. It’s a piece of music that has slight restless urgency to it. I needed to speak to you urgently. It just coincided with the whole Classical music punch I threw at you.”

“Right. Smart.” Bob was impressed. His mouth moved before his brain, “Have we ever been Classical music lovers?”

“Goodnight, Bob.”

“OK. Goodnight.”

The pair of you beamed on the other side of your closed doors.

#🔖 koolie writes #thunderbolts #thunderbolts fic #bob reynolds #bob reynolds x reader #bob reynolds x you #robert reynolds x reader #robert reynolds #the new avengers #marvel fic #mcu

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sakuraszn · 3 months ago

Text

ft. katsuki bakugo

party’s over, dumbass.

“Katsuki, you absolute menace, put me down!”

“Not a damn chance.”

The flashing lights from paparazzi cameras were relentless, but Katsuki Bakugo didn’t give a single shit. What he did care about was getting your stubborn ass out of this damn party before the sun came up.

He had warned you. Multiples times. First, with a simple, “We’re leavin’ soon.” Then, with a pointed, “Oi. It’s almost one.” After that, he even tried the dreaded, “You’re gonna be a pain in the ass tomorrow if you don’t sleep.”

But did you listen? No.

Instead, you were still here at almost two in the goddamn morning, laughing, drinking, and somehow ignoring every single one of his sharp glares.

So, he handled it the only way he knew how.

By throwing you over his shoulder like a damn sack of rice and marching out of the venue while cameras flashed and onlookers gawked.

You were kicking and flailing over Bakugo’s shoulder like some kind of feral raccoon, and he was handling it with all the patience of a sleep-deprived babysitter. Which, to be fair, is exactly what he felt like right now.

“You’re a tyrant,” you huffed, smacking his back.

“And you’re a goddamn liability,” he shot back, tightening his grip as you squirmed like a toddler avoiding bedtime. “You think I got the patience to deal with your drunk ass at three in the morning? Hell no.”

People were staring. Cameras were flashing. Paparazzi were practically frothing at the mouth.

—Dynamight’s Mystery Date Held Hostage?!

—Pro Hero Bakugo CARRIES Lover Away From Exclusive Party—Relationship Drama?!

Meanwhile, Kirishima and Mina were losing their minds on the sidelines, filming the whole thing like it was premium content.

“BROOOO,” Kirishima wheezed, “you look like a dad carrying his screaming kid out of a toy store!”

“SHUT THE HELL UP!” Bakugo barked, already regretting everything.

You, however, took full advantage of the attention, draping an arm over your forehead dramatically. “Someone save me! I’m being kidnapped by Dynamight!”

“Oh my god, do that again, I need another angle,” Mina cackled.

Bakugo swore he was going to explode something—preferably this whole night—as he stomped toward the car.

“You’re the worst,” you groaned.

“No, dumbass,” he huffed, finally dumping you into the passenger seat. “You are. Now shut up and put your seatbelt on before I do it for you.”

And just like that, the door slammed shut—sealing your fate as the most dragged out partygoer of the year.

#✎ᝰ — sakuraszn !#boku no hero academia #my hero academia #mha x reader #bnha x reader #anime #katsuki bakugo #katsuki bakugo x black reader #katsuki bakugo x reader #bakugou x reader #bakugo x reader #bakugo x black reader #x black reader #x reader #katsuki x reader #bakugou x y/n

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acid-ixx · 7 days ago

Text

you are the only exception. (yandere! damian wayne x gn! reader drabble)

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

— masterlist ! ; discord server !

tw: implied s/h, bullying, and self-esteem problems.

ngl i'm thinking of damian — who's well past his childish tantrums and haughty behavior, once a child who has bloomed into a fully mature individual who can hold back his irritation towards his blockmates, courtesy of being raised dutifully by his family — paired with a pick-me reader who's the complete opposite, one so insufferable to everyone, to every professor, to the people who sit beside them, but most especially him.

you who loves to run your mouth off, talking in woes and poor attempts at prose to earn sympathy point: at how nobody ever likes you at all, how your friends are all unsupportive trash, how nobody ever chooses you as a group mate for class projects — not because you were some loner, no, your loud, grating mouth guarantees it could be heard from beyond the four walls encasing the suffering class; you were just lazy, cynical, someone who depends on others to achieve your goals yet somehow, some way, you'd end up with passing gpa — and when your professors would beg for anybody else to just pair up with you, while you sulk some corner and throw out some more venomous words to everyone else; it's oddly damian who has to stand up and just take one for the team, no matter how much he wants to shove a piece of paper down your throat to shut you up, no matter how much he sees his old self in you but denies it at every accusation.

at first, he actively despises you, because you're every bit of a liability under his responsibility whenever you're grouped with him.

and worse yet, he's the only guy around who can ridicule you without any sympathy for how you may have felt at the moment when he's degrading your poor attempt at your part for a project, he's the only one who can match up with your heartless statements, reduce your arguments with an equally unyielding drive to back you up to a corner when you realized he's the only one who wouldn't fold to you in defeat, when he wouldn't take your excuses at being late or absent to another group meeting. people around him praise him for how he handles the situation, somehow, even his professors, who'll greet him by the hallways, happy, smiles reaching past their ears, like the boy's a miracle granted by the world, and thank him for another job well done.

but he's also the same guy who breaks past your shell of false pretenses, who sees a misdirected sense of self-hatred in your widened eyes when he brings up another point to bring you down. who, as much as he pretends to hate you, hates it worse when you run off and past the double doors whilst the people in the background would emerge in celebration at another one of damian's win in your losing arguments; the boy could only drown out their pats in his back and invitation to treat him to lunch, he could only focus in the way your eyebags have been progressively worse, in the way bruises would appear more and more on your once, pristine skin, and how you'd just about avoid everyone else now— fear, he knows that emotion like he does the back of his hand, an undeniable weight swimming in your eyes when his "group of friends" would throw mockery in your way.

he's ultimately the only one to track you down afterwards.

actually, he's the only one who ever searches for you.

and then he finds you sobbing — without your normal bravado, without your fabricated, laid-back smiles — by an unlocked restroom. your cries were loud enough that you don't even flinch back at the sound of the stall's door opening, whilst he sees you emptying the contents of your empty stomach, witnesses you cry, and cry, and cry, unaware of his existence from behind you, as you beat at your heart endlessly, cry some more, scrape your bleeding knees against the tiled floors while he watches in utter dismay.

you mumble incoherently, in silent stutters through bitten, skin-peeled lips, yet somehow his sharp ears hear it.

— or maybe he's trained himself to always be the one who hears your voice, who recognizes it from a far distance when the people in your vicinity would groan at the sound of it; who knows its vibrato, its little quirks, how it wavers and how it quivers, all memorized by heart and by mind—

and he says it's part of what being born and raised as an assassin would do to you, but he's integrated into a seemingly normal life during the daylight, he knows when to block out people's voices, knows when to mind his business and knows when to carefully stay silent to analyze the surroundings like what a vigilante could do— and you're not villain, you're just a nobody to everybody, especially to damian, especially to him.

so it's strange, truly, how he knows you better than any person would, knows you better to the point where he knows your cries weren't a product of crocodile tears, to know that his words, how he called you "useless, a classless waste of air, pollution in the minds of like-minded, actually intelligent individuals," in a class of over thirty students, where all eyes are plastered on you; they did more than hurt you, they did more than just stinging your already crumbling persona— broke your rotting confidence, sliced it in half, sliced your heart in half at how everybody else laughed, agreed with his sentiments all mustered in a momentary whim.

even damian knows he doesn't mean those words, yet he also knows that everyone's perception of you is what he's stated— he knows the damage he's done.

he knows the sound of your heartbreak, feels the same pit of doom trembling in his heart as he watches you, watches your fingers dig deep into your battered skin, the high pitched scream rattling far beyond your parched throat.

and you are his business, you are his responsibility, even if you weren't, even if it wasn't his business to look after you after he's said all those cruel, degrading words.

he hears your legitimate woes: your undeniable self hatred, how it's your fault that everyone really does hate you, and it's your fault, it's your fault— that the only friend you could consider to be yours, that him, damian wayne, the same person who'd put you down, broke you with the simple truth, to the point where everyone else thought it as an invitation to destroy you even further; you hate yourself for leading him to hating you.

the only guy who's willing to share a desk with you, who listens to another wave of your superficial rambling, who sat beside you on the cafeteria table when you're all alone because all your old friends have cut you out of their lives, told you you were too draining, too attention seeking, too fucking annoying to be with and you know you are— and yet damian somehow managed to conceal his bubbling irritation at yet another one of your statements, talking about how, "people just can't get me, dami. they just can't."

and he listens, he listens because he's the only one who could, whose patience never wavers amidst your terrible display of affection; when your laughs sounded like crackling fire, which only burns brighter and warmer, when you'd slap his shoulders way too hard at another unfunny joke of yours, when you belittle your ex-friends because they can't handle your true self, or whatever you call it.

he does it with an air of coolness, until he couldn't anymore.

he slammed his fists on the plastic desk, and told you to shut up, insulted you, spewed venom towards you in front of everybody else after days, stretching past weeks 'til he couldn't handle the months of being forced to hear you rambling about yourself during a lecture, always yourself, that he loses it.

heartless as it is, you know his words were true.

you know you're hated by everybody, why else would damian be the exception to that hatred for an individual so unwanted like you?

it's shameful of you, it's terrible of you. you're a waste of space, a waste of air, a waste of life that you scream: about wanting to die, about wishing you were never born in the first place because everyone hates you.

damian, whom you thought made you an exception, hates you.

he hates you, he hates you so, so much and he admits to only tolerating you, everyone only tolerates you.

and he hates you.

— he doesn't.

it doesn't take much for him to drag you out of that stall, pin you down on the floor when he sees a blade on your dominant hand, inches away from drawing out blood from your wrist, from landing on a vein and slicing mercilessly like your life doesn't matter.

— like you don't matter to him.

it doesn't take much to shove that piece of metal away and onto another empty stall, far away from your reach, as he finds himself heaving on top of you, his arms pinning down your wrists to stop you from hurting yourself, legs locked on your waist to ground you even further, as he finds unfamiliar panic rise in his throat at— at that.

at your disregard for your life, at how he could've been the reason he's lost you.

when he returns to his senses, when he sees your disbelief on your poor, sunken eyes, hollowed, tear-stricken cheeks. when your attempts at kicking him, at the muscles on his thighs wouldn't do you any good, you're forced to return his heartbroken gaze towards you, forced to feel every shiver racking from his body.

how his fingertips would press deeper on your wrists, how he gulps in a patterned succession, how you never really see someone like damian be so utterly wrecked, even more-so than you that another tear escapes your waterline, your eyes closing in resignation, ignoring the way his head has slowly been lowering itself to you.

until the tip of his nose touches yours, nuzzles against it even, until you open your eyes and find his face so intimately close with yours, his warm breath hitting your skin clashing with the cold feel of the clean tiles. you can see every imperfection littering his skin: the split on his lips, the slit at his brows, those brilliant eyes greener than emeralds; wide, imposing, looking at you and only you.

"wh—!"

"don't you even dare do that again, (name)."

his right hand releases its harsh grip on your wrist, making way to cup your face whilst his face only moves closer, so close you could almost feel his disheveled hair touching your forehead, his lips nearly slotting with yours, almost feel your chest fuse with his— hear the thumping in his chest match your own heartbeat. when his palms move to touch your chin, thumb nimbly pressing itself on your cracked lips, he releases a tsks, swiping away at the blood as he brings it up to his lips to taste it.

you can only watch in breathless awe as his tongue licks away at the remaining blood, his eyes still plastered on you, glaring, squinting as he waits for your reply in bated breaths. the fingers from his other hand pinning you down eventually tangles with yours, calloused palms warm, refusing to let go; his other hand, meanwhile, returns to your face,

you can't comprehend the gears churning on his otherwise stoic expression, but you can tell from how his brows subtly furrow, that he's probably irritated, or nitpicking you like some specimen. you don't know, you can't tell, you're still... still experiencing the withdrawals of your wasted tears easlier, unable to understand the brewing desperation in damian's chest.

(and you can't exactly imagine the exact process going on in his mind. you can't picture someone like damian trying his damned best to not kiss your pretty face while you're on the floor with him right now. how he wants to feel your chapped lips pressing deeply against his own moist one, for you to taste the chapstick on him that you lovingly complimented him using one day; what it would feel like for his face to fuse so closely with yours until he could feel his eyelashes batting on your own— he can't, not while the restroom's doors are unlocked and he wouldn't want to share that intimately passionate moment with anyone else but you, and not while he can see the fading colors of yellows and blue splotched on your eyes that he once clumsily dismissed as imagination).

"tell me what happened," he bluntly demands, a grunt reverberating from deep in his throat. he's becoming more and more like his father these days, he notes to himself, but he can't deny how effective the intimidation factor is when he sees your eyes widen, knows he's gotten you right where he wants you to, when those precious orbs would flitter somewhere else in hesitation—

"(name)," this time, he calls more domineeringly, shifts in his leaning position just so that his face would be even closer to yours than it already possibly is — to the point you can smell peppermint and hints of that tea he loves to drink during early morning break time — yet you refuse to share eye contact with him, looking away, drowning out the sound of his heavy intakes of air; afraid, possibly, of the consequences if you were to confess how those friends of his loved to torment you in more ways than one—

no, you'd rather nobody knows about how truly weak you were, not even the person you proclaimed as your own friend.

those people would push your body to the walls of the campus' main building, uncaring if it inflicts bruises all over your body. they'd take your belongings, record you begging on your knees that they won't hurt you, and they'll fucking bash your face against the surface of the nearby garbage bin once they discover you're short on cash to pay enough for a day where they won't bother you.

you don't want him to worry about someone like you, who already caused him enough irritation. and if it means masking this stupid weakness of yours with artificial confidence, then you'll fake it 'til you make it.

that's what you're good at, that's what makes you survive in this world.

at least, that's what you thought until damian eventually had enough, clamps his thumb and index fingers on the sides of your face to force you to look him straight in the eyes, still unyielding from his position. you can't exactly move, you don't have anything else to distract you from damian nearly breathing down on your neck, and you don't know why he's so insistent on finding out what's wrong with someone he oh-so obviously despises.

"i—" he sighs before you could get a word in, like he's predicted an excuse to befall from your tongue, warm fingers gently grazing your cheeks, eyes still focused on your befuddled face.

"... fine, if you wish not to tell me..." his fingers stop mapping your face, thumb settling on the marred bruising on your right eyes, feeling the way you wince at even the slightest of contact. he can feel his adrenaline spike, the anger boiling right beneath the seams of his fingertips, ready to inflict pain and suffering on whomever dared to touch you.

because with just how avoidant you are of discussing the issue with him— that means it's someone else who caused these injuries on you, someone idiotic enough to mess with him of all people.

"... i will find out myself, and i will impose the proper punishment on those... those sub-humans who dared touch what is mine."

"wh- what do you mean—?" it's the first time he hears you talk without that grating pitch in your voice, the first time he hears that airy disposition that comes out in your most vulnerable moments; shit, he swears by the world that he'll protect this side of you from anyone who dares it away from him.

"i mean what i said. you are mine."

"so do not take my previous words to heart, i never meant it, i never meant to hurt you, habibi/habibti."

you're frozen in place as he sighs again, shakes his head, moves up so that his lips could kiss your temples, then it trails down to your cheeks, all the way to your heated ears. he mutters an apology in his mother tongue, you know because he mutters it with a pout during the times when his strength was too much, when he'd accidentally deliver an all-too powerful strike on your body that one time when you'd attempt to wake him up the first time you witnessed him sleeping in classes; and you can't tell the exact words, but it sounds like poetry, like silken honey dripping down on your thoughts.

all you can do is nod, which garners a kiss on the shell of your ears, before he ultimately shares another stare down with you.

"i am your boyfriend now," he declares, like it's some unbreakable law with no loops to escape from, "and because i am yours, and you are mine, that means i have every right to find the people who hurt my beloved, i have every right to deal the necessary pain towards anything that hurts you."

"you do not have to pretend around me anymore, do you understand?"

somehow, some way, the only thing you can plaster up right now is a shaky hum and your own fingers cupping his cheeks — the action alone caused tingles to erupt from his spine, and he swears it's like magic, your touch — afraid to reject him after he's practically confessed to you... which was enough.

enough for him to seal the deal, to finally slot his warm lips on yours, eyes closed, on the clean, restroom floors, sealing the deal.

you can only return the passion ten fold, when you realize just how devoid you are of human contact.

and that's when it clicks— how much he means it, how much he's deeply in love with you, with this persona of yours and the real you.

how he's willing to make an exception as long as it was you.

damian never expected already having planned his wedding vows to the likes of someone like you, someone so terribly foul-mouthed, that in some strange, twist of the world, he ends up falling in love real hard for you.

day by day.

he ends up falling for you when he's the only one you show your true colors to: someone vulnerable, someone who reflects the past him, someone who didn't have anyone to correct your mistakes.

he loves that version of you, he loves it when he is your exception, too.

to the point that when you eventually returned to your old persona, when you go off into another insufferable tangent— when someone rolls their eyes at you, or when someone opens their mouth to rebut and tell you to, for once, shut your fucking trap; somehow, this guy who used to glare daggers at you during chem classes, who would dig his fingers on your shoulders as a warning that it's not even the time to talk—

he was now actively defending your statements with all his passion, no matter how ridiculously ear grating, unrealistic, downright egotistical it may sound. those people would end up with dirt dug up on them, suspended, sometimes even expelled. his old "friends" were no exceptions once he realized they were the reason for your bruises, from when they pushed your body and beaten you black and blue from behind the campus' main building; they were thoroughly dealt with, efficiently, silently.

they were no more.

and just as quickly as he defends you, you're both now renounced as the gotham u's most untouchable couple. professors couldn't possibly attempt to expel any one of you because your behavior conducts, paired with damian being oddly professional with dealing the people who'd talk you down, doesn't truly disrupt anything.

... or at least, that is what everyone convinces themselves out of fear that they'd tick you off and they'll be victimized by another one of damian's threats.

'cause in the end, you did end up being chosen by, quite possibly, the worst contender for your own attention seeking method of gaining affection.

in the end, you're the only exception.

no matter how insufferable you may be.

a/n: if this flops, i will cry and then disappear some more /j also, june 16 is again & again's one year anniversary, and i have writer's block 😭🙏 that's the worse nerfing in one of my most special occasions. anyways, don't mind the subpar writing, i wrote this on a whim since i just got a random burst of inspiration but it's not the best i have so far because again, writer's block. apologies for this 😔✊ it's genuinely so bad but it's what i can only produce rn.

#🌷... yael's works #🧁... yael's misc.#yandere damian wayne #yandere robin #yandere dc #yandere dc comics #yandere batfam #yandere damian wayne x reader #romantic yandere #soft yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x male reader #yandere x female reader #yandere x gn reader #yandere angst #yandere fluff #yandere #yandere x y/n

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plasticflowersinahistorycemetery · 23 days ago

Text

no saints in safehouses

content warning/s & word count: 18+!!!, first and foremost—ben is his own warning here because jesus christ, language and swearing, misogyny, violence, threats, spitting, smut (kissing, biting, oral/cunnilingus, throat-fucking, fingering, unprotected p in v, threat of p in a, spanking, overstim, coming on face, ben being mean, reader has an implied breeding kink), manhandling, degradation, gentle humiliation, mocking, i believe that's it. 6.4k

The safehouse door slammed shut behind you with a rusted metal groan, the sound sharp and final—like a lid sealing on a coffin.

You dropped your bag at the threshold without looking back. Your shoulder was bleeding again—torn wide when the mission started unravelling, torn wider when he got involved. You hadn’t even wrapped it. Couldn’t stand the thought of asking him for help. Would rather bleed out on the floor than let him touch you.

The air in the safehouse was sour. Sweat, smoke, old rot behind the walls. A single naked bulb dangled from the ceiling, flickering every few seconds like it couldn’t decide whether to expose or protect.

Behind you: boots. Slow. Heavy. Cocky.

You heard him exhale like he was bored. Like this whole thing—the mission, the mess, you—was just another inconvenience.

“Y’know…” he drawled, voice low and lazy, like he was savouring the words before spitting them into your spine, “He’s not wrong.”

You didn’t turn around.

“Butcher,” he added, in case you needed clarity. “You heard him. Said we’re a liability. Said we fucked it.”

You still didn’t move. The pain in your shoulder pulsed in time with your heartbeat. You could feel him behind you—close enough that your skin prickled.

“What was it he said again? Somethin’ like—‘get the fuck back to base before you fuck everything else up, yeah?’” He snorted. “Fuckin’ poetry.”

You turned slowly. Deliberate. Controlled. Like you hadn’t been burning the entire way back.

Ben leaned against the table like he owned it. Like he owned everything. His shirt was open at the collar, sleeves rolled, streaks of blood dried on his forearms. A cut split the corner of his mouth, barely crusted over. He looked like hell. He looked smug as sin.

“This your way of apologising?” You asked flatly.

He grinned.

“For what? Havin’ to drag your sorry ass out of the crossfire?” He tipped his chin toward you, voice soft and sharp. “You’re the one who decided to break off formation, sweetheart. You’re the one who thought she knew better. As usual.”

“You were supposed to be on my six.”

“I was,” he said, with a smirk that could rot teeth. “But your head’s so far up your own ass, you probably couldn’t see straight.”

You took a step forward.

“Don’t fucking talk to me.”

“Why not?” He tilted his head, mock-confused. “Scared I’ll say somethin’ you don’t wanna hear?” He clicked his tongue. “Or scared I’ll say somethin’ you do?”

He pushed off the table and started toward you, boots deliberate, like he was giving you time to flinch.

You didn’t.

“Touch me and I’ll gut you.”

He laughed. Full-bellied. Loud in the cramped space.

“Jesus Christ. Every time. You get that little snarl in your voice and think it makes you dangerous. But sweetheart—” He closed the distance, close enough to smell the blood drying on his skin. “—you don’t scare me. You get me hot.”

You flinched before you could stop yourself. And he noticed.

“That’s right,” he said, voice dipped low like a secret, like a threat. “Say my name like it don’t hurt you to come out that pretty, wet little mouth.”

“I’d rather chew glass.”

“Don’t tempt me. I’d still fuck you with blood on your teeth.”

Your hand twitched toward your blade.

He saw it. Didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.

“What are you gonna do?” He asked, voice husky with mock concern. “Stab me?”

He leaned in. “C’mon, baby. Don’t tease. You and I both know you ain't gonna do shit.”

You shoved him.

It was instinctive, desperate, not meant to land so much as buy space—but he didn’t budge. Didn’t stumble. He just looked down at the spot where your hands had hit his chest. Then up.

Then smiled.

“There she is,” he murmured. “My little junkyard dog. All bark. No bite.”

You punched him. Hard. Right across the face.

His head jerked sideways with the impact. And for a moment—blessed silence.

Then he licked the blood from his lip and grinned.

“That all you got?”

You went for him again. This time he blocked it. Then the other.

You were shaking. Breathing too fast. You didn’t care. Your shoulder screamed, your vision burned—but you kept swinging. He caught your wrist. Twisted. Pressed you back against the table.

His face hovered over yours, grinning like a devil that just found a loophole.

“Always a mean little bitch under all that scowling,” he rasped, his breath hot against your cheek. “Now what? You gonna hit me again…”

His other hand slid across your hip, slow, possessive.

“…or you gonna fuckin’ kiss me?”

You shoved him—hard.

This time, Ben moved. His ass slammed against the table’s edge with a thud, the sound loud in the breathless space between you. The legs screeched against the concrete floor, the flickering bulb above swaying ever so slightly from the shift.

He didn’t look angry. He looked delighted.

That fucking smirk twisted across his split lip like sin incarnate. His eyes tracked your movements lazily, like he was watching a predictable game play out exactly as he'd imagined.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” you snapped, voice low, warning-laced, vibrating with the kind of rage that tasted like blood at the back of your throat.

He tilted his head. “Ohhh,” he said slowly, savouring the shape of the sound like a fine cigar. “Feisty now, huh?”

Your chest heaved. Your shoulder throbbed. The sleeve of your jacket was soaked through, blood soaking the fabric where the wound still wept. You didn’t care. Not now. Not when he stood there like every word that had ever left your mouth was just foreplay.

“You are a walking piece of shit, Hargrove,” you hissed, each syllable laced with months of bitter frustration. “Every time you open your mouth, it’s like someone scraped the bottom of a fucking urinal and taught it to speak.”

He barked out a laugh, loud and cruel, cutting across your words like a blade. “C’mon, sweetheart. You can do better than that.”

You didn’t stop. Couldn’t.

“You’re a liability. A danger to your own team. You’re not a soldier—you’re a relic. Washed-up and bitter and desperate for someone to look at you like you’re still relevant—”

“There she goes,” he said, louder now, over you. His tone dripped with amusement, his grin all teeth. “God, you run that mouth like it’s gonna win you a medal.”

“Shut the fuck up and let me finish!”

“Why?” He shrugged. “You only like hearin’ yourself talk?”

Your vision blurred, fury red-hot behind your eyes. You didn’t even realise how close you’d stepped until you felt his breath ghosting across your lips.

“You think this is funny?” You hissed. “You ruin everything you touch. Every mission, every team—you tank it. Because you can’t handle anyone not looking at you like you’re a fucking god.”

He didn’t flinch. If anything, he looked pleased. “And yet you keep comin’ back,” he murmured. “Can’t help yourself. Bet you lie awake wonderin’ if I’m thinkin’ about you. Wantin’ me to.”

You scoffed, but his grin widened.

“Hate to break it to you, honey, but you ain't special. You're just easy.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“Nah. I'm honest.” He stepped in close, voice dropping to a murmur. “Y’know what your real problem is? You don’t know your fuckin’ place.”

You blinked. Something in your spine stiffened. That sick-slick tension tightened between your ribs.

“Back in my day,” he continued, slow and deliberate, “girls like you weren’t out in the field. You were fuckin’ dinner entertainment. Something soft to come home to. Not stompin’ around, actin’ like your tits and your tantrums count as tactical advantage.”

Your nails bit into your palms. He kept going.

“You wanna play soldier so bad, but you can’t even keep your emotions in check. Bleedin’ all over the floor and yellin’ like a brat who didn’t get her way.”

“I am ten times the asset you’ll ever be—” you began, but he cut you off again.

“Sweetheart, the only asset you got is between your fuckin’ legs.”

Silence fell. Ugly. Hot.

Then you spit.

Right into his face.

It landed just beneath his eye, slid slow and gleaming down his cheek to where his jaw tensed. He didn’t wipe it away. Didn’t blink.

Then, fast as a whipcrack, he lunged.

His hand snapped up and clamped around your jaw with bruising force, fingers digging into the soft parts of your cheeks, thumb pressing into the hinge like he was daring it to break. He squeezed hard enough to make your lips part, to force your chin upward until your eyes had nowhere to go but him.

You jerked, tried to wrench away, but he held you firm. Unyielding.

“Don’t waste your fuckin’ spit like that,” he growled.

His breath was hot. His face inches from yours, that cut on his lip glistening red and wet.

“You got no idea how many men would’ve dropped you where you stand for that.”

He paused, then smiled. A slow, filthy thing.

“But not me.” His voice rasped low, reverent in the worst way. “Nah. I like you like this. All mouth and no plan. Lookin’ at me like you wanna kill me and come on my cock at the same time.”

You tried to speak, and he tightened his grip. The ache bloomed instantly, your jaw locked in place.

“Don’t. Speak.”

His eyes roamed over your face, dark and gleaming with something feral.

“You’re not gonna say anything I haven’t already jerked off to.”

Your jaw ached in his grip, cheeks squeezed between his calloused fingers, lips parted just enough for breath to pass—but nothing else. He held you there like a fucking trophy, his thumb rough against your skin, his smirk rotting through your bloodstream like venom.

You could hear yourself breathing. Could hear him breathing. Close and sharp and slow. Measured, like he was savouring the scent of your unraveling.

You hated the silence. Because in the silence—you felt it.

The throb. Low and dark, blooming in your gut like a bruise. Not from rage. Not from shame.

From want.

And it hit you like a slap.

No.

No, no, no.

Your pulse pounded hard against your ribs. Your body buzzed like it had just realised what kind of man had you pinned. What kind of voice was in your ear. What kind of fingers were on your jaw.

And that—that’s what made your stomach twist. Because somewhere in the middle of all the hate and heat and violence—

You were getting wet.

You scowled. Tried to pull back. But Ben’s grip didn’t loosen. Instead, his smile stretched into something even worse.

“Ohhh,” he crooned, soft and vicious, “there it is.”

You froze. Heart lurching.

“That little squirm,” he said. “Took you a minute, huh? Thought you were gonna keep up the act a little longer.”

You growled in your throat, furious, but he just kept going.

“Should’ve known. All that righteous little rage—” he leaned in, voice dipping like a secret, “—was just your pussy tryin’ to negotiate terms.”

You twisted in his grip, but he followed you like a shadow.

“Bet you’re soaked. Hatin’ every second of it. Poor thing.”

“I’m gonna kill you,” you hissed.

He ignored it.

“What is it?” He murmured. “The voice? The muscles? Or is it the fact I treat you like a fuckin’ dumb little girl who doesn’t belong on the field?”

You spat again—but this time, you missed. It hit his collarbone, slid down his bare chest where his shirt wasn't fully done up.

He chuckled darkly.

“Temper, temper.”

Then you bit him. Hard.

Your teeth sank into the curve where his shoulder met his neck, the tang of his sweat hitting your tongue like copper and salt. You heard him grunt—deep and involuntary—but he didn’t pull away. If anything, his hand tightened on your jaw, holding you there like he wanted the pain.

You pulled back and glared up at him, lips slick with spit and rage.

“You are not fucking me,” you snapped.

Ben didn’t blink.

“No?” He said, voice sharp with laughter, laced with something darker beneath it.

Then his hand dropped low, low enough to brush between your legs, just for a second, just enough for him to feel the heat there.

His eyes lit up.

“Well I ain’t fuckin’ the hole in your shoulder, sweetheart.”

You slapped him.

The sound snapped through the room like the crack of a whip. His face turned with the force of it—but his smile stayed. Wider now. Red glistened on his lip where your palm had split it further, curling into the corner of his mouth like a badge of honour.

And still—he laughed. Low and steady, like he was enjoying this more than anything that had come before.

“Still got fight,” he rasped. “God, I fuckin’ love that.”

He stepped forward again, forcing you back until your spine met the rough cinderblock wall. His body caged yours, broad and radiating heat, his breath ragged but measured like he was controlling it just to make a point.

His hand landed on your hip. Possessive. Heavy.

“You’re burnin’ up,” he murmured. “Tryna hide it, but you’re meltin’ for it. I can feel it. You’re pulsin’.”

You sneered. “You’re hallucinating.”

He laughed again, but there was a tension coiled beneath it now. Something tight and hungry and climbing.

His fingers dragged slowly up your thigh, the heat of them searing through the fabric. He didn’t go high enough to touch anything worth touching—but close. So close. Just enough to make your skin buzz and crawl.

“You always get this hot when you’re mad, or is it just for me?”

You turned your face away.

That smug fucking tone. That condescension. That voice.

Your body hated you for it. You hated you for it.

He leaned in until his mouth grazed the edge of your jaw, his lips brushing skin with infuriating softness. His stubble scraped, and your breath hitched—just once.

He heard it.

“C’mon,” he said, softer now. Dangerous. “Stop fightin’ it, baby.”

You clenched your teeth.

“I’m not—” you started, but he cut you off with a groan that was almost frustrated.

“Jesus. You are the most stubborn little fuckin’ thing I’ve ever met.” His palm pressed flat against your stomach now, not moving higher, not yet. “I’m right here. You know it. I feel you, sweetheart.”

He pressed his hips against yours.

You felt it—his arousal, straining against his pants, heavy and hot and very, very there.

And still—your jaw locked.

He chuckled again, but this time it was quieter. Rougher. His lips ghosted over your ear.

“You ain’t gotta beg,” he murmured. “Don’t gotta say please.”

He nipped your earlobe, and you flinched.

“But fuck,” he breathed, “I want you to. Just once. Just a fuckin’ whimper of it.”

His other hand came up and gripped the back of your neck, dragging your head back against the wall, making you look at him.

“Just gimme somethin’,” he growled. “Let me have it.”

You stared up at him, eyes defiant, chest heaving, lips trembling with a fury you couldn’t name. His pupils were blown, jaw tight, sweat beading at his temple.

“You want me to say it?” You whispered.

He nodded, once. Jaw ticking.

You leaned forward, lips almost brushing his.

“No.”

His eyes flared. Just for a moment. Then his forehead hit the wall beside your head with a hollow thunk.

“Fuckin’ tease,” he growled, nearly breathless. “Goddamn little—”

You kissed him.

Or maybe he kissed you. It didn’t matter. Because suddenly—there were no more words. Only teeth. Tongue. Pressure. Only hands everywhere, dragging, grabbing, bruising. Only the sound of your breath punched out of your lungs as he pinned you harder, like he wanted to break something open just to see what spilled out.

And still—you didn’t beg. Not once.

His mouth was on yours, hot and hungry and entirely too satisfied with itself. He kissed like he fought—with dominance, with grit, with absolutely no care for anyone’s breath but his own. Your teeth clashed, tongues fighting for control, every gasp turning into another insult.

“I fuckin’ knew you wanted it,” he muttered against your lips, breath ragged, voice ruined. “God, you’re such a fuckin’ prick tease sometimes.”

You bit his bottom lip, hard enough to make him grunt. “Shut the fuck up,” you panted, fingers already yanking at his half-undone shirt.

He growled—deep and primal—grabbing the hem of your top and pulling it over your head like it’d personally offended him. You barely had time to toss it aside before his hands were on your tits, greedy and rough and everywhere.

Between kisses, between moans, between muttered curses, you were tearing at his belt, yanking and fumbling, both of you shaking with urgency.

“Fuckin’ finally,” he hissed, snapping the leather free. “Gonna ruin you.”

“You already have,” you spat.

His grin split wider. “Aww, baby. That almost sounded like a compliment.”

Then he went for your pants.

And froze.

You were kicking off your boots, halfway done when he huffed—truly, violently irritated.

“Fuck this shit,” he barked.

Before you could speak, his arms wrapped around your waist and he spun you—fast, like the air was thick with smoke and he didn’t have time to be gentle.

You barely got your hands out to brace yourself before your hips hit the edge of the table and you were slammed down onto your front.

“Hargrove—” you started.

He didn’t listen.

Didn’t care.

His hand wrapped around your waistband and in one brutal, fluid motion, he ripped your pants and underwear clean down the back of your legs, the fabric tearing with a shriek and hitting the floor like surrender.

“Are you fucking serious?! I liked those pants!”

He grabbed a fistful of your hair, just enough to tilt your head back.

“Shut your fuckin’ mouth.”

Then he dropped to his knees.

You barely had time to process the shift before his hands gripped your ass and spread you, and his whole face pressed in like he was trying to suffocate between your thighs.

And then—his mouth.

“Oh fuck—”

The first lick was devastating. Broad and slow, from your clit to your dripping entrance, and then back again, like he was learning you.

Then came the second—filthier. Sloppier. Louder.

“Jesus Christ,” he groaned, voice muffled in your cunt. “You taste like a fuckin’ war crime.”

You choked on a laugh and a moan at once, half turning to glare over your shoulder.

“Don’t flatter yourself—”

But he growled—deep—and sucked your clit into his mouth like he was punishing it. You almost collapsed.

“Shut up,” he muttered against you. “Just fuckin’ take it.”

Then he really started working.

Tongue pressed flat, then curling. Lapping and sucking and moaning like he’d gone feral. One hand keeping you spread, the other sliding down your thigh, gripping tight enough to bruise.

“You hear that?” He said, pulling back just long enough to spit onto your pussy and spread it with two fingers. “That squelch? That’s you, baby. Drippin’ all over my fuckin’ face.”

His mouth dove back in, and this time, he added teeth.

You cried out. His name. A curse. Maybe both.

He laughed into you. “That’s right. Fuckin’ mess. And you act like you’re not into it.”

You tried to push up, to speak, but he slapped your ass—hard—and buried his tongue deep again, humming like it was the best goddamn meal he’d ever had.

“Keep that mouth shut and let me eat, sweetheart,” he growled, voice wrecked. “You’re so fuckin’ wet I could drown in it.”

And he wanted to. You could feel it—in the way he moved. Desperate. Devoted. Obscene.

You were moaning. Panting. Swearing. But even now—still, now—you were running your fucking mouth.

His tongue had been buried in you for what felt like hours. Alternating between lapping, sucking, biting—his face drenched, his groans constant, hands gripping your thighs like a lifeline.

And you? You were taking it. You were suffering for it. But not quietly.

“You sound like a dog,” you hissed, voice breathless, broken, but still smug. “Fucking mutt. Bet you’d hump my leg if I let you.”

He growled into your cunt. You gasped. But the grin was still there, stretching across your face like sin.

“You’re pathetic, Hargrove,” you whispered. “Fucking starving like you haven’t had pussy in—”

His voice rumbled, low and sharp: “Shut your mouth.”

But you didn’t. Couldn’t.

“Can’t get enough, huh? Pathetic little—”

“I swear to God, sweetheart—” His breath was ragged, trembling with something dangerous. “I will fuck that pretty throat if you don’t stop talkin’.”

You arched your back and laughed, breathless and triumphant.

“Aww,” you taunted, “Did I bruise your ego?”

That was it.

He moved. In a blur of strength and heat and fury, he grabbed your waist and lifted you clean off the floor. You yelped, legs kicking reflexively as your spine hit the table, your head dangling off the far side.

The world flipped upside down.

“Hargrove—what the fu—”

Your words were cut off by the weight of him—thick and hot and full, his cock driving into your mouth so deep your vision sparked.

Your throat convulsed.

He hissed through clenched teeth, head thrown back, arms braced over the table as he held you there.

“Fuck—told you.” His voice cracked, breath rattling through the growl. “I fuckin’ warned you,” he groaned, thrusting slowly, deeply, into your throat while your eyes watered and your fingernails dug into the edges of the table.

“Run that fuckin’ mouth one more time,” he panted, his hips grinding deeper with every word, “and I’ll use it just like this every goddamn time.”

He wasn’t pulling back.

Just shallow rocks of his hips, grinding against the back of your throat while he looked down at your body bent over the table like a goddamn feast.

And then?

His fingers slid between your legs again. Without warning. Two of them. Deep.

You choked—hard—around him as his fingers curled exactly where they needed to, dragging slick out of you like he wanted to make it messier.

Your whole body spasmed.

“You feel that?” He rasped, breath shuddering. “Goddamn. You’re squeezin’ my fingers like a fuckin’ vice.”

He groaned again—shaky, hot, fucked-out.

“Jesus, baby… and you were talkin’ like you didn’t want this.”

His free hand cradled your throat now—thumb pressed against the bulge of his cock visible in your neck, feeling himself inside you.

His eyes rolled back.

“Christ, your fuckin’ throat was made for me.”

You tried to move. Couldn’t.

Every breath you dragged in was him. Every sound was slick and gasped and obscene—the wet noise of his fingers plunging into your soaked cunt, the slap of his hips against your lips, the throb of your core twitching around his hand.

He laughed again—wrecked, barely holding on.

And you were still fighting it. Still glaring through tear-lined lashes, still gagging and clawing and refusing to break.

But he was gonna make you, even if he had to keep you full at both ends to do it.

He was fucking your throat like it was the last thing on Earth that could save him.

Every roll of his hips was deeper. Slower. Less angry and more delirious, like he’d tipped over into something hot and helpless and consuming.

His fingers were still inside you, working in tandem with his cock down your throat—crooking and twisting like he was testing reactions, mapping you from the inside out. You couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Could barely think.

And he loved it.

You could hear it in the way he was groaning now—drawn-out, fucked-up sounds, torn from deep in his chest. He wasn’t even taunting anymore. He was worshipping.

“Jesus,” he gasped, looking down at you with wild, half-lidded eyes, sweat dripping from his temple. “This mouth. This fuckin’ mouth, sweetheart—"

He thrust again, slow and deep, hips stuttering at the feel of you twitching around him.

“I love it when you spit at me,” he groaned, voice cracking into a soft laugh. “I love it when you snarl like a rabid little fuckin’ animal—”

You gagged around him, throat clenched so tight he moaned.

“God, yeah. When you run that mouth like a spoiled little brat—when you hate me so fuckin’ loud—”

He curled his fingers inside you, deep and slick, pressing down on your front wall—that spongey, gummy, wreck-you spot—like he was playing a damn instrument.

“—and then suck me down like you don’t even need to breathe anymore—fuck—”

Your vision blurred. Everything started spinning. You tapped his thigh once. Twice. Desperate.

His hips froze. His cock still buried in your throat.

“Oh—fuck,” he gasped, already pulling out. “Shit. Sorry, sweetheart—got lost in the fuckin’ moment there.”

He was laughing. A breathless, ragged sound, part apology, part thrill. His eyes were wild with it. Face flushed. Hands shaking.

You gagged as air rushed back into your lungs, coughing, drool trailing down your chin, your mouth gaping as you tried to drag yourself upright.

“Jesus,” you rasped, blinking tears from your lashes. “You’re fucking insane.”

His fingers left you with a wet pull that made you flinch—and he watched it. Watched how your thighs twitched when you were empty again.

He was circling the table now, still breathless, his cock glistening, soaked in spit and flushed angry red.

“Damn right I am,” he said hoarsely, eyes raking down your wrecked body.

Then he gripped your hips and dragged you down the table, rough and fluid, until your ass met the edge and your legs dropped open—slack, shivering.

“C’mon.” His voice was low now. Different. Almost soft. “Lean up. Wanna see those fuckin’ eyes.”

You propped yourself up on your elbows, still gasping, still shaking. But you looked. You watched.

You watched him line up—the head of his cock rubbing through your soaked folds, catching against your clit, then sliding down to your entrance where you were aching to be filled.

He exhaled shakily, mouth falling open.

“God,” he muttered, like a man on the brink. “Look at you.”

One hand on your thigh. The other gripping himself, twitching at the base. He nudged forward again, teasing—not to torture, but because he was savouring.

You locked eyes. He was gone.

“I’m gonna fuckin’ ruin you,” he whispered.

Then he pushed in like he had all the time in the world.

No rush. No brutality.

Just that slow, devastating stretch as his cock split you open—inch by aching inch—like he’d been waiting for this, like he’d earned it. His mouth dropped open when he bottomed out, a filthy groan catching low in his throat.

“Fuck,” he hissed, eyes fluttering shut for just a moment. “You’re so fuckin’ tight. Squeezin’ me like you were made for this.”

Your body arched, mouth falling open in a wordless moan as the table beneath your back creaked. You couldn’t breathe right. Couldn’t think. All you could feel was the weight of him—deep, thick, pulsing inside you—and the heat blooming out from where your bodies met.

And then he started to move.

Slow. Deep. Dragging his cock almost all the way out, then pressing it back in until your walls clenched and fluttered helplessly.

Your head lolled back. Your eyes rolled.

He slapped your thigh—hard.

“Uh-uh.” His voice was tight. Stern. “Eyes on me.”

You blinked, dazed.

He was braced over you, one hand on your thigh, the other fisted beside your hip. His hips rolled forward again—slower this time, deliberate. You moaned. Your eyelids fluttered.

Another sharp slap to your thigh.

“Look. At. Me.” he growled.

You dragged your gaze back to him, jaw slack, lips parted.

“Goddamn,” he rasped, staring down at you like you were an open flame. “Look at that face. Look at what I fuckin’ do to you.”

He rocked in again, groaning as your body clenched around him.

“I love this part,” he muttered. “When you’re still tryin’ to hold it together. Still actin’ like you’re not fallin’ apart.”

You whimpered, and his mouth curled.

“You like this, don’t you?” He crooned, voice thick with filth. “Being pinned open like this. Full. Spread. Watched.”

Your head tipped back again on instinct, eyes slipping shut—

And his hand snapped up, grabbing your jaw.

“No.”

He held your face, fingers digging into your cheeks, forcing you to meet his eyes.

“You don’t get to look away,” he said, voice sharp with heat. “Not when I’m inside you like this. Not when I’m this deep.”

He thrust again, deeper this time—grinding the base of his cock against you so perfectly you cried out.

“That’s it.” He grinned, breath catching. “I wanna see you break.”

Your hands scrambled at the table, nails dragging across the wood. Your thighs were shaking. Every time he bottomed out, your hips jerked, your breath hitched, your chest arched—and he watched. Every. Fucking. Time.

“Don’t you dare close those eyes again,” he warned, still holding your face. “I want to watch what I do to you. Every twitch. Every moan. Every little shiver.”

Your body pulsed around him like it was listening.

And that made him feral.

“Jesus, sweetheart—this pussy,” he groaned, slowing his thrusts again, dragging them out to pure torture. “Grippin’ me like it knows. Like it wants to be ruined.”

Your eyes fluttered again.

He tutted.

“Aw, baby. You tryna be good?” His cock slid deeper. “You wanna be good for me?”

You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. He let your jaw go—just long enough to slap your thigh one more time.

“Christ,” he groaned, hands gripping your thighs like restraints. “Still this fuckin’ tight…”

You felt it every time he bottomed out—hips flush to yours, cock buried so deep you could barely breathe. Your mouth opened on a moan that never quite found its voice, your head tipping back on the table, fingers trembling where they gripped the edge.

His hands moved—one sliding up to press flat against your belly, the other settling on your jaw, thumb grazing your lips like he didn’t know what part of you he wanted to control more.

“Pussy like this should come with a fuckin’ warning,” he muttered, thumb brushing your lower lip. “You feel that? How tight you’re squeezin’ me? It’s fucking perfect.”

You moaned, head tipping back more.

He slapped your thigh. Again. Sharper.

“Nuh-uh. Eyes. On. Me.”

Your gaze dragged back up to meet his—blurry, glassy, wrecked.

He looked devastated. Sweat on his chest. Jaw tight. His green eyes burning down at you like he’d die if you looked away again.

“You keep doin’ that, I’m gonna lose it,” he whispered. “I’m already hangin’ by a fuckin’ thread.”

Your walls clenched around him at the admission. He hissed.

“You like that, don’t you? Bein’ the one who makes me lose my fuckin’ mind.”

His thrusts got deeper, harder. Still slow, still controlled—but barely.

“God, I really do love this fuckin’ mouth,” he panted, staring at your lips now.

You whimpered. Shuddered. Your whole body was tensing.

He could feel it. His fingers reached down, thumb finding your clit, circling in tight, merciless pressure.

“You close?” He asked, voice gone rough and mean.

You nodded, whimpering, trying to say yes. But your throat couldn’t form it.

He stilled.

You cried out, grinding your hips, chasing the friction—anything—but he held you.

“Nope,” he rasped. “You wanna come? You ask.”

Your eyes flared. Fury and arousal crashing like thunder.

He grinned.

“What’s wrong?” He cooed. “Too proud to beg? Thought you were a tough girl.”

You clenched your teeth, panting.

“I can do this all night, sweetheart,” he said, hips grinding deep and slow again, teasing that spot that made your legs twitch. “I’ll keep you right here until you sob for it.”

He pulled back, just enough to make you feel empty. Then slid back in, eyes glued to your face.

“You gonna say it?” He whispered. “Gonna ask me?”

Still, you didn’t. But your eyes were glassy. Your hips were shaking. Your voice was gone.

And then, you said it. Soft. Broken.

“…Ben.”

His name. Your voice.

Everything stopped.

His hands shook. His breath hitched. His head dropped forward with a gasp.

“Oh, fuck…”

He looked at you like he didn’t know what to do with that sound.

“You’ve never…” he whispered. “You’ve never called me that.”

You said it again, even softer.

“Ben…”

And he shattered.

“Fuck, come.” His voice cracked. “Please. Now.”

His thumb pressed down. His hips snapped forward. Your body broke. And the moment it hit the air—

He snapped.

“Fuck—yes, yes, come, come for me—”

His voice fractured around it—command and awe bleeding together like he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. His thumb kept circling your clit, relentless. His cock buried deep. And your body shuddered beneath him.

You came hard. Again. Back arching, mouth open, eyes rolling.

And still— He didn’t stop.

Not even for a second.

He was still fucking you. Driving into your wrecked cunt like he’d been given permission to devour.

You whimpered. Eyes fluttering.

“Ben—”

“Oh, we’re not done,” he breathed, voice wrecked. “Not even close, sweetheart.”

He kissed you. Open-mouthed and filthy. His lips found your jaw, your neck, your shoulder—like he couldn’t decide what part of you to ruin next. His hips never slowed. Each thrust was harder now. Rougher. Every wet slap of his body against yours made you twitch.

You couldn’t breathe right. Couldn’t think. And your body—shaking, overstimulated—begged for mercy you refused to ask for.

Your head tipped back again.

Eyes closed.

Your fatal mistake.

He froze. Just for a second. Then he snapped his hips. Hard. Brutal.

You cried out.

His hand cracked across your thigh. Again.

“Eyes,” he snarled. “The fuck did I say?”

You tried. Blinked. Dragged yourself back to him.

His eyes were wild. Hair damp with sweat. Jaw tight. His cock pulsing deep inside you.

“You look at me when I fuck you.”

He slowed. Just a little. Then slammed into you again, harder than before—making the table creak and your legs twitch.

“Can’t believe you dared to close your fuckin’ eyes again after I warned you.”

“Ben—fuck, I—”

He spit the next words like a threat:

“You do that one more time, and I swear to God, sweetheart— I’ll flip you over, fuck your ass deep, and I won’t let you look at me.”

Your whole body spasmed.

His voice dropped, feral.

“Sound good to you?” He growled. “Want me there next? So every fuckin’ inch of you is mine? So you remember who fuckin’ owns this body?”

You choked on a moan.

He grabbed your face again, forcing your gaze back to his.

“That’s right. Keep those pretty little eyes where they belong.”

He thrust again—hard, fast, filthy. You sobbed. Clenched. He groaned like he was dying. Your thighs were soaked. Your vision blurred. And he was still going. Still holding you wide open.

Still not coming. Because he wanted you broken first.

He was fucking you like he was trying to carve a god out of your body. Relentless. Precise. The kind of rhythm that wasn’t chaos—it was control. Hard-earned. Hard-kept. Just barely contained.

Your thighs were soaked. His cock was dripping. You could feel your own come sliding down the insides of your legs from the last orgasm, and still—he hadn’t let up.

Then—

His pace broke.

He pulled back, hips stuttering as he groaned, “Fuck, I’m close. Fuck—where d’you want it?”

His voice was wrecked. Ragged. Wild. “Your tits? Your stomach? Wanna see it drip off your ass? What, baby—what do you want?”

Your answer was a sob. One word.

“Inside.”

And he stopped cold.

You didn’t even feel his cock anymore—just the sudden absence as he yanked back like you’d burned him.

His hand flew to the base of his cock, fisting it tight to hold himself back.

“Jesus fuck, sweetheart—”

He was breathing hard. Panicked. Laughing like it hurt.

“You can’t—you can’t say shit like that,” he gasped, squeezing himself as precum smeared over his knuckles. “You gotta give a guy warning before you pull that fucking move.”

You whimpered. Barely coherent. “Please…”

He laughed. Laughed like he was losing his mind.

“Oh, no. No, no, no—” he choked, circling around the table like he had to walk it off or he’d blow right then and there.

He looked feral. Cheeks flushed, sweat gleaming on his chest, cock throbbing in his fist.

“Inside?” He echoed, voice hoarse. “Jesus, you really are a little fuckin’ menace.”

You blinked up at him, dazed, mouth open, wrecked in every possible way.

“The last thing either of us needs,” he panted, “is me fuckin’ a baby into you.”

You shivered. Moaned. He grinned wider.

“Can you imagine?” He groaned, twisting his fist at the tip. “Half me and half you? That kid would be fucked. Wouldn’t even make it past the first trimester before startin’ bar fights in the womb.”

He shook his head, still circling, the slap of his fist on his cock echoing through the room.

“Hot in theory, sweetheart. In practice? Not so fuckin’ much.”

He came to a stop at the head of the table. Looked down at you—body blown open, thighs twitching, chest flushed, mouth wet and waiting.

“Back,” he said, pressing a hand to your shoulder. “Down. Now.”

You obeyed. Laid back across the table, head tilted slightly, breathing shallow.

He gripped his cock tighter, leaning over you with that wild grin stretched across his face, his other hand toying with your nipples, rolling and pinching until you gasped.

“Gonna make such a mess of this face,” he whispered.

Your legs spread wider.

He grinned. “That’s my girl.”

Then his hand hovered over your lips.

“Open wide,” he said, voice low.

You did.

He spit. Heavy. Wet. Right into your mouth.

“For earlier, you little fucker,” he muttered, eyes glittering.

You moaned around it. Swallowed. Smiled.

He groaned. “Jesus Christ, you liked that.”

Then—he slapped your cheek, light, teasing. The kind of touch that said mine.

“Here it fuckin’ comes, baby,” he panted, jerking faster now. “Open wider. C’mon.”

You looked up at him. Eyes glossy. Lips parted.

He groaned loud. “Good girl.”

And then—

He came. Hot. Thick. Everywhere. Over your tongue, your chin, your cheeks, your fucking soul. And when he was done, he stumbled. Laughed. Ran a hand through his hair and looked down at you like you’d just ruined him.

Because you had.

author notes: boy, oh boy... i went hard on this one. i need to get fucked like this at the moment, i genuinely believe it would get me out of my own fucking head for five goddamn minutes and then i can just get back on with my life. but alas, i hate all men, and will not go near one, even if it means the dicking of my life. i love ben like this. fucking nasty asshat but so obviously reverent over reader. we live to see it. i also haven't fully proofread this because i'm just delirious from last night, and let's be real, the past few weeks lol. my life is going down the fucking toilet. let me know what y'alls think, please. i need some fucking praise right now. and that isn't even a hint, it's an outright request. all the damn love.

soldier boy/ben taglist: @losers-clvb @bejeweledinterludes @soldiersgirl @bruisedfig @tinas111 @angelicjackles @lunaleah. @mostlymarvelgirl @itshellfire @drakulana @sl33pylilbunny @suckitands33 @nevercameraready @0ccvltism @lyarr24 @podiumackles @spxideyver @ohgodimgoungtodie @paristheonewhoreads @winchestersbgirl @blossomingorchids @sacr1ficialang3l @kaz-2y5-spn @agoodgirlsguidetomakingmencry @bohoooitsme @n3lly-h3artz @ladykitana90 @deangirlsstuff67 @adoredawn @sunnyfuffly @deansbbyx <3

everything taglist: @bejeweledinterludes @angelicjackles @losers-clvb @blossomingorchids @tinas111 @lunaleah @drakulana @sacr1ficialang3l @mostlymarvelgirl @bohoooitsme @n3lly-h3artz @deangirlsstuff67 @ambiguous-avery @deansbeer @angrydragon90 <3

#pfiahc writes #my writing #soldier boy fanfiction #soldier boy smut #soldier boy fic #soldier boy x reader #soldier boy x you #soldier boy x female reader #the boys smut #the boys fanfic #the boys x female reader #the boys x you #the boys x reader

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pebblegalaxy · 2 years ago

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The Bazee.com Legal Battle: Intermediary Liability, Online Platforms, and Free Speech

The Bazee.com Controversy: Avnish Bajaj’s Arrest and the Freedom of Online Marketplaces In the early 2000s, the world witnessed the rapid growth of e-commerce and online marketplaces. One such platform, Bazee.com, later known as eBay.in, became a household name in India. However, the company and its CEO, Avnish Bajaj, found themselves embroiled in a highly controversial legal battle that raised…

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#Avnish Bajaj #Bazee.com #content moderation #E-commerce #eBay.in #Free Speech #India #Indian Penal Code #Information Technology Act #intermediaries #intermediary liability #legal battle #Liability #obscenity #online marketplace #Online Marketplaces #Supreme Court #user-generated listings

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lulualuana · 15 days ago

Text

Chains

Older Boyfriend!Leon Kennedy x fem!reader

synopsis: Leon looks damn good with a chain on and you're not afraid to let him know you think that

content warnings: MDNI!, reader is feral, a little (lot) self-indulgent, older leon, Leon's kinda whipped but so are you, p in v sex, unprotected sex (wrap that thing yall!), creampie

word count: 3k+

notes: I started writing and didn't stop ( i really like chains, can you tell) since this is 'fic lengthed' i guess this counts as my first real fic.. woooo

enjoy?

Leon was never a jewelry kind of guy. It always proved a liability on missions, and being honest, he was the type to lose a ring if he had one.

However, after begrudgingly retiring (something about being too old and past his working prime, whatever the fuck that is), he has since broadened his horizons. After an overly long debate over whether silver or gold suited his skin tone, he settled for a simple silver ring, barely noticeable yet stylish. So very him. He thought that was all he needed.

And then he met you. Sweetest girl he's ever had the fortune of fucking and turning into his girlfriend, and you loved jewelry, had a door sized organizer for just the amount of earrings you owned. A little obsessive, but cute he supposes.

While he marveled at how much jewelry you owned, you marveled at how little he had. So much wasted potential, or so you said. In your words exactly, he ‘could’ve broken a lot more hearts in his youth if he had his ears pierced or a chain’. He wasn’t particularly sure if that was a compliment or not, but he took it as one.

Given that, it was no surprise that on your one year anniversary, you shoved a little green box in his hands, smiling wide when he blinked at you. "Open it," was all you said, and so he did. A simple silver chain rested in the box, a gift from you to him. You told him now he can break your heart, even if he’s not young anymore. (Of course this was followed by a warning of being castrated if he actually did break your heart) It warmed his little old heart. You could've given him trash and he still would've swooned, really, but he liked it.

What he didn’t expect was just how much you liked it, and boy did you like it.

There was something almost feral about how you got once he put on that chain. It scared him a little… You hung around him more, both literally and figuratively. You were in his personal bubble a lot more than you used to be and that was saying something, your eyes lingering on him a touch longer than they used to. He swore he saw your eyes sparkling once or twice while he had it on.

He recalls two specific instances that made it obvious you just maaaaybe had a thing for chains. Aside from the fact that you littered his neck with hickies that same night right along where the chain sat…

The first being the one morning he finally decided he needed to shave a little. A certain someone was complaining and crying about beard burn so it was time for a full shave. He had taken the chain off for a while, laid it down on his bedside table to be put back on once he was clean shaven. He thought nothing of it until you came into the bathroom to grab something, full-on stopping and staring at him for a disturbingly long minute. You were more so staring at his neck, actually..

"Where is it?" You asked, to which Leon raised an eyebrow at you in the reflection of the mirror. "Where's what, angel?" He asked back, turning his attention back to himself as he shaved off the last patch of stubble on his jaw.

"Your chain," you specified, stepping closer to Leon and circling him, a furrow between your brows as you inspected his neck a little too closely. "Where is it?"

He catches you by the cheeks in your flurry, squeezing you playfully before letting you go and bending over to wash away the excess shaving cream on his face. “By the bed,” he answers casually, humming over the sound of the running water. “Didn’t want to get a bunch of hair in it. Why?” You don’t answer, lips quirked into an odd pout while you grabbed what you initially came for. “I like it better when it’s on,” you mumbled as you walked back out, Leon giving you a sort of odd look on the way.

He didn’t think much of it because right after he was done he put it back on and your peace seemed restored, but he should’ve known. No normal person pouts over a chain being off for no more than 30 minutes, right? He decided to brush it off until the second incident. The one that practically forced the truth down his throat.

You had come home late after being out with your friends. Leon decided to kick back and relax with a movie on while he waited up for you. You told him you were having a few drinks and he wanted to make sure he was awake to take care of you if needed. Like a good boyfriend should.

He was all nice and comfy with his arm stretched over the back of the couch when you came in, toeing off your heels and immediately letting down your hair from the cute style you had it in before as you wandered over to where Leon was, flopping down onto the couch beside him. “‘m so sick of going out, I want to stay in for the rest of my life,” you grumbled, resting your head on his shoulder.

He chucked in response, combing his fingers through your hair to smooth it out a little. “You could never be a homebody, angel. You’d go insane within the first hour.” You frown a little before shutting your eyes, deciding that not responding makes his statement less true than it really was.

Your lack of a response only makes him laugh more, his hand leaving your hair to instead pinch your cheek. “Not answering because you know I’m right, huh? You’re lucky you’re cute.” You laugh along with him this time, swatting his hand away from your cheek and opening your eyes just to glare at him despite the wide smile on your face. “Or what? What would you do if I wasn’t cute?”

Leon hums, tilting his head side to side in deep thought. “I don’t know.. Probably kick you out,” he jokes, the smile on his face growing wider when you gasp in mock offense. You playfully swat at his chest as he laughs, laughing with him. “You’d kick me out just because I didn’t answer you? Oh, you’re evil.” You’re still laughing when he pulls you in against his chest, his own laughter rumbling through his chest and into you. “You say that like you have a problem with it, angel.”

“Whatever,” is your final response as you both settle into comfort, the TV providing good background noise for the peace that fell over the both of you. You both take the time to appreciate everything around you. The coziness of the apartment, the warmth of Leon beside you, the glimmer of the chain around his neck….

Leon is jolted from the peace when he feels you, glancing down to catch a glimpse of your finger tracing against the links of the chain around his neck. He can’t help the mildly amused huff that escapes him as he leans his head back against the back of the couch, looking at your face with a single raised eyebrow and a hint of a smile on his lips. “What are you doing, angel?”

You shrug, giving a noncommittal hum. "I dunno'.." Your eyes jump up to his face and then back down to where your finger was. He would’ve believed in the act of nonchalance if not for the deep inhale you take and the way you chew the inside of your cheek, clearly feeling something.

The reaction is enough for Leon to reach up, grabbing you by the cheeks and forcing your gaze onto his. “Alright, what is it? You and this damn chain.” He squeezes your cheeks until your lips pucker, shaking you a little. “You’d think it was your boyfriend and not me with how you act.”

You manage a little frown on your lips at his squeezing, looking off to the side in a sort of flustered avoidance. “I like it,” you answer a little too simply. You glance back over at Leon when you receive silence at your confession, and the look on his face makes you roll your eyes, your frown a lot more like a cute little pout now. “You look really hot with a chain on, okay? Like ‘I can’t help looking at you, and I feel hot everywhere’ kind of hot. Like ‘Victorian man seeing an ankle for the first time’ kind of hot.”

Despite expecting some form of that answer, Leon was still surprised to hear you tell him how you felt about the chain and more surprised to hear that you liked it that much. “Really?” He asks, the skepticism in his voice making your nose scrunch. “Yes really,” you huff, dropping your hand away from its spot on his neck thinking he was poking fun at you.

He already knew what was going through your head. You probably thought that he thought you were weird for it, when in reality it was a little bit of an ego boost.

He clicks his tongue, squeezing your cheeks in a silent demand for your attention again. “Look at me, angel.” When you obey and look his way he gives you a straightfaced look. “It’s cute. You liking this stupid chain that much? That’s real cute, maybe even a little hot. Don’t go thinking you’re weird for something like that.” When you don’t seem to believe his words he sighs, tilting his head.

“Remember that date where we went ice skating and you wore your hair down and those cute heart hoops? I don’t think I’ve ever popped a boner that fast in my life, angel. Seriously.” That manages to pull a smile from you and he smiles back at you, squeezing your cheeks once more before finally letting go of you. “I promise it's mostly normal to like jewelry on someone. Don’t go getting all shy over it.”

You blow out a little huff of air, your hand returning to its place now that your fears of being shamed for your obsession have been curbed. You purse your lips, rubbing the chain back and forth between your fingers. “I don’t just like jewelry on someone. I like jewelry on you. I wouldn’t be this crazy over just anyone.”

Now that boosts Leon’s ego real bad. His smile grows wider as he leans in, pressing his lips against yours in a fleeting kiss. “You really are too cute.”

He hums when you lean back in, pressing back forward for a longer and deeper kiss. He can taste something sweet on your tongue though he’s not sure if it's the drinks you had, the lip gloss you had on or just you in general. Probably all three. He didn't care.

It’s not long before his hand snakes back up, threading into your hair to pull you closer to him. He doesn’t seem to be the only who craves less space between you two as he feels you tugging him closer by the cursed chain. That warms his blood in a way he can’t explain, making him groan against your lips as his tongue slips out into the kiss, licking into your mouth with a slow and precise kind of hunger, the kind that makes your stomach twist and your thighs press together to try and relieve the growing ache down there.

You don’t get much relief when his other hand comes into play, curling under your thigh to pull them apart and pull you over onto his lap. His hand falls from your hair, settling on your other thigh as he tugs you closer, pulling you until you can feel the stiffness of his cock through his sweatpants.

It seems only natural to grind your hips down into his, giving yourself a preview of what was to come in very little time it seemed. The feeling makes you twitch and tense up, Leon’s hips canting up into the stimulation as he groans into your mouth, finally pulling away so you both don’t suffocate before the real fun can start.

His hand slithers up under the skirt you chose to wear that night (thank god for easy access) as he pulls back to look at you. The way you lick your kiss-slicked lips and stare back at him with those hazy eyes drives him insane. His free hand lifts to drag down his mouth as his eyes roll back before returning to you, half-lidded and wanting. “Fuck, angel. You’re killing me, looking at me like that.”

He’s all for showing his appreciation for how good you look too, his hand under your skirt moving until his fingers brush against your panties, rubbing you over your panties once, twice, before his thumb slips beneath the fabric, the tip of his thumb rubbing slow, tight circles around your clit. “All wet like this just from a little kissing? How’d I get a girl like you, hm? How’d I get so lucky?” You answer his words with a delicate moan and a buck of your hips, your back arching from the stimulation to your already throbbing clit.

“Leon, c’mon..” You whine a little, turned on far too much in too short of a time for him to just tease you the way he was. The pressure wasn’t enough, and god he looked too fucking good. Sitting there, his face all flushed as he struggled to decide whether his hungry gaze should stay on your face or if he should lift up your skirt and watch your pussy drool all over his sweatpants with your need. And to top it all off, when your eyes followed that familiar path down, it found his chain, resting perfect and taunting against his chest. It made you burn from the inside out.

“Relax, angel. I know what you need. You know I’ll give it to you,” Leon murmurs, kissing the corner of your mouth, not quite doing anything more that would show he’s going to honor his words. Now that won’t do for you. You’ve never been the most patient girl in the world. You let one hand settle on his chest as the other reaches down, tugging his sweatpants down. Despite his urgency to wait, he’s complacent in lifting his hips to aid you, letting you pull until his cock springs free, slapping against his stomach lewdly. The sight reignites the need inside you that never died out in the first place.

You can’t stop yourself from reaching out, wrapping your hand around him and running your thumb through the precum beading at the tip. It makes him hiss, his thumb stuttering in its motion over your clit, his hand gripping your hip instead. You revel in his reaction, at the way more precum spills for you. That brief second of teasing seemed to be just enough to convince Leon to change his mind about waiting, because he’s pulling you closer instantly with murmured words of ‘c’mon, angel’, pulling your panties to the side as you follow, lifting until you can line yourself up with him. He pulls you into another kiss as you notch his tip against your cunt and sink down, both of you groaning in unison for different reasons.

For Leon, nothing feels better than sinking into you and he’ll stand by that for the rest of his life. The way your warm walls welcome him in with a tight squeeze feels like home, feels so disastrously good. For you, the way Leon fills you up feels like an invasion, feels too intimate despite the circumstances. It steals your breath, the way his dick fills and presses up against every single crevice and leaves you with nothing but him. You both have to sit with the feeling for a minute, drinking in the feeling like you do every time you have sex.

You share a kiss, Leon's lips moving languidly against yours as you feel him twitch within you. He breaks away to breathe, panting as he rests his forehead against yours. His hands massage your hips gently and the squeeze you give in response spurs him to shallowly buck his hips into yours, watching intently at the way your jaw drops with a whine that shoves itself between your own panting. A ghost of a smile curves at his lips at the noise, and he does it again, using his grip on your hips to put a little more force behind it.

He’s quick to pick up a deep rhythm, reveling in the whines and moans you spill for him. “Mmn.. fuck,” you gasp when he angles his hips a little, body going rigid in his arms. You arch as you feel one of his hands slide up your back, the other staying taut at your waist to keep you grounded as he begins to work his hips a little faster, your body bouncing off of his with little hitched whines from your lips as you feel him bullying into you so good. “Le-on-”

“Mhm, I know, angel, I know. It feels good, huh?” He murmurs, his voice taut from his own pleasure, from the effort he’s using to fuck into that spot that makes you go limp and see stars. You nod a little too fast and a little too much, feeling too good to care that you might look a little like a bobble head. “So good, so fucking good.” Your response has Leon biting his lip, undoubtedly a lot harder and trying to bite down the satisfied grin that wants to spread on his face. He feels smug making his girl feel so good.

He shifts his grip, his hands settle on your hips, leaning you back so he can see the look of bliss on your face, see the way your eyes cross when he drives his hips up and pulls yours down in unison, see the way your tits bounce from his thrusts when he pulls your shirt up. He’s caught up in it all when he feels your hands, sliding down from his shoulders to paw at his chest, to paw at that damn chain. “S-so.. so fucking pretty-” You gasp, a whine tumbling after it as your stomach coils.

The glazed look in your eyes as your gaze settles beside your hands makes Leon groan, his grip on your hips stiffening. He can feel the way you tighten around him just looking at it, and if he wasn’t so deep inside you, he’d be jealous over some damn jewelry. “I swear, angel-” he starts with a grunt, his pace stuttering and growing a little sloppy as he grows close. “You better- better look at me and not this damn chain when you come.”

If it weren’t for the situation, his words would’ve made you laugh, instead it feels like they jab at the coil in your stomach, poking and prodding until it all comes undone, and it comes undone fast. Your body arches in his grip, gaze lifting to his face as heat sears through your body, burning through you in the most dizzying way until your thighs tremble around his waist. “ffuck-” You whine, hand curling around the chain as your eyes lock onto Leon’s, unclear and fucked out.

The heat in you sears straight through you into Leon, the sight and feel of you coming undone making him follow soon after, his grip on you bruisingly hard as his thrusts slow, a groan accompanying the heat that pools into you. His gaze is locked on yours as the tension from both of your bodies melts away, his body slumping back against the couch and yours settling into his arms.

You both sit there panting for a blissed out few minutes, the long forgotten TV filling the silence with white noise. Leon would’ve sworn you’d fallen asleep if not for you moving, pulling away and leaning back. He quirks an eyebrow as you stare at him, taking a moment to find your voice before speaking. “I think.. I should get you another chain,” you manage to say, a grin spreading on your lips at the way Leon just scoffs and laughs.

“I’m serious. Maybe even get your ears pierced. Or a lip piercing, or a tongue piercing,” You prattle on, squealing when Leon lifts you, walking off towards your bedroom with you in his arms. “Or a dick piercing-” He guffaws at your words, shaking his head. “Enough!” He laughs, clearly not taking any of what you were saying seriously.

He totally didn’t end up with his ears pierced a month later.

~~~

i finally did it, woooo, now I can work on the OTHER four works I have lined up (let me out)

#leon kennedy #leon kennedy x reader #leon resident evil #leon s kennedy #leon kennedy smut #resident evil #leon smut #leon x you #older leon kennedy #leon fanfic #leon kennedy x you #leon scott kennedy #lua's works!

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housepartyprotocol · 7 months ago

Text

Farmhand

Oscar Piastri x Clarkson's Farmer!Reader

summary: Oscar has his visit to the Clarkson Farm and meets a certain animal-centred farm hand (a/n: this is a tiny touch self indulgent as i am obsessed with Clarkson's farm 24/7)

Masterlist / TipJar

ynusername

liked by kalebcooper, jeremyclarkson and 4,209 others

ynusername Season 4 of Clarkson Farm filming underway. Ready to have cameras in my face while I muck out and feed baby animals for the next few months.

view all 95 comments

user horse queen

lisahogan come join me in the farm shop

ynusername thats aruguably more camera time no thank you

user came for Jeremy Clarkson, stayed for YN

user her content is amazing

user looking forward to clarkson farm season 4!

oscarpiastri

liked by jeremyclarkson, kalebcooper, ynusername and 885,256 others

oscarpiastri I don't think I will be farming again anytime soon

view all 3,255 comments

user did you see the video of him struggling to reverse the tractor?

user I saw Kaleb and a girl die of laughter in the background user whos the girl? user she works on the farm, she is really funny in the show

mclaren not such a good driver ?

oscarpiastri a tractor is not an f1 car

kalebcooper had a great time mate! you are more then welcome to try again

oscarpiastri I dont feel like humilating myself infront of people again user I really hope it makes the show

ynusername

liked kalebcooper, jeremyclarkson, oscarpiastri, and 5,803 others

ynusername week of my furry babies

view all 187 comments

user oml so cute!

user what does she do on the farm

user she’s a dog trainer, specifically hunting dogs. she also raises and trains horses user she’s diddly squats animal whisperer

lisahogan I love heart cow, shes my baby

ynusername your next farm baby, one of many!

user did you see her making fun of oscar, the f1 driver?

clarksonsfarm

liked by ynusername, jeremeyclarkson, oscarpiastri, and 53,532 others

clarksonsfarm Filming life back on the farm ready for the next series! Somehow health and safety signed off on a team of camera crew joining farm hand YN on a hack...

Stick around to see how it went

view all 4,220 comments

user I need this footage now

user I cannot wait for this season, I bet there will be more YN screen time

liked by oscarpiastri

ynusername Twas a great time, no accidents, no issues with birds, perfect...

user OMG tell us what happened ynusername ;) kalebcooper Happy I was not there ynusername It was fun!

oscarpiastri

liked by mclaren, landonorris, ynusername, and 659,098 others

oscarpiastri Back in my type of vehicle. I can drive this.

view all 20,987 comments

user clarkson farm reference!

user P3 Qualifying!

ynusername Good luck

liked by oscarpiastri user OMG Its her! user who? user Watch Clarksons's farm on amazon user Jeremy clarkson..? user YUP

landonorris still so jealous you got to drive a tractor

landonorris I asked, no one will let me oscarpiastri aww poor you user i cannot imagine lando driving a tractor mclaren you are too much of a liability for us to let you do that landonorris But you LET OSCAR?! user hes 1 sec away from downloading a tractor simulator

ynusername

liked by oscarpiastri, kalebcooper, lisahogan, and 6,735 others

ynusername Order of preference, horses>dogs>racecars>cows>sheep>people

view all 429 comments

user why are people so low...

ynusername because animals are less likely to be sassier than me, which is how i like it user thats honestly so real

lisahogan that order is respectable, but race cars?

ynusername your parter is JEREMY CLARKSON? lisahogan true

user No that reaction to F1 is my resting face while watching

oscarpiastri dogs win

ynusername you need to meet more horses user CROSSOVER?!?!

oscarpiastri

liked by ynusername, landonorris, kalebcooper, and 725,266 others

oscarpiastri Got told I needed to meet more horses by a dog trainer

view all 6,362 comments

user is he just living at clarksons farm

user his second home

ynusername I train, raise, and breed horses too silly

oscarpiastri but you are still a dog trainer ynusername hunting dogs user YN calling Oscar 'silly' is the highlight of my life

user is that his girlfriend

user no she works on the farm he is visiting, Jeremy Clarkson's farm user he could be visiting her at his farm because he is dating her user he definitely likes her though

mclaren horses on the track next?

user admin is a genius user barrel racing, jumping user put all f1 drivers on ponies, and get them to race

landonorris you are a walking insurance risk. Tractors, horses, yet i can do nothing @ McLaren play fair

mclaren we'll get you a Shetland pony landonorris'll take it

mclaren

liked by oscarpiastri, ynusername, landonorris and 892,535 others

mclaren Race day and entertaining a special guest, happy to get them out of farming gear

@ ynusername

view all 24,532 comments

user God oscars hands are hot

ynusername whats wrong with my farm gear

user yn hurting at admins comments mclaren farm clothes are stil nice, but our merch is better ynusername thank you for it all !!

user Clarkson farm crossover to the next level

user Oscar is going to end up living on a farm no way is YN giving up her horses and dogs

user who said anything about them living together? are they even dating? user sure looks like it

oscarpiastri Definitely sticking with cars over horses

ynusername I'll try again and again landonorris can I? ynusername Sorry I'm not allowed to let you landonorris @ mclaren this is unfair!!

ynusername

liked by lisahogan, oscarpiastri, landonorris, and 7,350 others

ynusername Had to absolute pleasure of riding the first horse I bred, raised, and sold. Love you peanut butter xx FT my baby and my pupper

view all 578 comments

user shes taken, damn

user I love that fact the first chance she had to name a horse she called it peanut butter

ynusername he looks just like it !! user she must have done a good job, that's a fancy ass stable

user I bet thats Oscar piastri

user oh yeah 1000%

oscarpiastri such beautiful animals

ynusername my children oscarpiastri such beautiful children ynusername yay user he is down bad

lisahogan we missed you these two weeks, but happy you had a good time

lisahogan give oscar our love user DID SHE JUST

oscarpiastri

liked by ynusername, landonorris, jeremyclarkson and 987,567 others

oscarpiastri You can take my love out of the farm but you can't take the farm out of my love

view all 12,674 comments

user CONFIRMATION HES TAKEN

user she is stunning

user ITS YN, omg she got so lucky

user imagine if Oscar did not go to the farm

user faTEE!!

ynusername I am never leaving the farm

oscarpiastri done. ynusername done what... oscarpiastri sold my apartment in Monaco. ynusername I what. Huh, we should talk about this no oscarpiastri I'll learn to stand the farm smell for you ynusername ITS NOT A BAD SMELL

mclaren Cuties

user mother hen mclaren user mastermind

landonorris he can date the farm girl and driver tractors and ride horses and I can't get on a horse?

mclaren one time pass landonorris @ ynusername LETS GO HORSERIDING ynusername YESSS user this feels like an odd interaction oscarpiastri their entire relationship is an odd interation

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elliespassagerprincess · 1 month ago

Text

Under her desk - ellie williams x reader

pairing: ceo!ellie williams x secratery fem!reader

requests are open, send me your thoughts:)

Warnings: MDNI Explicit sexual content (18+): intense sexual tension, implied oral sex, semi-public workplace sex, voyeurism, jealous/possessive behavior

Summary: You're her secretary—organized, polite, and always on time. She's the boss—cold, brilliant, and merciless. But every glance from Ellie lingers too long. Every touch burns. And every closed-door meeting gets harder to forget.

masterlist

MONDAY

The first time Ellie Williams looks at you that way, you think you imagined it.

It’s just a glance. A flicker of her eyes up your legs as you place the morning reports on her desk. But there’s a pause—half a second too long before she meets your gaze, green eyes heavy-lidded and unreadable behind wire-rimmed glasses.

“Thank you,” she says. Her voice is a low hum, raspy from lack of sleep or too much coffee. Or both. You nod, trying not to look at her mouth. Trying not to notice how she licks her lower lip when she turns back to the screen.

You walk out of her glass-walled office trying not to blush, legs unsteady under your pencil skirt. You shouldn’t have worn that lipstick. But the thing is—you know what you’re doing.

And so does she.

WEDNESDAY

Ellie Williams is brilliant, successful, and terrifying. She doesn’t waste time with small talk. She hates lateness. She reads contracts like they’re storybooks and intimidates men twice her age with a single look.

She’s also annoyingly hot.

You’ve spent the last three weeks working under her, literally and figuratively, and she hasn’t so much as smiled at you. Until now.

“Shut the door,” she says one morning, not looking up from her laptop. Her voice is low, authoritative.

You close it behind you, pulse skipping.

“Come here.”

She slides a file across her glass desk. You step closer than necessary, your hand brushing hers as you take it. It’s electric. It feels intentional.

“Read this clause,” she says, tapping a page. “Tell me what’s wrong with it.”

You lean over. She leans back in her chair, one leg crossing over the other slowly, eyes fixed not on the paper—but on you. You can feel her stare. Your skin burns under it.

“That’s… ambiguous wording,” you murmur. “It leaves too much room for liability.”

Her lips curve just slightly. You did well.

And then she says it: “You’re smarter than you look.”

You swallow. “You don’t know how I look.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Don’t I?”

It’s dangerous. Everything about her is. But you leave her office feeling like you just passed a test.

FRIDAY NIGHT

The building is empty.

You stayed late because she asked. A simple email: Stay after hours. Need you to help draft a response.

No “please.” No “thank you.” But you came.

Her office is dimly lit. Just her desk lamp and the amber glow from the city skyline outside.

Ellie’s jacket is off. Her sleeves rolled up. Tattoos exposed. Her jaw tight as she types. You stand nearby, heart pounding.

“Come here,” she says again, voice lower now. Rough.

You step beside her. She gestures at the screen, scrolling through a client proposal. But her hand brushes your hip. She doesn’t move it.

You don’t breathe.

“You smell like cinnamon,” she murmurs suddenly, almost distracted.

“It’s my lotion.”

“I like it.”

There’s silence.

You turn to her—slowly.

Ellie’s eyes flick to your lips. Your knees go weak. She leans in. So close. Not kissing. Just hovering—like she’s daring you.

“I’m your boss,” she says, whispering it like a sin.

“I know,” you whisper back.

“I shouldn’t want you.”

“But you do.”

Her hand grips your hip. You don’t know who kisses first.

But once her mouth is on yours, everything blurs. She pulls you onto her lap, fingers tangled in your hair, tongue sliding past your lips with a groan that makes your spine arch.

Her mouth is hot, desperate, possessive.

But the moment is short-lived. She pulls back, breathless, eyes wild.

“Get out,” she says harshly.

You freeze. “Ellie—”

“I said get out.”

You leave shaking. But she doesn’t stop you because she regrets it. She stops you because if you stayed, she would’ve had you on her desk.

WEEK LATER

She avoids you all week. Short emails. Clipped instructions. Barely looks at you.

It hurts. But you understand.

Power. Rules. Risk.

Still, she calls you into her office on Thursday. You go, heart hammering.

She’s pacing. Frustrated.

“I can’t think,” she snaps. “Not with you out there.”

You blink. “Did I do something wrong?”

Ellie stops. Looks at you like you’re the problem and the solution.

“You’re perfect,” she whispers. “That’s the problem.”

And then she’s kissing you again—this time rough, frantic. She shoves everything off her desk in one motion, making you gasp.

“Sit,” she growls.

You do.

And then her mouth is on your neck, your blouse unbuttoned, her hands everywhere, as if she’s waited months for this.

You moan her name—soft, breathy. She freezes.

Then she says it: “You’re mine.”

You nod. “Yes.”

You start sneaking around. Closed doors. Locked meeting rooms. Lingering touches behind your desk.

Ellie becomes obsessed.

She buys you new pens just because she saw you chewing the caps. Schedules “private reviews” that last way too long. Texts you when you’re home just to say, "Wanna come back and help me ‘finish something?’”

She doesn’t date anyone else. You check. But she doesn’t call you her girlfriend, either.

Power. Risk. Rules.

But in her eyes—in the way her thumb traces your lips after she kisses you—you know.

You own her, too.

MONDAY

The worst part isn’t that you kissed your boss. It’s that you keep doing it.

Ellie’s office becomes a second home for secrets: stolen kisses, whispered confessions, shaky breaths against frosted glass. But it never goes further than that—not fully.

There’s always a line.

Sometimes you think she’s drawing it. Sometimes, you think she’s one step from erasing it completely.

And every time she stops, the excuse is always the same.

“I can’t afford to lose you.”

You don’t know if she means as her assistant… or something more.

TUESDAY

Ellie starts acting weird.

She stares at you when she thinks you don’t notice. She double-texts you at night, then apologizes. Her fingers shake slightly when you hand her coffee. But she still never says what she wants.

And you’re getting tired of pretending.

“Are we going to talk about this?” you finally ask, one evening after everyone’s left. You’re leaning in her office doorway, arms crossed. She’s behind her desk, eyes on her screen but clearly distracted.

She doesn’t look at you.

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Ellie.”

Now she looks up. Her jaw tightens.

“It’s dangerous,” she says quietly. “This is my company. You’re my employee. If anyone finds out—”

“I’d be the one who gets fired,” you cut in.

Her face shifts. There it is. The truth.

“I would never let that happen,” she says, voice low and deadly. “You have no idea what I’d do to protect you.”

You step forward slowly. “Then stop hiding me.”

She looks like she wants to say something. Instead, she stands. Walks around her desk. Stops a breath away. Her hand brushes your wrist.

And she whispers: “I don’t hide you. I hide us. Because once people know, they’ll want to take you from me.”

There’s something unhinged in her voice. Soft, but sharp. Like she’s thought about it too much. Like she’s scared of how far she’d go.

FRIDAY

You try to act normal.

Emails. Schedules. Morning coffee runs. But Ellie keeps breaking the façade. She calls you in five times for "review." Never talks about work. Just stares at you. Sometimes says something ridiculous like, “You wore that on purpose” or “I had a dream about you.”

And then there are the nights. Her texts turn softer, needier.

Ellie: Are you in bed?

Ellie: Can I call?

Ellie: Just wanna hear your voice.

You let her. And when she breathes your name into the phone, quiet and rough, it makes your heart ache. Because this doesn’t feel casual anymore. It feels like it’s killing her to keep you a secret.

SUNDAY

You show up to her apartment for the first time.

Ellie doesn’t even pretend to play it cool. She opens the door in a black tee and sweatpants, hair a mess, eyes tired like she hasn’t slept in days.

“You came.”

“You asked me to.”

She pulls you in without a word. Kisses you like it’s oxygen. Like she’s been holding her breath all week.

You don’t leave until 3AM.

There’s no sex. Just tangled limbs. Soft kisses. Ellie’s head resting on your chest like she needs to be near your heartbeat.

You stroke her hair, whispering, “Why do you make this so hard?”

And her answer is quiet. “Because if I ever lost you, I’d never recover.”

WEDNESDAY

It happens. You get caught.

You didn’t even notice the door was cracked open.

You were leaning on her desk, Ellie between your legs, her hand up your thigh, whispering something filthy against your neck.

And someone—probably an intern—saw it.

You don’t find out until later, when HR sends Ellie a request for a "private meeting." That afternoon, Ellie storms into your little cubicle, eyes wild, pulse in her throat.

“We’re not hiding anymore,” she says, grabbing your hand in front of the whole floor.

“Ellie—”

“Let them talk. Let them guess. I don’t give a damn.”

She pulls you into her office, slams the door, and kisses you like it’s the only thing that matters.

And that night, she finally takes you home again—but this time, there’s no restraint.

This time, she makes love to you like she’s claiming territory. Like she’s trying to memorize everything, in case the world tries to take it away.

ONE WEEK LATER

Ellie is pacing. You're seated across her office, legs crossed, heart pounding.

“You’re not just my secretary anymore,” she says. “You haven’t been for a while.”

You look at her. “So what now?”

She stops. Walks to you. Kneels—yes, kneels—between your legs and rests her head in your lap.

“We rewrite the rules.”

You card your fingers through her hair.

“And if they fire you?” you ask

Ellie looks up at you with that same fire in her eyes.

“They won’t. But if they do? I’ll build my own damn company. Put your name on the front. Hire myself as your assistant.”

You laugh. You kiss her.

And you both know you’re done pretending.

MONDAY

It starts with a look. Ellie walks in late—coffee in hand, sleeves rolled up, jaw sharp—and heads straight to your desk. She pauses. Leans down.

You think she’s going to whisper something.

But no.

She presses a soft kiss to your cheek.

Right there. In front of everyone. You freeze. So does the office.

Conversations stop. Keyboards go quiet. Someone drops their pen.

Ellie stands up straight, totally unfazed.

“Good morning, baby,” she says like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

And then she heads to her office. Just like that, everyone knows.

By lunch, the office is buzzing.

“Did you see that?”

“I thought she was single.”

“Isn’t that her boss?”

“There’s no way that’s allowed.”

“I heard they were already hooking up for weeks.”

You try to focus on your screen, but it’s impossible. Every glance in your direction lingers too long. You hear your name more in whispered tones than anyone should in a professional setting.

But Ellie? She acts like it’s nothing. Like she hasn’t just lit the entire building on fire with one kiss.

The next day, HR calls Ellie in again. You sit at your desk, sick with anxiety.

She walks out 30 minutes later, face unreadable. You follow her to her office, shut the door behind you.

“What happened?”

She exhales. “They’re not happy. But technically, I didn’t break any rules.”

“Technically?”

She shrugs. “We’re adults. Consensual. No direct coercion or manipulation. I didn’t promote you or change your pay. Legally, they can’t fire either of us.”

“But they’re watching now,” you murmur.

Ellie steps closer. “Let them.”

You overhear two coworkers talking about you in the breakroom later that week. Something crude. Something about how “you must be really good at keeping her attention” if the boss is that obsessed.

You walk out before they see you. Embarrassed. Furious. Ellie notices immediately.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you lie.

She doesn’t believe you. Of course she doesn’t. Twenty minutes later, you hear her voice—raised—from down the hall.

“Say it again. I dare you.”

You stand up. Heart racing. Ellie’s got one of the men cornered, towering over him with a calm, cold fury that could freeze lava.

“She’s smarter than everyone in this damn building. And if I hear you speak about her like that again, you won’t be working here anymore.”

He stammers. Apologizes. She doesn't back off.

“She’s not just mine—she’s the best thing about this place.”

The entire office hears.

You’re both in her car. The sun is setting. You’re quiet. Ellie’s gripping the steering wheel a little too tight.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” she mutters. “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?”

She looks at you.

“Because I want to protect you so badly it scares me.”

You reach over, touch her arm.

“I’ve never had anyone stand up for me like that.”

She exhales slowly.

“I’m yours,” you whisper.

And Ellie—tough, stoic Ellie—closes her eyes like she’s holding back tears.

“I’ve been yours since the first day you walked into my office,” she confesses.

THURSDAY

You didn’t think she’d go public with it. But she does.

At the company-wide meeting, Ellie is cool and composed as ever. She addresses the quarterly goals, talks profits and projections. Then, at the end:

“One more thing.”

She glances at you.

“I want to address the elephant in the room. Yes, I’m in a relationship with my secretary. It’s not a secret anymore. And if anyone has a problem with it, take it up with HR. Or better yet, with me.”

Silence.

Then applause. Actual applause. You’re stunned.

She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t wink. Just steps down, professional and poised, like she didn’t just dismantle the gossip mill with a single announcement.

Later, in her office, she pulls you in by the waist and murmurs, “They’re never touching you. Not even with words.”

Ellie books a meeting room. Not for work. Just to eat lunch with you away from the eyes. She brings you your favorite sandwich. Sits close. Hands brushing under the table.

“Is this okay?” she asks quietly. “I know it’s messy.”

You smile. “I’d sit under your desk again if I had to.”

Ellie laughs—real, unguarded.

Then she leans in. Presses a kiss to your knuckles.

“I’m not letting them shame us. You’re not a secret. You’re everything.”

MONDAY

Things have mostly gone back to normal.

Well—office normal. People don’t whisper quite as loudly anymore. HR stopped breathing down Ellie’s neck. And you’ve found a quiet rhythm with her—sneaking kisses in her office, flirty texts during boring meetings, soft nights tangled in her sheets. But there's still a tension in the air. Like something’s waiting to snap.

Like you’re both still holding back.

TUESDAY

His name’s Jordan. New hire. Tech department.

Cute in a safe, unthreatening way—gelled hair, bright smile, button-ups that are a little too fitted. He’s harmless. Probably.

Until he starts showing up at your desk. First it’s innocent. A shared joke. A smile. Then it escalates.

“You’ve got the prettiest eyes in this whole office.”

You glance up from your computer. “Thanks.”

“Bet that’s how you got hired, huh?” he laughs, like it’s funny.

You go cold. “Excuse me?”

“I mean—c’mon. The boss is, like, obsessed with you. Can’t blame her.”

You stand up. “That’s completely inappropriate.”

He just smirks. “Relax. It’s a compliment.”

You don’t even answer. You walk. Straight to Ellie’s office.

You barely shut the door before her voice sharpens. “What happened?”

You tell her everything. She’s already grabbing her jacket before you finish.

“I’ll talk to him,” you say quickly. “You don’t have to—”

But her eyes have darkened.

“I do have to. Because he crossed a line and because you’re mine.”

You swallow.

“Ellie—”

“No. I’m done being polite.”

The entire office is silent again.

Ellie’s voice slices through the air like a blade.

“I don’t care if you’re new or stupid or both. You don’t talk to her like that. You don’t look at her like that. You don’t breathe near her unless she wants you to.”

Jordan stammers. Ellie steps closer.

“She’s not your peer. She’s not your flirt project. She’s mine. And if you can’t understand what respect looks like, you’ll be out of a job faster than you can blink.”

Jordan nods, practically shaking. You’ve never seen her like this.

Furious. Cold. Protective.

And so, so in love.

She slams her office door shut. You sit quietly.

Ellie’s pacing. Her hands run through her hair, jaw clenched. She won’t even look at you.

“Are you okay?” you ask gently.

She stops.

“I hate it,” she whispers. “I hate the idea of someone touching you. Someone thinking they have a right to you.”

“Ellie—”

“No. I’ve been trying so fucking hard not to say it.”

You freeze. She walks up to you slowly. Cups your face in both hands.

“But I’m in love with you.”

Your breath catches.

“I didn’t want to scare you,” she murmurs. “Didn’t want to say it too soon. But I love you. And I’d burn this whole company down if someone hurt you.”

Your heart is racing.

“Say it again.”

She leans in, forehead to yours.

“I love you.”

You kiss her like you’ve been dying to for weeks. Deep. Grateful. Starving. And when you pull back, breathless, your smile is shaking.

“I love you too.”

Ellie’s whole body relaxes. Like she’s been waiting to exhale for months.

You’re at her place. You’re in her bed, skin warm from her touch, her fingers brushing your bare spine.

Ellie whispers into your hair: “You’re mine. And not because I’m your boss. Not because you work for me. Because I chose you.”

You whisper it back. And when she falls asleep with her arms around you, you realize something:

You were never under her desk. You were always under her skin.

FRIDAY, 6:42 P.M

The office is nearly empty.

It’s the end of the quarter. People went home early. Laughter and footsteps faded around 5:00. The air has that hollow, humming stillness that only comes after hours. Fluorescent lights dimmed. Elevator chimes long gone.

You should go home. You both should.

But Ellie’s door is closed. And your back is pressed to it.

Her mouth is on your neck, hot and open and needy.

You moan quietly, hands fisting the front of her shirt, body arching as her thigh presses between your legs, her grip firm at your waist.

“Ellie,” you whisper. “Someone could—”

“Shh.” Her voice is low, rough. Her lips brush your ear. “They’re all gone.”

You glance toward the glass panels. She’s pulled the blinds halfway, but it’s still risky.

And yet… You don’t stop her.

You're sitting on the edge of her desk now. Skirt bunched. Blazer long gone.

Ellie’s shirt is open—collar popped, chest rising fast. She’s in her chair between your knees, one hand gripping your thigh, the other sliding dangerously high.

“Look at me,” she commands softly.

You do.

God, you do.

Because Ellie in the office chair—tie loosened, hair mussed, eyes heavy with lust—is your undoing.

“You always sit here like this when you’re typing,” she murmurs, dragging her fingers up your inner thigh. “And you expect me to focus?”

“Ellie—” you gasp.

Her fingers brush against your soaked underwear. She smiles.

“Such a fucking distraction.”

You kiss her hard, teeth knocking. Desperate. Uncoordinated. Hot.

Then she slips her fingers beneath the lace and—

“Hey, boss, I—oh my God—”

You jolt.

Ellie jerks away, instantly on her feet, shielding you with her body. Your heart is pounding. Face flushed. Skirt still hiked. Her hands still warm on your hips.

In the doorway: Jordan. Eyes wide. Frozen.

“GET. OUT.” Ellie’s voice is a snarl.

He stammers, backs out, slams the door behind him.

You’re gasping.

Ellie’s jaw is clenched so hard, you think it might crack.

You fix your clothes in a daze. Ellie watches you. Still breathing heavily. Still angry.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “That was reckless.”

She walks up behind you. Wraps her arms around your waist. Buries her face in your shoulder.

“I don’t regret it.”

You turn, eyes meeting hers.

“Are you okay?”

She nods. “I’m going to kill him.”

“Ellie—”

“Not literally. Probably.”

You laugh, a little shakily. She presses her forehead to yours.

“I can’t keep my hands off you.”

“I don’t want you to.”

MONDAY

The entire office knows. Again.

Jordan’s quiet. Pale. Avoids you like the plague. Ellie calls a full department meeting. Not for discipline—but for clarity.

She looks every single employee dead in the eye and says: “Yes. We’re together. Yes, it’s serious. No, it’s not casual. And if anyone thinks about violating our privacy again, I will escalate it to legal.”

You feel the burn of her protectiveness long after she finishes speaking.

She pulls you into her office. Locks the door. This time, just to kiss you slow.

“Maybe I should move you out of the secretary role,” she murmurs. “Not because of the rumors. Because I need you close—and this isn’t sustainable.”

“Are you firing me as your secretary?”

“I’m promoting you,” she says with a smirk. “To something safer. Something that means I don’t have to hold back.”

Your heart flutters.

“Is that even allowed?”

“I’m the boss,” she says. “It’s whatever I say it is.”

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damneddamsy · 2 months ago

Text

FALLING. RATING Explicit (18+ only) PAIRING Joel Miller x BIPOC OFC (Leela) FORMAT & SETTING Joel's POV & Post-TLOU Jackson AU WORD COUNT PER CHAPTER approx. 12,000+ STATUS Complete

SUMMARY It is said that every saint has a past, and every sinner has a future. Now, Joel Miller wasn’t looking to be a saint. Trust was a liability. Love, a memory too painful to keep. But if a sinner like him still had some future, and if that future starts with one night—a baby’s relentless cries cracking through his walls and breaking him open—then maybe, just maybe, he hadn’t lost everything yet. Against all instincts, he steps into that big, white house across his street. Nothing drives Joel to linger, but he does. For the baby at first—nascent Maya, with her bright eyes and fistfuls of Joel’s collar. Then, the strange new mother. What begins as an uneasy coexistence grows into something deeper, which neither of them dares name. Haunted by a narrative she never chose, brilliant but reclusive, Leela’s mind runs into the theoretical—proofs, patterns, chasing solutions to an unsolvable equation—while Joel’s hands are scarred by the practical: protecting, killing, enduring. When that peace becomes fleeting, when a fragile hope in the shape of a mathematical discovery begins to bloom, and the world, as always, threatens to take it away, Joel confronts what it means to fall—not just into the impossible, but into love, into hope, into the fragile rhythms of Leela and Maya’s life, and their quiet home that becomes a rare thing in this decaying tomorrow: a reason to stay. This is a story of healing, found family, and the abnormal, slow math of love—how we factor grief, multiply hope, balance the unknowns, it never adds up but somehow makes perfect sense.

INDEX (might be subject to change as the story progresses.)

part i -> EVENT HORIZON

part ii -> MICROFRACTURE

part iii -> FALSE EQUILIBRIUM

part iv -> MINIMUM VIABLE HOPE

part v -> RECONSTRUCTION ALGORITHM

part vi -> LIMIT APPROACHES GRACE

part vii -> FREEFALL FUNCTION

part viii -> SOFT INFINITY

part ix -> STITCH THEORY

interlude

part x -> DECOHERENCE

part xi -> ZERO CROSSING

part xii -> THEOREM OF BECOMING

part xiii -> HEURISTIC BLOOM

part xiv -> THE FINAL INTEGRATION

epilogue

acknowledgements

FALLING MOODBOARD (a huge bear hug, thank you and shoutout to the incredible @jolapeno !!)

FALLING MOODBOARD (2) (so many kisses and so much love to the talented, sweet @mrsmando !!)

CHARACTER STUDY A deep dive into Joel, Maya, and Leela, answering an ask from one of my sweetheart friends @jodiswiftle who followed along!

AUTHOR'S NOTE Have loads of fun with this masterlist! took me a while to think up a different way to potray these chapters, I'm so glad it came through so great!

TAGS your (ultimate) fix-it fic, The Dad™️ Joel, softest Joel you've ever seen, he is also an old yearner cuntstruck hardass, Joel being down bad for a teeny baby girl, OFC is arabic, OFC being an academic nerd and STEM girlie, the cutest baby (Maya) ever, baby is an actual character, Miller family dynamics, Tommy-Joel-Ellie hooliganisms, life in Jackson town, Ellie being the generally awesome older sister, neighbours-to-lovers trope, found family, slowburn, a lot of math references, lotsa door metaphors, epistolary interlude.

CONTENT WARNINGS eventual smut (the whole kaboodle), big griefs, depression, unbearable angst, violence, gore, blood, alcoholism, substance abuse, post-natal depression, the pains of motherhood, mentions of rape and suicide, childbirth.

583 notes · View notes

abbotjack · 3 months ago

Text

Whatever You Say, Fruitcake

pairing : Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x Reader (established marriage)

summary: Myrna’s being Myrna. Somewhere between the chaos, you and Robby manage to come up for air.

warnings/content: Fluff, Hospital setting, strong language, married intimacy, mild sexual tension(?), bodily fluids (mentioned), chaotic workplace dynamics, Myrna.

word count: 1,767, not beta read.

a/n: I’ve written so much smut and angst lately… felt like I needed a fluff filler. Honestly, with everything Robby’s been through too—he deserves one just as much as I do.

Someone left the remains of a hoagie in the trauma fridge again, and now the back hallway reeks of vinegar, cold cuts, and poor life choices.

The smell hits you as soon as you clear the curtain bay—sharp, sour, unmistakably fermented. You pause mid-step. Behind you, Dana makes a strangled noise in her throat and immediately starts waving a clipboard in the air like it’s going to do something other than stir it up.

“If this is Whitaker’s doing,” Dana says, already pinching the bridge of her nose, “I’m pulling him from patients and assigning him to mop duty and moral reflection.”

You snort. “Pretty sure that’s not in the union handbook.”

She’s already striding ahead. “Then I’ll write my own damn handbook.”

Just ahead, Robby moves through the corridor like a man who’s been paged three times too many. Hoodie sleeves shoved to his elbows, coffee in one hand, a clipboard tucked under his arm, and a look that says he’s thirty seconds from announcing his retirement.

Whitaker’s hustling to keep up, slightly flushed and fumbling with a stack of blank admission forms and a clipboard clearly marked for peds. He’s also holding an empty emesis basin and a bag of saltine crackers.

“I dropped the kid off in Pediatrics like you told me to,” he says, catching his breath. “Then someone threw up on my shoes, I handed over some crackers as a peace offering, and I think I accidentally took this chart on my way out while trying to avoid a loud debate about Paw Patrol and screen time.”

Robby doesn’t even look at him. “Why are you holding a puke tray?”

“Someone in Peds handed it to me. I panicked and said thank you.”

“You don’t work there, Whitaker. You work in emergency.”

“Yeah, well, try telling that to the four-year-old who called me Doctor Crackers and wouldn’t let go of my hand.”

Dana watches Whitaker veer off toward supply, jaw tightening just slightly. “If he volunteers himself into another department’s meltdown, I’m having his badge color-coded for liability.”

You raise a brow. “Is that a charge nurse threat?”

“It’s preventative management.”

Before you can reply, the air shifts—like it always does when Myrna materializes. The low squeak of her wheelchair wheels, the jingle of cheap bracelets, and then—

“Hey, fruitcake.”

Robby slows when he sees her. Not surprised. Not annoyed. Just—ready, in that way he gets when Myrna’s name is involved in a trauma note or a psych hold request.

He hesitates, jaw clenched, clipboard tucked tighter under his arm as he steps in behind the wheelchair—slow and deliberate, one hand on the back like he's guiding a live grenade disguised in costume jewelry.

Myrna is cuffed, of course—standard protocol—but she’s sitting tall like she’s holding court. Her walker is bungee-corded to the back of the chair, and there’s a half-empty Styrofoam cup in the side pocket that no one remembers giving her. She smells like menthols and peach Schnapps. Her lipstick is smeared. Her eyes are sharp.

She cranes her head slightly to look up at Robby and grins with all the self-satisfaction of someone who knows exactly how to ruin your day and plans to do it slowly.

Robby exhales. “Myrna. What brings you in today?”

“I murdered my husband.”

“How’d you do it this time?”

“Meat grinder.”

She shifts in her seat, adjusting the tilt of her chair. When he stops, she immediately starts wheeling herself toward the empty staff breakroom like she owns the place—completely ignoring the Employees Only sign.

“Where do you think you’re going, Myrna?”

“Oh, none of your business, fruitcake.”

His jaw ticks. The clipboard drops half an inch.

“Actually, everything that happens in this department is my business. And you know what? I put up with a lot around here. I take very good care of you. So you can call me Dr. Robinavitch, or Dr. Robby, or you can use my first name, Michael. But I do not appreciate being called fruitcake.”

Dana leans toward you. “He’s two years and one more nickname away from tossing his pager in the East River and moving into a cabin with no electricity.”

You snort. “He can move to the woods if he wants, but I’m not following him into a life of compost toilets and mosquito nets. He’ll be back the second he realizes I’m not coming with.”

Back in the hall, Myrna shrugs.

“Oh, did I hurt your feelings, cocksucker?”

Dana snorts. You press your fingers to your mouth.

Robby takes a breath. “That said, it has a certain whimsical quality I can probably learn to live with.”

“Whatever you say, fruitcake.”

Without missing a beat, she pivots her wheelchair and rolls with precision toward the ambulance bay doors. The automatic sensor doesn’t catch her on the first pass, so she backs up, then rams the base of the door with enough force to jolt the frame—and nearly set off the motion alarm. A “Wet Floor” sign topples in her wake.

Then, slowly, she lifts her cuffed wrists and waves them at the security camera like she’s on parade.

Robby doesn’t move. Just watches her, unreadable.

She pauses at the edge of the exit, half-turned in her chair, chin tilted up like she’s daring someone to try and stop her.

A nurse nearby mutters, “Do we stop her… or let natural selection take it from here?”

You find him later in the breakroom, elbows braced on the table, fingers pressed into his brow like he’s trying to force the day out through his skull. His coffee sits untouched beside a chart he’s clearly given up pretending to read. The overhead light is flickering, unresolved, adding to the static hum that no one has the energy to report anymore.

You slide your coffee beside his and drop into the seat next to him. No words, not yet. Just your knee brushing his under the table—light, intentional, familiar. He doesn’t look at you, but he exhales like you just gave him permission to breathe.

After a beat: “I’m fine.”

You sip your coffee. “Mmm. Then why have you been brooding like a cursed Victorian husband.”

He drags his hands down his face and groans. “She called me a cocksucker in front of the whole emergency department.”

“And you didn’t throw anything,” you say. “Which, frankly, is a win.”

You nudge your foot against his. “Do you want me to fight her?”

His brow furrows. “What?”

“Outside. Ambulance bay. High noon.”

That earns the smallest crack of a smile.

“I’m serious,” you add. “I’m fully within my spousal rights to go feral.”

“Pretty sure that’s not in the HR manual.”

“Pretty sure it’s in the vows.”

He huffs out a reluctant laugh, and you feel the air between you shift. Lighter. Less taut. The corner of his mouth tilts in that way you’ve learned to love—subtle, fleeting, like warmth in a place that rarely allows it.

“Dana probably already has a memo drafted,” he mutters. “Something official—‘Effective immediately, all consults will refer to Dr. Robinavitch as Fruitcake.’”

You grin. “She has. It’s laminated. I signed off on it.”

He shakes his head, smiling despite himself. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“I’m married to you. I take my entertainment where I can get it.”

He finally leans back, posture loosening. “One of these days, I’m torching this whole department.”

“You won’t,” you say. “You love this place too much.”

“I love you. Everything else is negotiable.”

You fall quiet at that, the kind of quiet that makes room for a hand to reach across the table. Yours. His. You’re not even sure. But they find each other easily, like always.

“You were good today,” you say. “The way you handled her. All of it. You didn’t give her the chaos she wanted.”

“She got under my skin.”

“But she didn’t get a reaction. That’s power. That’s control. I'm proud of you.”

He looks at you. Really looks at you. And for a moment, it’s quiet in a way this place rarely is.

“You’re always proud of me,” he says, voice softer now.

You smile, just a little. “Not always. Just when you deserve it.”

A pause. He huffs, but it’s fond. “You should put that on a sticker.”

“Already did.” You nudge his elbow. “Slapped it on your locker right under the one that says ‘Fruitcake of the Month.’”

He groans. “I married a menace.”

“You married smart.”

“You tricked me.”

You squeeze his hand. “And I’d do it again.”

The silence that settles next isn’t heavy. It’s married silence. Full of the things you don’t need to say because you’ve already said them a hundred different ways over coffee cups and night shifts and shared exhaustion.

You glance toward the hallway, then back to him, voice lower now. “Sometimes I wonder how we’re still standing in all this. You, me. This place.”

He watches you for a long moment, then says, “Because you make it worth it.”

A pause.

Then—

“I’m not kissing you in the breakroom,” he says eventually, eyes still on yours.

“I know.”

“But I want to.”

“I know that too.”

Another small smile. “You’re trouble.”

“And you’re mine.”

The moment hangs there—warm and quiet and stupidly rare. It's the kind of silence that only happens when two people know each other too well to need more words.

His pager buzzes on the table. You both glance at it but don’t move right away. Then, like muscle memory, he stands and grabs his clipboard. You collect the two half-finished coffees and toss them without comment.

When you step toward the door, your hand brushes his—not by accident. He doesn’t take it, not here, not with the door just about to swing open. But he squeezes your fingers once, fast and familiar. It’s not affection, exactly. It’s reassurance. A habit. A promise.

You exit the breakroom together.

The hallway feels colder by comparison. Brighter. Louder. Someone’s calling out discharge instructions. A gurney wheel shrieks as it sticks on the threshold. The ER is alive again, like it never paused.

He walks ahead of you, falling back into his role like pulling on a second skin—focused, efficient, slightly intimidating. But you know that look. You know the weight he’s carrying.

When his hand grazes yours again at the hallway bend, he doesn’t pull away right away.

You don’t hold hands. You don’t need to.

But the warmth lingers.

That’s the thing about marriage in a place like this : there’s never time. So you take the seconds. And when you find each other in them, you hold on.

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