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kpopstaytiny · 8 days ago

Text

Say please

Pairing: Bang Chan x F!reader

Word Count: 7251

Genre: smut, fluff, friends to lovers

Warnings: smut (minors DNI), softdom!Chan, sub!reader, oral (female receiving), fingering, edging, dirty talk, pet names (baby, love, sweetheart), unprotected sex, choking, hair pulling, praise!kink, she's a little bratty, cursing, feeling a little homesick, aftercare.

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He's always working until the stars blur outside the studio windows—my night owl, my relentless creator. The hallway smells like soundproofing foam and the air carries the faintest tang of citrus—probably from the half-empty pineapple juice carton I know is perched on his desk—as I raise my knuckles to the door, pausing to listen to the faint click-clack of keyboard strokes before knocking—the familiar weight of a paper bag swinging from my arm, a taste of Australia tucked inside.

His head jerks up, fingers freezing mid-keystroke. For one suspended moment, he just stares—eyes wide, lips parted—like I'm some sleep-deprivation mirage. Then his shoulders drop, tension bleeding out as his mouth curves into that private smile reserved for 1 AM confessions.

“Hey,” his voice is rough with disuse, warm with recognition. “What’re you doing up so late?”

"Says the man who thinks sunrise is a suggestion," I counter, stepping into the familiar cocoon of his workspace. The door clicks shut behind me, sealing us in this blue-lit universe of his making.

“You know I work late.”

“I do,” I close the distance between us, the paper bag in my arm rustling with its precious cargo. "Couldn't sleep." A shrug that doesn't fool either of us.

“And you came all the way here?” His brows rise, voice tipping toward disbelief.

"I went for a walk. Ended up at that 24-hour mart down the street." I gesture vaguely toward the window where neon signs glow in the distance. "Next thing I knew..." The unspoken truth hangs between us—my feet always know the way to him.

His gaze flicks toward the bag on my arm, curiosity softening his features. “That what’s in there?”

“Sort of,” I let the bag swing temptingly. “Not exactly.”

When he takes it, his fingers brush mine—just enough to send a spark up my arm. The moment stretches as he peers inside, then—

"Tim Tams?" His whole face transforms, boyish delight breaking through the exhaustion. "Where the hell did you find these?"

I bite my lip, feigning nonchalance. "They might've fallen into my basket at the international grocery."

"Liar." His laugh is all warmth, no bite. He knows—knows I called three stores, knows I asked Felix where to find them, knows this was never about cookies but about stitching a piece of his homeland into this endless night.

“What’re you working on?” I nod toward his screen, the glow painting his profile in liquid blue. My voice comes out steadier than I feel, trying to shift gears before the moment swallows me whole.

“New song,” he says, gaze flickering back to the monitor. But his voice has changed—slower now, syrup-warm. Not distracted. Inviting.

“Duh.” I roll my eyes, aiming for casual. But it’s too soft. Too fond. “Figured.”

“Wanna hear it?”

I blink. “Seriously?” My pulse stutters like a skipped track. He never shares unfinished work—not when there are still seams showing, not when the lyrics haven’t settled into their final shape.

But tonight, he just nods, easy as anything. “Yeah.” Then he pats his thigh. “Come here.”

For a heartbeat, I forget how to move.

We’ve been closer than this. Done more than this. But this—him pulling me into his creative space, into the part of himself he usually keeps locked tight—feels like stepping over a threshold neither of us named.

I settle into his lap with deliberate slowness, but he doesn’t give me room to overthink it. His arm bands around my waist, tugging me back against his chest like we’ve done this a thousand times. The familiarity of it unravels me more than any grand gesture could.

His free hand moves across the keyboard—click, drag, a flurry of shortcuts—before passing me headphones still warm from his skin. I catch the faint scent of his shampoo as he leans in to adjust the volume, his breath fanning across my temple. Then—play.

The first notes bloom soft and hesitant, piano keys pressed like a question. Layers build: the sigh of strings, a heartbeat rhythm, something that sounds like rain against studio glass. Then his voice—not the polished perfection of recordings, but the raw, sleep-rough version that exists only in these midnight hours. He hums where words fail, fills gaps with melodies that ache with unfinished honesty.

It wraps around me like a shared secret. Like being let inside a dream.

When I pull the headphones down, they catch on the rapid flutter in my throat. “Channie,” I whisper, the nickname slipping out unbidden. “This is… fuck, this is good.”

He’s already watching me, eyes dark with something perilously close to hope. “You liked it?”

“Liked it?” I twist in his lap. “I loved it.”

The grin that breaks across his face could power cities—all boyish delight and sudden sunshine. His hand splays across my stomach, anchoring me as if I might float away. “It’s nowhere near done,” he mutters automatically. “The bridge needs—"

“No.” My fingers find his jaw, turning him back to me. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

The headphones fall silent, but the song lingers in the air between us. My blood hums with it. So does his.

His thumb draws lazy circles over the fabric of my shirt, slow and absentminded. The room feels warmer now. Denser. Like we’re standing on the edge of something unnamed, hearts tipped forward, waiting.

The chair creaks as I shift, my knee bumping the desk. His grip tightens reflexively—not restraining, just keeping—as the monitor lights carve shadows across his face. That damn lower lip caught between his teeth, the flutter of his lashes when my fingers brush his wrist.

I should leave. Let him work.

But then his hand rises, tucking a wayward strand of hair behind my ear. His fingertips linger, tracing the shell before skating down to the sensitive hollow beneath my jaw. The shiver that follows is beyond my control.

His breath hitches in answer, fingers flexing at my waist—not pulling me closer, not pushing away. Just holding on. Just staying.

The screen flickers, casting jagged blue shadows across the curve of his throat as the track stays paused mid-chorus. Neither of us moves to restart it—the song forgotten, the world narrowed to this: the solid warmth of his chest against my back, the way his breath hitches when my head tilts instinctively toward his shoulder.

He looks at me. Really looks. Like I’m the only thing his eyes know how to focus on, like the studio—the city outside, his precious music—has dissolved into static.

I feel it then, that electric hum building between us, live-wire and inevitable.

"You're distracting me." His voice is rough, frayed at the edges like he's been holding the words back for hours.

"I mean," I tease, but it comes out breathless, "you could use a break."

His thumb presses into the dip of my waist, a silent counterargument. "Is that so?"

I nod, too quick. He notices—of course he notices—his lips curving as he tracks the flush spreading down my neck.

"What do you suggest we do, then?" Controlled. Careful. But his gaze keeps dropping to my mouth, betraying him.

My throat tightens. Words pile up behind my teeth, half-formed and trembling.

He reads them anyway. "You're thinking about it," he murmurs. "Right now." Not guessing. Knowing.

My pulse thrums under his touch. “Maybe.”

“Maybe,” he echoes, voice dark with amusement. He leans in, nose brushing mine. “Tell me.”

I stay frozen. Barely breathing.

His thumb grazes my bottom lip, feather-light. “Use your words.”

“You’re—” I swallow hard. “You’re enjoying this.”

His smile is slow, devastating. "Yeah. I really am." His hand tilts my chin up, forcing eye contact. "So tell me. What do you need?"

My hands find his hoodie before I can second-guess myself. Fisting the fabric. Pulling.

Or maybe he moves first.

All I know is his mouth—hot and insistent, the groan vibrating against my lips as his fingers dig into my hips like he's trying to fuse us together. His hand tangles in my hair, angling me deeper as the kiss turns filthy, deliberate. Every slide of his tongue sparks liquid heat down my spine. When I whimper, he smiles against my mouth—just a quirk of lips, but it's enough. He heard that.

"God," he pants when we break apart, foreheads touching, "I've wanted to do that all week."

I can't speak. Can't think.

He kisses me again, softer this time. A promise. "Still distracting," he murmurs.

"Then stop pretending you mind."

And this time—he doesn’t.

The second kiss is all pent-up hunger—weeks of stolen glances and almost-touches poured into the way his teeth catch my lip, how his hands roam my back like he's relearning my shape. I fist his hoodie again, dragging him closer until there's no space left between us.

And I feel it in him too—the moment hesitation shatters. His touch turns bolder, palms skating up my ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of my breasts through my shirt.

I shift in his lap, turning slowly to face him fully—knees sliding to either side of his hips, thighs bracketing his. The movement presses our bodies together in a way that steals my breath, and I feel his hands slip to my hips, steadying me without thinking. His fingers flex once. Then again. Like he's memorizing the weight of me there.

"Fuck," he hisses when I roll my hips.

I don't look away as I reach for his hoodie. His eyes flare—surprise giving way to raw hunger—before he lifts his arms in surrender. The fabric catches on my headphones, the cord snagging around my neck, but neither of us cares.

Not when he's revealed like this: black tank top stretched taut over his shoulders, the muscles of his arms flexing as he grips my thighs. My palms slide down his biceps, tracing the ridges I've missed more than I'd admit.

He watches me look, his gaze heavy. "Better?"

I nod, thumbs brushing the neckline of his shirt, feeling his pulse hammer under my touch. "Much."

His fingers toy with the headphone cord still looped around my neck. “You planning to keep these on?”

"I forgot," I admit, flustered.

"Let me." He removes them gently, tossing them aside without breaking eye contact. His other hand stays anchored at my hip, thumb drawing slow circles that burn through my jeans.

Then his mouth is on mine again, hotter this time, his tongue sweeping in like he's chasing the taste of my laughter. His tank top is soft under my palms, but the body beneath is all hard lines and tension. I push the fabric up, needing skin—

He breaks the kiss with a gasp when my nails scrape his abs. "I thought you were working," I murmur against his jaw.

"I was." His teeth graze my earlobe. "Then you showed up."

I tilt my head back to give him more access. “You make it sound like an inconvenience.”

His laugh ruffles my hair as he nuzzles into my neck. "You're the opposite of that."

My fingers rake through his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan. "That night," I whisper, "it keeps replaying in my head."

His grip tightens. "Yeah?" His voice drops to that register that liquefies my bones. "You think about it too?"

"More than I should."

A beat. Then his hands slide under my shirt—not asking, not hesitating. “Then let’s stop pretending this is just some accidental drop-by.”

His lips crash into mine again—no patience left, no question remaining. Only the sharp creak of his studio chair protesting beneath us as he drags me closer, his hands desperate against my waist like he's been counting seconds since I first showed up in his doorway.

The kiss shifts—slower now, but devastatingly deliberate. Controlled in that way of his, all coiled restraint and simmering intent. As if now that we've crossed this line, he intends to map every inch of it with his mouth, savoring the way my breath hitches when his teeth graze my lower lip.

I feel it everywhere—in the rough pads of his fingers skating up my ribs, in the way his palms mold against my back like he's relearning my shape. Not just touching. Claiming. But always, always asking.

“What do you want, baby?” the words rumble against my mouth, warm with promise.

His voice thrums low—not a command, but an invitation woven in velvet and smoke.

My nails scrape lightly down his shoulders, delighting in the full-body shiver it wrings from him. "I think you already know."

He huffs a laugh, the sound vibrating through my chest where we're pressed together. "Say it anyway."

I trail my lips along his jaw, tasting salt and exhaustion. "I want you."

His grip on my waist goes vice-tight—like those three words just short-circuited his last shred of self-control.

“Then you’d better hang on.”

His hands slide up my back with agonizing precision, slipping under my shirt to brand my skin with his heat. I arch instinctively when his thumbs brush the underside of my breasts, the thin fabric of my bra doing nothing to mute the electric shock of contact.

“Can I?”

The question ghosts across my swollen lips as his fingers pause, trembling slightly against my flushed skin.

I lock eyes with him, my voice ragged. "If you don't, I might lose my mind.”

That pulls a rough chuckle from him—the kind that lives in the space between amusement and utter desperation. "Impatient?"

"No," I breathe, rolling my hips just to watch his pupils blow wider. "Just done pretending I came here for fucking Tim Tams."

The groan that tears from his throat is half-laughter, half-suffering as he lifts my shirt over my head, dragging it off with agonizing slowness. The air between us goes thick and charged, his gaze raking over me like I'm the last sip of water in a desert.

"Still the prettiest thing I've ever seen," he murmurs, calloused hands skimming down my sides like he's committing every curve to memory.

I let him look—let him feel the way my pulse jumps under his touch, the way my body leans in like a compass finding north. My own hands slip beneath his tank, rediscovering the familiar planes of his torso. "You're staring."

“I’ve earned the right,” he says simply, his voice gone gravel-rough.

A pleased hum vibrates in my throat. “You planning to keep me on edge like this all night?”

He tilts his head, eyes glinting with mischief and something darker. “Depends. You gonna ask nicely?”

My palm flattens against his chest, fingers splaying over his hammering heartbeat. “I’ve got better things to do with my mouth.”

His jaw flexes, and I know I’ve got him.

“Gonna be trouble tonight, aren’t you?”

“Only if you’re lucky.”

Something primal flashes in his eyes before he manhandles me closer, the sudden friction wringing a gasp from my lungs. “You tell me to stop, and I stop. You understand?”

“Yes,” I whisper—not submission, but surrender.

“Say it,” his voice drops to that register that liquefies my spine.

“I want this, Chan.”

And God, the way he reacts to that.

The kiss is rough, impatient—a clash of lips and teeth and pent-up longing. His fingers tangle in my hair, tilting my head back with a gentle urgency that sends sparks skittering down my spine. His breath is warm against my mouth, flavored with the faintest hint of mint and something darker, smokier.

“Jeans off.” The command is a grunt, barely more than a vibration against my lips, but it crackles through me like live wire.

I slip from his lap, my knees unsteady as I toe off my shoes and shimmy out of my jeans. The air is cool against my flushed skin, but his gaze is hotter—a slow, deliberate sweep from my bare thighs to the lace clinging to my hips, lingering where my nipples peak beneath the flimsy fabric.

“You really came here with an idea in mind.” His smirk is all wicked amusement, dimple flashing as he pats his thigh. “Come sit again.”

I roll my eyes but obey, settling back against him with a huff. His chest is solid against my back, his heartbeat a steady thrum beneath my shoulder blades. “Like you weren’t thinking the same thing the second I walked in,” I mutter, grinding down just to feel him shudder beneath me.

His breath hitches—a sharp, fractured sound—before his lips brush my ear. “Open.” The word is a whisper, a plea wrapped in velvet. His hand taps my thigh, but his own legs are already nudging mine apart, his cock a hard line against my ass.

“Always so fucking eager,” he murmurs, but his hands betray him, sliding up my sides with agonizing slowness. His fingers trace the lace of my bra like he’s memorizing every stitch, every flutter of my breath. “These need to go.”

The clasp gives way with a whisper, and then his palms are on me—warm, rough from rehearsals, perfect. He cups my breasts like they’re something holy, thumbs brushing my nipples in slow, maddening circles. A moan spills from my lips, unbidden, and his chuckle is dark, triumphant, as his mouth finds the curve of my neck.

“So fucking perfect.” His voice is a growl, low and reverent, as he kneads gently before pinching—just hard enough to make me gasp. “Love how responsive you are. How pretty you look when you fall apart for me.”

His teeth scrape my shoulder, a sharp contrast to the slow, deliberate drag of his hands across my skin—as if he’s committing every curve, every shudder, to memory. "Every sound you make is fucking perfect," he murmurs, his tongue flicking over the spot he just nipped. "Gonna ruin you just to hear how pretty you beg when you're desperate for me."

One hand slips lower, tracing the lace edge of my underwear with torturous patience, while the other stays busy—rolling a nipple between his fingers, tugging just enough to make my hips jerk. A whimper escapes me as I squirm in his lap, but he holds me still, his breath hot against my ear.

“Tell me.” His fingertips trace slow, taunting circles over the damp lace, teasing but never giving me what I need. “Tell me how bad you want it.”

I bite my lip, thighs trembling as his palm presses flat against me, the heat of him searing through the thin fabric—so close, but not enough. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re stalling.” His teeth graze my earlobe, his free hand pinning my hip down when I try to rock against him. “Use your words, sweetheart. Or do I need to tease it out of you?”

A frustrated groan tears from my throat as his thumb finally—finally—strokes along my clothed seam, once, twice, the touch achingly light. My nails dig into his thigh, but he tuts, catching my wrist and pressing it to my stomach.

“Hands here. Let me take care of you.”

He doesn’t rush, just traces idle, maddening patterns over my clit through the soaked lace, letting the friction build in slow, torturous waves.

“Chan—”

“Tell me,” he coaxes, his other hand wrapping around my throat—not squeezing, just holding. A reminder. “What do you need?”

I arch, my head falling back against his shoulder. “Your fingers. Now.”

He laughs, low and rough. “Uhm… say please?”

“Or,” I pant, “you could stop pretending you don’t want this just as badly and put them to use.”

His grip tightens—just a fraction—and his breath hitches against my neck. “Fuck, I love your mouth.”

“Then quit admiring it,” I gasp as his thumb presses harder, “and give me a reason to put it to work.”

A growl rumbles through his chest, but his fingers finally slip beneath the lace, stroking through slick heat. “You’re impossible,” he murmurs, though the crack in his voice betrays him.

“And yet,” I twist in his grasp, just enough to meet his eyes, “you’re the one who can’t keep his hands off me.”

His grip tightens on my throat—not cutting off air, just enough to make my pulse hammer against his palm. “Cheeky.” His lips brush my jaw, the words a dark hum. “You really think you’re calling the shots here, sweetheart?”

I open my mouth, but he silences me with two fingers pressing against my entrance—not pushing in, just teasing. “Try again.”

My breath hitches. “Make me.”

“Mm. Wrong answer.” His thumb grazes my clit, so light it’s agony, and I jerk against him. “You want my fingers? Ask. Nicely.”

I arch into his touch, gasping. “I don’t recall you needing an invitation.”

A pause. Then his laugh is rough, warmth bleeding into my skin as his forehead drops to my shoulder. “Fuck, you’re gonna ruin me.” His hips roll up, betraying his own desperation, but his fingers stay maddeningly still—until his teeth sink into my neck, sharp and claiming. “But I’m still the one who decides how this goes.”

His voice drops, velvet and threat. “Imagine how good it’ll feel when I finally let you come. My fingers fucking into you, my thumb right—” A fleeting stroke over my clit. “—here. Getting you ready for me. You’d take me so pretty, wouldn’t you? Let me feel every sweet pulse of you around me? I'd ruin you with how good I'd make it."

I rock against him, pleading without words. "Then do it."

This time, when he slides two fingers in, it’s with aching slowness, curling just there, his thumb circling my clit—too gentle, too much. I clench around him, overwhelmed, and his groan vibrates against my ear. “Always so tight. So perfect.” His teeth scrape my earlobe. “Gonna beg for me yet?”

“No.” The word trembles.

“No?” Amusement laces his voice. His thumb slows to a torturous glide, every pass sending shocks up my thighs. Just as the coil inside me tightens—he stops.

The sound I make is raw.

His grip flexes at my throat, controlling, as his fingers twist deep—one sharp drag—wringing out another moan. “Look at you, baby,” he murmurs, “all worked up over two fingers."

His thumb skims my clit once, twice, and my hips buck. “One word, love.”

I grit my teeth—but my body arches, traitorous, needing.

Chan’s chuckle is dark, knowing, vibrating through me like a struck chord. "Stubborn." His fingers withdraw with deliberate slowness, dragging through my slickness before pressing against my lips. His voice is rough, but there’s something beneath it—warmth, a thread of admiration tangled in the command. "Taste yourself. Then show me how you’d touch yourself if I weren’t here."

I don’t hesitate. His fingers slip into my mouth, and I keep my eyes locked on his, defiant, relishing the way his pupils swallow the dark brown of his irises. The taste of myself is salt-sweet, intoxicating, and I swirl my tongue around his fingers just to watch his jaw clench, his breath hitch. Good. Let him ache too.

A grunt escapes him as his free hand grips my hip, guiding me back onto my feet before steering me toward the couch. He drops into his chair, thighs spreading—a gesture that would earn an eye roll any other time, but now feels like pure provocation. "Go on," he murmurs, voice gravel-rough. "Let me watch."

A challenge. A dare.

His gaze burns as my fingers hook into the lace at my hips, thumbs tracing the delicate edge. I drag the fabric down inch by inch, letting the cool air kiss my skin, letting him see the way my thighs tremble—just slightly. The underwear catches at my knees, and I pause, biting my lip like I might reconsider.

A muscle jumps in his jaw. "Don’t fucking stop."

I exhale a laugh, shaky with anticipation, and step free of the lace, kicking it aside. His stare follows the movement like a brand, searing every exposed curve. The power of it coils low in my belly—the way his chest rises faster, the way his grip whitens on the arms of the chair. This is what control feels like: the weight of his want, the silent plea in the way he spreads his thighs wider.

“Happy?” I murmur, palming myself again, this time with nothing between us.

His voice is wrecked. “Getting there.”

My pulse thrums in my throat, part defiance, part thrill. If he wants a show, I’ll give him one. My hands trail down my body, fingertips skimming my ribs, the dip of my waist—teasing, just like he would. His nostrils flare when I finally brush my clit, my own gasp sharp in the quiet between us. The contact is electric, but it’s not enough, not after the way he wound me tight and left me trembling.

Chan’s fingers flex against his knees, knuckles whitening with restraint. "That’s it," he murmurs, gaze dark and unblinking. “Let me see how pretty you are when you fall apart.”

I bite my lip, arching into my own touch—but it’s hollow compared to the way he commands my body. My hips stutter, frustration coiling hotter.

He notices. Of course he does.

“Problem, love?” That voice, all honey and smoke, curls around me before I even see his smirk.

My breath hitches, sharp in my throat. “You’re distracting me.”

A laugh, low and knowing. “I’m not even touching you.”

“You’re watching.” And God, it’s worse. His gaze lingers like a touch, slow and deliberate, leaving me exposed.

Then he moves—fluid, effortless—caging me against the couch without laying a finger on me. The heat of him radiates through the sliver of air between us. “Admit it.” His breath fans over my lips. “You’d trade every stroke of your own fingers for one of mine.”

I bite my tongue. But my body betrays me, thighs pressing tight together, and his grin turns lethal.

“Beg.” His thumb grazes my lower lip, a whisper of pressure. “Just once. Let me hear it.”

My hands freeze, but his covers mine, guiding me back into rhythm with firm insistence. “Don’t stop yet.” His scent—cool mint and warm vanilla—floods my senses, his mouth hovering just shy of mine.

A heartbeat of hesitation. Pride wars with the ache between my thighs, crumbling under the weight of his stare.

“Please.” The word cracks, raw.

“That’s my girl.” Triumph flares in his eyes a second before his lips claim mine, swallowing my whimper as his fingers sink deep, curling just so. I moan into his mouth, back arching off the couch, but he doesn’t relent—his kiss is fevered, his touch unyielding, and when his thumb drags over my clit, the pressure is perfect.

“You’re close.” His voice is rough against my lips. “I can feel it. That desperate little clench—” A twist of his wrist. “You feel incredible like this—so tight, so eager.”

Then his fingers slip free, glistening, and before I can protest, he’s sliding down my body, breath scorching between my thighs. “But I want to taste you when you come.”

The first lick is slow—agonizing—drawing a broken sound from my throat. His hands anchor my hips as his tongue flicks over my clit, once, twice, teasing. “Fuck, even sweeter than I remembered,” he murmurs, teeth grazing my inner thigh.

“Chan—”

His name shatters into a gasp as his tongue swirls in slow, torturous circles. The couch dips under his weight, his grip firm but not restraining—steadying. Every flick is a promise, every suck a silent mine, until my legs tremble around his shoulders.

“That’s it,” he murmurs against me, the warmth of his breath sending another ripple of pleasure through my core. “Just like that. Let me feel you.”

And God, I do. His mouth is relentless, not in punishment but worship, broad strokes wringing whimpers from my lips. A hum of approval vibrates through me as he glances up, eyes dark.

“You’re shaking,” he whispers, lips glistening. “Gonna come just like this? Just from my mouth?”

Before I can answer, his fingers press inside, one deep, unhurried thrust. The stretch pulls a moan from my throat, but he doesn’t stop—just crooks them there, curling ruthlessly as his tongue circles my clit again.

The orgasm crashes without warning. A sob tears free as I arch off the couch, clenching around his fingers in helpless waves. He doesn’t pull away—gentles his touch instead, working me through it with slow, reverent strokes, lapping up every shudder until I’m limp beneath him.

“Perfect.” His lips brush my inner thigh, my hip, the flutter of my stomach. “So fucking perfect for me.”

When he finally sinks onto the couch and pulls me against his chest, his breathing is ragged, his skin scorching where we touch—proof, even now, that I unravel him too.

His arms lock around me, his clothed body a furnace against my bare skin. The hard line of his cock presses into my hip through his sweats, insistent, impatient. A shudder ripples through him when I shift, my fingers twisting into the fabric of his tank top.

“Still with me?” His voice is rough velvet, lips brushing my temple. The contradiction of him—hands tender as they smooth down my spine, like gentling something wild—makes my throat tighten.

I tilt my head back, meeting his gaze: dark, hungry. “You’re still dressed.” My voice is wrecked, but the challenge in it is clear.

His smirk is slow, deliberate. “Observant.” His palm spreads over the small of my back, pressing me flush against him until I can’t ignore the heat, the way his hips roll once—just once—against me. “You gonna do something about it?”

I don’t hesitate. My hands slip under his shirt, nails skimming the rigid planes of his stomach. He hisses, muscles jumping, but I don’t stop—pushing the fabric up until he growls and tears it off himself in one impatient motion.

The sight of him—bare, sweat-slicked, control fraying at the edges—sends a fresh throb of want between my thighs. My fingers dart toward the waistband of his sweats, but he catches my wrist, grip firm.

“Ah-ah.” His other hand fists in my hair, tilting my head back. “You don’t get to rush me.”

I arch into him, breath catching. “Then what do I get?”

His laugh is dark, delicious. “Everything. Just not yet.”

Then his mouth crashes into mine, hot and claiming, and I taste myself on his tongue—sinful, sweet. His hands roam, gripping my waist, palming my breasts, thumbs teasing my nipples until I whimper into his kiss.

When he pulls back, his eyes are black with need. “Up.” The word is ragged.

I don’t need explanation. Heart hammering, I rise onto my knees on the couch, bracing one hand against the backrest. His fingers dig into my hips as he drags me back against him, his cock a heavy, aching pressure against my ass.

“Tell me you want it,” he demands, teeth grazing my shoulder.

I exhale a shaky laugh. “You already know.”

“Say it.”

I twist to look at him over my shoulder, letting him see the raw want in my gaze. “Fuck me.”

His groan is filthy, broken. “Good girl.”

Then his sweats are shoved down just enough, his hands spread me open, and he’s pushing in—slow, so slow—until the stretch burns and I’m gasping, nails clawing into the couch.

“Fuck—you’re tight.” His voice is rough, strained, as he sheathes himself fully inside me with one sharp snap of his hips. “Gonna take every inch, yeah? Just like this?”

Words fail me. I can only nod, overwhelmed by the stretch of him, the way he fills me so completely it steals my breath.

Then he moves.

The first thrust is punishing—deep enough to blur my vision, to leave me gasping—but he stills abruptly, his body trembling against mine. “Fuck. Need a second.” His fingers dig into my hips, holding me in place, his breath hot and uneven against my neck. Like he’s fighting for control.

I whimper, clenching around him instinctively, and he curses under his breath. “You’re killing me.”

“Then stop being gentle,” I pant, pushing back against him.

A dark laugh rumbles through his chest. “Who said anything about gentle?”

But instead of giving me the rough pace I expect, he rolls his hips in a slow, deliberate circle, letting me feel every inch of him. His hand slides up my spine, fingers tangling in my hair to tilt my head back. “You just came,” he murmurs, lips brushing my ear. “Gonna make sure you feel everything this time.”

And then he starts moving—not fast, not frantic, but with deep, measured thrusts that burn through me like liquid fire. Each one drags just shy of brutal, his hips working with a precision that leaves me writhing. He adjusts my body slightly, tilting my hips up, and suddenly he’s deeper, the stretch bordering on unbearable.

“There.” His voice is raw, lips skimming my ear. “That’s how I remember you. Taking me so perfectly, like you were made for me.”

I arch back against him, nails biting into the couch, and let out a breathy laugh. “Someone’s greedy.”

His rhythm falters—just for a heartbeat—before his grip tightens on my hip, his next thrust slower, deeper. “Oh?” A challenge laces his tone. “Explain.”

“Mmm.” I clench around him, relishing the way his breath hitches. “The way you take what you want. Like you can’t get enough.”

A groan vibrates against my skin as he nips lightly at my shoulder. “And if I can’t?” His hand gentles in my hair, angling my face toward his. “Tell me to stop.”

A lie. A game. We both know I won’t.

“Never,” I whisper.

“That’s what I thought.” His free hand slides down, fingers circling my clit with just enough pressure to make my thighs shake. “But since you’re so observant…” His hips snap forward, punching the air from my lungs. “…let me show you just how greedy I can be.”

And then he does.

No more measured thrusts, no teasing restraint—just pure, relentless possession.

He drives into me with a rhythm that borders on brutal, each snap of his hips forcing me deeper into the couch, the slick, rhythmic sound of skin on skin filling the space between us. My gasp catches in my throat, fingers clawing at the backrest, but he doesn’t slow—doesn’t stop. One hand fists in my hair, arching my spine to his will, while the other grips my hip hard enough to leave marks, anchoring me exactly where he wants me.

"Fuck," I choke out, voice frayed at the edges. "Just like that—God—you feel so good."

A dark chuckle vibrates against my back. "Yeah? Tell me how much you like it."

"So deep," I pant, rocking back to meet him. "Love it when you take me like this—when you use me—"

His rhythm stutters for half a second, a rough groan tearing from his chest. "Christ, listen to you." His fingers dig harder, dragging me onto him with bruising force. "Dripping all over my cock like you’re made for it."

The sound of it—the filthy, wet slide of him inside me—sends heat licking through my veins. My breath hitches, and he notices, lips curling against my shoulder.

"Hearing it turns you on, doesn’t it?" He punctuates the question with a sharp thrust, wrenching a moan from my throat. "The way you sound? The way we sound?"

I can’t answer—not when he’s hitting there—but my body does, clenching around him in helpless, fluttering pulses.

"Knew it," he growls, teeth grazing my ear. "Every time our skin slaps together, every fucking noise you make—you get even wetter. Can feel it." His hand slides between my thighs, gathering slickness onto his fingers before dragging them up to my mouth. "Taste yourself. Taste what you do to me."

I suck his fingers in, moaning around them, and his hips jerk. "Fuck. Keep doing that, and I won’t last."

"Promises, promises," I taunt, breathless.

He laughs—low, dangerous—before hauling me upright against his chest, his arm a steel band around my waist. "Think you’re clever?" His mouth finds my pulse, teeth scraping. "Let’s see how smart you are when I’ve got you on your back."

The world tilts in a dizzying rush as he flips me onto my back, his grip unrelenting. The sweats and underwear still tangled around his thighs are shoved aside in one impatient motion, finally freeing him completely—and then he’s looming over me, all sweat-slicked muscle and dark, devouring eyes.

“Beg me to ruin you properly,” he rasps, voice rough as gravel.

I open my mouth—to taunt, to challenge—but the words dissolve into a gasp as his hands hook under my knees, yanking me toward him with a single, brutal tug. My calves hit his shoulders, hips lifting off the couch, and then he’s there, the thick head of his cock pressing against me with deliberate, taunting pressure.

“Oh—!” The sound punches out of me before I can stop it, my back arching.

He doesn’t give me time to adjust. One sharp thrust, and he’s buried to the hilt, deeper than before, the angle ruthless. The air rushes from my lungs in a broken moan, my nails scrabbling at the cushions as my vision whites out for a heartbeat.

“Fuck,” he grits out, his own breath ragged. “Look at you—spread open, taking me just like this.” He pulls out almost completely, then slams back in, the force driving a cry from my lips. “Gonna ruin you so good, you’ll feel it for days.”

Every drag of him is a live wire, every snap of his hips stealing my breath. I’m pinned, helpless, my thighs trembling where they bracket his shoulders, my moans loud and unchecked.

“That’s it,” he growls, leaning forward to cage me in, his mouth hovering over mine. “Let me hear how much you love it.”

And God help me—I do.

He lowers himself, balancing his weight on his forearms, and the shift makes my legs rise higher, the new angle bordering on too much—too deep, too intense. A whimper escapes me, and he stills, his voice a ragged whisper.

“Touch yourself for me.”

I don’t hesitate. My fingers slide between us, circling my clit in frantic, desperate strokes. His gaze drops to watch, his pupils swallowing every bit of light, and for a heartbeat, he’s utterly still—just the ragged rise and fall of his chest betraying him.

Then he loses it.

His thrusts turn punishing, deep and fast and hard, the slap of skin echoing in the room. I arch beneath him, my voice breaking around his name.

“Chris—”

His rhythm falters. A groan tears from his throat, his hips jerking like I’ve struck him. “Fuck. Say it again.”

“Chris,” I gasp, and he curses, his mouth crashing down to my breast—nipping, sucking, teeth scraping my nipple until I cry out. The dual sensation of him fucking into me and the sharp, sweet pain pushes me higher, my thighs trembling where they’re hooked over his shoulders.

“Come with me,” he demands.

And I do, shattering around him as he follows me over the edge.

The air hangs thick between us, charged with the aftermath. Chan stays buried inside me, forehead pressed to my shoulder, his breaths ragged and warm against my sweat-slick skin. His hands slide down my thighs—gentle now, almost reverent—as he lowers my legs from his shoulders, fingers tracing the curve of my calves like he’s memorizing the shape of me.

I wince when my knees protest, and he stills. "Hurts?" His voice is rough, but his touch is featherlight.

"Worth it," I murmur, brushing damp hair from his brow. He turns into my palm, lips grazing the center, and something in my chest tightens.

When he pulls out, it’s with a low groan, collapsing beside me and dragging me half onto his chest. The studio is a wreck—his hoodie tangled with my top near the mic stand, the armchair shoved out of place from when he’d yanked me toward him earlier. My fingers drift over his sternum, catching on the chain around his neck as his heartbeat slows beneath my touch.

"You’re quiet," he says after a while, thumb brushing my hip.

I tilt my head to meet his gaze. "So are you."

A smirk tugs at his mouth. "Recovering." His hand slides up my spine, possessive even now. "You wrecked me, love."

The endearment slips out like it belongs there, and neither of us acknowledge it. Instead, I nod toward the forgotten Tim Tams on the counter. "Still hungry?"

He laughs, warm and surprised, like he’d forgotten. "Fuck yeah." But he doesn’t move, arms tightening around me instead. "Later."

His fingers trace idle patterns along my arm, mapping constellations only he knows. For the first time tonight, there’s no urgency—just the distant hum of the city and the weight of his silence, heavy with words neither of us will say.

Eventually, he reaches for his sweats, pulling them on with a grunt before crossing the room in two strides. He grabs the paper bag I’d brought earlier, returning with Tim Tams and a water bottle pressed into my hands.

"You’re spoiling me," I tease, cracking open the package.

His lips brush my shoulder. "Taste."

I break a cookie in half, offering him the other piece. He takes it, but his eyes stay locked on mine as he chews—slow, deliberate. "Missed this," he admits, voice so soft I almost miss it.

The chocolate melts on my tongue, too sweet. He watches me swallow like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s seen all night, thumb swiping a crumb from my lower lip. When he kisses me, I taste it—sugar and us and something dangerously close to longing.

He tugs me closer, my back against his chest, my head on his shoulder. His fingers trace slower now, heavier with fatigue. The chocolate lingers on his lips when they press to my temple, but it’s the warmth of him that lulls me—the steady rise and fall of his breath syncing with mine.

I don’t remember closing my eyes.

When I blink awake, the studio is bathed in the blue glow of his laptop screen. Chan’s back at his desk, headphones on, one hand scrolling through waveforms while the other taps rhythmlessly against his thigh. The sight is so ordinary, so him, that my chest aches with something tender.

I smile into the blanket—the same thin, scratchy one he keeps under the desk for nights when the city noise keeps him working till dawn. It smells like laundry soap and him, and for a wild second, I consider tugging him back to the couch.

His chair creaks as he shifts, and for a heartbeat, I think he’s noticed I’m awake. His fingers pause mid-adjustment, hovering over the dial. But the track needs fixing, and after a second, he dives back in—though his foot taps restlessly against the chair leg.

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mrsfancyferrari · 4 months ago

Text

My Husband

Summary: when you accidently called Oscar your husband, you didn't think it would affect him that much

Song: Haunted · Beyoncé

Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶

Word count: 2.3k

MASTERLIST - F1

The quaint little bakery was a warm embrace of aromatic comfort, the scent of fresh bread and sugar-coated pastries dancing in the air as the bell above the door chimed, announcing the presence of a customer.

You stepped inside, the chilly autumn breeze kissing your cheeks before you shut the door. Oscar, your devoted boyfriend, followed closely, his eyes never leaving yours, as if the words you had just spoken had branded themselves into his soul.

You approached the counter, where Mrs. Petunia, the plump, grandmotherly figure who had known you since childhood, was carefully arranging a tray of her famous Tim Tams.

She looked up and beamed at you, her kind eyes twinkling with recognition. "Ah, my dear, what can I get for you today?"

Without missing a beat, you replied, "Oh, Mrs. Petunia, me and my husband love Tim Tams. Could we have a dozen, please?"

The words slipped out of your mouth as easily as honey off a spoon, and yet, they seemed to hang in the air, thick and potent, charged with an unspoken electricity.

Oscar's eyes grew wide, and a blush bloomed on his cheeks that would have put a summer sunset to shame. His heart skipped a beat, and his throat tightened with a mix of shock and excitement.

You hadn't meant to say it, but there it was, hanging between the two of you like a ripe fruit, begging to be plucked and tasted.

Mrs. Petunia looked from you to Oscar and back again, her gaze lingering on his flustered expression before she winked mischievously.

"Of course, dear," she said, her voice a gentle purr. "Congratulations to you both. I'll have your Tim Tams ready in a jiffy."

The silence that followed was a symphony of unspoken desires and unanswered questions. The air grew thick with tension as Oscar's hand found yours, his grip firm yet trembling.

The warmth of his skin against yours sent a thrill down your spine, and you couldn't help but feel the sudden urgency of his touch.

As the baker's hands moved deftly behind the counter, wrapping your sweet treats in a paper bag with a flourish, Oscar leaned in, his breath a whisper of heat against your ear.

"Did you mean it?" he asked, his voice a mix of hope and apprehension. "Did you really mean to call me your husband?"

You turned to face him, the warmth from his body seeping into yours, and took a moment to study his features. The way his eyes searched yours for an answer, the way his Adam's apple bobbed with a hard swallow, it was all so… intoxicating.

You bit your bottom lip, feeling the heat of his gaze on your skin, and let the moment linger before finally speaking.

"It… it just slipped out," you murmured, trying to downplay the significance of your words. But even as you said them, you felt a thrill in your chest, a spark of something new and deliciously tempting.

Oscar's grip on your hand tightened, his thumb tracing lazy circles on your palm. "But do you?" he pressed, his voice low and earnest. "Do you… see me as your husband?" His eyes searched yours, a silent plea for honesty that you found impossible to resist.

Before you could answer, Mrs. Petunia shuffled back to the counter with your order, her knowing smile as sweet as the sugary confection she placed in the bag.

"Here you go, lovebirds," she said, her eyes twinkling. "And just for the newlyweds," she added with a wink, "a little something extra." She slipped a small, heart-shaped cookie into the bag, and you felt Oscar's pulse quicken against your fingertips.

The weight of the moment pressed down on you, thick and heavy as the scent of freshly baked bread. His question hung in the air, a silent echo of the words you hadn't meant to say. Yet, as you looked into his eyes, you realized that you didn't want to take them back.

The thought of him as your husband, a partner in every sense of the word, filled you with a warmth that spread from your core to your fingertips.

"Thank you, Mrs. Petunia," you said, your voice a bit shaky as you took the bag of Tim Tams from her outstretched hand. The touch of the paper bag against your skin was a sudden reminder of the real world, and you forced a smile as you slid the question to the back of your mind.

The idea of a future with Oscar was both thrilling and terrifying, and you weren't quite ready to tackle it in the middle of a bustling bakery.

You turned to leave, eager to escape the intensity of Oscar's gaze, but he held fast to your hand, refusing to let you pull away. "We need to talk," he whispered, his eyes never leaving yours. "But not here."

With a nod of understanding, you allowed him to lead you out the door and into the cool, crisp air. The wind played with your hair as you walked in silence, the crackle of leaves underfoot a stark contrast to the chaotic symphony of emotions in your chest.

The thought of the impromptu family gathering at the restaurant was a welcome one; it meant you had more time to figure out what you truly felt about the prospect of marriage.

When you arrived at the cozy Italian restaurant, the warmth from within enveloped you like a comforting blanket. The smell of garlic and tomato sauce mingled with the laughter of those already gathered, and the sight of your friends and family was a much-needed distraction.

You slipped into the role of the happy couple with Oscar by your side, his hand resting gently on the small of your back as you greeted everyone with pecks on the cheek and warm hugs.

Throughout dinner, the question remained unspoken, a silent third wheel to your conversations. You felt Oscar's eyes on you, the question lingering in the air like the scent of fresh bread from the bakery.

Yet, with every shared laugh and knowing glance, the idea grew more and more appealing. The way your family and friends interacted with the two of you, as if you were already a married couple, filled you with a sense of belonging and love that was undeniable.

As the evening grew late and the last of your relatives said their goodbyes, the tension between you and Oscar grew palpable. The warmth from his hand on your lower back had long ago seeped through your clothes, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake.

With each farewell, the reality of what you had said in the bakery grew heavier, a delicious weight that was both terrifying and exhilarating.

Finally, it was just the two of you, the night air a crisp reminder of the world outside your bubble of uncertainty. The walk to his car was a silent dance of anticipation, your hearts beating in time with every step you took closer to the truth.

The cool metal of the car door handle was a stark contrast to the heat of your skin as you climbed inside, the leather seats a promise of the comfort and security you had found in each other's arms so many times before.

Oscar started the engine, and the low purr filled the car, a gentle hum that seemed to vibrate through your very core. As he pulled away from the curb, the headlights painted a yellow path on the dark road ahead, leading you to the house you shared, the place where so many of your memories had been made.

You watched the streetlights flicker past, their light casting shadows across Oscar's features that highlighted the strong line of his jaw and the intensity in his gaze as he focused on the road.

The journey to the house was a blur of unspoken confessions and unanswered questions, the vibrations of the car a rhythmic serenade that seemed to underscore the urgency of the moment.

His hand found yours again, fingers intertwining as if to hold onto the very essence of your being. The touch sent waves of sensation through your body, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken bond that had grown stronger with every shared look and whispered promise.

When you finally pulled into the driveway, the house was bathed in a soft glow, welcoming you home with open arms.

The door clicked shut behind you, the sound echoing through the stillness like a gunshot, shattering the last vestiges of your ability to ignore the conversation that needed to be had.

But Oscar didn't give you the chance to retreat into the safety of mundane small talk or the comfort of the couch. He dropped his bags with a thud that reverberated through the floorboards, and in the blink of an eye, he was on you.

His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you back against his chest, his body a wall of heat and need that made your knees wobble.

His mouth found the sensitive spot just below your ear, his breath hot and demanding as he whispered, "Tell me the truth. Did you mean it?"

You gasped as his teeth grazed your earlobe, the sensation sending a shiver down your spine. Your heart was a wild animal, caged and desperate to break free, hammering against your ribs in a frantic rhythm.

Your breathing grew shallow, every intake of breath a silent admission of the desire that had been simmering just below the surface all evening.

He turned you to face him, his hands sliding up to cradle your cheeks. His thumbs brushed over your cheekbones, and you leaned into his touch, your eyes fluttering closed as you felt the warmth of his palms against your skin.

"Look at me," he demanded softly, and you obeyed, opening your eyes to find his gaze searing into yours. "Do you see me as your husband?"

The word hung in the air, a declaration of love and commitment that made your heart ache. You searched his eyes, the depths of his soul laid bare for you to see, and you knew that you didn't need to say the words aloud.

Your body was already speaking for you, your pulse racing, your breath catching in your throat.

With a groan, Oscar leaned in, capturing your lips in a kiss that was both fierce and tender. His tongue slipped into your mouth, tasting and exploring as if he hadn't kissed you a thousand times before.

Your arms wound around his neck, pulling him closer, your body arching towards his as if drawn by a magnetic force. His hands slid down to the small of your back, pressing you against him, the evidence of his arousal a stark reminder of the passion that burned between you.

The kiss grew deeper, more urgent, as the tension that had been building all evening finally snapped. Your hands roamed his body, tracing the contours of his muscles beneath his shirt, feeling the rapid beat of his heart against your palm.

His own hands found their way to the hem of your dress, inching it upward until he could feel the warmth of your skin, the softness of your thighs.

He broke the kiss, his forehead resting against yours as you both panted, trying to catch your breath. "I need to hear you say it," he whispered, his voice hoarse with emotion. "Do you see a future with me?"

You nodded, the words caught in your throat, the weight of the moment too much to bear. "Yes," you finally managed to croak out, the word a declaration, a promise, a surrender all rolled into one.

And with that, Oscar's control snapped. He swept you off your feet, carrying you with ease up the stairs and into the bedroom that had been the stage for so many of your passionate encounters.

The room was a blur as he laid you on the bed, his mouth leaving a trail of kisses down your neck, his hands working to free you from the confines of your dress.

As the fabric slid away, revealing the soft curves of your body, he whispered, "I can't wait to be your husband," the words a fervent promise that seemed to resonate within your very soul.

His eyes devoured every inch of your exposed skin, the hunger in them making you feel like the most desired woman in the world.

You reached up to trace his jawline, feeling the stubble that had grown over the course of the day. Your touch was tender, a silent acknowledgment of the gravity of what was happening between you.

"Oscar," you breathed, his name a prayer on your lips.

He hovered over you, his eyes searching yours as if looking for the tiniest semblance of doubt. Finding none, he claimed your mouth again, his kiss a declaration of his love and intentions.

Oscar's hands trailed down your body, his fingertips leaving a trail of fire in their wake. He reached the hem of your dress, his touch gentle yet insistent as he began to peel it off.

The fabric whispered against your skin, the coolness of the room a stark contrast to the heat of his gaze.

As you lay before him, bare and exposed, he leaned in and murmured into your ear, his breath a hot caress that sent shivers down your spine.

"I won't apologize for marking you up," he said, the words a dark promise that sent a thrill of excitement coursing through your veins. "Everyone should know you're going to be married to me."

His teeth grazed the sensitive lobe, eliciting a gasp that was swallowed by the fabric of the pillow beneath your head. . . .

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classjezter · 3 months ago

Note

does baby Optimus remember Dee...?

Is he wondering why Dee isn't around anywhere?

Short answer: yes. Long answer: it’s complicated.

I decided to write a small scene to explain it better since it’s kind if hard to portray what’s going on in his head in a comic. You can read below the cut 🔽

Elita, Ironhide, Prowl and Jazz were currently gathered in the command center, cataloguing recent Decepticon activity. A large screen displayed intelligence reports: battle footage, old archives, images of key targets. It was nothing they hadn’t seen or done before.

But to Optimus in his now sparkling state, it was something new and exciting.

He had been perched on Prowl’s lap, quietly observing the Autobots work. Prowl had taken to letting Optimus sit with him, since the sparkling seemed less likely to be up to getting into trouble next to his calm presence. At the moment his tiny optics were scanning the flashing images on the screen, wide with curiosity at seeing other cybertronians other than his caretakers.

Then, a picture of Megatron appeared. A still image of him spotted in one of their latest battles, nothing special or particular to the Autobots at this point. But to Optimus, it was special. With the excitement of a sparkling recognizing someone they love, he pointed at the screen and chirped out a name that none of them had expected to hear.

“D!”

Everyone froze. Elita could feel her spark skip a pulse. Jazz’s visor flickered and his wings dropped. Ironhide’s optics widened while his mouth dropped open. Even Prowl, who always seem composed, visibly tensed, his wings snapping to a sharp V shape behind him. And for a moment, nobody could speak.

Optimus wasn’t done though. He leaned forward, tiny servos reaching toward the image. His optics, bright and full of innocent recognition, stayed locked on Megatron’s face “D! D!” he repeated, a huge, delighted grin on his little face.

The Autobots were silent while processing this. D-16, Megatron’s old designation. The name Optimus, Orion, had once used for him. Before the war. Before all the hatred. Before the endless battles and the ruined cities. And now Optimus didn’t remember any of it. To him, the bot in the image was just “D”, his friend. And none of them knew what to do with that.

Prowl subtly shifted his hold, pulling Optimus closer to his chest. He didn’t know why, but something about the way the sparkling lit up at Megatron’s face made his spark ache. Ironhide was the first to recover though. His voice was gruff, but there was something uneasy in his tone “…That’s Megatron, kiddo”

Optimus blinked at him, then looked back at the screen. His happy chirps fading into quiet, confused little hums. His brows furrowing, he squirmed in Prowl’s hold, glancing back at the screen, then at the others. His tiny servos gripped Prowl’s frame a little tighter. Something felt… wrong.

His first instinct had been joy, excitement, recognition. But now that moment had passed, and a new strange feeling settled over him. Something about that bot wasn’t right. His tiny frame tensed and his little face scrunched up in a frown, letting out a soft whine. Prowl rubbed his back soothingly “Shh, Optimus. It’s alright”

Optimus wasn’t sure it was. He didn’t understand. His spark was telling him that this mech he was seeing was supposed to make him happy, he was happy. But then why did he also feel… sad?

Not only that, his friends were tense now, and he could tell. He could always tell. Why did looking at Megatron “D” make them upset? Why did he feel upset now?

Optimus whined again and buried his face into Prowl’s chestplate, seeking comfort. His caretakers always made things feel better. Maybe if he didn’t look, maybe if he just stayed close to them, this bad feeling would go away.

The others had no idea what was going on in that tiny processor. No way of knowing what thoughts or fragmented feelings were buried in there, waiting to resurface. They just saw how badly this was affecting the now tiny mech with now idea how to fix it.

Prowl, despite himself, felt his hold tighten slightly. He could feel the sparkling’s tiny vents hitching, his soft, uncertain beeps. Elita just watched silently, her expression unreadable, but her tense stance portrayed her emotions.

Jazz finally exhaled, the sound more like static than a proper sigh. He had been silent up until now, visor dimmed in an unreadable expression. But now, he shook his helm and muttered "Primus, that's rough" He didn’t know what else to say. What else could he say?

Ironhide, who had been standing stiffly with his arms crossed, let out a deep grumble. His optics softened, just a bit, at the way the little Prime was curled into Prowl’s chest, tiny frame still tense "Poor lil’ guy," Ironhide muttered, shaking his helm. "Ain't fair. No kid should hafta feel like this" None of them could argue with that.

Prowl carefully rubbed a servo along his back, optics dimming slightly. He could feel the subtle tremors running through Optimus' tiny frame. Uncertain as to how to help when he didn’t even really understand what was wrong. Finally, he settled on calmly whispering "It's alright, little one. You're safe" But Optimus still clung to him, emitting soft chirps and beeps filled with grief.

Elita took a stiff step back from the console, rubbing her temples as if trying to ward off a processor ache "Turn it off. Now" voice sharp with the effort of forcing the words out.

Jazz obliged, pressing a few keys, the screen powered down with a quiet bzzt. The absence of the image didn’t seem to make Optimus feel better. If anything, it only made his whimpers deepen, his tiny servos curling into Prowl's plating.

"Ain’t nothin’ we can do about this now," Ironhide said finally, voice low. "Just gotta be here for ‘im"

"Yeah," Jazz murmured. "It just doesn’t feel like enough"

Another long silence stretched between them.

They all knew he was right.

——

Okay! Hope that somewhat explains it. I’m not really a writer, sorry if it’s not great. And sorry not sorry for the angst :)

#baby prime #baby prime asks #transformers #transformers one #transformers au #class jezter art #tf optimus prime #tf elita one #tf prowl #tf ironhide #tf jazz #tf d16 #tf megatron

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reilemon · 3 months ago

Text

Sweet Stardust

⚠ MINORS DNI (18+ ONLY) ⚠

♡︎ synopsis: You'd never expect to be set up on a blind date with Xavier - the one man you’ve been hopelessly crushing on for months.

♡︎ pairing: Xavier x fem!reader

♡︎ tags: fluff, smut, use of 'sweetheart' 'princess' 'honey', reader has hair (at least shoulder length, didn't specify texture), fingering, creampie ofc

♡︎ word count: 6.1k

♡︎ a/n: written for @who-mentioned-rhys-larsen ♡ this fic is part of the Blind Date Matchmaking event by @unintentionalseductress

♡︎ Thank you to my dearest friend and my beta reader ♡︎@its-de♡︎ for helping.

divider by @/anitalenia

You take a slow sip of your iced tea, the coolness doing nothing to soothe the warmth creeping up your neck.

Why did you think this was a good idea?

Your fingers find the edge of your star-shaped earring, tracing the smooth metal absentmindedly as you glance around. The restaurant is elegant but cozy, the kind of place that requires a reservation but doesn’t suffocate you with formality. Secluded tables nestle in private corners, the polished dark wood of the bar offering a sense of quiet luxury. It’s nice— a perfect spot for a first date.

The thought only makes your stomach twist tighter.

You arrived earlier than planned, too anxious to sit alone in your apartment with nothing but your thoughts. Now, perched on a barstool, you’re starting to question every decision that led you to this moment.

The worst part? You don’t even know what your date looks like.

Tara assured you she’d pick someone good. And you trust her—she’s not just a colleague but a close friend, someone who knows you well enough to understand your type, your standards, your... predicament. That is, your utterly hopeless crush on Xavier.

Your gaze drops to your lap at the thought of him, an old ache stirring in your chest. You’ve spent months pining for him—your colleague, your neighbor, the man who has occupied far too much space in your head. But nothing has ever come of it. No flirty advances, no subtle signs that he might see you as anything more than a friend and coworker. And you’ve grown tired of waiting.

So, you let Tara set you up. Maybe this mystery man will be exactly what you need—a good distraction, someone to help you move on. If that’s even possible.

Still, one small consolation eases your nerves - you know you look good. The sweater dress you chose hugs your curves just right, soft and warm, the cleavage dipping just low enough to be tempting. Your heeled boots elevate your outfit, and, miraculously, your hair cooperated today, falling just the way you like it.

Tara instructed you to wear a recognition piece—something star-shaped, she had said. You thought it was too subtle, but you were relieved you had control over your outfit. Now, though, as you anxiously toy with your earring, you wonder if your date will even notice it.

What if he saw you already and decided to leave?

Your grip tightens slightly around your drink, your pulse stuttering at the humiliating thought. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe—

A small speck of light floats in front of you, pulling you from your anxious thoughts. You can’t help but associate them with him, as they always appear -

“Hey.”

The soft, familiar voice shifts your attention.

You turn, blinking in surprise, and your heart nearly stumbles out of your chest.

Xavier is sitting next to you.

When did he even get here?

He’s propped against the bar, one elbow resting on the polished wood, his cheek lightly pressed against his hand. The dim glow of the restaurant catches in his deep blue eyes, glinting with something unreadable as he watches you.

Your breath falters for just a second, heat creeping up your neck. “Hi.” you manage, offering a sheepish smile, your fingers still toying with your earring.

His gaze flickers down, catching on the star-shaped piece before shifting back to your face. “Are you waiting for someone?”

You straighten instinctively, forcing yourself to stop fidgeting. “I am,” you say, glancing toward the entrance. “But I’m not sure what he looks like.”

His brows lift slightly. “A blind date?”

You let out a small, nervous chuckle. “Yeah.”

You glance at your phone. You exhale sharply, shifting in your seat. “But I’m starting to think he won’t show up.”

Xavier hums, the sound low and thoughtful. “Maybe he’s just running late.”

You look back at him then, finally taking in the details of his outfit—he’s wearing a crisp white shirt, paired with light-colored slacks that somehow make him look even taller, more put-together, but still effortlessly him.

Your stomach twists with an uneasy realization —what if he’s waiting for someone? Swallowing past the sudden lump in your throat, you force yourself to ask, keeping your voice as casual as possible. “Are you waiting for someone?”

His eyes linger on yours for a second too long. Then, he shakes his head. “Not really.”

You barely have time to process that answer before he turns his attention toward the softly lit dining area. Without hesitation, he rises from his seat, and then—he extends his hand toward you.

“Our table is ready.” he murmurs, his voice smooth, a soft smile curving at the edges of his lips.

Your breath catches.

Oh -

He’s your date.

⋆｡‧˚ʚ🍓ɞ˚‧｡⋆

After settling into a table tucked in a cozy corner, bathed in the soft glow of candlelight, you and Xavier placed your orders—drinks and appetizers to start. But your mind was spinning too fast, so you excused yourself to the restroom, needing a moment to breathe.

Inside, you grip the edge of the sink, inhaling slowly as you pull out your phone.

"Tara, did you bribe Xavier into being my date?" Your heart hammers in your chest as you type the next part. "Please tell me you didn't tell him I have a crush on him!"

Within seconds, a text pops up:

"Of course not!"

You wait, staring at the screen. Then a voice note appears.

You tap play, Tara’s familiar voice filling the quiet space of the restroom.

"He immediately refused when I asked him if he wanted to be set up on a blind date." You can hear her dramatic pout, but then it shifts—lighter, giddy. "But when I told him you’d be his date, he accepted. Anyway, have fun!"

You blink.

Your reflection in the mirror catches the exact moment your anxious frown softens into something else entirely—a shy, almost disbelieving smile creeping across your lips.

He accepted because it was you.

A warm, tingling sensation spreads down to your fingertips. You clutch your phone, staring at yourself, trying to tamp down the hopeful little spark.

Does this mean he likes me?

You bite your lip, willing yourself to stay grounded, to not jump to conclusions. It just means he didn’t hate the idea. That’s all. Don’t get ahead of yourself.

Still, as you slip your phone back into your purse and wash your hands, your movements feel lighter, less burdened by nerves. By the time you push open the bathroom door and step back into the dinning area, that giddy warmth is still lingering in your chest.

⋆｡‧˚ʚ🍓ɞ˚‧｡⋆

You step into your apartment, and turn to lock the door after Xavier enters. It feels surreal. Xavier is standing in your entryway. In your apartment. Slipping off his shoes, asking where the guest slippers are. He shrugs off his coat, and before you can even think to reach for it, he’s holding out his hands—first to take the bouquet of flowers he bought for you on the walk back, then to grab your coat.

The bouquet is filled with your favorites. Did he ask Tara? Did he just… know?

You clear your throat, mumbling a quiet thanks, and step into the kitchen to grab a vase. The sound of running water fills the space as your mind is stuck on the simple, surreal fact that he’s here. Xavier is standing in your kitchen, looking around with quiet interest, his gaze flickering over little details—your recipe books stacked on one counter, the aprons hanging next to the fridge, the faint scent of vanilla lingering in the air.

“Cozy.” he comments, his voice warm.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱

You cover your lips as a chuckle escapes you, shaking your head. “I’m sorry,” you say, glancing at Xavier with an apologetic smile, “I just always assumed you were bad at cooking since there’s burning smoke coming from your apartment almost every week.”

Xavier exhales a quiet laugh. “It’s not that I’m bad,” he muses, “I just have a bad habit of dozing off while waiting for something to cook.”

The low rasp in his voice makes your stomach flutter. You’re suddenly very aware of how close he is, how his knee has brushed against yours too many times to be an accident.

You clear your throat, scrambling for something to keep the conversation flowing. “I have dough at the apartment.” The words slip out. “I’m not sure what to make with it yet. Do you have any ideas?”

Xavier leans in slightly, resting his chin on his hand as he contemplates, but his eyes never leave yours.

“I bought strawberry jam today,” he murmurs. “It would be perfect with homemade bread.” His gaze flickers to your lips for the briefest second before it settles again on yours. “I could help you with it—if that’s okay with you?”

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱

Your cheeks burn at the memory.

Just a few hours ago, you thought Xavier wasn’t interested in you at all. That your feelings were nothing more than a hopeless crush. But now—he’s here. He’s helping you find the perfect spot to set the vase, standing close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him.

And you know - he does like you.

You saw it in the way he looked at you at the restaurant, in the way his usually distant, unreadable gaze softened, locked onto you. It wasn’t the casual attention he gave to others, the absentminded focus of a man who was simply being polite. No—this was different. His eyes had lingered, had traced the curve of your lips between words, flickering down for just a second too long before finding yours again.

And you felt it, too. In the way his knee brushed against yours beneath the table. In the way his fingers found yours by the end of the night,the touch tender and grounding.

And now, here you are—just the two of you in your cozy kitchen, setting everything up to prepare homemade bread.

You move around the space, trying to keep your hands busy, trying not to focus too much on the man leaning against the counter. You reach for the aprons hanging by the hook, and a playful smile tugs at your lips as you hand Xavier the one with the bunny print. He raises an eyebrow at the design before letting out a low chuckle, shaking his head in amusement but accepting it anyway.

"You picked this on purpose, didn’t you?"

"You’ll look cute in it," you tease, already tying your own cherry-print apron around your waist.

But before you can secure the knot, his fingers brush over yours. "Let me."

His breath against the shell of your ear makes goosebumps bloom along the side of your neck. He steps in behind you, his fingers tying the knot — but he doesn’t move away immediately. For a lingering moment, his hands rest on your hips, fingers splayed lightly over the fabric of your dress, and your breath catches. It’s so subtle, so fleeting, but the touch lingers even as he steps back and moves to stand beside you.

You exhale slowly, turning your attention back to the dough in the bowl.

Xavier rolls up his sleeves, the fabric sliding up his forearms, revealing the sculpted muscle, the veins subtly lining his skin. His hands flex as he reaches for the dough, fingers sinking into the soft mixture.

"I can handle the kneading," he offers, his eyes flicking to you. "Just instruct me."

You nod, too distracted to say anything.

Xavier’s hands press into the dough with steady, practiced motions, fingers flexing as he pushes forward, the soft mixture stretching and folding beneath his palms. You watch, transfixed, as the muscles in his forearms shift with each movement, flexing beneath his skin. The dough yields to his touch, stretching between his fingers before he folds it over itself again, his knuckles pressing in, wrists rolling as he coaxes the mixture into the perfect consistency. It shouldn’t be mesmerizing. It shouldn’t be distracting. But it is.

You swallow, completely absorbed in the way his hands work—the slow push, the press, the stretch, the way his fingers curl just slightly as he pulls the dough back. Heat pools in your stomach, and you have to remind yourself to breathe.

And then he stops.

Your gaze snaps up from his hands to find his face already turned toward you, amusement flickering in his deep blue eyes.

"Can you sprinkle more flour? Or are you just gonna keep staring?"

Your stomach flips.

Oops.

Heat spreads over your cheeks as you realize he caught you shamelessly ogling his arms like they were the most fascinating thing in the world. You scramble to gather yourself, clearing your throat as you quickly grab the flour.

"I was just making sure you were doing it right." you lie, voice slightly higher than normal as you sprinkle a light dusting over the dough.

Xavier hums, clearly unconvinced, a smirk playing at the edges of his lips as he kneads again, the fresh coating of flour making his hands glide easier. But just as you think you’ve escaped the moment, he shifts—his hands no longer sticky with dough, moving faster than you can react.

A soft swipe of flour brushes against your cheek.

You blink, stunned. Xavier pulls his hand back, his smirk widening, too pleased with himself.

"Focus." he teases, the mirth in his eyes makes your stomach flip all over again.

Your jaw drops in feigned offense, so you grab a pinch of flour, and tap the tip of his nose. The faint layer of white settles on the tip of his nose, an almost comical touch against his usually composed expression. His gaze locks onto yours, surprise flickering in his eyes, and then—

A low chuckle spills into a soft, genuine laugh. Your heart stumbles over itself at the sight of him like this— warm and sweet, no longer distant. The sound of it makes you grin wider, but you don’t miss the way his eyes gleam with mischief. The playful glint is all the warning you get before his hand moves as he smears another streak of flour along your cheek.

“You should really focus.” he teases, voice rich with amusement, tilting his head as if inspecting his work.

You gasp, feigning an appalled expression. “Oh, you’re gonna regret that.”

But you don’t get a chance to launch another attack, because he moves swiftly, catching your wrist in his hand. The contact sends a small jolt through you; it’s soft but firm enough that you can feel the heat of his palm against your skin, holding you in place. You expect him to smirk, to tease. But instead, his expression softens, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes as he lifts your hand. And then—he presses a kiss to your knuckles. His lips linger for only a second, the warmth of them seeping into your skin, before he pulls away.

Your pulse is fluttering, your cheeks heating, and silence settles between you, stretching for just a beat too long.

You clear your throat, glancing toward the dough still resting on the counter, and force your voice to sound as steady as possible.

“So, what do you like to cook the most?”

Xavier hums in thought. “I like trying new things,” he muses, rolling his shoulders slightly, easing some of the tension in his muscles. “It doesn’t always turn out great, but I like the challenge.”

You tilt your head, intrigued, and then smirk. “So, you like torturing yourself with hard recipes?”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Something like that.” His voice is a little quieter as he continues. “You make it look easy. Thought I’d try my hand at a few things.”

You pause for a moment, wondering if you heard him correctly. “Wait - have you been trying to remake my recipes?”

His fingers falter for just a second before he smooths his expression into something neutral. “Maybe.”

A slow grin spreads across your face. “Xavier.”

He exhales, shaking his head like you’ve caught him in something ridiculous, but the corners of his lips twitch. “You make good food,” he mutters. “I wanted to see if I could make it too.”

You fight the urge to squish his cheeks that have flushed a tiny bit at the revelation. He actually remembers the things you’ve brought him, the little baked goods and dishes you’d made. And not only does he remember—he tries to recreate them.

His gaze flickers to you. “Maybe you should teach me.”

It’s a casual request, but you hear what he isn’t saying. He wants to see you more, and it sends another rush of giddy warmth through you.

“Okay,” you say, pretending like your heart isn’t doing flips. “What do you want to learn?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Egg tarts.”

The answer is so unexpected that you blink, then laugh. “Really? Out of everything?”

He nods. “They’re delicious.”

Finally, the bread dough is prepped, shaped, and ready for the oven. You slide the tray inside, and after cleaning up the counter and your hands, you remove the aprons and put them back on the hook.

As you turn to face Xavier again, you catch him watching you, his arms crossed loosely over his chest, leaning against the counter.

You clear your throat, trying to shake off the way his gaze makes your stomach tighten. Then, with a teasing lilt to your voice, you ask, “Should I go get you a blanket? Since you might doze off.”

His brows lift slightly, and then he huffs a short laugh.

But then, his voice drops, smooth as silk. “I think we can find a better way to pass the time.”

A soft laugh spills from your lips at first, but as soon as you catch the look in his eyes, the warmth in your chest falters, the laughter dying on your tongue.

The teasing spark in his eyes is nowhere to be found. Instead, a soft blush dusts his cheekbones, creeping up to the tips of his ears. Then—he moves.

One step, then another, the space between you disappearing, inch by inch. The edge of the counter presses into the small of your back as he approaches, your body instinctively leaning away. His hands rest on either side of you, palms pressing flat against the cool surface of the counter.

His breath is soft, ghosting over your lips. The sheer weight of his attention wraps around you like a second heartbeat, syncing with your own, pulsing through your veins. Your fingers twitch at your sides, aching to reach for something—him, the counter, anything to steady yourself.

The rest of the world fades into nothing, and all that exists is him.

His lashes lower just slightly, his lips parting as he leans in, his gaze holding yours the entire time. He’s waiting, offering you one last chance to pull away, to stop this before the moment tips over into something neither of you can take back.

Then, barely above a whisper - “Tell me to stop.”

You don’t say a word.

Instead, you tilt your chin up, closing what little distance remains between you, and press your lips to his. Xavier exhales softly against your lips, the sound breaking somewhere between relief and disbelief before he finally moves.

His mouth presses more firmly against yours, molding to the shape of you, learning the way you taste, memorizing the way you feel beneath him. His fingers twitch against the counter, like he’s restraining himself from reaching for you, from pulling you against him, from letting his hands wander to the places he’s only ever dreamed of touching. But he lingers, soaking in every moment, every detail, every sigh and shiver you give him. You melt into him, your fingers curling into his shirt, pulling him closer.

Xavier pulls away for a moment, his breath warm against your lips. "Can I touch your hair?"

It’s such a simple question, yet it sends comforting warmth through you, and it makes you fall for him even more. You nod, your heart hammering in your chest as you tilt your head slightly in invitation. You press your lips to his again, needing to feel that warmth, needing to drown in the way he kisses you. The moment his hand settles on your hair, a slow shiver rolls down your spine. His touch is reverent, the slightest tug at the roots sending small tingles all the way down your neck. You sigh into his mouth, the sound soft and almost dazed, relishing in the way he handles you, like he wants to learn the texture of every strand under his fingers.

And then he steps closer, pressing his body fully against yours, erasing the last inch of space between you. His firm muscles shift slightly against you, the warmth of him seeping through his clothes, through yours, until you feel surrounded, consumed. And lower, against your hip, there’s something else—something hard and pressing insistently, showing just how much he wants you.

Your breath catches, your fingers faltering where they rest against his jaw.

Just a small movement—that’s all it takes, the softest drag of your hip against the unmistakable hardness straining against his pants, to draw out a reaction from him.

Xavier’s body tenses, his breath catching in his throat. His fingers twitch against your hair, tightening slightly before loosening, as if he’s reminding himself to be gentle. His jaw clenches, his eyes squeezing shut for the briefest second before they open again, darker now, heavier.

He whispers your name. "If you keep doing that—"

But you don’t move away. Instead, you lift your gaze to his. "Do you want to stop?" you whisper.

The moment hangs between you, before he exhales.

"No," he murmurs, "But if we do this, I need you to be sure."

And you are sure. Your fingers tighten around his wrist, feeling the pulse thrumming just beneath your fingertips. You guide his hand from your hair down to your waist. "I want this." you whisper, your heart pounding so violently you wonder if he can hear it. "I want you."

The tension in his body dissolves, his grip tightening at your waist, holding you there, against him. His breath stutters for just a moment, his nose brushing against yours, and then he kisses you. His lips move over yours with such aching tenderness that your knees almost buckle. His hands smooth over the curve of your waist, fingertips trailing lightly along your spine, sending shivers down your back, making you arch into him. Your fingers find the front of his shirt, curling into the fabric, gripping tighter as your body melts further into his.

Then he pulls away just enough to wrap his arms around you and effortlessly lift you off the ground. You gasp softly as he positions you carefully on the counter, ensuring you're comfortable. His fingers slip beneath the soft fabric of your sweater dress, and instinctively, you part your legs in silent invitation. He doesn’t hesitate. He steps forward, pressing into the space between your legs, his body crowding against yours. Then his hand ventures further, toward the ache pooling between your legs.

He pulls back just enough to watch you, his lips parted, his breath mingling with yours. His eyes flicker between your gaze and where his fingers now hover. Then—his fingertips graze over the damp fabric of your underwear and a sharp breath escapes you.

His voice drops to a husky murmur. “You’re already so wet for me.”

Heat licks up your spine, not just from the way he touches you, but from the way he looks at you—devouring, mesmerized. Your cheeks flush, warmth creeping up your neck, your ears. Your grip on his shirt tightens as his touch grows bolder, his fingers tracing lazy circles over your folds, teasing, coaxing.

Your lips part on a quiet whimper, and he catches it, swallowing the sound as he leans in again, capturing your mouth in another slow, intoxicating kiss. His teeth graze your bottom lip, a teasing scrape that makes you shudder against him, makes your body arch instinctively. His fingers press firmer, brushing up, down—catching against your clit with just enough friction. You gasp softly, tightening your grip on him, your hips shifting involuntarily.

Then, his fingers hook over the waistband of your underwear, and you rest your hand against his shoulder, lifting your hips to help him slide the fabric down your legs. Heat blooms across your cheeks when you catch him tucking the lace into his pocket, and you’re even more flustered when you see the mischievous smirk on his lips.

His fingers trail back between your legs, but the first brush of his fingers against your bare folds makes you jolt.

"Relax for me, honey." His voice is soft, soothing, his lips just a breath from yours.

You nod, your breath shaky as you let your body give in. His fingers slide along your wet heat, teasing and exploring in slow, tender strokes. Your grip tightens on his shoulder as one finger circles your entrance, prodding and testing you. A quiet gasp escapes you as you tug at his shirt, pulling him closer—and you press your lips to his, your tongue tangling with his.

Then his finger pushes in slowly, making you feel every inch of that delicious stretch and every slick, teasing glide. He finds that sweet spot with ease, the one that makes your breath hitch and your toes curl. A soft curse slips from your lips as he strokes it again and again, spreading tingling warmth through you.

He savors your soft, breathy whimpers as he slides a second finger inside, curling them just right and moving them in deep strokes.

"Does that feel good?" he murmurs, giving you a moment to catch your breath.

You can only nod, unable to form words when he’s touching you so perfectly. Your gaze flickers downward—between your legs, where his fingers move, where his hand glistens with your arousal—and the sight alone sends another pulse of heat through you.

Xavier’s lips curve in a soft, knowing smile as he takes in your expression, your half-lidded eyes, your parted lips. His free hand lifts, cradling the back of your neck, tilting your head to expose your neck to him. His lips graze your skin, teasing at first, before his tongue flicks out, dragging a wet trail along the sensitive slope of your neck.

A sharp gasp escapes you as his thumb presses against your clit. He circles it in slow, lazy swirls, the pleasure deepening, pooling low in your stomach. Your thighs tremble, hips shifting involuntarily, chasing more, needing more.

"That’s it, honey." he breathes against your throat, his fingers plunging deeper, working you open. He latches onto your skin, sucking gently, his breath fanning over the damp spot.

The hand on his shoulder moves to hold onto his forearm, each precise stroke sending jolts of pleasure through you, winding that coil in your belly impossibly tight. You’re right there, trembling on the edge, every breath a shaky, desperate gasp. If you had any control left, you would be embarrassed by the broken sounds spilling from your lips—whimpers, soft cries, the only thing you can manage being his name, over and over like a plea.

Xavier groans low in his throat. “You sound so fucking beautiful,” he rasps, lips brushing your ear. “Come for me, princess. I’ve got you.”

His control is slipping—you can hear it in his voice, feel it in the way his hips press forward, seeking friction against your thigh. He’s trembling, barely holding himself back, and the thought alone sends pleasure ripping through you. You shatter against him, burying your face in his neck as your release crashes over you, your walls clenching around his fingers, slick dripping down his hand. He holds you through it, his grip firm, his breath ragged, whispering praise into your hair, your pleasure undoing him just as much.

Your lips press against his throat, muffling the last of your cries as your body trembles against him, and he’s not so sure he can hold back any longer. His hand catches your chin, tilting your face toward his. His thumb brushes along your jaw, eyes locked onto yours, dark and desperate. His chest rises and falls in uneven breaths, his restraint hanging by a thread.

“I need to feel you.” His voice is barely more than a whisper, trembling. “Please.”

Your body is still pulsing with the aftershocks of release, but you know you need more.

"Yes." You whisper, wasting no time to slip one hand between your bodies, trembling slightly as you reach for his pants.

Xavier groans softly, helping you with the belt when your hands fumble, his own need evident in the way he works quickly to unfasten it. The moment he pulls himself free, your breath catches—he's so hard, flushed and aching, the sight alone making you even more wet. You can’t help but wrap your fingers around him, feeling the weight, the heat, the pulse beneath your touch. When your thumb glides over the bead of precum on his tip, smearing it over the sensitive skin, a sharp hiss leaves his lips, his grip tightening on your waist.

"Fuck—" he exhales, his fingers wrapping gently around your wrist, stilling your touch before he brings your hand up, pressing a lingering kiss to the top of it. Then, as he lowers his gaze, positioning himself between your legs, his breath stutters again. His tip nudges against your soaked entrance, and just before he presses forward, his eyes flick back up to yours.

"I don’t have— Do you—?"

A soft smile tugs at your lips as you cradle his cheek, your thumb stroking along his jaw. "I'm covered," you murmur, brushing your lips over his. "And I trust you."

His exhale is shaky, his forehead pressing to yours before he finally moves. Carefully, the thick head of his cock begins to ease in, parting you with an aching stretch that has your body tensing before melting, your nails pressing into the firm muscles of his shoulders. You’re already so sensitive, still pulsing from his fingers, and this only adds to your dizzying arousal.

"Fuck," he grits out, his jaw clenching as he inches deeper. "You're so—"

The words die in a low groan as he bottoms out, pressing flush against you, his pelvis catching on your clit in a way that sends sparks through every nerve in your body. Your walls flutter around him, gripping him so tightly that he shudders, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

"Are you okay?" he breathes against your hair, his arms tightening around you.

You can’t speak—you can only whimper, nodding as your body adjusts. Your lips part against the crook of his neck, sucking lightly on the skin there, grounding yourself in the feel of him. His first thrust is slow, dragging — so controlled it’s almost torturous. You can feel the tremble in his muscles, the way his breath shakes as he exhales through gritted teeth.

"Look at you—so beautiful." A deep groan rumbles in his chest as you clench down around him, your walls gripping him so tight it makes his thrusts falter, his cock stroking against that perfect spot over and over.

Your hands slide up, fingers curling in his hair, tugging gently as you tilt your face up, finding his eyes.

"Xavier—ahh—" your voice is soft, pleading, "I’m so close. I need you—"

His cock twitches inside you, throbbing against your walls, slick and tight and perfect. His fingers dig into your hips, trying to hold back, but it’s no use. A desperate moan spills from your lips as his thumb returns to your clit, pressing, circling, matching the frantic stutter of his hips.

"You feel so fucking good," he rasps, voice wrecked, hoarse. "Taking me so well, honey."

Pleasure crashes into you, shattering, overwhelming. Your pussy clenches around him, pulsing, gripping, and Xavier curses under his breath, arms locking around you, holding you through it.

"That’s it—fuck—just like that,” he pants, breath shaky. “I’ve got you—haah—I'm so close."

His rhythm stutters, his hips grinding deeper, erratic, chasing the high. You’re still trembling, still lost in your high, but you don’t want him to stop—not with the way his cock throbs inside you, not with the way his breath stutters.

You tighten your legs around him, pulling him deeper. That’s all it takes.

Xavier chokes on a groan, his hands gripping you so tightly you know you’ll feel it tomorrow. His cock pulses, his entire body tensing as his release crashes into him, his hips pressing flush against yours as hot spurts of cum spill deep inside you. His breath breaks into uneven gasps against your ear as he grinds through it, his cum slipping out, messy and warm between you.

"Can’t get enough of you," he mutters, almost delirious. His lips brush your temple, his hands roam over you, slow, reverent. Even spent, his cock twitches inside you, hips rolling in lazy, absent thrusts, as if he’s already craving more.

"Never gonna get enough of you," he breathes.

Xavier doesn’t move for a while, and you don’t want him to. His arms stay wrapped around you, holding you close against his chest as his breath evens out, warm against your hair. His fingers trace light, absentminded patterns on your back, his other hand smoothing over the side of your waist, as if he can’t stop touching you. You sigh into him, boneless, completely melted in his hold, and he lets out a quiet, satisfied hum in response, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your temple.

His lips graze your forehead before pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. His gaze is warm and tender as he takes in the sight of you in the afterglow, "You have no idea what you do to me."

Your breath catches, your fingers tightening slightly where they rest against his shoulder, and you don’t know what to say. You don’t know how to say anything when all you want to do is hold onto this feeling forever.

So instead, you just nuzzle closer, in the crook of his neck where small, faint marks are forming on his skin. He smiles against your cheek, squeezing your waist before he loosens his hold, letting you shift against him.

And then your nose reminds you of something. Your eyes snap open, panic flashing through you as you sit up straight, hands flying to Xavier’s chest.

“Oh no!”

His brows furrow, confused at the sudden change. “What?”

“The bread!”

You scramble off the counter, adjusting your dress as best as you can, legs still shaky, as you rush to the oven, already bracing yourself for disaster. But when you peek inside, miraculously, the bread is still perfect. Golden brown, fluffy, not even close to burnt.

You let out a deep, relieved sigh.

As you take off the oven mitts after placing the bread on a cooling rack, you turn back to Xavier. He’s leaning lazily against the counter, pants in place, but his shirt still rumpled, his hair thoroughly disheveled. He looks impossibly handsome like this. But instead of letting yourself get distracted, you cross your arms, feigning a small pout. "You’re bad luck in the kitchen."

"Bad luck?" He tilts his head, and you instantly regret saying anything.

He pushes off the counter, strolling toward you with that confident ease, stopping just shy of pressing against you. "Didn’t seem like you minded the distraction."

Your face burns.

You could argue. You could roll your eyes, huff, tell him off for that smug little look he’s giving you. But what’s the point? He knows he’s right. And you’re too warm, too utterly spent to even deflect.

Before you can decide on a response, he moves.

One second, you’re standing there, legs still a little wobbly, and the next—Xavier scoops you up into his arms like you weigh nothing at all. A startled yelp slips past your lips, but it dissolves into breathless laughter as you grab onto his shoulders.

“Xavier—!”

But he only gives you a soft smile, before pressing his lips to yours.

By the time he pulls back, your head is spinning all over again.

He smirks down at you, adjusting his hold. “Come on, princess,” he murmurs, walking toward the bathroom. “We made a mess.”

As you gaze at his face, you muse how the once-distant, untouchable Xavier—the man who felt like a star too far away—has somehow become warm and steady and impossibly close.

And you’re just a giddy, melted puddle in his arms.

#love and deepspace #xavier love and deepspace #love and deepspace xavier #xavier smut #xavier x reader #love and deepspace smut #xavier #lads x reader #lads smut #xavier x you #ncs valentines day #blind date matchmaking

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astrologydray · 5 months ago

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Saturn through the degrees 🪐🪐

🪐Saturn represents discipline, structure, responsibility, karma, and life lessons. The degree it occupies in your natal chart refines how you experience challenges, maturity, and long-term success.

0° Saturn – The Pure Authority

• Born with a strong sense of duty and leadership.

• Challenges arise early, but rewards come with patience.

1° Saturn – The Determined Initiator

• Takes responsibility seriously but may struggle with self-doubt.

• Must develop confidence in their abilities.

2° Saturn – The Stable Builder

• Creates long-lasting success through steady effort.

• Struggles with perfectionism but thrives in practical work.

3° Saturn – The Communicative Mentor

• Learns and teaches through spoken or written word.

• Must overcome fear of expressing authority.

4° Saturn – The Structured Traditionalist

• Highly disciplined and prefers tradition over change.

• Finds success in law, government, or stability-focused careers.

5° Saturn – The Confident Creator

• Can become a powerful leader, but needs self-trust.

• Struggles with balancing authority and flexibility.

6° Saturn – The Relationship Balancer

• Life lessons come through commitment, partnerships, and fairness.

• Can be overly cautious in love and business.

7° Saturn – The Mystic Realist

• Struggles between spirituality and realism.

• Finds discipline through philosophy, esoteric studies, or science.

8° Saturn – The Strategic Powerhouse

• Gains success through strategy, patience, and resilience.

• Must avoid controlling tendencies.

9° Saturn – The Expansive Teacher

• Learns through life experiences and global perspectives.

• Can feel restricted but eventually gains wisdom through travel or philosophy.

10° Saturn – The Manifestation Master

• Has a natural ability to turn visions into reality.

• Success comes from long-term planning and perseverance.

11° Saturn – The Revolutionary Authority

• Struggles with rules but eventually creates new systems.

• Can bring innovation into traditional structures.

12° Saturn – The Dreamy Worker

• A mix of practicality and creativity, needs discipline to ground dreams.

• May struggle with self-doubt or escapism.

13° Saturn – The Fearless Decision-Maker

• Gains strength through resolute choices.

• Must learn to trust instincts and avoid hesitation.

14° Saturn – The Balance Seeker

• Challenges arise in finding equilibrium between work and personal life.

• Can become an excellent mediator or peacemaker.

15° Saturn – The Legacy Builder

• Naturally drawn to leaving a mark on the world.

• Must embrace responsibility and avoid fear of failure.

16° Saturn – The Wise Guide

• Life lessons push them toward mentorship, coaching, or teaching.

• May experience early hardships that shape wisdom.

17° Saturn – The Fearless Worker

• Has strong work ethic but struggles with overworking or burnout.

• Must learn to delegate and balance effort with rest.

18° Saturn – The Deep Thinker

• Drawn to psychology, philosophy, or investigative fields.

• May struggle with rigid thinking or emotional suppression.

19° Saturn – The Bold Risk-Taker

• Learns through trial and error, often facing big life lessons.

• Gains strength through calculated risk-taking.

20° Saturn – The Patient Master

• Success is delayed but deeply rewarding.

• Must embrace delayed gratification and persistence.

21° Saturn – The Public Figure

• Challenges come through fame, public recognition, or societal roles.

• Must learn to balance personal integrity with external expectations.

22° Saturn – The Master Builder (Karmic Degree)

• Highly karmic placement, linked to great achievements or downfall.

• Requires extreme discipline, focus, and integrity.

23° Saturn – The Strategic Risk-Taker

• Learns when to push forward and when to retreat.

• Can be very calculated in business, finances, or leadership.

24° Saturn – The Romantic Realist

• Life lessons often involve love, creativity, or beauty.

• Must balance idealism with practicality.

25° Saturn – The Spiritual Worker

• Gains wisdom through spiritual studies, healing, or devotion.

• Needs structure to ground spiritual growth.

26° Saturn – The Reserved Strategist

• Prefers to work behind the scenes rather than be in the spotlight.

• Success comes through long-term planning and steady execution.

27° Saturn – The Karmic Healer

• Deeply tied to ancestral karma and healing generational wounds.

• Can become a great mentor, therapist, or spiritual guide.

28° Saturn – The Bold Traditionalist

• Faces power struggles with authority but ultimately becomes a leader.

• Can challenge old systems or reinforce them in a more evolved way.

29° Saturn – The Fated Leader (Anaretic Degree)

• Intensely karmic, often signaling a life of heavy responsibility.

• May feel like they are “tested” more than others.

• Must embrace maturity, responsibility, and resilience to succeed.

#astro notes #astrology #birth chart #astro observations #astro community #zodiac signs #astrology observations #astrology degrees

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incognit0slut · 1 year ago

Text

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4

Behind Closed Doors

Your admiration of his vest leads you to an empty office with his face buried between your thighs—and an urgent Emily demanding your whereabouts.

Warnings: (18+ MDNI) soft!dom spence (are we even surprised), fingering, oral sex (f), semi-public, slight overstimulation, and Emily kind of overhears because she calls Reader in the middle of the deed (oops). 5k words

A/n: I don’t have any excuse for this one, I just wanted to rewrite this scene of him because looking at it is not enough

You heard him before you saw him. It wasn't his voice per se, but the distinct sound of rapid shots cutting through the air. The noise seemed to intensify as you stepped into the control room, almost overbearing, but you'd long since grown used to its piercing sound.

"Is that Reid?" You asked, your polished boots echoing into the confined space. The officer monitoring him through the surveillance camera glanced over at you, and even though her expression didn't betray outright displeasure, you could hear a subtle edge in her voice.

"Agent Y/L/N," she greeted, her eyes darting between the rows of monitors, then to you, and finally settling on the clipboard in her hand. "You're not supposed to be here."

"Actually, I am. It’s Tuesday, my usual training day.”

"Not for another hour."

"I know," you countered, holding up your wrist to check your watch. "But I have some spare time, thought I’d come by early."

“I’m afraid it’s occupied right now. Agent Reid is still in the middle of his test."

This caught your attention. "What test?"

She glanced at you, her expression conflicted. "It's just a routine evaluation."

"He's currently not an active agent," you pointed out. It hadn’t been too long since his release from prison. It didn’t make any sense for him to go through an evaluation, not when he was behind bars for the past few weeks. Then recognition dawned on your face. "He's being evaluated to rejoin the team, isn't he?"

"I... I'm not at liberty to discuss that," she replied. Her gaze faltered momentarily before she nodded slowly, confirming your suspicions. "But yes, it's standard procedure for agents returning from extended leave."

"Oh wow—okay," you responded, absorbing the information. Your eyes flickered towards the monitor. "How's he doing?"

Her lips formed a thoughtful line before she answered, "Like the second coming of Wyatt Earp."

You let out a laugh, finding the comparison amusing. You'd known Spencer for what, three, four years? While he wasn't bad with firearms, comparing him to a historical figure like Wyatt Earp seemed a bit exaggerated. However, as you watched him through the monitors, despite your initial skepticism, you couldn't deny the truth in her words.

You had witnessed him handle a gun countless times, but always in situations where there was a real threat, where you both had to be on high alert. Yet as you observed him now from a different perspective, it was hard to tear your eyes away. It was as if he was in his element, and Spencer Reid in his element never looked so... attractive?

Now that wasn't an exaggeration. Although you had never admitted this to anyone—god forbid what your teammates would say—there was an undeniable charm to the confidence he exuded. While Spencer had always been attractive, there was something different about the way he handled the gun.

You were sure it had something to do with his time in prison. After all, who wouldn't be affected by such a daunting place, especially when you weren’t supposed to be there in the first place? Yet, surprisingly, Spencer seemed to be coping better than you expected. Despite the toll it must have taken on him, it was evident that his experiences had shaped him, perhaps more than he let on.

Although he was still the same sweet, adorable guy you considered one of your closest friends. But you weren't sure your current observation of him fitted the typical definition of friendship… because there was nothing remotely friendly about the thoughts running in your head right now.

Not only was it not friendly, but it wasn't exactly innocent. Because look at him. Look at the way he was gripping the gun, his arms defined beneath his rolled-up sleeves. Look at the way his protective glasses covered his face, the black-rimmed frames accentuating his handsome features. And even though you had seen him wear the uniform vest countless times, somehow it was undeniably distracting the way it hugged his chest.

Yep—there was nothing remotely friendly about how you wanted to climb up the man.

A sudden buzz echoed in the room, snapping you to reality. You glanced up and noticed the officer you were talking to entering the monitor screen and it dawned on you that you had been so distracted by your thoughts that you hadn't realized she had left the control room.

"I'll send the results to the review board this evening," the officer's voice resonated from the screen.

"Did I do okay?" His voice came through.

"Like the second coming of Wyatt Earp," she replied, echoing her earlier assessment. Her gaze shifted to the printed cardboard image of a man, supposedly representing the Unsub, which was shredded right around the face. "Or... Al Capone, maybe."

You observed Spencer's slight nod as she turned and walked out of the screen. Quickly, you exited the control room and met her in the hallway.

"Agent Y/L/N," she called out as she spotted you. "You can have the room in five minutes—"

"I need to reschedule."

Her brow furrowed in confusion. "Reschedule?"

"Uh... yes, something urgent came up," you replied, trying to keep your tone casual.

She regarded you for a moment before nodding. "Alright, just let me know when you want to reschedule."

"I will, thank you," you said quickly. Sensing her lingering gaze, you added, "Oh, I'm just waiting for Reid. I need his help on... something."

A faint smile played on her lips, though she didn't press further. "Of course, I'll leave you to it then."

With a nod, she turned and walked away just as the door at the end of the hallway opened, revealing Spencer emerging from the room. His eyes met yours in confusion, and you could sense his curiosity as he approached you.

"Hey," he greeted. "What are you doing here?"

You cocked your head to the side.

What were you doing here?

You took a moment to gather your thoughts before offering a shrug. "Just passing by, I guess."

His brow furrowed slightly as if he sensed there was more to your answer than you were letting on. "Alright," he said, though his curiosity lingered in his gaze.

You shifted uncomfortably under his scrutiny, suddenly feeling the need to change the subject. "So, how did the evaluation go?"

"So you've heard.”

"Yeah," you confirmed, starting to walk down the hallway as he stepped in pace beside you. "I can't wait for you to be back on the team. Officially, that is."

"If they let me back on the team."

"Of course they will," you reassured him, your hand finding its place on his shoulder, offering support. "You're more than qualified."

He sighed, and you tried not to notice the subtle movement of his vest across his chest, or how it shifted under your touch. "You think so?"

"I know so," you affirmed, giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "Trust me, they'll definitely bring you back."

He stopped his pace, and so did you, before his eyes flickered towards your hand on his shoulder. He must've sensed something different, considering you weren't exactly the type of person who liked physical contact. Neither of you were, actually. While Spencer was known for his aversion to germs, you simply preferred maintaining a certain level of personal space.

"Seriously," he wondered, his tone laced with curiosity. "What are you doing down here?"

You cleared your throat. "I told you, I was just passing by."

"Really? Is that why you're talking to me instead of going through your usual training?" he pressed on. "It's Tuesday. I'm well aware of your schedule."

Damn him and his eidetic memory. You shifted away from his gaze. "Can't a girl just choose to have a chat with a friend?"

"You chose me over your scheduled routine?” his lips curved into a subtle smile. “Am I that much of a distraction?”

Yes, that damn vest is distracting me.

"Distraction might be a bit strong,” you replied, the lie sounding feeble even to your own ears.

"So you’re admitting I’m slightly distracting?"

"I never said that.”

Spencer leaned in and you felt the heat of his proximity radiating from his body. "But you didn't deny it either.”

You felt a faint blush creep onto your cheeks as you realized the shift in his tone. Dare you say he was... flirting with you? Or was it just your imagination running wild? From the corner of your eye, you caught the subtle way he licked his lips, and without meaning to, your own gaze was drawn to the movement.

It was a habit of his, one you'd observed countless times before whether it was out of concentration or a mere reflex. But seeing it up close now, the way his tongue traced the curve of his bottom lip, was driving you insane.

You swallowed hard. This was not friendly behavior. A friend wouldn't be imagining what it would feel like to have his tongue on your lips instead.

"Y/N?"

Your face felt hot as you met his gaze. "I..."

Before you could respond, the sound of laughter and chatter from down the hallway reached your ears. You heard Penelope's unmistakable giggle with JJ's animated voice, and suddenly your instinct took over. Without a second thought, you reached out and grabbed Spencer’s arm, pulling him into an empty office nearby.

The door shut with a soft thud, and you frowned, suddenly feeling embarrassed. You didn't want to be caught in a state of flustered panic like some nervous school girl talking to her crush, but as Spencer stood behind you, you realized you were overreacting. The more you dwelled on it, the more absurd it seemed to hide away when there was no reason to.

With a sigh, you turned to face him. "Sorry about that, I didn't mean to..."

But as your gaze met him, your words faltered because he was standing closer than you expected. Close enough that the color of his eyes seemed to intensify under the soft light filtering through the window—a rich brown, like warm chocolate, with specks of gold that danced in the sunlight.

Your eyes involuntarily traced downwards, from the sharp lines of his nose to the curve of his lips, lingering on the stubble lining his jawline. Your mind wandered, and now you couldn't help but wonder how it would feel having it against your skin. Or how it would feel pressed against your thigh.

Your face grew hotter at the thought.

"Y/N? Are you alright?" he asked, taking a step forward. You squeaked in surprise, an actual high-pitched sound leaving your lips, as you felt the hard surface of his vest pressing against your chest.

"It's just..." You hesitated, feeling the heat rising to your cheeks. "You're standing really close..."

He glanced down at you, his eyes resting on your lips. "Do you want me to move?"

"I... uh..."

His eyes flickered back up to meet yours. "I'll take that as a no."

Before you could process his words, his hand reached up, fingers gently gripping your waist. You felt a rush of heat spread through you at his touch, the sensation seeping through your shirt and you found yourself leaning into him, your breath catching in your throat as his face hovered closely above yours.

It was happening. Your heart pounded in your chest as his lips drew closer. You couldn’t believe it, he was going to kiss you—Spencer-fucking-Reid was going to kiss you.

But just as his lips hovered dangerously close against yours, he suddenly stopped.

"Just to make this clear," he began, running a thumb along your side. "I respect you, both as a friend and a colleague. I don't want to force you into anything you're not comfortable with, so if you think this is pushing any boundaries then—"

"Spencer," you cut in. "Just kiss me already."

With a hint of relief and a small smile playing on his lips, he finally closed the gap between you.

You never imagined his lips could be so soft. He had the softest lips that moved against your own with a hint of coffee and something undeniably sweet. Those soft, soft lips parted away from yours for a moment before he leaned back in, more desperate, more needy. And when he swiped your bottom lip with his tongue, seeking entrance, you couldn't help but welcome him with a soft moan of pleasure.

He devoured you then, his tongue pushing eagerly into your mouth, his lips enveloping you with a hunger that left you breathless as he pressed himself against you. Before you could fully grasp what was happening, you were walking backward until your back collided with the solid surface of the desk.

With strength you didn’t know he possessed, he effortlessly lifted you and perched you on top of it, prompting a surprised squeal to escape your lips. He laughed in response but you were too caught up in the moment to worry about whether he found you amusing.

Your hands eagerly roamed over his chest, fingers curling around the strap of his vest as you pulled him closer. He slipped between your parted legs with ease and when he pressed his evident bulge against your core, you both gasped in pleasure.

"We should... we should probably stop, right?" he murmured, his voice muffled against your lips. Despite his words, his actions betrayed his self-control as he began to roll his hips against you.

“We're at work, someone might—” He groaned. “Someone might… hear us..."

He was right, but you found yourself unable to care about anything else but the sensation of his hard cock pressing against your heat.

"We could stop, or..." you found yourself saying without thinking. Your hands moved with a mind of their own, finding their way between you as you started to unbutton your shirt, the fabric slipping away to reveal more of your skin.

"Or..." He prompted, his tongue swiping over his bottom lip yet again, his breath coming out in shallow, ragged bursts.

"Or..." you repeated, pushing the front of your shirt open. "We could be quiet."

"We could be quiet," he agreed all too quickly. "We could definitely be quiet."

You let out an amused laugh. "We’re going to get in trouble if anyone finds us."

“Then you shouldn’t make a sound.”

“Me? What about—oh.”

His lips were already trailing down your body, leaving soft kisses as they lingered on your neck, across your collarbone, and then he moved lower, sucking lightly on the swell of your breasts. A whimper of his name escaped your lips, your fingers entwining in his hair.

He pulled back slightly, his eyes drinking at the sight of your breast pushed up against your bra, a glistening sheen of his saliva coating your skin.

“You are stunning,” he murmured, before leaning back in to place a tender kiss on the spot where your collarbone met your shoulder. “How far do you want to take this?”

You blinked, trying to ground yourself into the moment between the lust fogging your brain. “What do you mean?”

“This,” he muttered as he rutted his hips against yours, drawing a needy moan from you. “How far are you willing to go?”

“If you’re asking whether I want to have sex with you, the answer is a hundred percent yes.”

You could practically feel his smile on your skin as he buried himself in the crook of your neck.

“That’s good to know,” he whispered, causing you to arch your back as your chest pressed against the hard material of his vest. “But I don’t think we can do much considering we’re supposed to be working. Well, you at least.”

You grasped his shoulders, pushing him away to meet his gaze. “I thought we agreed to keep quiet.”

“We can keep quiet,” he assured you, brushing a stray strand of hair away from your face. “But I can’t rush my time with you. Besides, you deserve a much better setting than an unoccupied office full of dust.”

“Sounds like a you problem.”

He chuckled softly, his fingers trailing lightly along your jawline. “Maybe, but it’s more about time, really. I just want to take—” His lips brushed against your cheek. “My time—” A peck on your lips. “With you.”

You melted right there and then. You could’ve sworn you were nothing but a puddle mess. If he wasn’t holding you for support you were sure you could fall right back to the floor.

“Alright then,” you finally said, reaching for the buttons of your shirt with trembling hands only to be stopped as his fingers curled around your wrist.

“What are you doing?”

You shot him a puzzled look. “I thought you didn’t want to have sex right now.”

“I didn’t say anything about stopping,” he replied, releasing your hand before his palms slid up your thighs. “There are plenty of other things we can do.”

You felt the heat rising in your cheeks. “Like what?”

“Well, I guess we'll just have to get creative.”

Your breath hitched when his fingers hovered over the button on your pants. You watched with a mix of excitement and disbelief as he started to undo them, your mind turning into a mushy mess. It was as if every neuron in your brain had decided to stop working.

“Lift your hips for me.”

You met his gaze, trying to summon up your composure but you couldn’t help the nervous twitch of your lips. He smiled at you.

“Come on, pretty girl, we don’t have all day.”

Not only were you melting, but you were practically liquid by now. Your body moved on its own accord—your hands gripping his shoulders as you lifted your hips, synchronizing perfectly with his gentle movements to slide the material over your hips and down your legs.

He placed your pants on the empty space beside you while his eyes never left your body. His gaze lingered on the rise and fall of your chest, and he leaned in, his fingers trailing over your skin before settling on the hem of your panties. His thumb slid to the front, brushing along the delicate material. Your hips bucked as he continued to run his thumb up and down as if he were trying to map out your slick folds over the fabric.

“Look at you dripping,” he mused, his eyes fixated on the way his thumb slid over to your clit. “Are you always this wet?”

Your cheeks heated at the question. He wasn’t even trying to make it come off as dirty talk; he asked it like a normal question, as if he were simply wondering about what you ate for breakfast. But the question alone had your face burning because you did not expect it to come from him.

“I… I guess so.”

“You guess so?” he asked, his tone amused. He hooked his fingers into the material of your panties before pushing it to the side.

“I-I don’t know.” You let out a breathless moan when his fingers grazed your slit. “Whenever I’m turned on, I don’t... I don’t exactly touch myself just to check how wet I am.”

Spencer chuckled softly, angling his hand between your thighs before gently pushing his middle finger into your entrance. You gasped at the sudden stretch, brows furrowing as he pressed further, and your hand instinctively gripped onto his arm.

“Do you often touch yourself?”

Your head fell back as he started to move.

“M-Maybe,” you managed to stutter out.

"What do you think of when you do?" he asked slowly, his own breath starting to grow shallow as he watched your face contort in pleasure. He observed the way your mouth fell open, your tongue slightly slipping out in the corner, and the way your eyes shut closed. He was fascinated by the effect he had on you, on how just a simple touch had you squirming.

“A… a lot of things,” you managed to reply.

“Have you ever thought of me?”

Whoa.

The question caught you off guard, and you blinked, momentarily stunned.

This was dangerous territory, but then again, nothing seemed quite as risky as being fingered by your coworker on a Tuesday afternoon. So what harm could it be if you admitted that yes, in fact, he had crossed your mind when you touched yourself wishing it was his fingers instead?

A lot of harm, actually. One, it seemed like an inappropriate confession given your friendship. Friends don't usually imagine each other in sexual scenarios. And two, you could die of embarrassment.

"No," you replied, hoping your voice sounded more confident than you felt.

He hummed skeptically. “I thought we were past the point of lying between profilers.” With a pause, he added another finger inside you, causing you to bite down on your lip to stifle a moan. “Is this how you imagined it in your fantasies?”

What was the point of lying now? You swallowed hard, trying to think of a witty response to distract from the intense pleasure coursing through your body.

“Uh… This is slightly better.”

“Slightly? I’m hurt.” He pressed his thumb onto your clit. “What else did you think of then?”

Your cheeks flushed even more. “You… well, um, you also used your tongue.”

The airy laugh he let out sent a shiver down your spine. “Really? And how did that fantasy play out?"

Your heart raced as you tried to find the right words. "Let's just say it involved a lot more tongue action and a lot less talking."

His smile widened, and he leaned in closer, his warm breath brushing against your ear. “Then let’s reenact it.” He gently pulled his fingers out of you. “Lay on your back.”

With a shaky breath, you complied, sprawling out on the desk, a mix of nerves and excitement coursing through you. When he reached for the waistband of your panties, you couldn't help but crack a joke. "If I knew this was the direction this day was heading, I would've worn my fanciest underwear."

Spencer shook his head. “Trust me, you don't need fancy underwear to drive me crazy."

He then deftly removed your panties, his movements confident yet tender, like he was unwrapping a precious gift. When the fabric pooled at your ankle, he got down on his knees and parted your legs wider, positioning himself between them.

You watched, anticipation building, as he leaned in closer, his breath warm against your inner thigh. Then, with a teasing glance, he pressed his lips to your skin, planting soft kisses along the trail of your inner thigh, inching closer to your core.

You shivered at the sensation and your heart raced with every kiss. His hands roamed over your thighs, tracing delicate patterns while his mouth brushed closer to where you craved him the most. You bit down your bottom lip, unable to contain the moan that escaped as his tongue flicked out, grazing your sensitive flesh.

This was definitely better than your fantasies, the ones you'd harbored in secret, too taboo to admit even to yourself. But here you were, living out those desires in the most deliciously real way possible.

You gasped as his tongue lavished your slit, tasting every inch, mixing your arousal that was beginning to drip from your core with his saliva. Your back arched off the desk, thighs trembling and when they threatened to close, he made sure two heavy palms kept them open long enough for his tongue to drag over your clit.

You couldn’t believe this was happening. Somehow it felt like a dream, but everything was real. His face was right between your thighs; his mouth pressed against your cunt, his tongue lapping through your wet folds. And it wasn’t as simple as tasting you, he was eating you, devouring you, swallowing every drop of your arousal as if he couldn’t get enough of your taste.

You started to lose control of your mind, your body, your actions. Your hips bucked to meet his tongue, your jaw slackening as stifled moans spilled from your lips. And that was when you felt it—a faint vibration against your thigh. At first, you thought it was just the sensation of his touch, but then the loud, unmistakable loud ringtone of your phone shattered the moment.

"Shit!" You squealed, scrambling to grab your phone from your discarded pants. The last thing you needed was for someone to discover you in this compromising position.

"It's Emily—“ You pushed his head away, trying to hide your flushed face as he looked at you with surprise. His lips were glistened with your arousal and his hair seemed messier. God, he looked so pretty.

"Don't answer it."

"It might be important." With a pointed look, you silently urged him to keep quiet as you brought the phone to your ear with trembling fingers. “H-Hey... what's up?"

Emily's voice came through the line, slightly muffled by the sounds of commotion in the background. “Hey, I need you to review the report you submitted yesterday, you left a few details about the Unsub.”

Spencer's lips brushed against your inner thigh, sending a shiver down your spine, and you had to bite back a moan. You shot him a warning glare, mouthing ‘stop’ before turning your attention back to the call.

“Y/N? Are you listening?”

“Yeah,” you breathed out. “So… um, which report?”

"The case in Florida," your boss explained. "You mentioned that the Unsub was targeting women between the ages of 25 and 35…”

You were trying to listen, you really were, but it was hard when you felt his fingers ease into your cunt, your juices dripping out, coating his flesh as he curled them inside. You almost let out a whine as his thumb pressed to your clit, caressing in circular motions.

“…he's also been stalking younger women."

Your eyes screwed shut as he sped up his pace. His touch was driving you crazy, and you could barely register the conversation over the sounds of your own arousal echoing in the room.

“Y/N.”

You snapped your eyes open, feeling a flush creep up your cheeks as you tried to concentrate on the call. "Uh, yeah, go on," you managed to stammer, hoping she didn't notice your wavering tone.

“Are you okay? You sound... off," Emily's voice cut through the haze of pleasure. You shot Spencer another pleading look, but he simply smiled at you with a hand still between your thighs and the other slipping underneath your bra.

You forced yourself to take a deep breath, fighting against the overwhelming sensations coursing through your body. "Uh, yeah, I… I-I’m doing my training.”

You mentally cursed yourself for the terrible excuse. Emily didn't seem entirely convinced. "Training?"

"Yeah, you know, the uh... firearm training? I-It’s Tuesday.”

There was a pause on the other end before she spoke again. “Are you sure you’re okay? You sound like you're in pain."

You bit your lip, trying to stifle a moan as his fingers curled inside of you. "No, no, I'm fine. Just... a little out of breath from all the… shooting."

Spencer let out an incredulous scoff, and you shot him a pointed glare.

“Are you with someone?”

You hesitated, racking your brain for a believable excuse, but all you could muster was a feeble, "Uh, nope.”

There was a pause on the other end, and the tension in the air seemed to thicken as your body flushed with heat. Meanwhile, Spencer seemed intent on torturing you, never stopping his pace. If anything, it seemed like his movements were increasing. Just when you thought you couldn't feel more exposed, another scoff echoed through your ear, this time from Emily.

“Alright, where are you really?” she pressed, her tone indicating she wasn't buying your flimsy excuse.

“I told you I-I’m doing my training.”

She laughed. “Y/N, we profile people as a job. I can sense your lie even through the phone.”

You stopped yourself from rolling your eyes. What was up with these profilers and their knack for sniffing out lies? You were one yourself, but apparently, you were no match for their scrutiny.

“I’m not—“ your words were cut short when he stood up, hovering above you. You looked up at him, smiling at you innocently as his fingers continued to curl deep inside you. You clutched his forearm with your free hand, attempting to steady yourself.

"I'm not lying," you managed to squeak out.

"Mhm," came Emily's voice from the other end. “Just come by my office and grab the report, okay?”

Your breath hitched as his fingertips delved deeper, sending waves of pleasure rippling through your body. You couldn't tear your eyes away from the sight of his hand moving between your legs, coated in your arousal with each thrust. You could feel your orgasm edging closer. Your hips moved in sync with his motions as the pressure built, the tension coiling tighter in your stomach and—

“Y/N!”

“Y-Yes, I’m… I’m coming.” Spencer's low chuckle filled your ears, and you realized what you'd unintentionally implied. Your eyes widened in embarrassment. “I mean, I-I’ll be there soon, okay, bye!”

You quickly slammed your phone down on the desk, ending the call with a thud. But before you could even take a breath, Spencer's fingers were back to their rapid pace, driving you to the edge of sanity. Your body staggered under his touch, your hips moving in sync with his relentless rhythm, the world outside the room fading away into a blur of pleasure.

"A-Ah—w-wait, fuck—"

You barely managed to utter a protest before his hand covered your mouth, muffling your cries of pleasure. Your back arched, your head thrown back as you tightened your grip on his wrist, your body writhing beneath him as your orgasm consumed you.

It lasted longer than you expected and Spencer seemed determined to push you over the edge as he shifted his attention from your cunt to your sensitive clit. His fingers withdrew momentarily, only to return with a renewed intensity, applying just the right amount of pressure.

Your senses were on overload as you moaned into his hand, the sound muffled but still audible. He worked you, over and over, and you didn't even know your body could take so much. Every stroke, every caress sent sparks of pleasure coursing through you, building up to an intensity that bordered on overwhelming.

Your legs shook uncontrollably as the sensations reached a fever pitch. It was all too much, too intense, and in a moment of desperation, you pushed his hand away. When the last tremors of your orgasm finally faded away, you collapsed back onto the desk, panting heavily, your limbs feeling like jelly.

Spencer removed his hand from your mouth, a satisfied smile playing on his lips as he watched you catch your breath. “Are you okay?"

You nodded weakly. “Yeah, just… that was intense.”

“Good intense?”

“Really good intense,” you replied with a sheepish grin, which only made him smile. With shaky hands, you pushed yourself up from the desk, feeling a wave of satisfaction wash over you. As you began to dress yourself, you couldn't help but steal a glance at him—or rather, the evident bulge underneath his pants.

“That… that doesn’t look comfortable,” you remarked.

Spencer waved off your worry with a dismissive chuckle. “Don’t worry about me, I can take care of it myself.”

“Here? At work?” Your eyes widened at the implication. “I didn't know you had it in you.”

He cocked his head to the side. “That’s not what I meant. It’ll eventually go away if I ignore—stop staring at it,” he added with a laugh. “You’re not helping.”

Your gaze lingered a moment too long on his bulge. "I can think of another way to help.”

Spencer's breath caught in his throat, his imagination running wild with possibilities, but he quickly regained his composure. "Go," he said, gently nudging you towards the door once you were properly dressed. "Emily's waiting for you."

Your eyes swept over him and a wave of awkwardness suddenly washed over you. What was the protocol after experiencing the most intense orgasm of your life? Shake his hand? Give him a high-five? You couldn't help but stifle a nervous laugh at the absurdity of the situation.

After a brief moment of contemplation, you decided to trust your instincts. With a hint of hesitation, you stepped closer and planted a soft kiss on his cheek. He blinked in surprise, but before he could respond, you were already rushing to the door.

He couldn't help but smile as he watched you leave, a tingling sensation lingering on his cheek where your lips had briefly touched. But as he licked his lips absentmindedly, he couldn't shake the taste of your arousal that lingered there.

Groaning softly, he shifted uncomfortably as his mind filled with vivid images of you squirming under him; your mouth agape, eyes half-closed, your pretty legs spread apart. The memory of your moans echoed in his ears and his cock stirred in his pants.

He sighed, realizing he was in for a long day if he didn't do something about it. With a slight grimace—and the embarrassment gnawing at him for what he was about to do—he let his feet carry him to the nearest bathroom.

#behind closed doors #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fic #spencer reid x fem!reader smut #spencer reid #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x female reader #spencer reid x fanfiction #spencerreid #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid x self insert #spencer reid fluff #Fanfiction #gifwriting

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astiinfotech1 · 1 year ago

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Face Recognition Based Attendance - Asti Infotech

Facial recognition systems need a database or a pre-recorded data set to compare captured images and identify faces. A complete high-end configuration unit is installed in the institute and the data capturing process is initiated. The camera mounted with the machine captures and processes the images of students with various angles and qualities along with the basic identification details for further processing.The Image is processed in this way to take care of image quality & other factors.

VISIT HERE

#face shape recognition #face search #face scanner #person recognition #face recognition online

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josephquinnswhore · 7 months ago

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replicate failure to protect - joel miller x female reader

summary: Joel cannot bare to lose you, not the same way he lost Sarah. Through his own self declared failure to protect.

word count: 1.8k

content warnings: ptsd episode, panic attack, mention of past attempted suicide, reader gets fucked up ig, blood, murder, guns, violence, age gap- unspecified. Established relationship.

It feels euphoric, the numbness that spreads from your side up your arms, parts of your body are fizzing with a lightheaded tingle as the blood seeps out of your body. Past the point of pain, the searing sensation of a dull arrowhead being pulled forward, taut at the hands of a single raider camouflaging into the surrounding bush—whistled silently through the air. The metal savagely tears through your flesh and stops right below your bottom rib on the left side.

As you lie on the ground, you’re unable to make sense of the blurred shapes and colours of the overgrown foliage on the slanted buildings, the sound of explosive gunfire is muffled by the ringing in your ears—you feel something. A tugging sensation, one that vibrates through the arrowhead and emits a protestful rumble from your lungs.

All you can make out is muffled ringing in your ears and some incoherent mumbling, watching the blurred outline of his lips move.

You can barely make him out, as he kneels above you, having snapped off the end of the arrow and tossed it behind him, knowing better than to take his eyes off of you for one moment. He’d looked away once, when he’d apprehensively watched you drop to the ground once the arrow had hit. In a moment of necessity to eliminate the enemy.

All you can make out is muffled ringing in your ears and some incoherent mumbling, watching the blurred outline of his lips move.

He knew tearing his gaze off of you a second time was a death sentence.

It had happened once before—the split microsecond that his deep brown teary eyes had sought reassurance from his younger brother in a moment of pure desperation. Pleading for any kind of comfort his brother could promise that she would survive, but she’d slipped away in his arms. The life in her eyes had faded the moment he looked away. Missing the last moments of light in her eyes that solitudes life.

This could not happen to you.

His aching fingers tear off a segment off his flannel below the last button, bending down to manoeuvre your body to slide the fabric under your back, wrapping it around the arrow to keep it stable.

The crimson blood had begun to seep through the flannel before he had finished tying a knot in the shredded fabric, even the loose strands of twine were stained.

But the blood.. your blood covers his hands, the colour burns the back of his eyelids. A burning sensation rises up his throat at the recognition. As he leans over you, the blood makes contact with his flannel, smearing a messy, damp pattern onto his clothes. He was reliving hell all over again two decades later.

But he broke his own rule, tearing his focus gaze away from your face to finish this task, it had been mere seconds of the process. He looked away a second time.

Speaking to you absentmindedly, his gaze returns to your face, dread filling his chest when he sees that your lips are slightly parted. The stress line in your forehead has ceased as your head is lulled to the side, the supple skin of your cheeks is grazed on the surface of the dirt on the ground.

Those beautiful, teary orbs that had just been staring at him with an unfocused gaze were now clamped shut.

A part of Joel wants to give up, reliving the traumatic event that had torn apart his will to live two decades ago, and left him with physical and psychological scars.

“No.. no, no no!” The shout is primal, a clear denial of acceptance that this was your fate.

The sight of you sends a jostle of dread through his veins. All he could see was himself re-living through the devastation of losing Sarah. On the account that he had failed once again to protect someone he loves.

Gathering his thoughts and thinking fast, he intertwined his hands and placed them in the centre of your chest, ignoring the ache in his knees against the crackled rubble of the concrete ground. He positions himself above you, bringing a inhuman-like strength into pounding his hands against your chest as he begins his compressions.

“Not you, not you baby.” He utters desperately, voice thick with emotion.

Unaware of his little brother’s presence—Joel’s eyes darken, black in colour and exerting a burning gaze through your eyelids, prompting you to open them.

To look at him. To prove he hadn’t failed you too.

An exhausted, broken cry rolls between his lips into the stale air between you, spit flying from his mouth as his actions become less precise and more desperate and harmful. Ignoring the fact that he had heard a substantial crack vibrate through his palms.

The burning sensation is all over, his shoulders, arms, wrists, knees. His heart.

“You’re not doin’ this, y’hear me? You have’ta stay.. you stay f’me baby.”

All the while your body is unmoving, limbs shaking with each downward thrust of his hands. “Just open ‘em for me, just look at me.”

Tommy watches the horrific scene, unaware of what your state was like—but he had seen Joel live through this once before.

“I ain’t mad at’cha baby. Jus’ open ‘em for me.”

Joel is begging you—if you can hear him, he can’t will himself to bring his fingers to your neck or wrist to feel your pulse point, petrified of feeling nothing.

His resolve crumbles when he sees Tommy, unable to stop.

“Joel.. Joel stop. Let me check, alright?” His voice hadn’t been this soft and insistent since he had pried his niece's cold body from Joel’s arms to bury her.

Joel falls backward onto the ground out of exhaustion, the ache in his chest is pressing upward into his throat, squeezing the life out of his oesophagus making him feel dizzy.

“She’s alive.” Tommy murmurs, turning to look at his older brother.

FOLLOWING MORNING

“You look like shit, Joel. Have you moved since we’ve been back?” He hears Tommy’s scornful voice, but he can’t bear to tear his eyes off of you. Watching the subtle rise and fall of the blanket that covers your chest.

“I ain’t movin’.”

Not an inch, not once did he allow his gaze to tear away from your chest, the proof that you were still alive. Some semblance of hope he was clinging onto that you would make it.

“You see her chest movin’?” He utters to his younger brother, seeking reassurance.

Without so much as a wink of sleep, he had begun wondering if he was hallucinating the faint movement from sleep deprivation.

“Course I do. You’re just tired.” Tommy reassured, holding out a mug of warm, black coffee.

Joel’s movements are piloted, automatic. Stiff as his arm lifts the mug to his lips, swallowing coffee with a bitter aftertaste of anxiety. The same heavy feeling builds in his chest for the second time he’d returned with you.

The pressure of his anxiety escalates, unable to focus his vision of you, or Tommy’s concerns he speaks, lungs stuttering and struggling to inhale as his hand begins to tremble.

Just shy of his fifties, Joel Miller was having a fucking panic attack. Again.

“Joel,” the weight of his younger brother’s hand digging into his shoulder with a firm grasp, withdraws him from his dissociative state, lying on his bed.

Tommy was staring down at Joel with a knowing expression. “She’s wakin’ up.” He repeats a second time.

Tommy and the coffee are long forgotten, set aside as Joel rises to his feet, looming over you in heavyset silence of anticipation and exigency.

His hands grasp onto your cheeks, cradling them as he lets out a long exhale of relief, staring into the familiar colour of your irises.

“Baby I thought you’d left me..” he utters shakily between the two of you, thick tears fall from his wet eyes down his face.

He watches as your dry lips part, a hoarse croak rolls off of your tongue in an attempt to speak.

“Don’t say nothin’, save your strength.”

His hands tighten around the small mug, tucking his thumb into the handle instead of four of his fingers, for the reason that his hands were too large to navigate the small curated gap.

Thoughtfully, he’d filled it only halfway with water and left it by your shared bed the previous evening, in the expectation of you regaining consciousness.

“Here,” he murmurs, with his free hand he urges you to tilt your head backwards. “There you go.”

Bringing the rim of his mug to your lips, he slowly tilts it upward until a small amount of water has seeped into your lips, allowing a small relief for the uncomfortably dry surface of your mouth.

The second time he encourages a little more, brushing the single few strands of hair from your face as you begin to sip on the water with a loud slurp.

When he’s satisfied you’ve had enough, he pulls the mug away and sets it back on the bedside table.

Your lips are tugged upward in a small smirk, the smallest huff of a laugh vibrates through your nose, and he raises an eyebrow.

“Straight back to annoyin’ me huh? Seems like my girl is feelin’ more like herself already.”

The coo sends your heart through an extra murmur, pulse erratically causing the flesh in your neck to pulsate.

“Know.. you..” your voice is strained, and hoarse from lack of water. “Love it.”

A hum reverberated through his throat in agreeance. Placing his hand on top of your own, clasping his fingers in between your own.

“I do love you.”

For a first confession, the words linger heavily in the air between you. An intense gaze is shared before you could process the weight behind them.

“I love.. you.” Taking a wheezing breath, you continue, the attempt to squeeze his fingers albeit weak—conveys the message. “Even if you.. cracked my ribs.”

His golden complexion reinforces a bright pink hue across his cheeks and ears. “Y’heard that, huh? I’m real sorry ‘bout it.”

Blinking lazily, you nod once, waving off his apology. “That an’ everything else.”

Continuing on from a brief pause, you place your second hand on top of his, grounding him, offering him a sense of security and reassurance he didn’t often receive as self appointed protector.

“You saved me.”

The look in your eye expresses deep gratitude and understanding, promising him that you wouldn’t end up like Sarah, that he would never have to endure pain like that ever again.

Not as long as you lived.

“No, baby. You saved me.”

There are many things you’ve saved Joel from, but he leaves them unspoken, because you know, whether or not he’s mentioned it—you know.

“Get some sleep Joel..”

He obeys, sliding under the thick duvet beside you in the bed you shared, unwilling to break the hold of your hands.

#joel miller tlou #joel miller the last of us #joel miller x reader #joel fucking miller #joelmiller #joel miller fic #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfic #joel miller ptsd #joel miller angst #joel miller hurt/comfort #hbo joel miller #Pedro pascal Joel miller

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with-my-calamitous-love · 2 months ago

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for you, i would ruin myself / a million little times

o. dazai x reader

dazai reads poetry to you after sex ・❥・mentions of sex / physical intimacy (nothing specified) and aftercare

✎ headcanon i’ve had for a while and wanted to write on it <3 here you go.

special tag for: @osamucide because i love you (im sorry this took 86 years)

song: illicit affairs

dazai, obviously, loves to fuck you. feeling your skin pressed against his, lips embedded against yours lazily while he finds different ways to draw pleasure on your body. for him, its a point of distraction. you’re too busy feeling good to feel empty, even if its for a moment.

but its that moment after the high, the returning back to earth, he especially loves. almost reluctantly, he removes himself from you, slowly easing with gentleness you’d expect from him. he was never one for brash, brawny movements. just quiet intimacy with quiet thoughts that speak volumes. he catches his breath with you, watching the rise and fall of your chest as you sink into the pillows beneath him. he tentatively lifts his head from your shoulder as he collapses next to you.

he waits a few minutes. if you fall asleep, he’ll fall asleep next to you. if you’re still awake, he’ll throw some sweatpants on and grab you some water and take a shower. if you haven’t had enough, he’ll invite you to join him.

but it seems unlikely, since right now, you’re still reeling from it. stars and clouds swirl around in your eyes as he stares, lips curved with content. while he waits, he grabs a book from the nightstand.

the pages are browned and worn out. corners of pages have been folded as crude bookmarks, and the last few pages are wrinkled from the time atsushi knocked over a cup of water on his desk. though he offered to replace it, dazai never seemed to mind the way it aged, like the book itself mattered more. almost as if it were a gift from an old friend.

he sees you shift over to face him in his peripheral vision. instinctively, he extends an arm to you so you can sit up next to him against the headboard.

you don’t normally look through his things. though he wouldn’t mind- he doesn’t have much to hide, anyway. the things dazai does keep hidden are things he doesn’t have to worry about you stumbling across. he has quite a large collection of books, and seemingly, he’ll read or has read, anything. biographies, manuals, tales of clandestine meetings or stolen stares. surely, there should be something in that pile you would enjoy. some titles have peaked your interest, but you’ve never picked one up for yourself.

perhaps its because nothing could match the way dazai reads to you.

so you prompt him, though you both already know the answer: “what are you reading?”

he smiles as your voice, scratched from your previous activities hits his ear. the blankets pool around his waist, gaining all the warmth he needs simply by being next to you. “what do you want to hear?”

he gives you the choice because, to him, all poems, with even a small hint of love, in some way, shape, or form, were about you.

which is why he loves your answer so much: “anything, ‘samu.”

his fingers flip to a random page. 113.

brown eyes skim over the words, softening in recognition once he reaches the final verse. he clears his throat, his adam’s apple sitting beneath the skin you’ve kissed and touched many times before.

Leave the perfume on the shelf

That you picked only for him

Leave no trace behind

Because you don't even exist

A dwindling, mercurial high

illicit affairs

clandestine meetings, stolen stares

They show their truth one single time

But they lie, and lie, and lie

A million little times.

his voice is soft, sanguine. he’s never putting on a grandiose performance but never flattening out the words into boredom. he delivers each syllable with justice, with poised pronunciation but a witty flare that is uniquely his.

you can see in his eyes the words resonate with something he’d like to believe he buried. something about betrayal. about feeling betrayed when you have no reason to feel that way, or simply because they left. or about remembering someone for longer than you’ve known them.

but he shoves it down with a question. “do you like that one?”

his cologne has worn off. his hair, though it was never exactly neat, is feathering over his shoulders in coffee-brown tangles. you can see that flushed hint of red on his lips, beginning to swell from kissing too hard. his sleek clothes are somewhere on the floor, and you can feel- from his arm wrapped around you- residual sweat.

still, he notices how you look at him like he’s the entire world, even after reading the poem that brought up so many pushed-down things for him. you see colours in him you can’t see with anyone else.

he gazes at that colour in you, while he awaits your answer.

“i liked it.” you smile, leaning your head on his shoulder.

“thats all?”

“osamu, you could read a grocery list and i’d listen.”

you get a soft laugh out of him.

he presses his lips against your forehead, coaxing you to sleep as he lays you down. he only reads a few more poems in his head, though he may as well have the letters memorized.

a grocery list. he thinks to himself. there was a time in his life grocery lists were the furthest from his head. death and destruction seem to take up a majority of your mind, and groceries are left on the back burner.

oh, but with you? he can spend every sunday morning unpacking expensive, store bought ingredients with you, and momentarily forget about everything else in the world.

for as long as his heart remains beating, he’ll savour all of it. a million little times.

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thepencilnerd · 2 months ago

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The Story Never Ends

pairing: Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x F!Reader summary: From coffee and first glances to slow unraveling and quiet return—this is a story of love across changing seasons, of what’s lost, and what still lingers; healing is neither linear nor pretty, but it’s real—and sometimes, that's enough. warnings: references to unprocessed trauma and grief, emotional burnout, relationship conflict, brief mention of a mass casualty event (off-screen) genre/notes: meet-cute, slow burn, fluffy, heavy angst, miscommunication, hurt/comfort, HEA (but the H stands for hopeful), robby finally confronting his demons, might as well just be angst but i promise there's comfort word count: 9.5k a/n: i write to cope

The coffee shop buzzed with its usual afternoon chaos: the hum of espresso machines, baristas calling names, sunlight spilling through floor-to-ceiling windows. You stood in line, scanning the chalkboard menu like it might change, trying to decide between something familiar or something new.

It was supposed to be a regular afternoon—nothing remarkable.

Then you noticed him.

He stood near the counter, hunched slightly in a hoodie with the sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms, fingers absently tugging at the seam of his cup sleeve. Not someone who stood out. But he felt like someone who carried weight. Like he’d seen too much, held too much, and hadn't yet figured out how to set it down. There was a quiet intensity to him, the kind you couldn’t explain—like he’d just come from somewhere heavy.

He must’ve felt your gaze, because he looked up. His eyes—dark brown, a little hollow—met yours.

You gave him a small, instinctive smile. Not recognition. Just something human.

He blinked, caught off guard, and then—tentatively—smiled back.

You looked away quickly, heat rising to your cheeks. But when you stole another glance, he was still watching you, his curiosity softening the tired lines of his face.

He turned back to the menu and stared at it like it might bite.

“The caramel macchiato’s pretty solid here,” you offered, voice low so only he could hear.

He looked over again, brow lifting in faint surprise.

You nodded, a little sheepishly. “If you’re into sweet. It’s my go-to after a long day.”

He considered you for a moment, then gave a small nod. “That sounds about right.” He turned to the barista. “Caramel macchiato, please. Large.”

When you picked up your drink, you glanced around for a seat—and found him already settled near the window, one hand cradling his cup. He looked up as if he’d been waiting. Then he gestured—an unspoken offer.

You hesitated, just for a second, then walked over.

“Mind if I...?”

“Please,” he said, and the word sounded like relief.

You sat across from him, hands curling around your iced drink. There was a pause—comfortable, almost—and then you smiled. “Thanks for not thinking I was weird.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “You did recommend a drink to a total stranger so I wouldn't discount that just yet.”

“Well, you looked like you could use a little help.”

His smile faded, just a little. “Yeah,” he said. “I guess I did.”

You didn’t push. Didn’t pry. And something about that seemed to make his shoulders relax. You started talking about the little things. Comfort meals. The awkward barista who always spelled your name wrong. The new park nearby with the strange modern art installation shaped like an egg roll.

He caught you looking at his badge—Michael Robinavitch, doctor, Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.

“I’m off the clock,” he offered, voice low.

You smiled. “Well, thanks for sharing it with me.”

—

You didn’t exchange numbers that day. But you ran into him again the following week, same coffee shop, same time. It happened again the week after that. Eventually, it stopped feeling like coincidence.

He finally introduced himself. "Dr. Robby," as he was affectionately called by his colleagues, Michael by his close social circle or when his grandmother was scolding him. That he was an attending for the emergency room’s day shift crew. That his sleep schedule was a mess, and that he liked his coffee way too sweet for someone who looked like he never let himself enjoy anything.

Your first date wasn’t anything planned. It was a shared walk to the bus stop that turned into dinner at the Vietnamese place a few blocks over. He’d been quieter than usual at first, eyes heavy with something he didn’t name, until you asked him what the best hospital vending machine snack was. That made him laugh—really laugh—and he said, “You have to try the orange peanut butter crackers. Horrible, but somehow perfect at 3 a.m.”

He had a way of making you laugh—quick, offhand comments delivered so seriously you almost missed the punchline. "You're one of those people who actually reads the coffee shop signs, aren't you?" he asked once, teasing, as you squinted at the seasonal drinks board.

"Only the ones with bad puns," you fired back, and he’d smirked like you’d passed some secret test.

"Are you one of those people who judges others by their coffee order?"

"Only if it's decaf," you replied with a mock-serious look. "That’s a cry for help."

He grinned. "Guess I shouldn’t tell you about my chai latte phase."

"Only if you're ready to be judged accordingly."

"Brutal," he muttered, shaking his head, but his eyes were bright. "You’re lucky you’re cute."

That made your eyebrows lift. "So, you admit it. I’ve won you over."

"I’m saying nothing without my lawyer present," he said, sipping his drink to hide the smile pulling at his lips.

There was a rhythm between you, like banter was its own language, and even the smallest exchange left you smiling until your cheeks ached. And just like that, the air between you warmed a little more.

Robby opened up slowly, in millimeters, not miles. Told you about college, about hating anatomy lab but loving the rush of a trauma case. About his years before med school, about the heat and chaos of field hospitals while volunteering for Doctors Without Borders, and the people he couldn’t save.

You never asked questions. Always listened.

By the end of the night, when he walked you home, there was a gentleness to him that you hadn’t expected, a softness that made you feel safe. He stopped just outside your door, his hand still holding yours, and he looked at you with a warmth that made your heart swell.

“Thanks for making me feel normal,” he confessed, his eyes searching yours. The vulnerability in his voice caught you off guard, but it made you smile.

“You are normal,” you whispered, reaching out to touch his hand. He hesitated for a moment before interlacing his fingers with yours.

“Thank you,” he said softly, his eyes shining with something unspoken. And in that moment, you knew you were falling for him.

There was no big kiss that night, no fireworks. Just two people sharing space and silence in a beginning of something.

He texted you the next morning.

Robby: Morning. Hope I didn’t say too much. Or not enough. I meant every part of it.

And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself believe maybe this could be something real.

—

It happened on a quiet night after your fourth date. Robby had invited you over to his apartment for a movie night. His place was spacious but cozy, tucked into a narrow walk-up with sloped ceilings and mismatched furniture that somehow worked. The couch had seen better days, but it was soft, and the throw blankets were well-worn with affection. A stack of unread books leaned precariously on the coffee table beside a half-finished crossword puzzle. The scent of cedarwood lingered faintly in the air, blending with the buttery warmth of popcorn.

You took a slow glance around when you stepped inside, letting the space sink in. "This place is very you," you said, a soft smile tugging at your lips. "Cozy. Quiet. Looks like it holds secrets."

Robby raised an eyebrow, amused. "I’m not sure whether to be flattered or mildly offended."

You laughed. "It’s a compliment. It feels... like someone lives here. Not just crashes between shifts."

"High praise coming from someone who judged my choice of hospital snacks," he said, already moving toward the kitchen.

"You earned that judgment," you quipped, grinning as you bumped his shoulder with yours. "I stand by it."

You’d helped him make snacks in the kitchen—microwaved popcorn, yes, but also cutting up fruit and arguing over the right chocolate-to-salty-snack ratio. "You can’t just put Chex Mix and M&Ms in the same bowl without a proper ratio," you protested, watching him pour each haphazardly like he was mixing concrete.

"Why not? It's all dry snacks. They're meant to mingle," he said, completely unbothered.

"You’re disrespecting the science," you defended. "That’s way too much grain and not enough chocolate."

"So... you're saying you want a bowl of candy with a side of crunch?"

"Exactly. Glad we understand each other."

"It’s called contrast," he defended, utterly serious. "Like plot twists for your taste buds."

Choosing the movie had been its own saga. You held up two options. "Rom-com or action?"

Robby narrowed his eyes, pressing his lips into a soft pout. "Define action."

"Explosions. Sweaty men. Poor communication."

He smirked. "So, basically... a rom-com but louder?"

You threw a pillow at him. "We’re watching the one where no one dies."

"Do you mean emotionally or literally?"

You responded with an exaggerated scowl.

He grinned at that—wide and a little crooked, the kind of smile that snuck up on you. "Yes, ma'am," he said, mock serious, pressing play.

By the time you settled onto the couch, your knees nearly brushing, the teasing had softened into something quieter—comfortable, expectant. The screen glowed softly against the far wall, the room dim but warm, and the distance between you gradually disappeared. But neither of you were really watching. Your mind wandered with every shift he made, every time his arm nudged yours.

Halfway through, you felt yourself leaning into him. He didn’t move away. In fact, he adjusted, slipping his arm around your shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world. His warmth seeped into you, steady and reassuring, like the rest of the world had quieted. You could smell the faint trace of cedar and laundry detergent on his shirt, something familiar and grounding.

Your head rested lightly against his chest, where the soft fabric of his tee brushed your cheek and his heartbeat thudded in a slow, steady rhythm. As you relaxed into him, you caught the moment his nose dipped closer—just slightly—like he was taking in your perfume. Robby let out a soft sigh, his body relaxing into yours, and you felt his thumb gently tracing the outside of your arm, like even the quiet was something he wanted to savor.

“I’m not really following the plot,” he murmured after a while, voice barely above the hum of the dialogue onscreen.

You laughed softly. “Not really sure there is one.”

He turned slightly to look at you, kind eyes catching the faint light. “You always pick movies like this?”

“Only when I’m trying to impress a guy,” you said, smiling.

He raised an eyebrow, lips twitching. “And how’s that working out for you?”

You tilted your head toward him, heart fluttering. “Jury’s still out.”

There was a pause—just a moment, but charged with something new. Slowly, Robby leaned in, eyes flicking from your lips back to your eyes. He hesitated, giving you the chance to back away.

You didn’t.

Your lips met in a soft, tentative kiss. It wasn’t perfect—more breath than pressure, more searching than certain—but it was warm and real. His beard tickled your skin as he leaned in, grounding the moment in something tangible. His hand came up to cradle your cheek, thumb brushing just beneath your eye, and you melted into him like it was where you’d always belonged.

When you finally pulled away, your foreheads touched, both of you smiling in the quiet.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for a while,” he murmured.

You nodded, breath catching a little. “Me too.”

He kissed your forehead gently, then wrapped both arms around you, pulling you close.And in the dim light, wrapped up in each other, it felt like—for now—everything else could wait.

—

It was late one night, the two of you sprawled across his couch, the city lights twinkling through the large windows, bathing the room in a soft glow. Robby lay beside you, his head resting on your shoulder, and your fingers moved slowly through his hair, absent and affectionate. He was unusually still, like the quiet had settled into his bones. You felt him shift slightly now and then, like he was trying to work up to something.

His hand found yours, his fingers lacing with yours in a tentative, careful way. When you glanced at him, you caught the soft furrow of his brow, the way his gaze flickered toward the windows, then the floor, then finally—hesitantly—to your face.

You waited. Letting him take his time.

He took a slow breath, like it might steady the ache in his chest, and when he spoke, his voice was quieter than you’d ever heard it. "You make things feel easy when everything else is hard."

Your throat tightened. You turned to face him fully, brushing his hair gently back from his forehead.

He looked up at you, and for the first time, there was nothing guarded in his expression. Just rawness. Hope. Fear. All of it naked in the space between you.

Then, finally—voice rough and low—he said, "I love you."

Your heart skipped. The words landed between you with all the weight of something unspoken for too long. You cupped his cheek, thumb brushing across his beard, your own voice cracking with emotion. "I love you too, Michael."

He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for days. A slow, soft smile broke across his face, eyes growing glassy. He leaned in and kissed you—gentle and lingering, no rush, no performance. Just truth.

—

He’d given you a spare key to his place ages ago—an unceremonious handoff after your third night staying over, when leaving in the early morning had felt wrong. You’d been flustered, caught mid-yawn and still wearing one of his hoodies, and when he held it out, your brain short-circuited.

"You don’t—are you sure? I mean, not that I wouldn’t want to—but I don’t want to, like, intrude, or assume, or—"

“Breathe,” Robby said, already grinning—that slow, lopsided smile that always made your stomach flutter. He was leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, clearly enjoying every second of your spiraling… until he wasn’t.

You didn’t even realize you'd stopped talking until his arms were around you, warm and grounding. He pulled you in gently, tucking your head beneath his chin, his voice low near your ear. “You’re okay. Just breathe.”

"I just—I don’t usually get this far into relationships," you mumbled, finally taking it, fingers brushing his. "Feels like... a milestone or something."

"It is," he said softly, and the shift in his tone made your heart stutter. "One I’m glad to have reached with you."

You’d slipped it onto your keyring like it was no big deal. But he could tell by the way you couldn’t quite meet his eyes after that, the way your fingers nervously toyed with the chain, or how you pressed your lips together to hold back your smile. And he loved you a little more for it.

You didn’t use it often. But on the hardest nights, when you knew he was working overtime, you did.

Sometimes he’d come home late, bone-deep exhaustion in his eyes, still smelling faintly of antiseptic. He wouldn’t say anything—just step into the apartment and find you already there, barefoot in the kitchen, cooking quietly by the stove. He would wordlessly come up behind you, wrap his arms around your waist, and bury his face into the crook of your neck. His beard tickled your skin, but you didn’t move. You just let him hold on.

You never pried. Never asked what had happened or who he’d lost. You just stood still and let him breathe.

Some mornings, you’d wake up to the smell of breakfast—coffee already brewing, eggs soft in the pan. The light through the windows was always softest then, catching the curve of his shoulders as he stood at the stove, hair still tousled from sleep. He’d glance over and freeze for half a second, his eyes softening the moment they landed on you.

You, barefoot in his kitchen, drowning in one of his shirts, rubbing sleep from your eyes and blinking toward the smell of coffee like it was the only thing tethering you to the mortal world.

“Morning,” you’d mumble, voice still thick with sleep.

And he’d just shake his head with a quiet smile, barely audible as he murmured, “You’re gonna kill me looking like that.”

He never said more than that, never needed to. But the way he’d step over to press a kiss to your temple, or slide a mug into your hands like it was second nature—it was all soft, sacred routine. Like seeing you there made the weight on his chest just a little lighter. Like it reminded him there was still good to come home to.

You never got used to casual Robby. Eventually, you moved in—not all at once, but in slow, familiar steps: a drawer, a toothbrush, a mug that became yours. By the time you were sharing bills and arguing over which laundry detergent smelled better, it felt more like breathing than change.

The first time you saw him in glasses—framed in dark tortoiseshell, hair damp from a shower and curling slightly at his temples—you’d practically short-circuited.

He’d emerged from the bathroom in a faded t-shirt and joggers, yawning, and caught you staring from your spot on the couch.

“What?” he asked, squinting as he adjusted his glasses with the heel of his hand.

“Nothing,” you said way too fast. “Just—wow. You look so... smart.”

“Smart?” he echoed, amused.

“And cozy,” you added quickly, rambling now. “Like, approachable professor energy. You know, in a hot way. Not in a—never mind.”

He laughed then—low and genuine, crossing the room to nudge your knee with his. “You’re ridiculous.”

You grinned up at him, cheeks burning. “You love it.”

“I really do,” he said, and leaned down to kiss you on the forehead, glasses bumping lightly against your skin.

During evenings when he settled beside you on the couch, arm slung casually around your shoulders, your fingers found his left bicep beneath the worn cotton of his t-shirt. You traced the ink there—the delicate script of memento mori, bold and grounded—until he turned slightly, offering his other arm too.

You switched sides, brushing your thumb over the words on his right: amor fati.

“I forget they’re there, sometimes,” he murmured, watching you with a soft sort of curiosity.

“I don’t,” you said, quietly. “You carry both.”

His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes—but his hand found yours and gave it a gentle squeeze. You turned your palm to meet his, lacing your fingers together, your thumb brushing over the scar just beneath his knuckle. A quiet pause stretched between you, full of the kind of knowing that didn’t need words.

He leaned in, pressing his forehead to your temple, eyes closed, breath unsteady. You shifted closer, letting your head rest on his shoulder, your free hand still ghosting along the ink on his arm.

There was pain here—still. But also comfort, and the kind of closeness that aches in the best way. The kind that says: I see you. I’m staying.

Some nights, you'd fall asleep tangled together—his arm draped over your waist, your legs tangled under the blanket in ways neither of you could explain come morning. You’d fall asleep with your face tucked under his chin, only to wake up sprawled out diagonally across the bed, one of you stealing all the covers.

He’d grumble when you yanked the blanket away in your sleep; you’d mutter sleepy apologies and pull him back into your arms. One night, you twitched in the middle of a dream and accidentally swatted him across the face.

“Rude,” he murmured, half-asleep, rubbing his cheek.

“Reflex...” you mumbled, eyes still closed. “Fighting zombies...”

He laughed, voice thick with sleep, and kissed the top of your head. “Please try not to knock me out next time.”

Even in those clumsy, chaotic hours, you never felt anything but safe in each other’s space. The kind of intimacy that came not from candlelight or declarations—but from breathing the same quiet air and fitting, without trying, into each other’s lives.

And then there were the nights he couldn’t sleep. When his mind wouldn’t stop replaying whatever it refused to let go. He’d lie down on the couch with his head in your lap, his body tense at first, breath shallow like he was trying to stay composed. You’d run your fingers through his hair in slow, gentle motions, your touch featherlight but deliberate.

Sometimes he’d drift. But other nights, he’d break. His shoulders would shake almost imperceptibly, and you'd feel his tears start to warm your skin—silent, steady, soaking through the fabric of your shorts where his cheek was pressed.

You could feel how hot his face would get, how hard he tried to hold himself together. His breath would hitch against your thigh, soft and ragged, like every inhale cost him something. And still, he wouldn’t speak. Wouldn’t explain.

You never filled the quiet with questions. You just stayed, your hand still in his hair, your other one smoothing down his back in slow, reassuring lines. You’d whisper little nothings sometimes—just enough to let him know you were there, that he could let go. And even when he couldn’t say it, you felt it in the way he curled into you, in the way he finally breathed just a little easier. He never talked about it. But you always knew.

And then there were the quiet nights after. The ones where nothing hurt, and nothing ached, and you could just exist together.

You’d curl up together on the couch with no agenda, his hand resting on your thigh, your head against his shoulder, sharing whatever movie or show you’d already seen three times. His fingers would absently trace shapes into your knee. You’d hum quietly, not even realizing you were doing it until he said, soft and amused, “You always do that when you’re happy.”

Sometimes he’d look over at you like he couldn’t believe you were real. Like he didn’t understand how someone like you had ended up here, with someone like him.

And sometimes you’d catch him mid-laugh, glasses slipping down his nose, hair sticking up in a way that made your heart ache with how much you loved him. You’d kiss him just because, and he’d melt like he always did—like every time was the first.

“God,” you’d murmur against his cheek, “you’re everything.”

And he’d pull you in tighter, breath catching just slightly like he didn’t know how to hold something that felt this good. But he always tried.

—

But even love like that isn't always easy.

It started small—the way his responses got shorter on the nights he came home late. How he stood in the doorway a little longer, like something heavy waited outside and he hadn’t decided whether to bring it in. The way he flinched when you reached for his hand one evening and then apologized immediately, shaking his head like he didn’t know why he’d done it.

You’d always known he carried more than he shared. But lately, it felt like even his silences were starting to shut you out.

“Robby,” you said softly one night, after he’d barely touched his dinner. “Talk to me. Please.”

He didn’t look up right away. Just kept his eyes on the edge of the plate, shoulders stiff. “I’m tired.”

You sat back slightly, watching him. “I know. But this is different, and you know it.”

He exhaled through his nose, then pushed his chair back and stood, running a hand over his face. “I don’t want to fight.”

“We’re not fighting,” you said gently, standing too. “I just—I don’t know how to help when you keep shutting me out.”

“I’m not trying to,” he muttered. “I’m just... tired.”

You crossed your arms. “You said that already.”

He turned then, finally meeting your gaze. “What do you want me to say? That I see too much? That I’m not sleeping because I keep hearing their voices when I close my eyes? That I’m afraid I’m going to bring all of that home and ruin the one good thing I have left?”

Your breath caught.

He shook his head, stepping back like he could shove the words back in. “Maybe I don’t need you to fix it.”

That one hit. You felt it like a slap, your throat going tight.

Robby froze. The regret was immediate—visible in the slump of his shoulders. He reached out like he could take it back, fingers flexing midair, but you stepped away, not out of anger—just ache.

“I know I can’t fix it,” you said, voice trembling. “But I thought you trusted me enough to let me try. Not to fix. Just to be here.”

He didn’t answer. Just stood there, looking at you like he wanted to apologize but didn’t know how.

And for the first time in a long time, the silence between you didn’t feel safe.

—

It was hours later when he finally came to you.

You were in the bedroom, sitting cross-legged on the bed, folding laundry just to have something to do with your hands. The door creaked open, and Robby stood there like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed in.

He didn’t say anything. Just walked over slowly, his shoulders tense, eyes glassy with exhaustion—not just from the day, but from carrying it all alone.

You didn’t move. You didn’t need to. Because the moment he was close enough, he sank to his knees at the edge of the bed and wrapped his arms around your waist, burying his face against your stomach.

You dropped the shirt in your hands and gently cupped the back of his head.

“It’s okay,” you whispered, threading your fingers through his hair. “You don’t have to say anything.”

He didn’t. Just held you tighter, his breath shaky as he tried to hold himself together. You could feel the weight in his grip, the apology in his silence.

You bent forward, pressing a soft kiss into his hair.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you murmured.

He exhaled into you, like the only thing he’d needed was to hear that.

Later, you curled into each other under the covers, the weight between you finally shifting into something softer. Robby lay on his side, eyes half-lidded, one arm around your waist, his fingers tracing the hem of your shirt like it grounded him.

Neither of you spoke much. The silence had changed—less sharp, more like a shared exhale. He pressed a kiss to your shoulder and stayed there, breath warming your skin.

“You’re still the one good thing,” he said eventually, voice rough and low.

You reached back to touch his arm. “And you don’t have to carry everything alone.”

“I know,�� he whispered, like it still scared him to say it aloud.

You turned in his arms to face him, resting your forehead gently against his. “Then we’ll figure it out. One bad day at a time.”

Robby let out a shaky laugh—just a breath, really—but it was something. He pulled you closer, held you like an anchor in the dark.

And eventually, tangled up in each other, you both fell asleep—not because the weight was gone, but because it had shifted. Because it was shared.

—

Your mind flashed back to the times when everything felt simpler. You remembered the way his eyes lit up as he looked at you, the warmth that had filled those moments, making you forget the world outside. You thought of the nights spent waiting for his calls, the whispered conversations that ended with him walking through the front door and into your arms, the promises made in hushed tones, hoping the world would never hear.

There were days where nothing was wrong—no missed calls, no bad news waiting on the other end of a shift. Just you and Robby, a day off together, the sun warming the hardwood floors, and the smell of fresh laundry in the air.

He’d pull you out of bed late, already dressed in soft sweats and a mischievous grin, tugging the blanket away until you whined. “C’mon,” he’d tease. “You promised me pancakes and an embarrassing dance break while flipping them.”

“I said that once, half-asleep,” you’d grumble, dragging your feet to the kitchen. “It doesn’t count.”

“Still legally binding,” he’d say, wrapping his arms around your waist and swaying you gently, his chin resting on your shoulder. “I take all sleepy promises very seriously.”

You’d cook together, music playing low in the background, hips brushing, fingers stealing bits of fruit off the cutting board. He’d lean against the counter with a mug in hand, watching you like you were his favorite part of the morning.

And later, after breakfast, you’d collapse on the couch together, limbs tangled, sunlight spilling across your bare feet. He’d trace circles onto your thigh and tell you stories from med school, the kind that made you laugh until your stomach hurt. You’d kiss him between sentences, just because you could.

You never forgot the heavy days—but God, the light ones were magic.

—

Magic has a way of fading when one person keeps their pain locked behind silence.

The pattern had established itself. Missed texts. Longer showers. The way Robby would go quiet even in the middle of a sentence, zoning out like he was watching something only he could see.

You noticed. Of course you did.

You tried to bring it up gently. “Is everything okay?”

“Fine,” he said, not unkindly—but it was clipped. Automatic. A reflex he’d honed too well.

You started to keep count. How many times in one week he said he was fine. How many times he didn’t say anything at all.

One night, after a particularly long shift, he came home later than usual. You were curled up on the couch waiting, a soft blanket over your legs, a cup of tea gone cold in your hands. When he walked in, you stood up—tentative. Hopeful.

“Hey,” you said softly. “You stayed late.”

He shrugged out of his coat. “I stayed to finish some charts.”

You nodded, following him into the kitchen. “Want me to heat something up?”

“No. I’m good.”

That word again. Good. Like it meant something real.

“Robby,” you tried, voice quiet. “You haven’t been sleeping. You barely talk anymore. You come home and shut down like I’m not even here. I know you’re hurting, but—”

“I said I’m fine,” he snapped. It was louder than either of you expected. The kind of loud that made everything else stop.

You blinked, the words catching in your throat.

He didn’t look at you. Just stood there, jaw clenched, chest rising and falling too fast.

“Do you even hear yourself anymore?” you asked, the hurt breaking through. “Every time I try, you shut me out. Every time I reach for you, you flinch. I’m not asking you to bleed in front of me—I’m asking you to let me in.”

He turned, finally, but his eyes were stormy. “And what if I can’t? What if letting you in means dragging you down with me?”

You shook your head, your voice breaking. “Then let me choose that. Don’t decide for me.”

Silence stretched between you, taut and cracking at the edges.

And then it built to the moment that cracked something in both of you.

You were pacing, voice trembling as you spoke through the hurt. "I feel like I’m tiptoeing around a version of you that won’t look me in the eye. I miss you, Robby. Even when you’re right here, I miss you."

He stood still in the kitchen, hands braced on the edge of the counter like he might break it with his grip. “You think I don’t know that?”

“Then why won’t you talk to me?” you said, softer now, pleading. “Why do you keep shutting me out?”

His head dropped forward, jaw tight. “Because every time I let something slip, you look at me like I’m falling apart.”

“No,” you said, a little sharper now, voice thick with emotion. “I look at you like I love you. I want to help you carry it, but you make it impossible.”

Robby’s brow furrowed, defensiveness creeping in. “I never asked you to.”

You stepped back like his words physically knocked the air out of you. “I know. But you let me think I could. That I was helping. And now you act like all of this—us—was better before I got too close.”

His eyes flickered, like he wanted to take it back but didn’t know how. Like he was stuck between retreat and surrender.

“I’m trying,” he muttered, jaw tight.

“You’re not,” you said, breath hitching. “You’re pretending nothing’s wrong, and every time I try to reach for you, you pull farther away. And I’m tired, Robby. I’m so tired of feeling like loving you is something I have to earn over and over again.”

He didn’t respond at first. And when he did, it was quiet—so quiet you almost didn’t hear it:

“Maybe it was easier before you were always here.”

You froze. A breath—gone.

His face crumpled as soon as the words left his mouth. “I didn’t mean—”

But it was too late. Because even if he hadn’t meant it, he’d thought it.

You turned away, the tears already spilling—hot, silent, and fast. Your throat was tight, your hands shaking as you moved without thinking, heading for the bedroom.

You grabbed a bag from the closet and started stuffing clothes into it—not carefully, not thoughtfully, just enough to get through the night somewhere else. You weren’t sure where you'd go yet, but it didn’t matter. You just needed space. Air.

Behind you, Robby stood frozen in the kitchen doorway for a breath, then bolted forward, panic overtaking disbelief. "Wait—please, just—wait," he said, his voice cracking as he caught up to you.

He reached for your arm, hesitating before he touched you, as if afraid you'd flinch. "Don’t go," he whispered. "Please, just talk to me. I didn’t mean it like that."

You didn’t turn around. Your jaw clenched, eyes blurry as you shoved another shirt into the bag.

“I said something stupid, I was angry—I didn’t mean it,” he rushed, voice rising with desperation.

“I need space, Robby,” you replied, your voice shaking.

But Robby pulled you into him before you could take another step. His arms wrapped tightly around your shoulders, one hand rising to cradle the back of your head as if you might vanish if he let go.

“Please,” he whispered, breath warm against your temple. “Please don’t go.”

You stood stiff for a second, your hands still clenched around the fabric of the bag, heart pounding.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured into your hair, voice breaking. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know how to do this right, I just—can’t lose you.”

You didn’t say anything right away. Just let yourself sag into his chest, trembling, as he held you like an apology.

“I don’t want to,” you whispered. “But I don’t know how to stay when it hurts like this.”

Robby pressed his forehead to yours, breath shaky, his hands gripping the back of your shirt like it was the only thing keeping him standing. “Then don’t,” he begged, voice cracking. “We’ll figure it out. Together. Just—stay.”

You closed your eyes, tears spilling freely now. “I’m so tired of being the only one trying.”

“I know,” he said, the words crushed between guilt and fear. “I know. I’m trying now. I swear. I’ll do better. Just don’t give up on me.”

His voice broke on the last word, and you felt it—every fracture in his armor finally showing. He held you tighter, like he could anchor you to the floor, to him, with sheer desperation.

“I love you,” he whispered. “Even when I don’t know how to show it. Even when I get in my own way. I love you so damn much.”

You swallowed, forehead still resting against his. Your voice was numb, not angry—just tired. Bruised from the inside out. “Then show me. Not tonight. Not with words. But show me.”

Because you couldn’t keep holding both of you upright anymore. It wasn’t just the arguments or the silences, it was how they chipped away at the space between you until even comfort felt like pressure.

Robby didn’t say anything right away, but you felt him nod—slowly, brokenly—his fingers twitching where they clutched the hem of your shirt. You were both worn raw, clinging to each other not because it made sense, but because letting go felt worse.

He was always the one who froze when things got too heavy. Who went silent instead of soft. Who drowned quietly so no one would have to watch him go under.

And you—you were the one who filled the silence, who tried to anchor both of you with warmth and patience, until you had nothing left to give.

You didn’t know what came next. But when his breath hitched against your skin, when his lips ghosted a promise across your temple, it wasn’t resolution—it was need. A shared ache that lived in the spaces where words had failed.

The tension between you was thick, your emotions raw and desperate. You curled up on the bed together, the blanket falling in soft waves over your legs as you lay facing each other, breath shallow and eyes red-rimmed. No words were exchanged—there were none left to say. Just the soft beat of your heart against his chest and the ache of being too close and too far away all at once.

But then his lips found yours—not gentle, not sweet. Desperate. A plea to stay tethered to something real. You kissed him back like you needed it to survive, like if you didn’t feel him now you’d vanish entirely.

He cupped your face, hands trembling slightly as he whispered your name, his voice so full of longing it nearly broke you in half. His forehead pressed to yours, the rhythm of his breath uneven.

Clothes were pushed aside, discarded with the same urgency that carried his hands across your skin. There was no finesse, no choreography—just aching, reckless need. You wrapped yourself around him, limbs tangled and breath shared, moving together like you’d forgotten how to be separate.

His hands roamed your body with a reverence sharpened by pain, like he was trying to memorize every inch, every sound you made. And when he buried his face into your neck and whispered broken apologies—"I’m sorry, please forgive me, I love you, I need you"—you kissed him harder, silencing the guilt with your mouth.

It wasn’t about lust. It wasn’t even about comfort. It was about needing to be known. Needing to be held in a way that made the world go quiet.

Afterward, you stayed tangled together, legs overlapping, his arm curled tight around your waist. Neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke. His fingers traced your spine like he was still trying to say something without words.

Nothing had been solved. Everything still ached. But in that fragile, flickering space between exhaustion and need, you held each other like it was the only truth that hadn't slipped through your fingers.

—

The days that followed blurred.

You still shared a bed. Still exchanged small gestures, the ghost of what once was: coffee waiting by the sink, a brief graze of fingers in the hallway, the habitual kiss on the temple that neither of you felt anymore. But the air between you had shifted. Thick, not with tension—but with the kind of quiet that feels like waiting for something to break.

Robby tried. You saw it in how he stood in doorways like he was working up the courage to speak, in the way he’d squeeze your hand under the blanket at night as if that one touch could undo the distance. But whatever he was reaching for, it never quite made it to you. His grief lived like a second skin, and no matter how close you got, you could never peel it back far enough to breathe with him.

And you—you were tired. So tired of shrinking yourself so he wouldn’t have to face the wreckage. You softened everything: your tone, your expectations, your joy. Until you felt like a whisper of the person you used to be. Even your patience had started to sour.

The silences weren’t loud. They didn’t scream. They just pressed, heavy and constant. And in that pressure, you both stopped speaking—not out of anger, but out of resignation. What was left to say?

You still looked at him like you loved him. Because you did. But more and more, that love felt like grief with a heartbeat.

And you wondered, in the quiet, how long a person could stay in something that made them feel so alone.

You stopped trying to talk first.

Not out of spite—just self-preservation. You couldn’t keep opening a door that never swung back your way.

Some mornings, Robby would kiss your shoulder before he left for work. Soft. Automatic. And maybe that was what hurt the most—how even love had become muscle memory.

You weren’t angry. Not really. Just tired in a way that felt marrow-deep. You woke up with it. Carried it like weight in your chest. The version of you that used to fight for every little connection had grown so quiet lately you hardly recognized yourself.

And Robby—he was still there. Still kind, still careful. But careful in the way people are when they know a glass is cracked and one wrong move might shatter it.

The worst part wasn’t the fighting. It was the lack of it. Like you'd both agreed to live in the ache instead of pulling each other out.

You still set the table for two. Still folded his laundry. Still turned on the porch light when you knew he’d be home late.

But you stopped waiting up.

You stopped hoping the door would open and he’d walk in like he used to—eyes tired, but lit with something soft when they landed on you.

Because it had been a long time since he looked at you like that.

—

After the breakup, Robby buried himself in work.

He picked up every extra shift. Charted until his fingers cramped. Slept in call rooms. Survived on caffeine and convenience store sandwiches. He didn’t go home unless he had to—and even then, he made it quick. Just enough time to shower, change, and leave again.

Abbott noticed first. He always did. He tried to check in after shifts, lingering by Robby’s car, offering dinner or a beer or just some silence on a park bench.

“You need a break,” Jack said one night, when Robby looked particularly worn down. “You look like shit.”

“I’m fine,” Robby muttered, not meeting his eyes.

Jack didn’t buy it. “You’re not. And don’t tell me this has nothing to do with her.”

Robby said nothing. Just stared ahead, jaw tight.

The others noticed too—nurses leaving snacks outside the on-call room, the new med student nervously asking if Robby was always like this. But no one said what they were all thinking: he looked like a man unraveling. A man trying to outrun something that lived in his own skin.

He barely ate. He barely slept. He didn’t talk unless he had to.

He just kept moving, like stillness might break him in half.

And the apartment? It stayed dark. Quiet. Cold. Empty.

—

“He’s not okay,” Dana said one evening as she leaned against the coffee machine in the break room, arms crossed, concern etched deep across her brow. “He’s always been a workhorse, but this... this is something else.”

“I’ve tried to talk to him,” Abbot added, toying with the serrated edge of an unopened protein bar. “He brushes it off every time. Says he’s ‘good.’ But I caught him charting the same patient twice this morning.”

Dana sighed. “You can see it all over him. It’s like he’s just... surviving. Going through the motions.”

“I’ve never seen him like this.” Abbot shook his head.

“We should do something,” Dana said gently. “Get him to go home. At least sleep. Eat something.”

Then Abbot added, softer still, “Won’t matter unless he wants to help himself.” He paused. “Maybe we should call her.”

Dana shook her head slowly. “I don’t know if she’s the answer right now. He’s got to want to come back to himself first.”

A beat of silence stretched before the soft click of a door behind them made them freeze.

Robby stood at the edge of the break room entrance, a coffee cup dangling from his fingers, shoulders drawn tight beneath his jacket. His eyes were blank, unreadable, but his knuckles were white around the handle.

“No need to whisper,” he said, voice low. “I can hear just fine.”

The tension crackled instantly.

Abbot was the first to speak. “Robby—”

“Don’t,” Robby cut in, setting the cup down a little too hard on the counter.

His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. The weight in it was enough to make them all go still.

“I know I’m not okay,” he said, looking down at the floor like he hated saying it aloud. “I know I’ve been a mess. I know she’s not coming back.” He swallowed, jaw shifting. “But I need to keep moving, because if I stop… I don’t know what’s left.”

No one said anything. Not at first.

Then Dana stepped forward, her voice gentler now. “You don’t have to stop. But you don’t have to do it alone either.”

Robby didn’t respond. He just stood there, hands in his pockets, staring at the floor like it might hold him up better than anyone else could.

—

Later that night, Jack texted you against Robby’s wishes.

Jack: Please. Just consider coming by. He’s not himself.

You: Jack, you know it might make things worse...

Jack: I know. But we’re all worried. He’s not eating. He’s barely sleeping. He needs something familiar. Someone who’s home.

You: ...Okay. But I’ll only come if you’re there to let me in. I don’t want to make it harder.

Jack: Thank you. I’ll text when he’s out cold.

You stared at your phone for a long time after that.

They’d had beers at Robby’s place that night. Jack had swung by after shift with a six-pack and takeout neither of them touched. They sat on the floor because the couch felt too formal, drinking in silence, the television flickering in the background. Robby had barely said five words.

When he finally passed out—curled on his side, still wearing his hoodie, mouth parted slightly like he hadn’t slept in days—Jack fireman-carried him to the bedroom, laid him gently on the bed, and grabbed his phone.

Hours later, a message buzzed in:

Jack: He’s asleep. Been out for almost an hour. Come now if you’re still up for it.

When you arrived at Robby’s apartment, Jack let you in quietly. The place smelled faintly of takeout and stale beer, the air still holding the weight of a long day. Jack didn’t say much—just pulled you into a tight hug, holding on for a beat longer than usual. His arms wrapped around you with the kind of quiet reassurance that said everything he couldn’t put into words. He nodded once and squeezed your shoulder before heading out, leaving you alone in the dim light.

The kitchen table was cluttered with unopened mail and a few empty takeout containers, the chairs askew like they'd been left in a hurry. A light layer of dust clung to the counter near the fridge, and a clean shirt hung over the back of a chair as if forgotten mid-morning.

The rest of the apartment told the same story—kitchen sink filled with dishes, clothes draped over the couch arm, blankets kicked into a corner, a half-full water bottle left beside the couch. It wasn’t dirty, exactly, just… untended. A space abandoned by someone barely surviving inside it. A space abandoned by someone barely surviving inside it.

So you cleaned. Quietly. Carefully. The way you used to when he had rough weeks and couldn’t lift his head, let alone fold laundry.

You weren’t sure how much of it was for him or for you. If the meditative rhythm of straightening, wiping, sorting was meant to soothe his unraveling—or to calm your own.

You wiped down the counters, sorted the mail into a neat pile, folded the blanket he always left crumpled on the couch. You didn’t do it for recognition. You did it because when he woke up, you wanted the first thing he saw to be something soft. Something familiar. Something that looked like care.

Once you were done, you slipped into the kitchen, your movements slow and deliberate. You found the familiar ingredients tucked behind newer groceries he hadn’t touched. It was muscle memory, the way your hands moved—preparing the dish Robby always asked for when he came home too late, too tired, too wired to sleep.

Soon, the scent filled the apartment, warm and grounding. You left the plate on the counter, neatly covered, the light above the stove left on.

Then you stood by the door for a moment—just breathing—before you left the same way you came.

Quiet. Careful. Hoping, maybe, when he woke up, something in him would remember the version of you that used to feel like home.

—

Months passed, and life went on. You tried to focus on yourself—on healing, on finding something steady again. You kept your head down. You worked. You saw friends. Some days even felt okay.

But no matter where you went, no matter what you did, the memory of Robby clung to you like a phantom ache. You’d be fine, and then a scent would knock the wind out of you. Or a patient would mutter something in the same cadence he used to. Or you'd catch yourself turning to text him something funny, only to remember.

One evening, you were out for dinner with your best friend at a cozy little restaurant, tucked away from the noise of downtown. The conversation was light, your laughter real. You were almost starting to feel normal again—until the TV above the bar switched to the news.

“Breaking update out of Pittsburgh tonight,” the anchor began, and your attention barely flicked upward—until you caught the words PittFest and shooting in the same sentence.

Your stomach dropped.

Your fork clattered against the plate. You didn’t even hear your friend asking what was wrong. The footage was grainy, chaotic—sirens, a shot of the emergency bay at PTMC, a flashing banner at the bottom of the screen.

Your friend reached across the table, squeezing your hand. “Hey. Hey. Look at me. Are you okay?”

You shook your head once. "Yeah," you said, your voice barely audible. "I just... I need a minute."

—

Across the city, Robby stood frozen in the middle of Trauma 2, his gloved hands still bloodstained, his pulse pounding in his ears.

The ER was silent now. Cleared. Stabilized. But the aftermath sat heavy on his shoulders—every scream, every gurney that rolled in, every second he had to pretend he was made of steel.

He leaned forward, bracing both hands against the wall just outside the bay, eyes closed. Someone handed him a bottle of water. He didn’t drink it.

It wasn’t until hours later, when the shift finally thinned out and the lights dimmed to their late-night hum, that he found a corner of the supply closet and finally let himself breathe. Not cry. Not yet. Just… sit. Just exist.

He thought of you.

He didn’t have to check the news. He’d lived it. But part of him—some deep, fractured part—wondered if you’d seen it. If you’d hear about the chaos. If you’d wonder where he was.

Or if he was okay.

His fingers tightened around the edge of the shelf behind him, jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

God, he hoped you weren’t watching. He didn’t want you to worry.

But a small part of him also hoped you thought about him—if only for a second.

—

It was spring. The cherry blossoms were in full bloom, petals littering the sidewalks, drifting through the air like soft snow. The familiar scent of roasted espresso beans and warm bread filled the air as you stepped into the café.

You ordered a caramel macchiato this time. Something sweet. Something that might help anchor you.

You didn’t see him at first.

But he saw you—walking in with sunlight in your hair, shoulders tucked against the spring breeze. You scanned the café absently, completely unaware that you’d stepped right into the same orbit again. Robby felt the moment shift, like the air had thickened, like the city outside had gone silent.

His breath caught.

And when you finally turned, looking for a table, your eyes landed on him.

Robby was sitting in the exact same seat where you’d met. Shoulders hunched forward, hands curled loosely around a coffee cup that had long gone cold. His hoodie was pushed up to the elbows—a different one, but worn in the same places, frayed slightly at the cuffs.

You could see the moment recognition hit him, like a current moving through his chest. His breath hitched. His lips parted, as if to speak, but no words came. But this time, he looked different. Brighter. Less weighed down. Like the heaviness he used to carry in his eyes had finally lightened—like something inside him had softened in your absence, not hardened. And still, there was something raw in the way he looked at you—like he’d spent months trying to forget your face only to find it right there, exactly where he’d hoped to see it again.

His fingers tightened slightly around the cup, knuckles going pale. The city outside blurred behind him in soft motion, petals drifting past the window like the whole world had slowed just for this.

And in that stillness, his expression shifted—not shock anymore, but something softer. Something braver.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The world blurred around the edges, like the city was holding its breath.

His eyes softened. Just slightly. Enough to undo you.

He gestured to the empty seat across from him. The same way he had all that time ago.

And when you sat down—heart loud in your chest, hands wrapped tight around the warmth of your drink—you noticed it: the silver ring still on his finger. A quiet, familiar weight that mirrored the one still circling your own.

He looked down at his hands as if he hadn’t realized he was still wearing it, then up at you, the corners of his mouth twitching with something that wasn’t quite a smile yet.

“Hey,” he said, his voice rough, like it hadn’t been used for anything tender in a while. “It’s been a while.”

You nodded slowly, your throat thick. “Yeah,” you said, your voice softer than you'd meant. “It has.”

Silence hovered between you—not heavy, but tentative. Like the hush before a held breath.

Then, quieter: “You look good.”

A real smile this time, just a flicker. “So do you.”

Then, after a pause, Robby glanced down and gave a soft huff of breath, like he was working up to something. “I, uh... I took Abbott up on that therapist offer. After PittFest.”

His eyes flicked back up to meet yours, searching.

“It was long overdue,” he added, quieter now. “I didn’t know how bad I’d let it get until I started saying things out loud.”

Your heart ached, caught somewhere between heartbreak and relief. To hear him say it—to know he had started to find a way through the darkness—you could feel the pressure in your chest begin to ease, just slightly.

“I’m glad you did,” you said softly, your voice trembling despite your smile. “I’m really glad.”

Robby reached across the table, fingers brushing yours with the kind of tentative hope you hadn’t felt in so long. You didn’t pull away. You laced your fingers through his, slowly, like you were relearning the shape of something familiar.

His thumb moved gently over your knuckles, and when your eyes met again, both of you were blinking back tears.

“I’m so sorry,” Robby said, voice barely above a whisper. “For everything I put you through. For shutting down. For pushing you away when all you wanted to do was pull me out.”

He looked like he might say more, but the words caught in his throat.

“I want to try again,” he continued, steadier now. “If you’ll let me. If there’s still a part of you that thinks we could get it right.”

Your breath hitched, your grip tightening gently around his hand.

“I'd like that,” you whispered, a smile curling at the edges of your lips.

There were smiles too—real ones. Small and soft and a little broken. But full of something bright.

Hope, maybe.

And just like that, something shifted—something warm and incandescent blooming quietly between you, like the first dawn breaking through after a long, hard winter.

You didn’t know what would come next. Neither of you did.

But as you looked at him across that small table—amid the swirl of petals, the smell of coffee, and the quiet echo of something old and aching—you felt it settle into your chest.

The spark. The ache. The what-ifs. The maybe.

And sometimes, that was enough to begin again.

ㅇㄴㄴㅇㅊㅅㄹ

#the pitt #the pitt hbo #the pitt x reader #the pitt fanfiction #dr. robby #michael robinavitch #dr robby x reader #michael robinavitch x reader #noah wyle #dr robby imagine #the pitt spoilers #dr. robby x reader #the pitt imagine #michael robinavitch imagine

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specialgradefckr · 20 days ago

Text

Careful What You Wish For...

...Because you just might get it.

The clone you've made of Satoru Gojo is, much unlike the original, quite taken with you. Or, more accurately, you've been taken by him. But you don't mind... right?

This work is part of a series! Read the first part here!

tw: explicit content. dubcon. drugging. yanderes all around. non-consensual cloning. non-consensual exhibitionism, voyeurism, recording.

"See, isn't this just perfect?"

You can't answer, of course, though you don't have to - it is perfect, after all. Satoru knows you very well.

Every last fold of your cunt, every pulse and throb of your clit, the exact degree he should curl his fingers to make you whimper and sob while his other arm squeezes you close and he presses nibbling kisses into your neck.

It's perfect. Everything is. You're so much happier like this.

Oh, he'd tried talking. But there wasn't anything he could say, no combination of words that would alleviate your unfounded fear that he - the actual strongest sorcerer in the world - was somehow an unwilling captive forced to accept your affection.

To fix this, he had to get to the heart of the issue. Dig his fingers deep, deep in, press hard, in long strokes -

"Hngh - nngh!"

You whine, high pitched and pitiful in a way that makes his heart clench. He just can't help it; you're so cute, so helpless, entirely at his mercy, all hazy and fucked out. Satoru kisses your cheek, rubs his thumb over your clit.

"Nnnh..!"

Makes his dick hard, too. You can feel it, can't you? So hard, just for you, just like you trained him. Just like you wanted. Grinding into your ass. Even incoherent, blinded by overstimulation and drugged into docility, you know him.

Satoru can see it all. Your nervous system all lit up, flickering like a dying neon sign. Reward centers glowing like embers as he strokes your poor, tender bud.

There it was - the heart of the issue. Your big beautiful brain; overworked and overwhelmed.

You think too much. Satoru can fix that. And he will - since he's so nice. Since he loves you.

And of course, how could you continue to suspect that he's your captive, if he's the one who takes you captive?

It's poetic, really, when he thinks about it. He really is good at everything. You'll know his love when you see it, because you'll recognize it. The shape of your love, returned to you.

"Ahhh... aughh... hng~"

It's so easy to wrench another orgasm out of you. Your cunt is slick, pliant, so perfectly sized to his long fingers that reach on, press on just the right slot, all while rubbing circles over your clit.

With fascination he watches. Neurons firing off as the pleasure shoots through you, the pure dopamine flooding through your cute little head in the aftermath.

Astonishing. It's like every single thing you do makes him like you more. You're pretty when you cum, pretty when you're pleased, when you're exhausted. Just one look at you and he's hard again, or burning with the urge to snuggle, or spilling with love confessions he know you won't believe.

He can see every single brain cell firing off in your head but he never gets tired of guessing what's on your mind. In fact, it just makes him more curious.

If he didn't know for certain he was a clone - that another Satoru Gojo walked the earth, and had done so for decades - Satoru would truly, genuinely believe that he had been custom-made for you.

"Hey," He nudges your shoulder, tipping your face up to look him in the eyes.

Glassy, dreamy, there's only the barest stirring of recognition in your gaze, but that's okay. He can work with that.

"Who loves you most in the whole wide world? Hm?" Satoru purrs, cupping your cheek with one hand.

Your head presses into his hand, like you don't even have the strength to hold it up.

So weak - so adorable. Something hot and thrilling churns in his chest at the thought; like you're weak, something that needs protecting. Needs him.

"Who?" He urges, nuzzling his face close to yours. "Who loves you most? Tell me, baby, and you'll get a reward~"

"Ah... hhhn..." Oh, poor, pretty thing. Not a thought going on in your head.

"It's me!" He says, laughing, kissing you on the mouth. Tasting you with a flick of his tongue over your limp one. Pulling away, licking his lips. "It's Satoru. Can you say that for me? Sa~to~ru~"

"S-sato..." Slumping forward, you nearly fall, but Satoru's arm is ready to pull you back against him.

"Baby..." He kisses up against your cheek, "Come on, you can do better than that. Wake up for me, okay? Don't you wanna come out and talk?"

A hand reaches up, over your brow, stroking gently. Tenderly.

"Tell me who," He breathes, hooking his head over your shoulder with a sigh, "Tell me who loves you most in the world, baby... you've got to practice this..."

"Satoru... How did you...?" Your eyes blink, slow and bleary, dilating until they focus on him - where they should be.

"There you go," Satoru crows, though you probably don't remember his question.

With a gentle hand caressing your hair and an even softer smile, he kneels at your bedside. Give you a view of his pretty face you like to stare at so much.

See, he's generous. Nicer than you'd been. But that's okay - he likes being nice to you. He likes you.

Even if it was going to take a hundred years to get that through your poor, neurotic, anxious little brain; he'd enjoy every second of it.

"How...?" You murmur, eyes focusing onto him.

That's his darling. Always overthinking. But he did a good job - it's okay to brag a big, right?

"The biometric locks were sealed with your eyes," Satoru says, grinning widely, "So that's what I used."

His fingers trace over your temple. Thumb feathering past your eyelid, your fluttering lashes.

A nail digs into the skin at the edge of your eye. Pressing hard, harder, enough to draw blood. Your eyes widen - he can see the alarm bells ringing.

"Don't worry," He laughs, pulling his hand back, licking the blood off. Your gaze is heavy on him, locked in. Like it should be.

Satoru leans in close, kissing at the cut on your temple. Licking over it. There's heat there, and something else; he relishes how your body tenses in confusion at it.

He pulls away, lips stained red, and swipes his fingers over your temple once again. Pulls them away to show them to you - unbloodied.

"Reverse curse technique," He half-crows, licking his lips while he stares down at you.

The shock is naked on your face. Really? It's that surprising?

"I've got to say, I'm a little offended," He lurches forward, leaning over you. Crossing his arms and resting his head on them, "Don't tell me you thought I was like that loser. I can use it on myself as well as others. It's really not that hard, he just sucks."

"I - you took out my eyes?" Your whole form stiffens up, heart lurching, "While I slept?! How did I not wake up?"

Ohhhhhh, that's what it was.

With a laugh, he pulls out another hand, "That one's actually really easy when I can see your central nervous system. Here - "

"You can see-"

A finger taps, gently, in the center of your forehead, and your words stop in their tracks. You stare forward, almost puzzled for a second, and then your eyes roll back as you slump over, asleep.

"Night~" Satoru says, crooning your name as he kisses over your forehead, smoothing your hair back.

Gently, he sets you down on the bed, settling you carefully into place while he lies next to you, holding you against his chest.

His smile is brilliant as he snaps the picture.

Of course, the whole area where you were was covered in cameras, too, but who didn't love a good selfie? Satoru knows someone who'd like it.

He gets why you have the setup. Really, it's perfect - he can watch you all day if he wants to. You're always asleep when he's not there, though - it would be downright cruel otherwise. Why have you awake only to leave you all by yourself?

It'd ruin all your progress, if you've even made any yet. Poor thing. It hurts his heart just to think of how you'd feel, lonely and abandoned like that.

Thought, he has to admit, it would be ever so lovely to come home to you after that. But it remains just that, a daydream, something to amuse himself with as he watches you on the camera feed.

A little sigh escapes him. Lovestruck. He can't help it, really, you're just that cute.

And up here in this lab, he really does have all the angles.

Not just of what he's done with you, but also what you've been doing him, since his very earliest memories.

All his training sessions, the fun ones, and the agonizing ones. Your punishments, your rewards. Every moment of fun or affection together.

Mostly, though, he's compiling the training.

Little vignettes of how you'd stuck that cock ring on him, left him home alone to moan and squirm and cry, unable to get over the edge. How you'd cooed at him, whispered in his ear, forced him to confess his love and devotion for you when you finally allowed him release -

Ahhh. Fond memories. And how can he forget you showing him how to eat you out? That was a fun one, too, not really laced with pain, just your playful hand tugging in his hair, a tweak against his nipples, or a foot on his dick.

God, he wants you to step on his dick again. It felt so fucking good having you grind into it, with force, he'd burned with desire and heat and the overwhelming need to explode all over you.

Other times, too, where you'd showed him how to enjoy any touch on his cock. It all felt good, coming from you; your hands, your foot, your tits, your cunt.

One time you'd made him cum just from tweaking his nipples - that was such a treat. Took you days of edging him to tears, begging for release, but you were right in the end; he could do it.

Satoru could do anything if it was for you.

He's too impatient, too horny to try to cum like that again, not when he can just stick his cock inside your sweet, welcoming cunt at will. But he remembers the lesson.

Right now, it's you who needs training. And he puts that together, too. Some of the best pieces are there!

How you're limp in his arms as he makes you ride him, bouncing you up and down on his cock while you ragdoll against his shoulder, panting and whimpering and clinging to him weakly for dear life.

Another time where he has you in his lap again, but this time facing away from him. How his long fingers press down on your tongue and you drool on it, suckling mindlessly while he creams your cute little cunt.

What better way to teach you how much he wants you than showing you over and over again how hard you make him? Not very creative, he'll admit, but he's got time. He can think of more ideas.

Other than that, he's here to watch over the "original". See if there are any tricks left.

It was confusing for a bit, watching him. He figured out all the limitless techniques easily enough - those were fine - but it took a while to learn how to use reverse cursed energy. And a bit longer to use it on someone else.

You'd gotten a bruise from walking into something while climbing out of bed. Satoru would have pulled you away - but you'd had him all tied up for some punishment or another.

Just goes to show, you didn't know what was best for you. Your anxiety was hurting you. Stopping him from protecting you.

It felt like such a relief when he finally was able to heal you up. Finally, he had mastered all the techniques of the original - he could stand as his equal.

Except, Satoru Gojo - Gojo, rather - can't perform reverse curse technique on other people. He teaches first years, the most vulnerable students, often by tossing them directly into danger to fight on their own... and he can't heal other people?

And then he'd watched more and more, waiting to see what was so good about this guy. What he had that made you fall in love to begin with.

Snarky humor? Maybe, but Satoru's just as funny (if not more). Insulting attitude? That would just make your insecurity worse. Looks? They're great and all, but they're identical. Confidence?

Well, if it was his confidence that had roped you in, Satoru's got heaps of that as well.

It's crazy, how hard he's searched this loser's life for a single redeeming moment or feature.

No hobbies. No friends, really. No girlfriends for sure. Satoru kind of suspects he doesn't have regular sex - or worse... he couldn't be a virgin, right?

Satoru hasn't seen Gojo satisfy a single woman (or man) since he started watching, but maybe his personality was just that repulsive, despite having the world's most perfect body?

Honestly, he's drawing a real blank here. Why doesn't this guy do anything but work? Satoru puts together that the dude is killing curses (which can't be captured on video) but like... so what?

He's got money. He's got looks. He's got confidence. Why is he alone all the time? Is it really just because he's afraid someone will get hurt and he can't heal them?

What an absolute chump. Just learn how to do it. How can he suck this badly? Is he stupid?

It haunts his mind. Satoru wonders if maybe Gojo is just so genuinely unlikeable that he's never had a friend before and doesn't know what human companionship is like.

Can't miss what you've never had, right? That would make sense. It's really the only explanation for turning down someone like you.

That's what plants the idea, he thinks. Or so he tells himself.

But deep down, he knows it's just about his ego. The stinging thought that no matter how you loved Satoru now, you'd loved Gojo first.

It's okay, though. You have Gojo's number on your phone -

And Satoru know just what to send him.

Gojo had to admit - you were determined.

What you were determined to do by sending him all these videos and pictures of yourself with the admittedly convincing doppelganger (if it hadn't been straight video editing magic), he wasn't sure, but you were determined.

"Oh, happy for you babe. But keep it between you and him next time, yeah? Little creepy of you to share all this with some stranger."

No response. Just more videos.

"Listen, I don't care about your sex life. This is getting kinda cringey and desperate. He's not even that good-looking."

The guy in the videos is eerily good-looking, actually. The closer he looks, the more it... it really does look like him.

And like the freak you are, you call the guy his name. Satoru.

"Seriously, stop it or I'm blocking you."

It doesn't stop. It never stops. If anything, it gets more risqué. More... obscene.

The double of him in the videos gets more desperate. More clingy. Begging on his hands and knees, clawing at your thighs, crying in your lap for a taste of your cunt.

"What's wrong with you? Fucking freak. How funny would you find it if I were sending you this kind of shit? Lay off."

The voice sounds like him too, but he's never said those words. Certainly not with your name attached to them. I love you, I love you, you're my whole world, my everything, I swear, I love you, it's like a chorus.

"This is so obviously desperate and staged. I feel sorry for you. Not enough for the pity fuck you're hoping for, though, so fuck off."

It's so like him it's starting to get really fucking creepy. They say everyone has a person who looks exactly like them but this is just too much.

Gojo knows you watch him, spy on him, you even stole some of his things back in the day - you'd sent an apology text and he hadn't heard from you since. Though he could still tell you were watching, it wasn't all the time.

But where would you get footage to edit something like this together? You couldn't possibly be this good.

What was this? What the fuck did you want?

And then - he sees it.

It's not obvious. Only in a scene later on. He can only tell by watching, re-watching carefully. Even with the six eyes, on video it's hard to see.

A bruise. On your upper thigh. Barely there anymore, but he sees it.

And then. The double, your hired whore or whoever he is, kissing up your leg, mouth watering for your cunt -

After he passes over the bruise, it's gone. Completely. Like it was never there.

Like it was healed.

Except, you're not a sorcerer. You could see curses - even had some cursed energy - but you have no curse technique. No way could you pull off reverse curse technique.

And as time goes on he starts to notice other things.

At first, he didn't block you because he was curious. It looked like him in the thumbnail, after all. You were basically sending him your homemade porn, it was only polite to take a look!

Plus, maybe you were having some kind of episode or something. It could be a cry for help!

If he jerked off to one or two of them... or more... if he got hard seeing his own face painted in desperation, laving over your cunt, red-eyed and teary as hands tug in his hair... if he bought a cock ring for himself and stroked along to the body double's agony, edging until he gets to the part where you come home and let him open...

If he gets hard every time he sees you've texted him a new video, it was just porn.

It's not his fault, either. He told you to stop, and you didn't! In fact, you never responded to any of his texts. Didn't pick up any of his calls.

His calls. He called you. With video, even!

Sure, you ghosted him after the rejection until now, but this was crazy behavior. You were absolutely crazy for him, you literally stalked him for months, and this was him calling you!

Something is off. Gojo works around sorcerers - around crazy people. He knows crazy, and that's what you are, deep down to the core.

Researching him, watching him, looking up everything around him, leaving absolutely no stone unturned in the pursuit of his affections. Honestly it was kinda flattering! Creepy, but flattering.

Point is, you were crazy. fucking crazy. And even if you were completely over him (which, come on, how could you be?), why would you reach out again like this?

Why make such an obvious, desperate bid for his attention and then not accept it when he deigns to give it to you?

And when it came to the videos, they've started to get kind of... worrying.

In the earlier ones, it was obvious you hired some male hooker to dress up as him and boss around. Generic, but hot. Very femdom. He could respect it. Get off to it, even.

The hooker, or escort, or whoever he is - he's convincing. Too convincing. He's obviously happy to be there, even though you seem all to willing to slap him around, chew him up and spit him out, step on his -

Anyways, the point is. The escort had been a willing participant from the start. But you're starting to look... less so.

At first he thought you were just drunk, or high on something. And yeah, it was hot. Seeing you limp and boneless and making low, little noises as his perfect copy folds you over, manipulates you like a doll.

There's an appeal to it, he'll admit. You're smaller than him - the double has a similar frame, all broad, terribly tall, long, muscled limbs that bend you in half and bounce you on his dick like a living fleshlight.

Then the way you cum - you're so unguarded, so open. Face flushed, panting open-mouthed, twitching in the aftershocks as your lover holds you close. Drooling freely over his fingers, his cock.

It's hard not to wonder what it feels like. Being there. Inside you.

You weren't his type before, but he's touched himself so many times to you - and 'him'. You scolding him, punishing him, teaching him.

He's watched you force him to eat you out for hours, and thank you for it. And god if it didn't make him hard.

Gojo can admit, he's a little jealous of the double. What an easy life he has; jerking off with his cock stuck in a ring, waiting for hours for you to come back.

To some people that might sound like agony. To him, it sounds like something to do to himself during missions to make them more fun.

Rile himself up, stick the ring on, fight and kill while he's hard until he can get home and watch, listen, to you coming back and cooing at him before you grant him sweet release.

Suddenly, you're not just hot. You're erotic. Instantly arousing. The sight of you makes him hard and seeing you like this? Undone? Weak and pitiful and clinging to him - god, fuck. It does something to him.

And then there's the way the double looks up into the camera. His eyes are - fuck, they look a lot like his. Could it be some kind of visual effect? He can't tell over a video.

But as they keep coming, Gojo can just tell. There's malice in there. Pure disdain and loathing. The double touches

...and the he puts together something he should have known since the beginning.

Why weren't you answering him? Why did you keep sending these videos? Why did you call that man "Satoru"?

It all falls into place instantly. How did he not realize sooner? There's only one thing that would prevent you from picking up his calls. A freak like you would never willingly pass up on his attention, but if -

For the first time in years, Satoru Gojo makes a call and tells the Higher Ups he'll be out for the next couple days.

He has to get to you.

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