#he's still got the bunk bed in there

[goddessofroyalty]

How is Ximena's relationship with the Zaun Family?? (Yes, im including Ekko too ❤)

I've rambled about Ximena's relationship with Vander and Silco previously:

Silco's thoughts on her

More details about how she met them specifically

For most of them she's the second favorite in-law (after Benzo). Except for Silco where she is the favorite in-law (look they'd all have to be like Cassandra for him to let Benzo have the top spot this is about being petty).

She gets along best with Vander, because I think in a lot of ways he reminds her of her husband (who was a blacksmith and Vander is typically on his best behavior when around her) and so she knows how to approach him. The others she's a bit more unsure about but she doesn't look down her nose at them and is trying to be polite. You can just see it on her face that she has no idea what this kid is very excitedly explaining to her as she nods and goes along with it. But she raised Jayce who was also a bundle of excitement and things she doesn't understand so you know this doesn't feel unusual to her.

I guess a very standard in-law relationship. They're not buddy-buddy but they'll have lunch together if they run into each other in the street or they're all at a Piltover Social Event that didn't include food. She knows all of Viktor's younger siblings names and can recognize them at a distance but sometimes will get their interests mixed up.

[doodle17]

i wanna hear more ab your raz age up (mostly so I can draw ours together sffbgnv)

Ohgh I'm always willing to talk about him more I've been thinking so much about him recently, especially with how he reacts when he comes to the realization that being a Psychonaut is a lot more paper work than he would have expected it to be.

After being in the field for roughly 18+ years the awe and wonder of being a Psychonaut has eventually lost its charm. He still wouldn't be any other place though, since it is, in fact, his dream job still (to some extent) and he feels like after being there for so long he's stuck with it. He's always so buried in paperwork, always trying to sort it out in his dorm room (which at this point has become a den full of mountains made of files and inevitable papercuts)

Sure once he finally gets a mission to go on he can actually stretch his legs and do something somewhat entertaining, but even the mission work has gotten repetitive. Like, yeah alright we get it you want to take over the world, can you just skip to the part where you tell us where the bomb is please.

The downright repetition of it all has taken a toll on his childlike sense of adventure, and all the little things keep getting more and more mildly annoying by the day. When he was around 22 he decided to go to college in an attempt to break away from it for just a little bit, and that's where he and Chloe became acquainted.

Because of the predictability of it all, he's become quite fluent in snark and sarcasm, and while he still upholds the professional demeanor and performance he's always had since he was younger, he also tends to act quite nonchalant in what would be quite dire situations to most regular people. Usually shrugging off or rolling his eyes to all the empty threats the villains tend make. He's a younger sibling as well, so of course he knows a thing or two about how to push buttons and get into mischief and get away with it. While hes not as much of a wild card as Bobby or Lili, he tries to use these skills to his advantage to try and bring back some kind of thrill into his work.

All in all, he's tired. He still manages to have fun, but he's tired. Unless he can find a good case or mystery to keep him occupied for a while, he'll be sitting in his dorm sifting through paperwork while going through a pack of cigarettes. The boredom man... It wasn't until he started his counselor job at Whispering Rock that things started to get a little more interesting

[cinnamongrl2006]

Simon Riley is a loverboy warnings: established relationship, mentions of pornography, very fluffy Simon Riley blurb

He loved you, that much was obvious. Your initials were carved onto the handles of his guns— messy handwriting, all passion and longing— and a wrinkled polaroid of you accompanied him everywhere he went. He'd stick it to the wall beside wherever he slept, stick it to the ceiling if he got to sleep in a bunk bed (one of those with the loose springs that shriek at every movement, that poked into his back and made him miss your touch more than ever).

Johnny had asked him about it one day, half mocking Simon, he was just in disbelief that their closed off lieutenant had found someone, and reasonably so. It was late at night, they'd been sitting still for hours, the target had yet to exit the building they were watching— Price had told them to wait.

So, he tried to make small talk, gossip a little. He said he'd seen that old polaroid in his quarters, seen it get tucked away in his pocket, tacked to walls and ceilings. He'd seen Simon hold it in his hands when he sat in bed— his breathing leveled, face hidden by his mask, mumbling something under his breath before he laid down to sleep. He'd made some stupid comment like what porno she sneak out of?, a comment that would usually earn him a chuckle and a tap on the arm, but that this time earned him a slap to the back of his head and a grumble.

"Respect my bird, Soap." He'd said, deep voice coated in annoyance, almost venomous.

It was obvious he loved you when, you came to pick him up after he got back from being deployed. Obvious in the way his gloved hands immediately found yours, in the way a weight seemed to lift off your shoulders; in the way his gaze, concealed with a balaclava, was so soft, so loving.

They all heard it in his voice, sweet, almost saccharine; saw it in the way you'd touch him, and he'd let you. You could poke his side after making a joke, and he wouldn't flinch, wouldn't bend your arm back or slap it away; he'd laugh, he'd hold your wrist in his big, calloused hand and laugh lightheartedly.

Soap and Gaz watched, enthralled, as you completely took over Simon's personal space, your hands moving up and under his t-shirt, your face settling in the crook of his neck as you held him close, squeezing him tight "to make up for lost time". They watched as Simon grunted out complaining, but lifted up the lower section of his balaclava and kissed your forehead, then your lips.

Ghost was their closed off lieutenant, but Simon Riley was completely wrapped around your little finger, and he loved every second of it.

────୨ৎ────

tags:@laceyfaeryy @cherrycolaheartss

[yanderedrabbles]

Yandere Prison Warden

After getting thrown into jail for a crime you refuse to talk about, one of the wardens takes a keen interest in your past. Tags: Male Yandere x Fem Reader, blood, violence, mentions of child abuse, lowkey kind of sweet, 10k words

Being in jail is no fun. Being in a maximum security prison after being found guilty of homicide? Somehow even less fun.

You've tried to make the best of it. Got some posters to put up in your cell, started a book club, took up macramé. But you can't really paint a veneer of normalcy over incarceration.

It's violent, it's dirty, and most inmates tend to avoid you. And the thought of at least thirty more years of the same routine, day in and day out? Well, that's plain depressing.

Still, some days are worse than others. Today seemed like it was going to be a good day. The cafeteria food was actually hot, an acquaintance shared some gum with you, you managed to get a new book from the library. Things were, if not great, at least bearable.

Until the tour.

The wardens - also called Corrections Officers, COs, screws, or rotten, motherless bastards - were almost always training new recruits. The prison system had an unsurprisingly high turnover, which meant an almost constant stream of new faces. With time, you'd learnt to ignore the tours and walk-throughs. With one exception.

Slammer.

He was a senior CO who seemed to almost always turn your cell into the final stop on his grand introductory tour of the glorious prison system. Maybe you were just nice to look at or maybe he had a chip on his shoulder. Either way, things almost always ended with you being gawked at.

Like right now.

The 'tour group' was clustered outside your cell. Slammer was in the lead, his baton out and his little piggy eyes gleaming.

The trainees were in their new minted uniforms. Most of them uncomfortable and tugging at the scratchy, starched collars. You could have told them not to bother. That it was better for them to at least pretend they were comfortable. COs weren't your friends - every single prisoner in here would see that lack of confidence, that slight sense of unease. And they would pounce on it the first chance they got.

You hated being looked at like a zoo animal. And you especially hated the way Slammer showed you off to them like you some prize piece in his menagerie. Fellonus Homicidus perhaps.

You hated feeling their eyes on you. But you weren't going to make the mistake of showing them that. The less the COs knew about you, the better. It was like rule number three of incarceration. (Rule one being ‘never trust a warden’ and rule two being ‘don't fight the jacked inmate with prison tattoos.' Obviously).

You didn't bother to get up from your bunk to greet them. You stayed just as you had all afternoon - one arm behind your head and one leg hanging off the bed.

You pretended to keep reading your beat up paperback.

"This one is especially dangerous. Stabbed her neighbour forty eight times before the cops could get her off," Slammer told them.

"Forty six," you corrected without looking away from your book. "Coroner said it was forty six. Allegedly."

You could feel their eyes on you again.

"Right," Slammer drawled, "Because those last two stabs made all the difference."

You didn't bother to answer him.

"She really did that?" One of the trainees, a lanky guy with too large ears, asked. "She looks harmless."

You were almost offended at that. You flicked your eyes over them. They were mostly men, and most of them were looking at you in that hungry, contemplative way you knew so well. Wondering how much they could get away with once they were full fledged COs.

It should have bothered you. It didn't. Horny COs were just a part and parcel of life here. If you were smart, you could wring all sorts of goodies out of them before their supervisors caught on.

"Listen to me son. Every single prisoner in here is dangerous. They wouldn't be locked up if they were like you and me. They don’t feel guilt, not even when they steal from their poor old momma."

"You wound me, Slammer." You turned the page with a flick of your thumb. "I loved my mama. Only stole from her once or twice."

You didn't have much hope of them noticing your sarcasm. COs weren't the brightest bunch.

Slammer ignored you. "Don't ever say they're harmless. They sure as hell ain't. Two weeks here and you'll know exactly what I mean."

You could tell they didn't believe him. In the popular imagination, a women's prison was nothing like the men's. Women weren't dangerous. The trainees probably assumed you spent all day knitting scarves and talking about the lovely husband and kids you were oh so keen to get back to.

They would lose that notion pretty damn fast.

"Are you supposed to tell us the prisoners' charges?" A man's voice, neutral and respectful, but you thought you could hear a hint of reproach in his tone.

You looked back at the group and you were amazed that you didn't notice him earlier. He stood perfectly still, hands clasped behind his back like he was at parade rest. Unlike the others, he had the quiet confidence of someone who knew their job and knew it well.

His blond hair was slicked back and his uniform sat on him in a way that was a lot more natural than any of the others trainees. Ex-military or police, if you had to guess. Not that unusual. Corrections wasn't such a huge leap from those fields.

You sat up and answered him before Slammer could get a chance.

"He's not. Inmate information is confidential. But Slammer here doesn't always listen to the rules."

You shot the head CO a condescending smile. "He's a reaaal rebel."

Slammer scoffed. "The new officers have a right to know exactly how dangerous you are."

You put a hand to your chest, all faux innocence. "Little old me? Slammer, I'm a saint! A nun! I've been to chapel three times this week."

"Yeah. To sell cigarettes and buy booze."

"Just as the good Lord intended."

Slammer didn't find you funny. You could tell from the fact that a) he wasn't laughing and b) he was grinding his teeth like he was a beaver about to dig into a particularly scrumptious tree.

"Fact is, prisoners like her are the worst of the bunch. You think they're harmless, but the second you turn your back, they'll shiv you and run off with your tazer."

You grinned at the trainees as winningly as you could.

"Only did that once by the way. And the guy had it coming, swear on my mama."

Most of them were shifting around uncomfortably. Hearing Slammer keep banging on about your crimes was finally enough to get it through to them. The prisoners are not nice.

You'd assume that was obvious, but incarceration taught you that however slow you thought the wardens were, they could always get dumber.

The only one who didn't seem bothered was the blonde. He was looking at you like you were nothing more or less than a piece of furniture. You got the sense that he was analysing you, looking past your fake smile and even faker bravado.

You also got the feeling that he wasn't impressed with what he saw.

You flopped back down on your bunk and tried not to let it bother you. One more person thinking you were a delinquent. What difference did it make?

He was the last to leave. His eyes did one final scan of your cell before they landed on your paperback. He raised a brow.

"The Green Mile? Isn't that a bit depressing?"

You shrugged, uncomfortable but not entirely sure why.

"I like to think of it as aspirational."

"And why's that?"

"The wardens aren't all assholes."

That earned you a flicker of a smile before he turned on his heel and disappeared.

You forgot all about him after a week. To be fair, there were other things to occupy you. A fist fight on D Block that you somehow got dragged into. Drama in the book club. A warden getting caught with his pants down. Standard prison fare.

It was a Tuesday when you saw him again, in the middle of the cafeteria. You only had a split second to recognise him before he was dousing you in pepper spray and sweeping your legs out from under you.

That was misleading maybe. He wasn't totally unjustified in greeting you like that. You were technically in the middle of beating a CO with a lunch tray.

(He deserved it, but that's not exactly a good excuse when his nose is gushing blood all over the table).

You were still coughing on pepper spray when he hauled you to solitary, your eyes and throat burning.

"Glad...to see you got...the job Blondie," you managed to wheeze.

He sent you stumbling into the cell with a practiced push.

"Yep," he said simply, "They hired me on the spot."

Your shoulder was still a painful mess when he slammed and locked the door, leaving you in the half dark to wash the stinging out of your eyes.

You rubbed at your aching joints. "I can see why."

Pepper spray was considered the least lethal way to subdue a prisoner. Easier than a taser, less brutal than the baton. But despite its shining reputation, it was your least favourite tool in a CO’s belt. A taser was at least quick. The baton left a bruise but the pain didn't linger.

Pepper spray on the other hand? It left your eyes and throat and nose irritated for days.

You were still trying to rinse it out of your mouth when he returned, boots heavy on the linoleum and his keys rattling.

You turned to him with your white prison issued tank practically soaked. To most other guards, that would be an invitation to gawk. Not him though. His eyes never dipped below your chin.

"Sit down. I've got some cold cloths for the swelling."

You sat, more confused than anything else.

"That's not standard regulation Blondie. Usually, they just let us suffer through it."

He tossed you the cloths, still icy from a quick minute in the freezer. You pressed them to your face gratefully.

"It is standard regulation. Treating pepper spray once the prisoner is subdued."

You scoffed. "Why am I not surprised that no one ever told us that?"

He stayed quiet and you peaked at him over the edge of the fabric. He was a lot leaner than you realised, his sleeves rolled to his elbows, his forearms toned with muscle.

And covered in tattoos. Damn, he had some sick tats.

You cleared your throat, not exactly sure why he bothered to do this for you.

"Thank you. It sucks to deal with. Makes everything taste awful. For days."

He raised a brow.

"I just dragged you to solitary and your main worry is that the food won't taste good?"

"The food never tastes good. This is more so a matter of bloody awful becoming hellish awful."

"It can't be that bad."

"Get back to me after you've spent five years chomping down on lukewarm hash browns and soggy peas."

"You've been in here five years already?"

You sighed, pressed the cloth against your brows so you didn't have to look at him.

"Yep. And I've still got another thirty to go."

"Why?"

That got an unexpected laugh from you.

"Didn't you hear Slammer? Homicide. Found guilty on all charges."

"Did you do it?"

"Allegedly."

What was his angle? Was this some new, interactive approach to corrections? Getting friendly with the inmates so they were less likely to riot?

"Didn't they teach you not to ask those sorts of questions?" you asked. "Not really something people in here like to talk about."

You saw that little flicker of a smile again.

"They did. But I get the feeling you don't mind it as much."

He was right. You didn't mind. At least, not with him. He had a kind of quiet confidence that, surprisingly, made you feel comfortable.

"Why did you want to work in a prison? Or more accurately, what the hell went wrong that you ended up here?"

"You think it's such a bad job?"

"I'd never do it and I live here."

He leaned against the cell wall, hands on his belt. There it was again. A veteran's stance, weapons in easy reach in case you tried something.

"It's a boring story."

"I've got nothing but time."

That earned you another raised brow.

"As we've established."

What's this? A CO actually cracking a joke? You never thought you'd see the day.

"And anyway, we're not here to talk about me. I'm here to find out why you attacked my fellow officer."

Ah, so that was why he was playing nice.

"I didn't like his face."

He narrowed his eyes and pushed himself off the wall. "Disappointing. I thought you'd have a better reason than that."

You didn't like his tone, or the way it made you feel. Ashamed. Like you'd failed his test, even though you didn't know you were supposed to be studying.

He paused at the door, like something occurred to him.

"What's her name? The girl he was picking on?”

You raised you head. "What?"

"The guard you attacked. He was causing trouble, wasn't he?"

How did he know? Did he see it? Oh God, was Ruby going to get into shit because of you?

"Listen, she had nothing to do with it. She had no idea what I was going to do. It was all me."

He shrugged. "How am I supposed to believe that's true if I don't know the full story?"

You bit your lip. You didn't like saying too much to the COs. And your instinct was telling you this one would be able to read a lot deeper than the rest.

"Guess I'll just have to ask her then."

"No!" You dug your hands into your sheets to stop yourself from bolting to your feet.

"No, Ruby has nothing to do with it I swear. She’s almost sixty. She gets enough shit as it is. Just leave her alone."

You swallowed. "Please."

He was looking at you again, much sharper this time.

"Explain."

Your grip on the sheets tightened until your knuckles were pale. Did you really have to talk about this shit out loud?

"Ruby is..." you started. "She's different. Older than most of us, keeps to herself. She's not...all there, if you know what I mean."

He turned to face you and settled back against the wall. "Go on."

"Most of the inmates don't bother her. Why would we? She's just a little old lady. Not harmless, no ones really harmless, but about as close to it as you can get. But some of the COs..."

His lips thinned. "They have a nasty streak."

"You can call it that. Usually it's just calling her names. But sometimes some of them get it into their heads that what she really needs is a hard knock. Rattle those screws around enough and maybe they'll fall back into place."

"Is that what happened today?"

You sighed, looked down at your hands and the blood dried in the crevices of your nails.

"Yep. CO was all in her face, being nasty. Grabbing her wrist. Taunting her. And she... she just stood there and took it. Old enough to be the his grandmother and he didn't care."

You closed your eyes.

 What else were you supposed to do?

He'd been at it for five minutes when you stood up with your lunch tray. By then you'd had enough. No one else was going to do anything, so it was going to be you.

The lunch trays were a hard plastic, meant to keep from breaking on impact. You'd left your half eaten bowl of chow on the table and walked up behind him, your heart beating steady and calm. Some part of you had already decided the consequences were worth it.

Some of the inmates were looking at you and every single one of them knew exactly what you intended. But none of 'em said a word.

You could still feel the smack of your tray against his head. The way he stumbled forward with the momentum.

You'd caught him by surprise and you weren't going to let him get over it. You swung the tray at his face, as hard as you could. You could feel his nose breaking. He was on his knees by then. And maybe you'd have let him up, might have ended things there.

But then you saw Ruby's wrist. A frail thing, with the warden's finger marks standing out a livid red.

"I see."

You opened your eyes. He was still watching you, his face unreadable.

You shrugged and tried to smile.

"Today was practically hum drum by our normal standards."

"How exciting," he deadpanned.

"Just wait 'til Christmas time. It gets positively festive."

He snorted and started for the door again.

"You're aren't such a hard ass after all, are you? Saving little old ladies in your spare time," he said.

"Just think how safe senior citizens will be when they let me back out."

It was only for a few seconds, but you liked it when he smiled. It softened that tough guy demeanour just enough to make you wonder about the man underneath.

When he was gone, you laid down with the cloth still pressed against your cheek. Who'd have thought it. A CO who you didn't want to punch in the teeth.

The CO you beat didn't come back to work for two weeks, and when he did, you heard that he asked for a transfer to a different block.

Ruby made you a macaroni necklace and said something about alien warships picking you out of everyone else. You figured that was her way of saying thank you.  

And maybe the most notable thing of all: Blondie was assigned to your cell block. Surprising. Yours wasn't the worst part of the prison, but you weren't a bunch of saints either. Rookies wouldn't even be considered until they'd had at least a year's experience.

It was yet another thing pointing to his past. Something, somewhere, had given him enough experience to slip ahead on the promotion queue.

You didn't much mind it. Hell, you'd almost say it was enjoyable. He wasn't rude, he didn't pick favourites and he was keen eyed enough to catch a lot of the under table business that inmates engaged in.

You didn't go out of your way to talk to him - getting too cosy with a CO wasn't a good look - but you made it a point to greet him whenever you could.

Well, you called it greeting. Most other folk saw it as a smirk and a sing song "Hey there Blondie!"

He must have had some sort of interest in you too. You'd look up from your lunch and see him watching you, head tilted just a little. Like he was trying to puzzle you out. You took to winking at him whenever you caught him.

It would usually be enough to make him look away, but never for long. His eyes would always find you again.

You should have been annoyed at it, or unnerved. But honestly, the way he looked at you was borderline sweet compared to the other COs. You'd occasionally catch some of them watching you too. Usually with their hands on their belts.

There wasn't much to do in prison besides read, sleep and exercise. But around the third week after his arrival, you started getting letters.

Not totally uncommon. Plenty of folk wrote to prisoners. But to you? That was a different story. You put the letters you received into two categories: perverts and the pervertedly curious.

The perverts were exactly what you'd expect. People who thought your mugshot was the hottest thing since Megan Fox taking a swim. Their letters were particularly uncomfortable to read. And often sticky. You never wrote back.

The pervertedly curious were a whole ‘nother class. They probably ran across your case on a true crime podcast or on a documentary. And their first thought at hearing the story was to wonder exactly what it felt like. They'd write and ask you what was going through your mind. What did the knife feel like sinking into his flesh? What did the blood smell like?

A fun bunch of freaks. You'd write back sometimes, more for your own amusement than anything else. Your answers were never even remotely true. I was mostly thinking about how late my taxes were and what a bastard it would be clean up. Stabbing him felt like cutting a steak except more scream-y. The blood smelt like a stack of pennies on a warm summer day, but mostly it just smelt like blood.

You'd always end your sentences with your trademark allegedly.

These new letters were nothing like those at all. The paper was crisp and clean and most importantly, not sticky. The folded lines were sharp, like the writer pressed them down with their thumb nail.

The writer didn't ask about the murder. They didn't ask about your bra size. They were almost...sweet.

You must be lonely in prison. You must get bored. I hope you're safe.

You read it again and again before you wrote a reply. Silly really. They seemed much too nice to be writing to someone like you. Maybe someone trying to do a good deed.

You should scare them off. Writing to a prisoner is sweet and all, but most folk in here would use it as just another way to wring someone dry. You were no different. Your anonymous pen pal would be better off working at the animal shelter if they wanted to help a stray.

I've got a whole host of buddies. We discuss the best ways to get blood out of our socks and pillow cases. I'm not bored at all. We've got a badminton league. Obviously the best way to spend federal cash. I'm as safe as a lamb in the hay. Only got stabbed twice last week.

There. That would get rid of them.

You mailed it out on cheap exam pad paper with a stamp you lifted off your neighbour. You didn't expect a reply.

When the mail got delivered the next week, you were more than a little surprised to find a new letter waiting for you.

The same crisp paper, the same neat, slanting hand.

You can't scare me off. I know you're only prickly and sarcastic because deep down you're scared. Scared a lot. Scared all the time.

I looked you up. You were barely out of high-school when it happened. Well behaved, normal family, no record of misdemeanours. Prison must have been an awful adjustment.

You had to put the letter down and take a deep breath. The kid clocked you. Less than two letters in and they'd read you better than anyone had in years. Better than anyone ever had maybe.

What were those first few years like, I wonder. How did you survive? Please write me back. I like checking in on you.

You considered not replying. What were they hoping to achieve, getting all familiar with a killer?

The letter sat on your shelf for half a week before you gave in and wrote a reply.

I survived by being mean and cruel and evil. Stop writing me kid. I'll bite your head off and drink your blood.

The next letter came almost instantly. If anything, the writer seemed amused more than anything else.

Scary. Did they put you in for homicide or suspected vampirism? You want to get rid of me, but I'm not going anywhere. You don't have to reply, but I know you must need a friend. They aren't easy to come by behind bars. Any alliances you form will always have the expectation of reciprocation. It must be exhausting.

Did I tell you I bought a new car last week? A Camaro. I know. How stereotypical of a Marine to buy a car like that, right? But it's gorgeous. I'd like to take you for a drive someday. Nothing but the open road. I think you'll like that.

You didn't even wait a full day before you wrote back. Because they were right. You really did need a friend. Someone to just shoot the breeze with, without any subtext of a favour being repaid later on.

You didn't know anything about your mysterious pen pal. Not their age or their gender or even the colour of their eyes. They signed all their letters with a simple from B.

They mostly asked you questions. Not obtrusive or gross ones either. They wanted to know which foods you missed the most, which tv series and movies you wanted to catch up on, which actors you thought were getting Grammys this year.

When Grammy and Oscar season rolled around, you choked out a fellow inmate to get the TV remote. You left them sitting up on the couch, passed out and looking like they were just asleep. Blondie almost caught you. He walked past the door and paused to stare at your victim.

You gave him your most charming grin.

"She said the opening ceremony was too long and to wake her up when the red carpet is over," you explained.

He scoffed and moved on.

When you wrote your next letter, you packed it full of award show details.

B wrote to you for the better part of a year. But you only learnt a handful of things about them. They were in the Marines, they now worked some kind of federal job, they had tattoos, they liked Nicole Richie, and they hated fried chicken. Like really hated it. With a passion.

I promise to never cook you fried chicken, you wrote, only fried calamari, fried onion rings, fried mushrooms, fried liver, fried green beans, fried -

Can you even cook? they wrote back. Or are you just running your mouth?

For a while, you were happy. They'd occasionally send you new books in the mail, burnt CDs to listen to on your busted radio, packets of sweets.

Prison was hell, but it was a structured, expected sort of hell. You could deal with it.

But then she arrived.

You didn't bother to learn her name. She was tall and lean, green eyes like pond scum, and teeth chipped from fighting. You didn't like her from the first, but you had no reason to quarrel and so avoided her as much as you could.

Blondie didn't like her much either, and that's where the trouble started.

She'd deliberately bump into Blondie whenever she could. Hard enough that you could almost feel the impact.

"Oops... Didn't see you there."

If it was anyone else, they'd probably get thrown in solitary. But Blondie was a stickler for the rules. He'd brush his uniform off like just touching an inmate was enough to cause a plague. And then he'd settle his blue eyes on her, cool and detached.

"Watch where you're going next time."

That was how it went on. Weeks of passive aggression, slowly getting more and more physical.

You didn't want to intervene. Blondie could protect himself. Still, you kept your eye on him as much as you could.

There was another thing about the new girl you didn't like.

She had a way with people.

Could convince even the most stubborn inmate to do something, even if it was against their own best interest.

She got an inmate who was almost out on probation to attack and almost blind a CO. She got innocent old Ruby to start selling cigarettes. She almost got you to pick a fight with someone for damn near no reason at all.

She was dangerous, in a way no one before her had been. You could feel it in the harsh whispers after lights out. Got to make those dirty screws pay. Fucking COs have had it too good for too long. Who the fuck do they think they are anyway?

A riot was brewing. You started staying in your cell a lot more. Managed to pull some metal out of your mattress and spent every night sharpening it to a point.

Some of the COs were smart enough to notice the tension and your outside time got shortened to half an hour, lunch got pulled back to fifteen minutes. Their solution was to keep you locked in your cells for as much of the day as possible.

Not a good move.

Prisoners with no distractions tend to amuse themselves by planning all sorts of nasty things. How to grab a CO from behind and get their keys before anyone noticed. How to choke out the one bastard who kept throwing them in solitary. How to pay back all those times a CO groped them in the middle of a search.

You could feel it heightening to a point. Could feel it in the dirty, oily stickiness of the air.

When Blondie came past on patrol, you stopped him. You'd been hoping to catch him for a few days and you weren't going to miss your chance.

"Yes?"

Those blue eyes were staring straight through you, cool as a winter without a radiator.

You remembered the pepper spray, the cool cloth pressed against your burning skin.

"Listen, I think you should call in sick for the next week."

Oh no, it came out sounding like a threat.

You cleared your throat, tried to smile.

"I owe you one, okay? So just trust me on this and don't show up for a while."

He narrowed his eyes.

"There's going to be a riot,” he said.

"Seems like it."

"When?"

"I don't know. It's not exactly a scheduled thing. But it's going to be bad."

He looked away from you, scanning the long row of cells across from you. You could hear the ambient shuffling and coughing and laughing of a hundred people living together.

"Can it be stopped?"

You sighed. You'd seen it play out a few times already. Wardens had all sorts of ways to handle riots, but once the fever was brewing, it was near impossible to break. It was in the atmosphere, in the tense glances between prisoners. It was bigger than all of you.

He must have seen the answer in your face.

He shook his head, stubborn to the last.

"I've got a job to do. If I got scared every time the prisoners got rowdy I'd be out of work real quick."

You sighed and pulled away from the bars.

"Your funeral Blondie."

You really hoped it wouldn't be.

The thing that started the riot was so small that on a normal day you'd call it borderline routine.

A CO was watching the cafeteria line, hustling people along when they paused longer than he liked. When he came to one of the girls a few spots ahead of you, he got impatient and shoved her forward. Not hard. Barely enough to make her stumble.

You cringed. For a second or two, you imagined you could feel it on your skin. A static crackling like lightning about to strike.

She punched the CO in the throat.

He stumbled backwards, holding his neck and gasping.

Other prisoners  were already moving forward. Three of them grabbed his arms and bunch of the others ripped off his gear. Taser and baton and pepper spray now in the hands of a pissed and petty prison populace.

The other officers were already coming forward, batons out. Usually that would be enough to break things up, but they had just about everyone against them. Numbers always won.

 The veneer cracked and the riot finally started. It took less than a minute.

The yelling was enough to make your head throb. Bouncing off the cafeteria walls and ringing ringing ringing in your ears.

You ducked out of the way as much as possible, always on your guard. Riots weren't just dangerous for the wardens. Inmates saw them as a way to settle old scores without ending up in solitary or back in court. And lord knew,  you'd accumulated a hell of a lot of grudges over the years.

A prisoner rushed you. She was clutching a shiv made out of a ballpoint pen and a piece of wire coat hanger.

You dodged, sticking your foot between her legs and making her stumble. Your adrenaline was pumping, your vision dark at the corners.

You grabbed her hair before she could recover, and slammed her head against the edge of a metal cafeteria table.

She dropped like a rock.

You stepped away before any of her friends noticed you, your heart so far up your throat you could almost taste it.

That's when you saw her. That green eyed bitch, slipping out a side door with two of her cronies behind her.

You could feel your neck prickling.

There was only one score she had to settle and you knew exactly who it was aimed at.

You followed as quickly as you could. The backup had arrived and two tear gas canisters were belching thick white smoke into the room.

Despite your best efforts, by the time you made it out your eyes were stinging and she was long gone.

You swore and sprinted down the corridor, thinking fast.

If she managed to corner Blondie, she’d want to take her time with him. That's how scores were settled when you had a mean streak. Slow. Painful.

That meant she’d want privacy. Somewhere the riot officers wouldn't immediately find her when things calmed down.

You grabbed the corner of a wall and used it to shoot down the main hall, prison issued sneakers pounding the linoleum.

The showers. That's exactly where you'd go if you were her.

She didn't have time to block the doors. You banged through them shoulder first, the same way a cop would. The room was still thick with steam from earlier and Blondie's blood was running in thin streams toward the drain.

"The fuck is wrong with you?" she barked.

Green eyes, the one who instigated this whole mess.

She was standing with her sleeves rolled up and a razor blade between her fingers. The small, rectangular kind that goes in a straight razor.

Her two cronies were holding Blondie by the arms, stretching him out like he was on a cross.

Blondie clearly hadn't made it easy for them. Green eyes had a nasty bruise blooming on her cheek and both her cronies were sporting ugly nose bleeds. His baton was laying abandoned on the shower floor, rolled up against a bench.

Even a man as strong and well trained as he was couldn't go up against three armed felons and win.

You must have been just in time. The worst they'd done to him was cut his cheek, all the way from his temple to the bridge of his nose. It was bleeding bad, but didn't look too deep.

You straightened up and smiled at them, big and broad like you'd never had a better reunion.

"Having some fun without inviting me?"

Green eyes scoffed. "Why do you care? This shit is personal. Find something else to do."

You tilted your head, still smiling.

"You're right. It is personal. As in I owe Blondie over there a personal favour. As in I don't want you fucking with what's mine."

Blondie was watching you with those sharp eyes. If he took issue with being called yours, he didn't show it.

"Let him go." You didn't scream. You didn't demand. You simply said it. That's what made them nervous.

"Listen bitch - I don't care that everyone is scared of you. What you did on the outside doesn't matter one fucking bit."

You kept smiling, but your fingers were buzzing. The same why they had the night you stabbed a man forty six times.

You flicked your wrist and the shiv fell into your palm.

It was as long as your hand and sharpened into a wickedly pointed tip. It could slide between someone's ribs and kill them in less than five heart beats.

"They aren't scared of me because of what I did outside."

The two cronies were looking at each all worried-like. You vaguely recognised them, but it was clear that they recognised you no problem.

The boss turned to face you fully, light and easy on her toes like a boxer.

"You really gonna make a big deal over a fucking screw? A CO?"

"Since he's the only CO I've met who isn't a total piece of shit, I've got a vested interest in keeping him around."

She rolled his shoulders like a fighter would. You bit back a sigh. This was going to really hurt.

She didn't come at you right away. She ran her eyes over your body - your posture, your build, everything that might give you an advantage.

Then she charged.

Fast, even on the still slippery tiles. There wasn't enough time to duck or dodge.

You blocked her first punch with your arms, her fist smacking against your skin and spiking a sharp pain all the way down to your bones.

You stepped backward and kicked at her knee, but she saw it coming and turned her leg at the last second, took it on her thigh instead.

She’d dropped the razor blade - without a handle it was just as dangerous to her as it was to you - which meant she had full use of her fists.

She kept pummelling at you, catching you on the ribs and then on the sternum. You slammed back against the lockers, winded.

She pushed her advantage, going straight for your throat. You dropped down at the last second and her fist slammed full force into the metal.

She screamed and then screamed again as you slammed your shiv into her thigh.

You grabbed her throat and shoved her away from you, breathing hard.

She was clutching her thigh with one hand, blood welling up between her fingers. Dark red, but not enough to be fatal. You hadn't hit any arteries.

You slammed the heel of your hand into her nose, aiming upwards. You felt cartridge crunching.

She screamed again and scrambled away as quickly as she could with her injured leg.

Blood was running into her mouth, and when she snarled at you, her teeth were red.

You smiled again, as cheerful as a choir girl.

"Had enough?"

She spat blood at your feet.

You waited, half your attention on the other two. They hadn't yet moved to help her. You weren't sure if it was out of fear of letting Blondie go, or just a strong self preservation instinct.

Green eyes finally gave in. Or more accurately, her leg did. She buckled and fell, knees smacking hard on the tile. You winced.

She looked pale, in the about to pass out sort of way.

You sighed and jerked your head at her.

"Get her to the second floor nurses office. Wrap something around her leg. Tight. She’ll live but it's going to hurt a whole lot more if you aren't quick about it."

The other two were looking between you and her, eyes wide.

You wiped the back of your hand across your mouth, still holding the bloody shiv.

That seemed to decide them. They let go of Blondie all at once and grabbed their boss under the arms. Between the two of them, they were able to drag her out.

She left a trail of bright red behind.

When they were gone, you sat on the closest bench, holding your ribs. Hopefully they weren’t cracked - it hurt to breathe. You'd have to visit the infirmary as soon as things died down.

"She’s going to get even with you," Blondie said.

He was watching you. He hadn't moved. Blood was still running in thin streams down his cheek, like he was crying red.

"Yep. She's got a lot of friends too. It's not going to be fun."

"Why do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Act so light hearted about everything. I can see your hands shaking."

You balled them into fists and avoided looking at him. The silence stretched.

Finally, "Why did you really kill your neighbour?"

"I didn't like his face."

"I don't believe you."

"Believe what you want. The court already made up its mind."

He finally moved. Picked up his baton and slipped it into his belt. Grabbed a towel and balled it up, then pressed it against his face. The white started spotting red almost immediately. You watched him from the corner of your eye.

"Give me the knife."

"It's called a shiv. You should know that."

You rubbed the handle against your pants, getting rid of any fingerprints. Redundant, given there were three witnesses who saw you stab another inmate. Old habits don't really die, you supposed.

You handed it to him without looking at his face.

He wrapped it in a smaller towel and stuck it in his belt.

You could hear faint sirens from beyond the door, and his radio was crackling with orders. The wardens seemed to be getting things under control.

"I'm throwing you in solitary. And then I'm requesting a transfer to another block."

"Aww shucks, I'll really miss you Blondie."

"Not a transfer for me, you idiot. A transfer for you. It won't stop her entirely. There's always a little bit of communication between the blocks, no matter how hard we try and prevent it. But it should give you some time to make friends of your own."

"I've never been very good at that."

"Maybe try being less sarcastic."

He grabbed your upper arm and pulled you to your feet. His grip was light, a formality more than anything.

"Why did you really save me?"

You couldn't look at him. You shrugged.

"It's like I said. You're the least terrible warden in here. Not a very high bar to be fair, but still."

He started towards the door and you followed.

There were officers coming down the corridor in full riot gear. He waved them down and thrust you towards one.

"Solitary. Protective custody."

"Why?"

Blondie didn't even hesitate. "Because she saved my life."

Solitary wasn't so bad when the other option was tossing and turning on your bunk, just waiting for a knife to your ribs.

You'd almost call it relaxing. Your ribs were bandaged tight and the painkiller the doc gave you left you floating on a cloud of dope.

When you heard the footsteps pause outside your door, you didn't bother to get up.

Blondie didn't say anything for a long while. When he finally spoke, it was so soft that you had to strain to hear it.

"I still don't believe you. I don't think you're a cold blooded killer. I think that whatever happened between you and that man wasn't really brought before the court."

You sighed.

"Drop it Blondie."

"No."

Maybe it was the medicine or maybe it was the confession booth feeling of the half dark. Either way, you ended up giving away more than you intended.

"It doesn't matter. If the whole thing was public, it would only hurt people who've already been through enough."

"You had a reason for killing him."

"Yes."

"What?"

"I won't tell you. Won't tell anyone, ever. It's not my story to tell”

 “You're in jail because of it. Who else could possibly have more to lose?"

"You'd be surprised."

It was his turn to sigh.

"I'm going to find out eventually, y'know."

"Have fun with that. Don't give yourself a headache."

He sighed and walked away.

You didn't see him again for half a year.

They kept you in solitary a whole week. Long enough for your ribs to stop hurting and for the bruises to lighten. Long enough for green eyes to be processed and transferred further up-state. That was unusual, even if she was the one who instigated the riot. You had a feeling someone pulled some strings behind the scenes. And you had an even stronger feeling about who it must have been.

When you were finally out, you were assigned to a new block. Your stuff was already waiting for you in your new cell, your books and CDs and a new letter from B.

Won't be able to write for a while. I've got something important to work on. Hopefully I'll be back soon.

You couldn't ignore the way that stung. Without meaning to, you'd come to rely on their letters. A little reprieve from the life you were stuck with.

The new block wasn't too bad. You took Blondie's advice and made some friends. Tried to avoid fights as much as possible. If green eyes ever managed to convince someone to get even for her, they didn't go through with it.

Life was, if not good, then at least bearable. You tried ignoring the little nagging part of you that constantly wondered about both Blondie and B. Without either of them, you felt...emptier somehow. Lonely.

When a warden came to tell you that you had a visitor, your heart lurched. Your family didn't visit you much anymore. And you cut off your friends the day you got convicted - no need to draw them into your mess. Secretly, you hoped it was B. You had no clue what they looked like, but after six months without hearing from them, you were almost desperate.

You smoothed down your uniform before you stepped into the visitors' centre, your eyes sweeping the room for familiar faces.

You noticed him almost immediately. Blondie, his hair shaggy when it wasn’t gelled back and his usual uniform replaced by a flannel shirt and jeans. A man was sitting next to him, his pinstripe suit still neat and pressed despite it being late afternoon.

He didn't even give you time to say hello.

"This is Mark Lawrence. Your lawyer."

You squinted at the man, confused. He was clearly a cut or two above the overworked district attorney who'd handled your case.

"No he isn't. I haven't seen him before in my life."

He sighed, irritated. "Mark is the lawyer I hired to represent you when we go to court next month."

"...Why am I going to court next month?"

"To challenge the original ruling."

"Okay. Why?"

"Because I've found another witness to your case, one that didn't testify last time."

You felt like were slammed face first into a bucket of icy water. With rusted nails in it.

"Who?"

"The victim's daughter."

"No."

"Yes."

Your handcuffs rattled as your balled your hands into fists.

"She's just a kid. What she needs is to put the past behind her, not re-live every minute of it up on the witness stand. No. We're not doing this."

You glared at him and he met you straight on. The tension cracked.

The lawyer finally interjected.

"Knowing the full details of the case changes things dramatically. Your charge goes from first degree murder to manslaughter. We might be able to cut your sentence down to fifteen years or less, with time served contributing."

"No. I'm not putting that little girl up on the stand."

Blondie practically snarled. "Yes. You. Are."

"No. I'm. Not."

"She's so much older now! Practically a teenager. She can handle it. And besides, she said she's happy to do it."

"You spoke to her?!"

Could this day get any worse? Why the hell did he have to go and drag up old memories? It must have been just as unpleasant for the kid as it was for you.

"Yes. Myself and the original detective both."

"Why? Is this what you've been doing the past six months? Trying to overturn my sentence?"

He looked away from you for the first time, his ears turning red.

"Yes."

You leaned back in your chair, conflicted and confused more than anything else. You hated to admit it, but a part of really wanted this. Even if the chance was slim, even if it meant another round of dockets and cross questioning. You were tired of prison. You wanted your life back.

You watched the late afternoon sun reflecting off the ceiling.

"I want to talk to her first. And then...maybe."

"Deal." Blondie sounded immensely satisfied.

You kept watching the sun and half listening to the conversations around you.

"Why are you doing this for me Blondie?"

Your voice was awfully soft.

"I'm returning a favour."

Your eyes slid to the lawyer.

"Pretty damn expensive way to do it."

He smirked. "I prefer my method to yours. Requires a whole lot less stabbing."

The kid came to visit you the next day. Blondie was right. She was almost a teenager. Did time really go by so fast?

You grinned at her.

"Hey kid. Sorry to drag you out to this place, but they don't let me out much."

"I bet."

She’d lost a lot of the baby fat from her cheeks and her dark eyes didn't have the haunted look you remembered so well.

"How's life with your aunt?"

"Great actually. The school is nice and we've got this Great Dane. And she isn't like... well, she isn't like my dad."

That made you happy. The kid deserved something good after everything she’d been through.

She broke in before you could keep asking questions.

"I want to do it. I want to testify against my father."

You paused, your smile fading. You could still hear her voice from that night, high and tinny and begging her dad to stop.

He hadn't stopped. He hadn't stopped beating his little girl until the moment you sunk a knife into his chest.

You swallowed, your mouth tasting like metal.

"Are you sure? It's not going to be easy."

She met your eyes. "I don't care. You saved me. I'm not going to let you rot in a place like this."

When she left, you couldn't help thinking about her eyes. The last time you saw her, she wouldn't even look at your face. Wouldn't say more than three words at a time.

The kid might never outrun her past, but she’d done a damn good job so far.

You tried not to be too hopeful. Homicide was almost impossible to overturn.

You tried not to be too hopeful, but the lawyer Blondie hired clearly knew his stuff. He laid it all out in front the judge.

How you used to babysit the kid when her dad wasn't around. How the man used to get violent when he was drunk, but never hit the kid until that night.

How you heard the screaming and banged at his door for fifteen minutes.  How you broke in through a back window when it wouldn't stop.

How you found the girl half dead with her father standing over her. Still going at it.

How you grabbed a knife, just to try and threaten him, maybe bring him back to his senses.

How he attacked you. How you stabbed him and then kept stabbing him until he stopped moving. 

How you bundled the kid off to her aunt and then called the cops on yourself.

The whole story this time. No pleading guilty and then sitting back down without another word. No half hearted defence by a state lawyer already over worked and underpaid. No half truths.

It took three weeks of court dates to get through the whole story, with witnesses and cross examination. By the time it was done, you wanted to wash your hands of the whole mess. Innocent or guilty, you just wanted to stop reliving that night.

The judge was a hard faced man who'd seen a thousand criminals come and go. You didn't have much hope for yourself when the bailiff told you to rise for the verdict.

"In the case of the state versus the accused, in regards to the appeal and additional information provided to the court, the court hereby considers this appeal to be..."

You felt your heart stutter. The last time you were in court listening to a verdict the outcome was a forgone conclusion.

"Granted."

You almost sat back down, your knees weak. There's no way. After all this time, were you really about to have your freedom back?

The judge continued, "The accused's sentence has been adjusted to account for time served. The original sentence of life imprisonment with the chance of parole after thirty years has been changed to immediate parole on strict assessment."

The judge looked at you, eyes maybe a little softer than they were before.

"This court will never condone murder, not even in defence of a child. But I think it's clear, young lady, that you've spent more than enough time behind bars."

Your lips felt numb. Your whole future changed in one sentence. In one afternoon. It was staggering.

"Thank you, your honour."

The bailiff read out a list of regulations to follow. Weekly check ins with both a parole officer and a state psychiatrist. No furthers run ins with the law, not even misdemeanours. If even one person close to you felt you were a threat, they could report it to the police and have you sent back to jail almost immediately. You were on house arrest until further notice. It was one of the strictest parole agreements you'd ever heard.

You didn't care if they told you to do a hundred push ups morning and evening. You were free again. You were going to behave like a damn saint for the rest of your days.

The only hiccup was when he mentioned the address that you were registered to stay at. You raised a brow at your lawyer but he avoided your eyes.

When court was finally dismissed, the first thing you did as a free woman was give Blondie a hug.

He was much taller than you, though you'd never realised it before.

"How much do I owe you? When I get a job, we can work out some kind repayment plan."

He waved you away and lead you from the courthouse. You tried to ask your lawyer about the house arrest, but he managed to slip away before you could.

His car was waiting for you. A new Camaro barely a year months old.

You let out a low whistle.

"She’s a beauty."

When you climbed into the passenger seat, you were sure to buckle your seat belt. No tickets for you, not ever.

The car started up with a thrumming purr.

It ate away at the road, even in the dense city centre. It wasn't long before you were almost at the city limits and cruising.

"By the way, do you know where I'll be staying? I didn't recognise the address."

You couldn't be sure, but it seemed like his hands tightened on the steering wheel just a tad.

"Mm-hmm. You're staying with me."

What? You couldn't possibly do that to him.

"Thank you. But don't you feel a little awkward having a felon in your home? I've still got my savings from before. I can rent my own place for a little."

"You're staying with me. Do you know how hard it is to get a good apartment with a criminal record?"

"I guessed as much. But Blondie, I already owe you. I can't possibly intrude on your life. Maybe you think you still owe me from that day. You don't. We're square."

He was quiet for a bit, but finally managed to force a smile into his voice.

"No. I'm not doing this because I feel indebted to you."

He kept his eyes on the road, his hand loose and confident on the wheel. His sleeves were rolled up again and you got your first good look at his tattoos. They were a collection of really well done pieces, each small tattoo blending with the others. Mostly fine line work, simple and clean.

"Why are you doing it then?"

He didn't answer.

When you arrived, his house was ranch style three bedroom with a huge, rolling yard and a neat wraparound porch.

You let out another low whistle.

"How do you afford this on a correction officer's salary?"

"I don't. It's paid off already. I was in the USMC for a long time. The money was good."

"I knew you weren't a normal civvie."

He grinned. "What gave it away?"

"The muscles."

He laughed and pulled your duffel bag from the trunk.

You'd told your parents to donate all your clothes when you were first sentenced. You didn't think you'd ever be free again so why hoard? Someone out there was probably making good use of your Doc Martens and distressed denim. Whatever normal clothes you currently had were what you were locked up with. The outfit on your back and little else.

The suitcase was instead filled with your meagre prison possessions, the stuff you didn't want to leave behind. Your collection of books. Some postcards. The CDs that B sent you.

Blondie carried it across the lawn like it weighed nothing at all.

Stepping into his house was a surreal experience. You hadn't been inside someone else's home since the night of your crime. Your last few years were exclusive to the grimy and outdated rooms of state buildings.

It was like stepping back in time. Or more accurately, like stepping into a future you thought was lost to you.

Clean, without the tang of cheap, industrial grade bleach. The walls painted and wallpapered instead of just whitewashed. The feeling of finally being somewhere you could relax. Not an in-between place.

Home.

He showed you to your room, a neat guest bedroom across from his, with a double bed and wide windows.

You didn't sit down on the bed or on the neat desk chair. You didn't feel clean enough. You still felt the stink and grime of prison clinging to you.

He raised a brow but showed you where the bathroom was.

It was another taste of freedom. Showers in prison were monitored and timed affairs. No standing under the water and just enjoying the heat, no taking the time to scrub and exfoliate. In and out and done as quick as possible.

You stood under the hot water for a long time, your face wet not just from the spray.

When you finally climbed out, you felt clean for the first time in years.

Blondie was gone when you got downstairs, a hasty note scrawled on the fridge about grabbing you some new clothes. You tilted your head at the handwriting. You could swear it looked so familiar... But no, it couldn't be. That was ridiculous.

You brewed yourself a hot drink, fully intending to sit on the porch and enjoy it. Like a little old woman.

The backdoor was locked.

You frowned. Okay, not that uncommon. Folk kept their doors locked all the time. He probably intended you to use the front door instead.

But that one was locked too.

So were all the downstairs windows. Closed shut with little hatches you hadn't noticed earlier.

You tried not to panic. He was probably just looking out for you. Being careful. You were still a felon. How did he know you weren't going to make a break for it the second you could, his tv and laptop in tow?

It was fine. You were fine. You could just drink at the table and wait for him to get home. You kept telling yourself that, even as you searched through the kitchen drawers for a spare key.

Nothing.

You didn't want to panic. You'd spent years locked away. Wasn't this much nicer than a cell?

No. Because at least in a cell you had no illusions about your freedom.

You ended up in his bedroom without knowing when you'd gotten there. You didn't dig through his drawers. He'd know instantly. But you did open them all, one by one, as if you'd find the key right on top of his neatly folded shirts.

You found the letters in the last drawer. The one right next to his bed, like he read them every night.

It took you a while to recognise them, even though you were looking at your own handwriting.

Your letters to B. Every single one of them. The envelopes neatly cut open and the letters themselves stacked in chronological order. The most recent one was at the very top and you picked it up with numb hands.

Hey B! Guess who's going back to court. Guess they missed seeing me strutting down the aisle.

Don't worry. I haven't down anything bad (at least not this time). Someone who thinks they owe me a favour has gotten it into their head that the best way to repay me is to get me out of jail.

The legal way, that is. No midnight tunnels or disguises. (Boo. How boring. What happened to romance?)

I don't have much hope, but at least it means a break in the monotony. And nicer chow.

You'd better write me soon. Can't believe I'm admitting this out loud, but I get a warm fuzzy feeling in my heart whenever I get a new letter from you. I think it must be acid reflux.

-your favourite felon.

B did, in fact, write back quickly. For the last time - no return address on the letter. In that, and in so many other ways, it was clear it was the final letter you were getting.

You're the most complicated person I've ever met. Caring and kind but somehow wrapped up in the most sarcastic personality. I've fallen in love with you. Stupid. Incredibly stupid. But it's true.

I love you.

-B

You'd sat in your cell with your eyes almost bugging out of your skull. Wondering what B did to have the misfortune of falling for a girl like you. Wondering if you could have loved them back, if given the chance. Wondering who they really were.

Well, here was your answer. B, the person who wrote you sarcastic poetry and hunted down your favourite books, was Blondie, the warden who owed you his life.

And he was in love with you.

You sat down, knees replaced by lunch time jelly cups.

No wonder he did what he did. No wonder he paid for an attorney and got your house arrest registered at his house. No wonder he kept the doors and windows locked.

There was a light step behind you and you flew to your feet, the letter still clutched in your fist.

He was standing in the doorway, watching you with cool blue eyes.

"So. You found them."

You couldn't answer.

He stepped into the room, his eyes never leaving yours. He'd taken off his shirt and stood in only his tank top and jeans, his arms lean with muscle. You'd spent years fighting and you knew in one glance that you could never take him. He was stronger. Had years of Marine and police training. It had taken three prisoners and a razor blade to finally hold him. What chance did you have?

"The world isn't built for prisoners. Rehabilitation is hard. What were the stats again? Eight out of every ten end up back in jail before ten years is up?"

He continued towards you, as calm as ever.

"You're safer here. With me. You said you'd be a great housewife remember?"

"I was joking," you managed. "Just kidding around."

He reached you and gently took the letter from your unresisting fingers.

"I won't make you do anything you don't want to. But you're not leaving me. You're not leaving this house."

"Why?"

He smiled, that half smile that gave you a glimpse past his tough guy shell. This time, you didn't like what you saw.

"You know why."

"I'm a terrible person to love. I'm prickly and sarcastic and I suck at doing the dishes."

"I've got a dishwasher."

"All I know how to cook is fried chicken."

He wrinkled his nose. "We'll work on it."

"I snore all night."

"You don't. I've watched you sleep."

"Really?"

"Really. I'd stop outside your cell and just watch you sometimes. I couldn't help it. You're so much calmer when you sleep. It's like seeing another version of you."

He tilted his head and closed the last bit of distance between you, until you could smell his cologne and see the flecks of green in his eyes. You'd never noticed them before.

"There are worse cells than this, aren't there? All you have to do is stay with me. Be happy. Let me love you."

"Do I have a choice?"

He smiled that secret smile again.

"Nope. It's either me or straight back to prison."

It was true. He was a model citizen – a veteran with a clean record as a corrections officer. Even if you did talk to your mandated psychologist or parole officer, they wouldn’t believe you. You’d be the ungrateful prisoner trying to manipulate her way out of house arrest.

You knew it from the start. Rule one - never trust a warden. They never have your best interests at heart. All they want is to cover their own skin and get theirs.

But, you never were very good at following the rules, were you?

[catchastarorten]

—Sleep well.

Pairing: Kang Dae-ho x fem!reader

Summary: Gi-hun suggested that the group took turns staying on watch in case the other players attacked, him and Jung-bae stayed up while you and the others napped, Dae-ho took his place beside you to rest with you.

Content: fluff, cuddling(?), you head-butting him in your sleep lol, English isn’t my first language, mistakes should be present, not really proofread, sorry!

Word count: 808

You were tucked into the corner with your group—Gi-hun, Jung-bae, Young-il, Dae-ho, and Jun-hee. Trust was a rare thing in the games, but the six of you managed to stick together, watching each other’s backs through the brutal rounds.

The weight of exhaustion clung to you, but Gi-hun’s paranoia kept your eyes open longer than you would have liked. He wasn’t wrong, though. The fear was palpable.

Your group pulled a couple of mattresses off of the bunks, arranging them as best as possible. One was dragged and laid flat against the wall, the others shoved under bunk frames for some semblance of protection.

“Is this really necessary? I don’t like sleeping under there.” Jung-bae asked, sliding a mattress to Gi-hun, who shoved it under a bunk frame.

“Once the lights go out, somebody might attack us.” Gi-hun said, his eyes focused and his voice steady. “The prize money still goes up if we kill each other. It’s a part of the game they designed.”

You exchanged a look with Dae-ho, who sat cross-legged beside you, holding onto some blankets and pillows. He had been your shadow ever since Red light, Green light. Always sticking close, insisting on protecting you in this place after seeing the way you froze during the first game—when he told you to stay behind him closely so you could use him as a human shield.

“We need to take turns keeping watch after the lights go out.” Gi-hun muttered, sitting down at the foot of the bunk beds, his sharp eyes scanning the room. “I’ll take the first watch.”

The lights flickered out not long after, leaving the only source being the giant piggy-bank hung on the ceiling that was glowing dimly.

It was after a while when Jung-bae rolled out lazily from under a bunk and plopped down beside Gi-hun, the two of them speaking in hushed voices.

You laid down on one of the mattresses, wrapping the thin blanket around yourself. Dae-ho settled beside you not long after, and though you weren’t expecting it, his hand brushed against yours as he shifted to get comfortable, and you were sure you saw his face flush before he hid it, which barely worked, to be honest.

“Don’t worry,” he mumbled, his voice low and soothing. “I’ll keep you safe. I’ll fight them off if they try to come over here.”

The sincerity in his words made your heart ache in the best way. Dae-ho had a knack for looking out for you since you met him in the games, even in the little ways—giving you his portion of food, stepping in when someone got too close. You hadn’t known him long, but there was this easy warmth between the two of you.

Within minutes, you were sound asleep.

Dae-ho’s soft snores filled the small space you both shared. Exhaustion had gotten the better of him, just like it did to you. His arm had draped protectively over your side in his sleep, his presence a cocoon of safety.

Gi-hun and Jung-bae sat near the bunks, their attention now drawn to the sound of soft snoring. Both sets of eyes landed on you and Dae-ho, curled up together on the mattress.

“They’re out like a light,” Jung-bae remarked, a hint of amusement in his voice. “You know, seeing them like that... it reminds me of when we went on strike. We were occupying the factory, and management told us to come out. They said anyone who came out voluntarily would be let off the hook and receive more severance pay.”

Gi-hun stared into the distance, as if recalling what happened.

“You were sleeping beside me and you were talking in your sleep. ‘Mom, I’m hungry, give me some food.’” Jung-bae made an exaggerated crying face, and Gi-hun gave him a glare as Jung-bae nudged him with his elbow, smirking.

Their voices echoed, and soon enough, soft laughs filled the quietness.

Jung-bae chuckled again, louder this time. He clapped a hand over his mouth, but it was too late. The noise had reached you, and you stirred slightly. Dae-ho, still asleep, curled closer to you instinctively, his arm tightening around your side. His movement caused your head to shift slightly, and without warning, you head-butted him in your half-asleep state of grogginess.

Dae-ho furrowed his brows, a soft noise escaping his lips as he shifted again, burying his face into the crook of his arm. You tugged the blanket over your shoulders, muttering something incoherent before nestling deeper into the mattress, falling right back asleep.

Jung-bae stifled another laugh, his shoulders shaking with the effort. Gi-hun gave him a glare, but a faint smile was already tugging at the corners of his mouth too.

“They’re like kids,” Jung-bae whispered, his tone fond.

“Let them sleep. They’ll need it.” Gi-hun shook his head and sighed softly.

[padawan-snack-packer]

Don't imagine Rex quietly fixing a younger clone’s armor after hours, muttering, "you gotta take better care of yourself, kid," while he polishes each scratch like it’s sacred.

Don't imagine Fives trying to teach shinies how to play cards, cheating outrageously so they win, whooping and hollering like they’re champions of the galaxy, and slipping a few credits into their pockets when no one's looking.

Don't imagine Cody staying up all night after a tough battle because he's personally stitching medals of bravery into the empty bunks of fallen troopers, so when they’re remembered, they’re remembered right.

Don't imagine Hardcase giving away his dessert rations to any clone who looks even remotely sad, acting like it’s a prank or a dare so no one knows he’s doing it out of love.

Don't imagine Echo re-learning how to shoot left-handed after his injury, stubbornly, painstakingly, so he can teach other injured clones that they’re not broken — just different.

Don't imagine Jesse carving tiny little messages into the walls of every base they’re stationed at. Messages like "501st were here. We fought. We lived." like he's trying to leave proof they mattered.

Don't imagine Dogma leaving tiny notes in people's lockers that just say "you’re doing good." "you’re brave." "I believe in you." — and then feeling too shy to admit it was him.

Don't imagine Wolffe pretending to be annoyed when Boost and Sinker sneak stray animals into the barracks, but secretly building a little hidden shelter for them behind the hangar.

Don't imagine Kix memorizing the medical charts of every single brother in his battalion — birthdays, allergies, old injuries — because he doesn’t trust the GAR systems to care enough (and he's 30000% right).

Don't imagine Tup tending to a tiny makeshift garden in the middle of a warzone with whatever seeds and scraps he can find, because "something’s gotta grow, sir."

Don't imagine Rex carrying every goodbye letters and notes he never got to say or give tucked in the seams of his armor or in a chest under his bed — every brother he couldn’t save, every friend he couldn’t reach — and still standing up the next morning because someone has to lead, and if not him, then who?

Don't imagine Waxer carrying around a crumpled, dirty drawing of Numa from Ryloth in a hidden pocket inside his armor, smoothing it out and smiling every time he feels like the war is eating him alive.

Don't imagine Boil pretending to grumble about it but secretly checking the drawing too, mouthing, "stay safe, little one," before every mission because part of his heart never left Ryloth.

Don't imagine Bly sketching little comic strips in the margins of his field reports to make Aayla laugh during debriefings — and still carrying the last one he never got to show her, tucked inside his chest plate.

Don't imagine Colt teaching his new ARC trainees how to properly tie a tourniquet and lecturing them seriously, but at the end quietly handing each of them a little lucky charm, like an old Republic credit or a braided cord, "for good luck, kid."

Don't imagine Appo still wearing a piece of Fives' blue paint on his armor as a "tradition" without telling anyone where it came from or why it matters so much.

Don't imagine Fox locking himself in his office after long shifts guarding Coruscant because he can’t stand seeing the brothers’ faces when they look at him like he’s a stranger now — so he sits in the dark and listens to the old 501st comms chatter recordings, just to feel something again.

Don't imagine Jesse and Kix starting a stupid prank war in the barracks where they replace each other's ration packs with terrible "mystery meat," laughing until Rex threatens to demote them — but Kix sneaks Rex a spiked caf packet later as revenge.

Don't imagine Tup painting tiny flowers on the inside of his helmet where no one can see them, tiny bursts of color against the cold plastoid — because he wants to carry beauty into battle even if no one else knows.

Don't imagine Dogma standing at the memorial wall and reading every single name out loud, even the ones he never knew, because he thinks someone should.

Don't imagine Waxer and Boil talking about "after the war" plans, like opening a repair shop on Ryloth, taking in lost kids, making sure no one else has to grow up the way they did — and laughing about it like it could actually happen.

Don't imagine Fives pulling a prank so chaotic that even Rex laughs — real, loud, helpless laughter — and Fives looking absolutely stunned before grinning like he'd just been handed the whole galaxy.

Don't imagine Rex tracing the scars on his hands sometimes without realizing, as if he’s trying to memorize every mistake, every battle, every time he almost didn’t make it — and then closing his fist around them like a promise to keep going.

Don't imagine Kix secretly saving every "thank you" note the boys have ever given him — crumpled sticky notes, bad handwriting, a piece of torn armor that just says "thanks doc" — tucked into his med kit like the most valuable supplies he owns.

[bernardsbendystraws]

𝐀𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 — 𝐌.𝐒.

SUMMARY ʚɞ Cute moments on tour with your boyfriend.

CW ʚɞ Fluff, injury, kissing, cuddling, possessive/needy behavior.

PAIRING ʚɞ Matt Sturniolo x Reader

A/N: COPYRIGHT NOTICE. Did I giggle while writing this? Well yes!

With love and big tits, Rose ➜ masterlist

01: Matt packs his clothes for you…

“Matt. I need to pack my own—” 

Your lips smack shut, the air in his room impossibly soft as you sink further into his bed. 

“No, no, no,” Matt huffs, interrupting you as he takes another one of your tops out of your suitcase, replacing it with one of his T-shirts, “-this is better, sweetheart. You look cute in my clothes…and they’re comfy and…well, do I really need another reason?” he asks, scratching the back of his neck as he spares you a shrug. 

It’s stupidly cute. He’s been insisting on your bags being full of his clothes—not even for himself, but for you. 

You look adorable in his clothes. It makes some sort of possessive itch inside of him satisfied in ways he can’t really explain. It’s just so…right.

“You’re ridiculous,” you remark, rolling your eyes playfully. He waves his hand at you absentmindedly, returning to stacking his shirt neatly inside your suitcase. 

“Let me be happy, geez,” he mumbles.

Matt knows he’s being selfish by interrupting your packing process. He knows his incessant desire to make sure you’re going to be wearing his clothes isn’t exactly helpful. But he knows you’re not actually annoyed.

If you were truly frustrated, you wouldn’t be staring at him with a look that makes him feel dizzy. He knows you’re staring at his lips—he knows you’re admiring the way your lipgloss is still lingering on his lips from all the kisses you’ve been exchanging.

Matt bites back a smile. “I just like seeing my girl in my clothes, alright?” he tuts, rolling his lips together as he savors the taste of your lipgloss lingering on his lips. 

You’re lying on the bed, letting him shuffle through the various fabrics, a smile etched on your face as he holds up different options for you to pick from. The soft thump of your heart inside your chest quickens as he leans down, placing a quick kiss on your lips again while cupping the side of your cheek. 

“I can feel you staring, sweetheart.” 

The ache in your cheeks grows from a flush warmth crawling over your face. Matt’s shoulders broaden with pride, his chest vibrating with a slight laugh as he watches you attempt to pull your eyes from his lips. 

And you fail—miserably. 

It’s impossible to peel your attention away from the heavenly sight. You grin at the reflective glitter covering his lips, the way the shimmering gloss makes your gut swarm with butterflies. 

You can’t stop staring, not when it’s just so perfect. 

02: Cuddles are better than ice packs…

Matt’s irritated. For some fuck ass reason, you both got stuck with the top bunk beds on the tour bus. Not only was cuddling incredibly hard in the tight space, but it was awful to try and climb in or get out of the sleeping compartment. 

Right now, he’s feeling really fucking needy. 

Matt’s trying to gasp onto you in any way possible, his legs and arms cradling you as he tries to scoot as close as possible. 

“This is not comfortable.” you say. 

Matt groans behind you, hugging you tighter as he feels you try to readjust for comfort. “Just let me hold you. Please. I’m…I’m going through withdrawals at this point—baby, help me out.” he puffs, letting out a deep sigh. 

“What the—” you gasp at the sudden cold sensation. 

Blinking your eyes open, you see the wall directly in front of you, your nose pressed against the flat surface as your body jerks with shock. 

“AH—fuck!” Matt exclaims.

A loud thump makes your eyes widen. Every muscle in your body clenches, your breath stuck in your chest as you try to process what just happened. 

He fell.

You shoved him off the top bunk bed. 

Quickly moving, you peek over the edge to see his body sprawled on the floor. “Matt, oh my—are you okay?” you rush, trying to climb down as fast as possible. 

“C’mere, damn,” he hisses, pulling you down to his level. 

You laugh as he rolls over on top of you, pinning you to the floor and cradling you just like before. 

“Aren’t you hurt?” you ask, your voice shaking with a slight giggle. 

Matt nods with a pout, hugging you tighter. “Yeah—so now we have to cuddle,” he mentions. 

His statement makes your chest feel lighter. You let yourself relax into his hold, your lips etched in a soft grin as he presses a kiss to your temple. 

“Do you need an ice pack?” you question, your eyes squinting as you try to analyze his face for any trace of a pained expression. 

Shaking his head firmly, Matt pulls you even tighter against him. “No, fuck no,” he huffs, his hair tickling your cheek as he sighs, “-just need you.” 

03: Always…

The show ended mere minutes ago. Loud cheers and chaos continue to plunder through the auditorium, echoing with excitement radiating from the fans. 

Matt makes his way backstage, his hands shaking from anticipation as he lets his eyes search for you while wandering with determination.

“Sweetheart?” he calls out, peeking his head around the corner in hopes he’ll see you.

And he does. 

For a second, he smiles, relieved to have you in his gaze. 

However, the smile begins to fade as he sees you talking with a security guard, his smile falling as he watches you be completely consumed in your conversation with the badged girl. 

He loves how happy you get when you’re being friendly—but he doesn’t exactly love when he has to share your attention. 

You’re his. 

He wants you to be happy and to have friends, but god—he’s selfish sometimes. 

Especially right now. He’s been itching to hug you since he walked on the stage. 

Matt wants nothing more than to have his arms around you, holding you as if it’s his sole purpose of breathing. 

“Fuck it,” he mumbles, ignoring everything but instinct. 

His heart is louder than his mind. Matt walks up behind you, hugging his arms around your waist, his nose nuzzling into the side of your neck as he takes a deep breath, greedily inhaling the smell of your perfume. 

“Hi, baby,” he hums, smiling as you relax into him, your hands rubbing over his arms as you bid the security girl a quick goodbye. The girl leaves swiftly, talking into her ear piece as she mumbles something about heading to the entrance of the building. 

You turn in his hold, coming face-to-face with Matt as you scrunch your nose with delight. “Hey, handsome.” you purr, your hands sliding over his chest softly. 

“Hmmmmmm—I fuckin’ missed you,” he sighs, leaning his forehead against yours. 

The tips of your noses brush together. You let yourself melt into his touch, relishing in the feeling of his hands soothing up and down your sides. 

“I missed you,” you remark, licking over your lips as his eyes gleam into yours with adoration. You suck in a sharp breath as he squeezes gently onto your waist. “Did you have fun?” you ask.

The question makes a grin spread on his face. “Mhm. Always have fun with you watchin’ me,” he replies, nodding firmly

Your skin pulses with a feathery warmth as Matt slides his nose against your cheek. A feeling of butterflies erupts in your chest, the knots of anticipation falling to the pit of your gut as he presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth delicately. 

“Always, always, always,” he hums, pecking across your jaw and back to the edge of your lips. 

He means it. 

No matter what happens, he’s always ecstatic to have you around. 

You’re a part of his life—you’re a part of him. 

Always.

A/N: Thank you so much for reading!!! Any and all interaction is deeply appreciated!!! I hope you liked it cuties <333

With love and big tits, Rose 🌹

[thepencilnerd]

if you don’t take requests please ignore me! but Dr Robby and another HCP (maybe nurse) being on call overnight bc of snow or something and sharing a squished little twin xl bed in the on call room 🙂‍↕️

**bonus points if someone comes to wake one of them up and sees them all cutie snuggled up

this idea has my <3, i hope you enjoy anon ^-^

pairing: Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x F!Doctor!Reader genre: literally just pure fluff notes: private but not secret established relationship, close-quarters intimacy, the interns make a cameo, abbot, mel, & langdon are your x Robby's #1 fans, Robby being a soft boy who anticipates your needs

It was the worst winter storm Pennsylvania had seen in years—whiteout conditions, icy roads, and windchills low enough to freeze the Allegheny. The hospital had issued a mass alert just after midnight, encouraging all staff to remain onsite rather than risk the commute home.

By the time it had snowed eight inches overnight, with half the staff stuck in their neighborhoods or crawling along the freeway, you and Robby had offered to pull back-to-back coverage. By moon fall, the ER had calmed down just enough for you to take a deep breath—and then you remembered the on-call room.

The room was barely more than a glorified broom closet with a twin-sized bunk bed that sagged slightly in the middle. It had a small bathroom attached, but calling it a shower was generous—it was more like one of those overhead chemical rinse stations from a high school science lab. The water ran out too quickly, never got hotter than lukewarm, and sputtered like it resented being asked to work overtime.

Still, you were exhausted and freezing, barely holding yourself upright after fifteen straight hours on your feet. Robby had noticed the way you leaned against the wall between cases, the slight tremble in your fingers as you sipped water, and the dark shadows blooming beneath your eyes.

"You should crash in the on-call room for a bit," he said softly, brushing his hand down your arm in that way he always did when he was trying to coax you into taking care of yourself. It was one of his tells—the way his fingers would trail lightly over your sleeve, slow and grounding. Just enough pressure to let you know he was there. He’d done it on your worst days, in trauma bays and stairwells and break rooms, and every time, it had a way of quieting the static in your chest.

"I’m okay," you lied through heavy eyes, stubborn and determined to monitor your cases. "There’s still a couple charts I need to—"

"They’ll still be here when you come back," he interrupted gently. "You’re running on fumes."

You hesitated, and that was all he needed. He reached up, gently tucking a damp, frizzy strand of hair behind your ear—his fingers brushing your temple with a tenderness that made your breath catch. That was the final nudge, the one that broke through your inflexibility and reminded you he always saw you, even when you tried to act fine.

"I’ll come with you," he added, voice casual but warm. "We’re stuck here ‘til the snow clears anyway. Plus Dana offered to hold down the fort."

That got you.

You didn’t say yes so much as let out a long sigh and nod, heavy with defeat and gratitude. Robby didn’t gloat—just gave your shoulder a warm squeeze and offered his hand.

"Come on," he said, voice soft. "Before we have to admit you."

You rolled your eyes, but when he stepped in beside you and gently slipped your arm around his waist, letting you lean into him as you walked the corridor together, you didn’t pull away. You were too tired to pretend you weren’t clinging to him a little. He didn’t comment on it. Just adjusted his pace to match yours and kept you steady, steering you carefully around gurneys and corners like you were the most precious thing in the building.

The room wasn’t much, but with Robby beside you, it didn’t matter. You’d shared a quick shower—taking turns under the weak stream of water, half-laughing at how absurdly cold and uneven it was, bumping elbows as you tried not to slip on the slick tile. The water had been lukewarm at best, sputtering like it didn’t want to be there either, but Robby’s hands had been warm as he helped rinse shampoo from your hair, his fingers gentle and slow like he had all the time in the world. You’d stood forehead to forehead for a few moments after, breathing in the steam and each other.

When you dried off and dressed in spare sweats and thermals, he tugged your sleeve and gave you that look—the one that said he wasn’t asking, just quietly waiting for you to rest. He got into bed first, shifting to the far side and patting the space beside him in quiet invitation. You didn't hesitate before crawling in after him, into the warmth of his waiting arms. The scent of cedar soap clung faintly to the collar of his shirt as you settled into the space he made for you—safe, soft, familiar. He pulled you close, like he’d been holding that shape for you all day.

He pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder as he settled behind you, arm draped low across your waist, thumb tracing slow circles against the soft cotton of your borrowed shirt. You sighed, muscles finally starting to unclench, exhaustion winning the fight against stubbornness. His touch was light, reassuring, like he was reminding you he was there without needing to say a word.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, voice rasped from hours of use but still the gentlest thing in the room.

You reached down to brush your fingers against his, lacing them quietly together.

“Thank you,” you murmured, eyes already slipping closed.

By morning, you were tucked under one thin hospital-issued blanket, facing each other on the narrow twin bed, your foreheads nearly touching. Robby’s arms were wrapped around you like a cocoon, holding you to his chest as though to shield you from the last bit of cold left in the world. One of your legs was slotted between his, your hands tangled together between your bodies like an anchor. You were nestled in close, limbs entwined in that soft, sleepy way that only came from long hours, cold nights, and knowing each other like the moon knows the night sky—something instinctive and effortlessly familiar, like you'd been made to find each other. 

Which is precisely the scene your dear colleagues walked in on when they cracked open the door to find the unofficial king and queen of the ER.

Abbot blinked. Then smiled like he’d just walked in on a Hallmark movie. "Told you."

Langdon didn’t say a word—just pulled out his phone and snapped a picture with the biggest grin plastered on his face, immediately sending the photo to the group chat. 

"Is that... Dr. Robby?" came Whitaker’s voice from behind them, whispering.

Santos grinned. "That’s gonna break headlines."

Javadi peeked in around the corner, wide-eyed. "They’re actually snuggling. Like real-life snuggling."

Mel, ever neutral, simply nodded. "Their body language indicates long-term emotional attachment." However, even she couldn't hide the glee in her voice.

Moments later, a domino of phones vibrated.

Collins: Excuse me why are they adorable

Dana: I can retire in peace.

McKay: I called it. I knew it and I hate how much I love that I was right.

Mohan: Guess who owes me $5

Mateo: I don't remember signing a contract 

Back on the bed, Robby stirred slightly, his grip tightening as if on instinct. He inhaled softly, nose brushing your hairline, and smiled—a small, contented thing. Like your scent alone had reached some deep, quiet place in him and told him everything was okay.

"Give them ten more minutes," Abbot whispered, gently closing the door with a soft click. "They’ve earned it."

[snickerdoodlebaby]

She Likes Them Mean - Namgyu x reader x Minsu [SMUT]

Warnings: SMUT 18+ (between you & Namgyu), dub-con, dark themes, cuck Minsu, exhibitionism, voyeurism, degradation, choking, slapping, you & Namgyu are exes

Basically sweet innocent Minsu has a crush on you & is forced to watch you get fucked by Namgyu. I’m shocked I haven’t seen a fic of this yet & couldn’t get this idea out of my head, it’s way too hot frrrr enjoy <3

Minsu is always so nice to you. That pretty much sums up how you feel about him — he’s nice. You can tell the shy boy feels more for you though. The way he stares at you when he thinks you won’t notice, looking down quickly when you turn to meet his soft eyes. Choosing to be by your side in every game and sitting close to you at lunch time. The weak smiles he sent your way and how his face would turn red when you accidentally brushed up against him.

The feelings would never be reciprocated, but you enjoyed being friends with him, his quiet presence was somewhat soothing in this godforsaken hellhole. You felt pity for him, especially when he was bullied by Thanos and your ex-boyfriend.

The bullying seemed to increase dramatically once you joined their team.

Any quiet comment or slight touch between you and Minsu was immediately followed by a brutal shoulder-check or insult from Namgyu. “Fucking pussy.” Namgyu spat as his shoulder bump nearly threw Minsu to the ground.

The two of you had dated for over a year before things got messy and fell apart. And when shit hit the fan, it got ugly. The departure was far from civil, you leaving his apartment in a rush of back-and-forth yelling with suitcases full of your stuff after another fight — not uncommon with you two.

It seemed like Namgyu thought he still had some sort of weird ownership over you. This time you had enough — it’s not like he had any say in what men you spoke to or interacted with.

“Leave him alone, dickhead...” You’d say under your breath, glaring at the back of Namgyu’s head as he stopped in his tracks. You hear him curse under his breath, recognizing the korean word for “bitch.”

He didn’t hesitate to turn back around, his hands shoved into his jacket pockets, and walk directly up to you. His black eyes narrowing as he searches your face. “Huh?” His eyebrows raised, “Why are you standing up for this dork? You like him or somethin?”

A short breath leaves your nose in a humorless laugh. You didn’t justify his questions with an answer. The close proximity of Namgyu’s body to yours almost had you dizzy, reeling from the memories the faint smell of his cologne brought back.

Namgyu’s eyes flicked to Minsu sizing him up, who was cowering and making himself as small as possible next to you.

“If you think being nice and sweet is gonna get her to spread her legs, it won’t.” Your mouth dropped open at his lewd words, he said it low enough so that only you two could hear.

“She doesn’t like weak pussies like you. And don’t think I didn’t see you take the bed next to hers.” He nodded in the direction of your bunks. He looked back down at you and leaned forward with his lip curled in a sneer, enjoying how uncomfortable Minsu was getting and the incredulous look on your face. “Bet this bastard jerks off to your sleeping face every night.”

The vulgar words made Minsu visibly flinch and he couldn’t look anywhere but his own shoes. Hearing Namgyu make these crude accusations so openly made his face burn. He had never thought about you in such a filthy way, truly! He was petrified in embarrassment.

You were fuming, astounded at the audacity of this man. Namgyu has always been a sleazy asshole so you should’ve seen this coming. Of course he would try to put poor Minsu in his place while claiming his stake on you. Minsu would probably be too terrified to even glance in your direction now.

Namgyu went further than that, of course. He had a point to prove to this pathetic loser who had no chance in hell of getting with you.

That same night Namgyu had you face down and ass up in your bunk, his favorite position to take you in. Your sweatpants were pulled messily to your ankles along with your panties, your shirt bunched above your tits as they bounce with each rock of Namgyu’s hips against your ass. “Yeahhh…that’s how you like it huh? Bet you’ve missed it.”

His veiny ringed hand was threaded through your long hair, pushing your face into the thin mattress below. Your eyes fluttered and rolled back into your head, your cunt squeezing the life out of your ex’s cock you missed so much.

The two of you weren’t the only ones awake. There was a third — Minsu, the next bunk over, frozen. His blanket was pulled up to his chin, his eyes wide at the debauched scene happening in front of him. The girl he had a crush on getting absolutely railed by the guy who constantly bullies him. The darkness did little to hide the two of your activities, your bunk squeaking and bodies rocking together in a lewd slapping sound disrupting the silence.

Namgyu suddenly wrenched your head up by your hair, making you cry out. He was forcing you to look at Minsu a few feet away, the two of you making eye contact as you moaned and panted. Guilt mixed with pleasure surged through you in waves.

You thought you saw tears well up in the quiet boy’s eyes. He was such a sensitive soul, you didn’t want to hurt him… Namgyu’s next words were venomous as he uttered them.

“Yeah, look at ‘er…” He directed at Minsu. “She’ll. Never. Want. You.” Each word was punctuated by him jackhammering roughly into your abused cunt.

His hand comes up to grip your throat tightly, cutting off your moans and pulling you tight to his chest against your back. “Yeahhh fuck. Y’ always come crawling back, need your cunt fucked nice n’ hard n’ I’m the only one who can do it right, huh?”

You couldn’t breathe and you swear you’ve never felt so good, you couldn’t tell what planet you were on or what nonsense was babbling out of your mouth. Namgyu always had a way of making your head empty and your pussy full, so fucking full.

He released the hold on your throat, a huge gasp of air rushing into your lungs and he’s at the nape of your ear, breathing you in deeply like he was trying to savor the scent of you after being away from it for so long. His hand came up to your cheek in a sharp slap. “Fucking freak can’t get off unless I slap her around.” You moaned loudly at that. Your brain could barely comprehend what he was saying to Minsu. You couldn’t deny the way the extra pair of eyes sent more slick seeping out of you.

You think Minsu really might be crying now, confirmed by what Namgyu said next. You feel his sadistic snicker against your ear, his breath hot. “What? Sad your crush turned out to be a nasty shameless whore?” Namgyu couldn’t stop running his mouth when you were under him.

With blurry half-lidded eyes you glance at Minsu. His gaze was locked onto your bouncing tits squished against the bed. “He can’t look away. Fucking pervert.” Cold fingers clamp down on your clit, pinching it in rapid vicious pulses. A choked scream left your parted lips, quickly muffled by two ringed fingers. Namgyu wanted to make sure you came hard while the shy boy was watching.

“Tell him I own your pussy.” Namgyu’s words were gospel when he was fucking you, and you couldn’t do anything but follow.

You hadn’t been fucked — no, you hadn’t been fucked like this in so long. None of the guys you slept with after the breakup compared, none of the orgasms even came close to how easy Namgyu had you shaking and creaming. At least that’s what you told yourself, to justify why you were about to cum so hard and easily around him.

“Namgyu owns my pussy! Namgyu owns my pussy!!!” The chant left your mouth in a desperate mewl over and over.

Clear liquid gushed out of you, spraying Namgyu’s thighs and dripping down his balls that were still slapping against your ass.

Namgyu cursed when he realized what was happening, rutting his cock into you a few last times before he stilled as deep as he could and came. God, it felt like he was trying to push into your womb. You felt shameful that Minsu had to see you like this, in this debauched state.

He couldn’t bring himself to talk to you or look you in the eyes for the rest of the games. Especially because he came twice in his sweatpants watching you get fucked that night.

[geminiwritten]

dirty laundry (one) ; jake 'hangman' seresin

fandom: top gun

pairing: jake x reader

summary: after a couple months of living together, you're still completely oblivious to how you affect jake and he's starting to spiral because now he's... feeling things

notes: i know it's long but i promise it's fun!!! it's so juicy, i had so much fun, i couldn't stop (clearly)! i'd like to formally apologise to all jake girls (and jake himself, because damn, he gets put through it)... please, please, please let me know what you think! i absolutely love hearing all your thoughts! also, tumblr wouldn't let me post it all at once, so there's two sections...

warnings: swearing, alcohol consumption, reader can drive, a little angst, jake is a bit of a perv and a massive f*ckboy, italics, country music, and VERY HORNY with smut-ish? (masturbation, sex through the wall?) so 18+ ONLY MDNI!!! (please let me know if i've missed anything)

word count: 22046 (section one, 10136)

your callsign is valkyrie

You first met Jake Seresin at the Academy. He was fresh-faced, full of himself, and grinning like the sky belonged to him. Gorgeous—but he knew it. And there was absolutely no part of you that wanted anything to do with him.

The second time you met him was at flight school. He was a little less fresh, a little more cocky, and somehow—even more gorgeous. Because life clearly wasn’t unfair enough already. This time, he was harder to ignore. But still, you managed.

The third time you crossed paths was in the TOPGUN program. And by then, Jake Seresin had become the single cockiest man you’d ever had the displeasure of meeting. He was loud, smug, aggravating—and, annoyingly, still so goddamn hot. Almost impossible to ignore. So you bit your tongue, played nice, and kept your reactions locked down. By the end of the program, your disdain had softened into something closer to... indifference.

His abs, though? Those you could—objectively—appreciate.

You figured that’d be the last of him. But then you got tapped for a special detachment on North Island and—of course—there he was. Grinning like you were old friends. Because according to him? You were. So you humoured it at first, and then somewhere along the way, it actually started to feel true—not just with him, but with the whole squad.

After the mission, the choice to stay on as a full-time, elite unit wasn’t really a choice at all. It was a hell yes.

Once the reassignment came through and you were officially under Maverick’s command, you figured it was time to get out of the barracks. Find a place off-base. Something with a kitchen, a door that locked, and—ideally—no bunk beds. Somewhere you could finally feel like a functioning adult.

“Are you sure about this?” Natasha asks, hiking the box in her arms a little higher.

You lean yours against the wall and wrestle with your keys. “Yeah,” you huff, “why wouldn’t I be?”

You finally get the door unlocked—only for it to stop a few inches in, blocked by something heavy.

Natasha raises a brow. “Because you’re moving in with—”

“Jake fucking Seresin,” you shout through the gap. “Move your shit before I break it!”

There’s rustling from inside, then footsteps.

“Not my middle name,” comes the reply, that smug grin practically audible. “But since you asked so nicely…”

You let the door fall shut again. There’s a thud, some shuffling, and then it swings open.

“Phoenix,” Jake greets with a nod, before turning to you. “Roomie.”

You roll your eyes and shove the box into his chest. “There’s more stuff in the van. I helped you yesterday, you help me today. Get moving, Bagman.”

He doesn’t even get a word in before you brush past him and make a beeline for the kitchen.

Natasha trails in behind you, laughing under her breath as she sets her box down by the half-assembled sofa. She watches with amusement as Jake—very obediently—carries the box toward your bedroom.

“Maybe I should be more worried about Hangman,” she mutters, brows raised.

That was exactly two months ago. And since then, you’ve learned a lot about Jake Seresin.

The first thing you learned was that he’s a morning person—because of course he is. Always up at ungodly hours, ready for a run or a workout, bouncing around the kitchen like a five-year-old on a sugar high. You’re convinced he wears his gym clothes to bed.

The second thing you learned was that he hates horror movies, and can’t even handle the fake, ketchup-level blood in the older ones. A week after you moved in, he walked in on you and Natasha watching the latest Scream. He screamed louder than the film, then disappeared into his room, convinced Ghostface was stalking the apartment for a full week.

Halloween is still months away, but you know Nat’s already planning to dress up as Ghostface just to scare the shit out of him.

The third thing you learned—and this one you kind of already knew—is that Jake Seresin has a wildly active sex life. His hamper? Overflowing with dirty laundry. You now know more than you ever wanted to about his… extracurricular activities.

And unfortunately for you, it didn’t take Jake long to realise just how useful having you around could be.

The first time it happened, you were innocently making coffee, minding your own business in the kitchen, sipping fresh brew from your favourite mug.

“Um, who the fuck are you?”

You startle and whip around from staring out the window above the sink, watching lazy waves lap at the shore of Coronado Beach.

There’s a woman standing at the edge of the kitchen. Her hair’s a mess, her clothes are askew, and she’s looking at you like you’re a big, fat bug splattered across her windshield.

“Uh—I’m the… roommate,” you say hesitantly.

You knew Jake had someone over last night, but when you heard him get up for his usual morning run, you assumed he’d kicked her out on the way.

You also have no idea what Jake has told this woman—or any of them, really—about you. Or if she even knows he has a roommate. Because last night, you stayed holed up in your room with noise-cancelling headphones, watching reruns of your favourite nineties sitcom.

“Oh—” the woman says, her frown softening into realisation. “Oh, I’m sorry. Jakey did tell me about you. I’m just really out of it this morning.”

You nod slowly, holding your coffee cup up to your chin like some kind of shield.

“You’re totally not what I expected,” she says, running a judging eye over your fluffy robe. “But Jakey told me what you’re going through, and can I just say? You’re so strong.”

You blink once, steadying your expression so you don’t blow Jake’s story—though you have no idea what it even is.

“If my husband went to jail,” the woman goes on, “I’d be lost. Don’t know if I’d even stick around. But honestly, you’re lucky you’ve got a cousin like Jakey looking after you.”

Cousin? Jakey? Husband?

You clear your throat, struggling to keep a straight face. “Right,” you mutter. “My husband.”

She nods, plastering on a fake smile over smudged lipstick.

“And my cousin,” you add dryly, taking a long sip of hot coffee. “Thank God for my cousin.”

An awkward silence stretches between you, neither of you quite sure what to do next. Maybe you’re supposed to break down in tears over your jailed husband, or gush about how kind and generous your cousin is.

But then she clears her throat and straightens her misbuttoned blouse. “Anyway, is Jake… around?”

You shake your head. “No, he’s volunteering at the animal shelter today. Won’t be back until late.”

You don’t know how she misses the sarcasm dripping from your voice.

“Aw,” she coos, “he’s such a dream. God, I’m going to miss him so much.”

You press your lips together, biting back a sardonic laugh clawing its way up your throat.

“Well,” she sighs wistfully, “tell him I said bye, and that last night was the best night of my life.”

You nod, the smile on your lips painfully forced.

Then she turns, picks up her heels from where they were kicked off by the door, and glances back to give you one last sympathetic smile. “Oh, and good luck with your husband. Jakey said he’s up for review for conjugal visits, so… fingers crossed!”

Then she was out the door, and you were frozen in place—part shocked, part amused, and fully questioning all of your life choices.

So that’s how it started. That’s how you became Jake Seresin’s unofficial bouncer. His getaway car. His get-out-of-jail-free card whenever one of his many conquests overstays their welcome.

Sometimes you’re his cousin with a tragic backstory that makes Jake look like a hero. Other times you’re his sister who just can’t keep out of trouble, so big brother Jakey had to step up. One time, you were even an at-risk youth, fresh out of rehab—thanks, of course, to Saint Jake and his endless patience.

Mostly, though, you just feel like an underpaid housekeeper. Always taking out the trash, doing his dirty laundry, and making sure he doesn’t get himself hung out to dry. If he hadn’t somehow wormed his way into your heart, you’d probably tell him to suck it up and deal with his own poor life choices. But unfortunately, you’ve come to care for the smug womaniser—and you have to admit, sometimes it is kind of fun to put on a little show.

There’s a soft knock on your bedroom door. So soft you’re not even sure it was real—until it comes again.

You sigh, drag yourself out of bed, and rub at your tired eyes as you swing the door open, already knowing exactly who’s on the other side.

“What do you want?”

Jake stands there in all his glory—tight gym clothes, a day’s worth of stubble, and a backwards cap that is so infuriatingly hot you want to knock it clean off his head.

“Need you to get rid of her,” he says, flashing you a soft smile.

One upside to this whole arrangement is that Jake is almost too nice to you now. He knows he owes you—big time—and you’re not ashamed to admit you’re enjoying it. These days, he pretty much does anything you ask.

“What’s her name?” you ask, folding your arms—only just realising you’re wearing a very thin shirt with no bra.

He’s realised it too—and that you’re not wearing any pants—his sparkly green eyes trailing slowly over your body like they have every right to.

“Uh…” He scratches the back of his neck. “I—I don’t know.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah. That tracks. Do you want to see her again?”

He shakes his head, almost violently. “No way. She was a talker. Basically narrated the whole thing.”

You snort. “Okay, good. I’ll tell her I’m your wife or something.”

You step back, holding the door like you’re ready to shut it. But he doesn’t move. He stays right there in the doorway, a hand braced on either side, that hungry look still in his eyes.

“Do you want to be my wife?” he asks, lips curling into a cocky grin.

“Fuck no,” you say, voice laced with laughter. “Now get out of my room and stop looking at me like that before I slap you.”

His eyes stop roaming your body and lock onto yours—still hot, still shameless.

“Go to the gym,” you say flatly. “I saw the empty cookie box in the bin.”

His brows shoot up, and a soft chuckle escapes his lips. “Wow. That’s rude.”

You roll your eyes and swing the door shut. He steps back just in time for it to click closed, and then you turn and collapse face-first onto your bed with a groan.

You’d be a big, fat liar if you said living with Jake Seresin wasn’t absolute torture sometimes. Especially when he looks at you like that. But you have dignity. Self-respect. Pride. You’re not about to debase yourself and sleep with your hot roommate just because he looks—and sounds—like he could fuck you stupid.

Which, unfortunately, is something you sorely need. It’s been way too long since you’ve been fucked in any capacity, and living with a Greek god is doing an absolute number on you.

After wrapping yourself in your favourite fluffy robe and collecting the empty dishes from your bedside table—the ones you were too scared to return to the kitchen last night—you step out of your room. Jake is gone, but you can hear the shower running in the main bathroom. His bathroom.

You busy yourself making fresh coffee and fixing a plate of toast, humming the annoyingly catchy theme song from the show you binge-watched last night. You’re about to head to the living room when Jake’s latest guest rounds the corner.

“Oh,” she says, blinking. “I didn’t know Jake had a roommate.”

You smile, but it isn’t friendly. “He doesn’t.”

She frowns. “Oh. I mean, he said—”

“I’m his wife.”

Her eyes widen, jaw twitching like she’s trying to decide whether to cry, scream, or vomit.

Silence hangs thick in the air—buzzing with the kind of awkwardness you’ve come to enjoy during these little charades.

Then you sigh, long and theatrical, tilting your head to stare off into space. “I’m not mad. Not really. Jake is… well, Jake. He’s got a kind heart and terrible boundaries. He just loves making everyone feel special.” You pause, giving her a deliberate once-over. “And I’m sure last night was very… meaningful.”

She makes a garbled sound that might be an apology, but you cut in before she can gather a full thought.

“I’d offer you breakfast,” you say, sipping your coffee, “but I think it’s best if you leave before I change my mind and start throwing things.”

She scurries to the front door, grabbing her shoes so fast one heel smacks the wall.

“Oh, and sweetheart?” you add, just as she yanks the door open. “You might want to get tested.”

The door slams shut behind her, and you let a slow, satisfied smirk stretch across your lips as you take another sip of coffee.

By the time you’ve finished your breakfast, showered, and changed into fresh clothes, Jake finally strolls in—flushed, sweat-damp, and glowing that obnoxious post-hookup high. He looks like sin and satisfaction wrapped in gym clothes, radiating the smug confidence of a man who ruins lives for fun.

“She gone?” he asks, not even looking at you as he heads straight for the kitchen.

“Yeah,” you reply. “Scared her off. If you do hear from her again, it won’t be pretty.”

He chuckles, low and unbothered. “Don’t have to worry about that. Already blocked her number.”

“Such a gentleman,” you mutter, digging through the key bowl by the front door.

He cracks the cap on a blue sports drink and downs half of it in one go, watching you from the corner of his eye as you gather your keys, wallet, and sunglasses.

“Where you going?” he asks, a little breathless from the chug.

“The same magical place I go every Sunday,” you say flatly. “The grocery store.”

“Oh.” He caps the bottle and sets it on the counter. “Can I come? I need stuff too.”

You sigh. “Dude, I hate when you come. You’re so indecisive.”

He doesn’t answer—just jogs down the hall toward his room. You hear his door creak open, the spray of deodorant, and the rustle of clothes.

“Too bad,” he says as he reappears, pulling on a hoodie. “I’m coming.”

You roll your eyes and walk out the door, not bothering to hold it for him as he hurries to follow.

The grocery store is only ten minutes away, but Jake still manages to test every ounce of your patience on the way. He flicks through the radio like he’s searching for a signal from God, adjusts the AC a dozen times, and plays with the window like a bored kid stuck in traffic on the way to Grandma’s house.

By the time you pull into the parking lot, your jaw aches from how hard you’ve been clenching it—white-knuckling your temper like a babysitter who’s one tantrum away from driving into a tree.

Then, as you try to ease the car into a spot while an elderly couple inches a trolley across your path, Jake is still at it—humming off-key to whatever’s on the radio, fiddling with the window, and letting the AC blast straight into your eyeballs like some sort of cryogenic torture.

“Stop!” you snap, slamming your foot on the brake and smacking your hand onto Jake’s thigh.

The car jerks to a halt, halfway into the spot. Your fingers tighten on his leg, feeling the muscle twitch beneath your palm—taut and warm under the thin fabric of his gym shorts.

Jake’s breath catches. His eyes drop to your hand.

“Would you please just fucking stop?” you grit out.

He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t move.

You inhale deeply, then slowly release your grip on his leg. You dial down the AC and the radio, look around to make sure the elderly couple is out of the way, and then ease the car into the spot.

Only once you’ve shifted into park does Jake stir. He presses one hand to his leg where yours had been while the other slowly unbuckles his seatbelt.

“Sorry,” you mutter, unbuckling yours. “You’re just such a pain in the ass sometimes.”

You glance up—and find his dark green eyes already locked on you. He doesn’t look annoyed. Or smug. Or hurt. Honestly, you don’t know what the hell that look is, because you’ve never seen it before. Not from him.

His fingers curl into the fabric of his shorts as he takes a slow, uneven breath.

“It’s fine,” he murmurs, voice low. “Didn’t mean to annoy you.”

Then he opens the door and practically falls out of the car.

“Okay...” you mutter, climbing out on the other side of the car.

When you glance over the bonnet, he’s already gone—halfway across the parking lot, pulling a trolley out of the bay and guiding it toward the store’s front entrance.

You frown, noticing how close he’s holding onto the cart while waiting for you to catch up.

“We can get a cart when we get inside,” you say, not missing how tightly he’s gripping the handle.

He shrugs, trying to look casual but it’s too forced. “I want this one.”

You tilt your head, eyes flicking to the bent wheel at the front of the trolley. “It’s got a janky wheel.”

“Don’t care,” he says, turning toward the doors. “Still want this one.”

He walks through the automatic doors, clutching the trolley like it’s a lifeline as he steers it toward the produce section just inside.

You shake your head and follow, pulling your phone out to check the grocery list you made this morning.

“Okay,” you say, reaching for the cart and holding out your phone. “Here’s the list.”

“No,” he says quickly, knuckles turning white on the trolley handle. “I’ll push the cart.”

You frown. “Dude, you hate pushing the cart. You literally whine every—”

Then it clicks.

The way he fell out of the car. The rush to grab a trolley. How he’s clutching it like a shield.

“Oh my God,” you giggle, smacking a hand over your mouth. “Jake, are you hard—”

“Shut the fuck up,” he hisses, brow furrowing, eyes narrowing. But the bright blush spreading across his cheeks betrays him.

You can’t help the laughter spilling from your lips, muffled by your palm as Jake pushes you aside to avoid other customers.

“Would you stop?” he hisses, turning his cap the right way around to hide his red face.

“I—I’m sorry,” you say between giggles. “I didn’t—I mean, I barely touched you.”

“It wasn’t you,” he mutters through clenched teeth. “I was thinking about last night, and—”

You cut him off with another burst of laughter, drawing a few odd glances from passersby.

“It’s really not that funny,” he growls, folding the brim of his hat. “You’re being childish.”

His words barely register. You’re too amused picturing Jake popping a boner after you grabbed his leg and told him off. You knew the man had some kinks, but you hadn’t pegged him as the submissive type. Or maybe it's the humiliation that gets him.

You bite your lip, narrowing your eyes. “Still hard?”

His eyes go wide. “What the fuck?”

You try to shrug, but the grin tugging at your lips gives you away. “Just asking. Trying to figure out which kink applies—”

“Stop,” he mutters. “Just fucking stop, please. I’m begging you.”

You arch a brow. “Begging?”

He tips his head back and groans, which only sets you off laughing again.

It takes a few minutes for you to catch your breath, wiping tears from your eyes as your grin finally starts to fade.

With a soft sigh, you lift your phone and open the grocery list again.

“Still want to push the cart?” you ask with a small smirk.

He simply nods, pushing it forward despite not knowing what’s first on the list.

“Hm,” you hum, “maybe it’s the humiliation.”

“What?” he asks over his shoulder.

You lift your brows, feigning innocence. “I said horseradish. We need horseradish.”

He frowns. “What the fuck is a horseradish?”

You’re not entirely sure yourself, but you can’t admit that. So you roll your eyes like he’s asked something stupid and start walking toward the radishes, silently hoping you can figure out a dinner idea this week that actually uses horseradish.

After a few minutes of browsing produce and arguing over which apple is the best, Jake seems to have remedied his little situation. And to your surprise, he doesn’t try to pass off the cart. Instead, he leans his forearms on the handle and follows you around like a well-behaved puppy—occasionally offering advice on what you’re picking, but quickly shutting up the second you tell him to.

“Do not put that in there,” you warn, waving a bunch of spring onions at him.

He frowns, holding up a misshapen tomato. “What? They all taste the same.”

You scoff. “They absolutely do not. Put that down. Pick the nice, plump, red ones.”

His lips curl into a smirk. “You like ‘em plump?”

You roll your eyes. “Yes, Seresin. I like them plump. Now focus up—we’ve been here almost ten minutes and we’re still in produce.”

He chuckles softly, then turns back to the tomatoes, setting down the ugly one and squeezing each perfectly round, red fruit, searching for the right one.

You bite back a smile, because for all his whining, he’s still doing exactly what you asked. And damn, if the way he’s manhandling those tomatoes isn’t giving you ideas... ones that have no place in a grocery store. Or in public, for that matter.

“Excuse me, dear,” a woman says, gesturing to the mound of bell peppers you’re standing in front of.

“Oh, sorry.” You step closer to Jake, instinctively wrapping an arm around his waist to edge him away so the woman can have her pick.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” she says with a soft smile, her grey eyes flicking between you and Jake. “You two make a gorgeous couple, I must say.”

Your cheeks flush instantly, words catching in your throat as you try to pull away from him. But he’s faster, his arm wrapping around your shoulders, pulling you against his side.

“Why thank you, ma’am,” he says, turning that Southern drawl up to eleven. “Don’t know what I’d do without her.”

You blink slowly, resisting the urge to roll your eyes.

The woman smiles again before picking out two bell peppers, giving you both a nod, and turning to walk away.

You pull away from Jake, wrinkling your nose. “Don’t know what you’d do, huh?”

He chuckles, twisting the top of the tomato bag.

“Probably have to deal with your own bad choices and crappy one-night stands,” you mutter, shooting him a pointed look that says, Yeah. You’d be hopeless without me.

Then you turn on your heel, grab a sack of potatoes, and drop them into the trolley as Jake meets you at the end of the aisle.

For the next half hour, you stroll up and down the aisles, checking your list and tossing things into the cart. Jake mostly stays quiet, only occasionally arguing that name-brand cereal is always better and that all milk tastes the same, so why not just pick the one on sale?

You start wondering if he really needed to come along—he hasn’t added much more than a few protein bars to the trolley—but regardless, you’re enjoying the company. Besides, you hate pushing the cart, so it’s nice to have him helping you out for once. God knows you do more than your fair share of helping him out.

“Oh no,” he mutters suddenly, ducking closer to the trolley and angling himself behind you.

You glance at him, brow furrowed. “What? What’s wrong?”

“That girl from last week,” he says, voice low.

You blink. “Which one?”

His eyes flick nervously toward the end of the aisle. “You know, the one with the red lipstick and the high-pitched laugh.”

You cast your gaze over your shoulder, trying not to seem conspicuous as you squint. Then you spot her—laughing way too loud with her headphones in, clearly on an obnoxious phone call that the whole grocery store is hearing.

“Oh,” you mutter. “That one. It took me like two days to get that lipstick off your shirt.”

Jake freezes, turning slowly to look at you with a curious frown. “Wait. You did that? I thought it just—”

“Came off in the wash?” you ask, snorting. “Yeah, sure pal. Same as those grease stains on your white shirt.”

He blinks—confused or surprised, you’re not sure. All you know is that his nightmare of a one-night stand is heading this way, her shrill voice getting louder.

“Just trust me, okay?” you mutter quickly.

Then you reach up, grab the back of his neck, and pull him toward you until his face is buried against your shoulder, his hat shielding him. You giggle softly and wrap your other arm around his waist, pulling your bodies flush as you listen for the click of her heels against the vinyl floor.

The clicking gets closer, louder, then slows to a stop. She clears her throat, but you don’t move.

“Baby,” you whisper, your breath hitching as Jake’s lips brush the curve of your neck. “Come on, you can wait ‘til we get home.”

There’s a breath. A moment. You wonder if this woman really has the gall to interrupt a couple in public, but then—

The clicking resumes, her voice slowly fading as she walks away.

“There,” you say, clearing your throat as you shove Jake off you. “And for the record, you’d be hopeless without me.”

You quickly turn back to the shelves, willing your body to calm down as heat floods your face. But you definitely don’t miss his reaction—pupils blown wide, lips parted, cheeks flushed, breath coming quick and shallow.

Nor do you miss the way he holds the cart close again, just like when you first arrived—pressing his body against it as he follows silently behind you, blushing like hell.

A tiny smirk curls across your lips.

Maybe it’s an exhibitionist thing...

After another half hour of perusing the aisles and creatively avoiding the red-lipped woman, you finally head for the checkouts. It doesn’t take long for the woman behind the counter to scan your groceries—but in even less time, Jake manages to ask for her number.

She hesitates, eyeing you curiously while you pack the bags into the cart. Jake puts on the full show, flashing a panty-melting grin and swiping his card with all the country charm he can muster.

But you can see it in her eyes—she’s trying to figure out who the hell you are. And why you’re grocery shopping with this man if you’re not together.

With a sigh, you turn to him, deciding—for some unfathomable reason—to help. As if Jake Seresin needs any help getting a woman’s number.

“Come on, dude,” you say, cutting off one of his tired pickup lines. “My girlfriend’s coming over soon and I told her we’d go somewhere nice for lunch.”

Jake looks at you, head tilting slightly—then you see it click. “Right,” he says smoothly. “Your girlfriend. Because you’re gay.” He turns back to the cashier with a winning smile. “Sorry—my housemate’s getting impatient. So... about that number?”

That’s all it takes.

The cashier giggles, flips her ponytail off her shoulder, grabs a pen, and scribbles her number on the back of the receipt.

You roll your eyes and turn away, pushing the cart toward the doors without waiting for him. But he catches up quickly in the carpark, falling into step beside you with that annoyingly gorgeous grin stretched across his face.

“Thanks for that,” he says. “Didn’t realise why she was being weird.”

You scoff. “Seriously? What did you think she was wondering about two people our age buying groceries together?”

He shrugs, taking the trolley from you while you dig around in your pocket for your car key. “I don’t know. I guess I just don’t think of you like that, so I didn’t think anyone else would.”

You snort, stopping at the boot. “Right. I’m just a sexless goblin to you because I’m immune to your absurd charm and annoyingly perfect face.”

You pop the boot, stepping back as it lifts, and Jake positions the trolley to start unloading the groceries.

“You think I have a perfect face?” he teases, eyes gleaming with mischief.

You shoot him a dry look. “You know you do, Seresin. You don’t need me to validate your ego.”

He laughs, lifting two heavy bags into the boot. “Wouldn’t kill you to say it every once in a while.”

“Oh yeah?” Your voice drips sarcasm. “Well, it wouldn’t kill you to thank me for being not just an incredible roommate but a phenomenal wing-woman once in a while. Hm?”

Jake tosses in the last bag, chuckling softly. Then he moves the trolley aside and—without warning—wraps you up in his arms. Your body stiffens, eyes wide, but he doesn’t let go. He just hugs you tightly, cheek pressing to the top of your head.

“Thank you,” he says dramatically, “for being the best roommate in the world. And the greatest wing-woman a guy like me could ever hope for.”

Then he presses a kiss to your hair.

You let out a disgusted groan, flailing your arms until he lets go. Then you shoot him a withering look, sticking your tongue out like a child as you slam the boot shut and stomp around to the driver’s side door.

While he returns the cart to one of the bays, you take a moment to yourself, trying to remember how to breathe. Trying to remind yourself who you’re dealing with here—Jake fucking Seresin. Cocky, a womanizer, your roommate, and a total pain in the ass.

He absolutely shouldn’t be making you feel all warm and gooey inside. No way. His smile, his scent, the way his strong arms wrapped around you—that’s just… wrong. Definitely not something that should make your brain start asking dumb questions like, What if he did see you like that? Like one of those girls he actually wants.

Yeah, right. Like that would ever happen.

As if you’d ever want that to happen. Nope. No thanks. No way.

- Jake -

It’s been a long day for both of you—but longer for Jake.

After the usual run of flying, training, and debriefing, Maverick made him stay back to fill out maintenance logs as punishment for ‘clogging up the radio’. In Jake’s defence, you and Natasha were baiting him. But Mav didn’t care who started it—he just cared who was still talking when he keyed his mic.

So Jake ended up stuck in the hangar office for two extra hours, sorting paperwork with one of the grumpiest plane captains on base, regretting every single word he’d said.

At least it’s Friday. Two days off, two nights to himself—and, with any luck, some half-decent sex.

When he finally walks through the apartment door, he can hear your shower running. Great. Now he has to wait if he wants hot water.

With a heavy sigh, he unzips his flight suit and starts trudging toward his room at the end of the hall. Yours is just before it—on the right—door wide open as usual. He can hear the soft sound of your humming, light and off-key, which probably means your ensuite door is open too.

“Nope,” he mutters to himself, eyes fixed ahead as he strides past. “Don’t even think about it.”

Because Jake Seresin does not think about you like that. He can’t. Not seriously.

Sure, he flirts. Of course he flirts. He flirts with everyone. It’s easy. It’s harmless.

But you? You’re different.

You’re his housemate. His teammate. One of his closest friends in this whole damn place. Thinking about you—really thinking about you—is a fast track to disaster.

And yet… it’s always crawling at the edges of his mind. Quiet temptation. Soft and persistent, like a whisper he pretends not to hear.

The way your skin would look, slick with water. How that sweet little hum might sound if he had you pressed to the wall, mouth on your neck, hands on your hips. How easy it would be to step in behind you. Slide his fingers down your spine. Sink his teeth into your bare shoulder as you let out a soft whimper—

No. Hell no.

He slams his bedroom door behind him like it’ll help. It doesn’t.

Because the hardest part—pun intended—is that Jake likes living with you. He might even say he loves it. You make things easy. Fun. Comfortable. Like home. Which is exactly why he can’t screw this up. Not by fantasising about you. And definitely not by acting on it.

If he ever let himself go there—let himself think about what it would be like to touch you, to have you—he knows he’d fuck it all up. And he can’t afford to do that. He can’t let his inner-caveman win just because you’re ridiculously hot.

Because this isn’t about feelings. Oh, no. Jake Seresin doesn’t do feelings. This is about him being human—a man, no less—and you being sexy as hell without even realising it.

So he doesn't let himself. He won’t lethimself.

That’s why he keeps his bed full. Women in and out. Just enough heat and chaos to distract him. Just enough friction to keep the thought of you out of his head. So he doesn’t think about your lips. Or the way your body moves. Or the little smirk you get when you know you’ve outsmarted him.

He’s got it under control. Totally. Completely.

Except then you’re there—always there. Smelling like cinnamon and vanilla, wearing those stupidly oversized shirts with no fucking bra. Hard nipples and bare legs. And Jake is just about losing the plot because God, your waist would fit so perfectly in his hands. Your body beneath his as he—

“Jake!”

Your voice cuts through the fog like a gunshot.

He jerks, eyes snapping open, heart hammering. Then he looks down at the very obvious problem tenting the front of his flight suit.

“Jesus Christ,” he groans, dragging a hand over his face. “I need to get laid.”

Granted, it’s only been five nights since his last overnight guest. But five nights with just his hand—or worse, humping his pillow like a desperate virgin? Yeah. He’s not doing great.

“Jake!” you call again, louder this time.

He takes a deep breath and reaches into his flight suit, adjusting his now painfully hard dick into the band of his underwear before swinging his bedroom door open.

“What?” he shouts, stomping toward your room.

“I left my towel in the dryer,” you call through the apartment. “Can you grab it for me? I’m all wet.”

He stops just short of your door, eyes shutting tight as he tries not to picture that. You. All wet. Jesus.

“Sure,” he mutters, though he knows you probably can’t hear him.

He spins toward the laundry closet across the hall, yanks open the dryer, and pulls out a fluffy towel that smells just like you—vanilla, cinnamon, whatever intoxicating shampoo you use—and holds it away from his face so he doesn’t sniff it like a psycho.

“Are—are you covered?” he asks as he steps into your room.

“What? You’re not going to try and sneak a peek?” you tease, all playful and smug—and fuck if it doesn’t go straight to his cock.

You’re joking. You’re always joking. Because you love to tease him. But whether it’s on purpose or not, it still makes his dick twitch. Every damn time.

“‘M not the type to steal glances, sweetheart,” he drawls. “I prefer a good, long look.”

It’s just instinct. Flirting is wired into his system, hard-coded somewhere deep in his bones. He doesn’t mean to say half the shit he says—it just falls out of his mouth before his brain even has a chance to weigh in.

“Gross,” you mutter. “Just hurry up, I’m fucking freezing. My nipples could cut glass.”

He goes still. Muscles tight. Jaw clenched.

Cut glass.

Jesus Christ.

His eyes snap shut, but it’s no use. The image is already there—sharp, vivid, obscene—and his cock, already fucking leaking, throbs against his belly.

“Hello?” you call, completely oblivious.

“Yeah,” Jake croaks. “I—I’m coming. Just gimme a fucking second.”

“So’s Christmas,” you grumble.

He sucks in another deep breath, then moves through your room and nudges the ensuite door open—squinting like that’ll save him.

It doesn’t.

You’re standing behind fogged glass, barely blurred—one arm across your chest, the other between your thighs, wet hair clinging to your skin, and steam curling around you in lazy spirals. You look like a damn goddess. A naked, pissed-off goddess who could break him with a single look.

“Dude!” you hiss. “Don’t fucking look!”

His eyes snap open as he jerks his head the other way, blindly stepping toward you with the towel outstretched.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “Not sure what else I’m supposed to fucking do.”

You sigh. “Just throw the towel, moron.”

He tosses it, hoping it clears the shower screen.

“Thanks,” you say, followed by the sound of rustling fabric. “Now get the fuck out.”

He clears his throat. “Gladly.”

Then he’s gone—back down the hall, back into his room. Slamming the door shut behind him like that’ll do anything to stop the visions in his head or the aching in his cock.

After a quick wank—very quick, given what he just saw—and a cold shower, Jake grabs his phone and texts the woman he’s been talking to for the past forty-eight hours. She’s been sending him nudes since last night, so with any luck, she’ll be keen to meet up tonight.

He’s already in the kitchen, rummaging through leftovers in the fridge, when you emerge from your room—and it takes everything in him not to do a double-take.

Your hair’s done, your lips are glossy, your dark blue jeans look painted on, and the top you’re wearing is doing downright criminal things for your tits. You’ve got a leather jacket draped over one arm and your purse slung over the opposite shoulder.

Jake frowns, keeping his gaze locked on the container of satay noodles in his hands. “Going somewhere?”

“Got a date,” you reply, voice smug.

He glances up, raising his brows. “A date?”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t sound so surprised.”

“Not surprised,” he says coolly, turning toward the microwave. “You just haven’t had one since we moved in.”

“Yeah,” you sigh, tossing your purse onto the kitchen bench to slip on your jacket. “I just haven’t been bothered. But… a girl’s got needs, you know? It’s been long enough.”

Needs. Jesus Christ. What he wouldn’t give to help with those.

If it weren’t for the fact that you also worked together, Jake might actually be tempted to suggest a roommates-with-benefits kind of deal. But he knows if that ever went south, it wouldn’t just screw up your living situation—it’d screw up your careers. Ones you’ve both worked your asses off to achieve.

He chuckles softly, eyes drifting toward you as you reapply lip gloss using your phone camera. “Do I need to borrow your noise-cancelling headphones?”

You shrug, that teasing smirk tugging at your mouth. “Maybe. I’ll let you know how dinner goes.”

Then you tuck the gloss away, sling your purse back over your shoulder, and turn toward the door.

“Don’t wait up,” you say with a wink.

He raises a brow. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“Did you just give me the green light to commit a felony?”

He rolls his eyes. “Very funny.”

You poke your tongue out, give him a little wave, and let the door swing shut behind you.

The second the latch clicks, Jake sighs and steps back from the counter, staring down—again—at the bulge in his pants.

God, he hopes he can get laid tonight. Otherwise, he might actually explode.

-

It’s late when Jake gets home. The whole apartment block is eerily quiet as he walks through the lobby, rides the lift up, and strolls down the hall toward your apartment door.

You haven’t texted him all night—not that it matters. The date was either too good for you to touch your phone or so bad you don’t want to talk about it. Either way, Jake doesn’t care.

Because right now, he feels good.

He’s loose-limbed, freshly fucked, and riding the kind of high that only comes from a solid round—or three—of no-strings-attached sex. His head’s clearer. Body lighter. And that itchy, restless frustration he’s been living with? Gone.

Hell, he might even sleep in tomorrow. Skip the gym. Make a big breakfast and tease you about your lousy date—which is what he’s assuming, obviously. Because surely, you would have warned him if—

A pitchy moan cuts through the apartment the second he steps inside. High. Breathless. Undeniably female.

He freezes. One boot off, the other still halfway on.

Another cry echoes. “Fuck—right there—don’t stop.”

The door clicks shut quietly behind him, but Jake still doesn’t move.

Then he hears it.

Smack. Skin on skin. A moan that breaks into a whimper. The creak of bedsprings. The wet, unmistakable rhythm of bodies moving together—fast. Rough.

“Harder,” you gasp, desperate.

Jesus Christ.

His brain short-circuits.

That’s you. In your bedroom. Getting absolutely railed. Loudly. Shamelessly. Obscenely.

He’s never heard you like that before—never heard anyone like that before. It's graphic. Filthy. Fucking hot.

Jake actually blushes. His face burning like some virginal freshman stumbling into the wrong dorm.

He should leave. Go out. Do anything but stand there like a depraved freak. But he can’t move.

Then—another moan. Longer. Higher. And something crashes into the wall. Headboard? Elbow? Doesn’t matter. What matters is the sound you make when it happens, a breathy, cracked little “Ja—ah—”

Wait. Jake?

His whole body jerks.

But then you laugh, low and wrecked. “Justin,” you pant. “D-Don’t let me cum yet.”

Not Jake. Just his idiot brain, short-circuiting under pressure.

Still, he swears all the blood in his body does a violent U-turn, hurtling south at breakneck speed. Because that voice, that pitch, that tone—

It’s everything he’s not allowed to think about.

And now? He can’t stop.

He kicks off his second boot, face hot, dick already hard again—and this time it’s worse. Because he’s not just turned on. He’s unravelling. He’s losing it. Caught somewhere between protective and pissed off and—

He’s not jealous. Of course not. That’d be insane.

He’s just... horny. Again.

Because all that post-orgasm clarity he walked in with?

Gone. Instantly. Obliterated.

And now all he can hear is you—moaning, begging, falling apart—and all he can think about is what it would be like to be the one making you sound like that.

Jake stumbles down the hall like a man possessed, yanks open his bedroom door, and kicks it shut behind him. He flicks on the light, grabs the first pair of sweatpants he sees, and starts tearing through drawers like a lunatic.

Headphones. He needs headphones. Where the fuck are his headphones?

They’re always in the top drawer. Always. Except tonight, of course. Tonight they’re nowhere to be found. Maybe he left them in his car, or at the gym. Maybe they’re buried in his gear bag or lost somewhere at work. Wherever they are, it doesn’t matter—because right now, he’s completely, helplessly, fucked.

Your voice floats through the apartment—soft and wrecked. “Oh, my God—yes, yes, right there—”

Jake groans, scrubbing both hands over his face before falling face first onto the bed. He drags a pillow over his head like it’s going to do anything, like it’s going to stop the sounds seeping through the walls.

It doesn’t.

Your moans crawl straight into his ears, into his bloodstream, settling hot and heavy in his gut. He presses his hips into the mattress, jaw tight, pulse pounding in his throat. It’s subconscious at first—barely even movement. Just friction. Pressure. Desperation.

Then you cry out again, all high and needy, and Jake grinds down without thinking. Just once. Just enough to feel it. His breath catches. His body lights up like a fuse. Because in his head, it’s all you. Under him. Around him. Crying out his name.

No. No, no, no—fuck, stop it.

He flips onto his back, trying to will the image away—but it’s already there. Burned into his brain. Your face, tipped back in pleasure. Your mouth slack, panting. Your thighs spread wide. Hands clawing at his back. Body arching into his.

He groans again, eyes squeezed shut, fisting the sheets as his hips jerk up into nothing.

And then—

A low grunt. Rough. Male. Clipped and stuttering. Followed by a choked-off, breathless curse.

Justin.

Jake’s whole body locks up.

Everything goes still.

Heat drains from his face, shame slamming into his chest like a sucker punch.

Because what the fuck is he doing?

He’s lying here, hard and sweating and grinding against his own goddamn mattress, getting off to the sound of you fucking someone else.

His friend. His roommate. His teammate.

Jake shoves himself upright, rage and humiliation sizzling through his veins like lightning. His body is still aching—still primed—but now it just feels gross. Wrong. So fucking wrong.

“What the fuck is wrong with me,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face like that’ll wipe the whole moment away.

But it won’t.

Because the sound of you—wrecked, undone, beautiful—is still echoing in his skull. And for the first time in a long time, Jake Seresin feels like a goddamn mess.

Eventually—after what feels like an eternity—the noises stop.

Jake lies in bed feeling like a snapped powerline—buzzing with a dangerous current he can’t shake, muscles locked. nerves frayed. He hears your shower running, your voices—low and indistinct—then, at last, silence.

Sleep comes in useless fragments. Every time he drifts off, it’s only to be jolted awake by echoes of your voice. Whimpers. Moans. Soft sighs that somehow twist themselves into his name.

Each time his eyes snap open, his stomach turns. He needs his memory scrubbed clean, wiped of every sound, every image—because the longer it lingers, the more vividly he sees you. Blissed out. Fucked stupid. Completely undone in a way he’s never seen before.

God. Maybe Natasha was right. Maybe moving in together wasn’t the smartest idea he’s ever had.

Sure, it’s benefited him just fine for the past few months, but he hadn’t expected this side of things. He hadn’t considered what it might feel like to lie in bed, separated by a single thin wall, listening to you have pornographic sex with strangers. If he’d known that was part of the deal, maybe he would’ve thought twice.

How hypocritical.

By five a.m., he gives up. He rolls out of bed, changes into his gym clothes, and storms out the door—scowling at Justin’s shoes still sitting neatly beside yours.

He spends two solid hours at the gym, working his body until his muscles shake and his vision blurs. His headphones—found buried in his damn gym bag—stay on the whole time, music turned up loud in a pathetic attempt to drown out the sounds still ricocheting around in his skull.

Your moans are stuck in his head like an old favourite song, one he can’t stop humming even though it’s starting to make him go insane.

He sees a few familiar faces and stops for conversation, pretending everything is normal. Easy. Like he didn’t spend last night rutting against his sheets, imagining things he shouldn’t be imagining. Because seriously—what kind of freak fantasises about their friend getting railed by another guy?

At seven, he leaves the gym and stops for coffee halfway home. Then he sits in his car for thirty whole minutes, sipping it slowly while scrolling through his contacts like a man on a mission. Every female name gets a second glance—because he’s desperate. For a distraction. A good fuck. Anything to clear his head and kill this goddamn erection.

When he finally decides to head upstairs, he finds himself praying that you’re not home. Or if you are, that you’re alone. Because the idea of running into you—or worse, him—makes his skin itch.

Normally, he’d love a bit of banter over breakfast. But not today. Today, all he wants is to jerk off until he’s raw and numb and no longer at risk of letting something stupid slip out of his mouth.

He’s halfway down the hall toward your apartment door when he hears music. Loud music, accompanied by slightly off-key singing and jumbled lyrics. And the only reason he knows the lyrics are wrong is because this is one of his favourite songs.

A country song, no less. One you’ve sworn to hate every time he dares to play his music out loud.

He presses his lips together and quietly pulls out his keys, doing his best to stay silent as he cracks the door open.

And there you are.

In the middle of the kitchen, using a spatula as a microphone and swaying your hips like it’s the best morning of your life. You’re wearing one of those absurdly sexy oversized shirts, and he can’t even tell if you’ve got shorts on—or panties, for that matter.

Your hair’s a mess, there’s makeup smudged beneath your eyes, and your head is tipped back as you belt out the chorus with full, reckless confidence. Wrong notes, wrong lyrics, right attitude.

Jake’s heart lurches into his throat, beating way too fast.

You look so happy. Not just content or satisfied, but happy. Radiant. It’s the same expression you wore the first time you flew a jet—he remembers, he was there—and at TOPGUN graduation, grinning like you could take on the world. God, he’s never forgotten that smile. It’s too damn pretty to forget.

He swallows hard, trying to dislodge the weird lump in his throat, and shakes his head before pushing the door open all the way.

You don’t notice at first. You’ve turned your back to him, flipping a pancake at the stove, your head bobbing along to the music like you physically can’t keep still.

Jake clears his throat. “Didn’t think you’d be able to walk today, let alone put on a concert.”

You jump, whirling around with wide eyes and wielding the spatula like a weapon.

“Jesus Christ, dude! What the fuck?”

Dude. Sometimes Jake wonders if you’ve actually forgotten his name. Even his callsign would be better.

“I didn’t sneak in,” he says—only a partial lie. You would’ve heard him if it weren’t for the music. “Not my fault you’re off in your own world.”

You roll your eyes and grab your phone off the counter, turning the music down until it’s just background noise.

Jake lifts a brow. “So, Justin fucked you into having good music taste, huh?”

Your eyes go wide, heat crawling up your neck. “How do you know his name?”

Jake just gives you a flat look, folding his arms over his chest while he waits for you to figure it out.

“Oh—” you gasp, slapping a hand over your mouth, but you’re still grinning.

“Yeah,” Jake mutters, turning toward the living room. “Oh is right.”

He walks around the couch before flopping down into the cushions and pulling out his phone.

“Hungry?” you call out.

“Mhm,” he hums, eyes glued to his phone as he types a few quick responses to the women he messaged earlier.

A few minutes later, you appear in front of him holding out a plate stacked with two pancakes, a heap of blueberries, banana slices, Greek yogurt, and a drizzle of dark maple syrup.

“Pancakes are made with ricotta,” you say. “And it’s that organic syrup you like. So don’t bitch about carbs or refined sugar.”

He blinks, looking up at you with wide green eyes, wondering why the hell he deserves this. How the hell he deserves you. As a friend, of course. A roommate.

You nudge the plate closer. “Come on, dude. I haven’t got all day.”

He takes it, clearing his throat—again. “Uh, thanks.”

You smile and turn away—and he can’t help it. He ducks his head, eyes dragging down your legs, trying to see if there’s anything under that damn shirt.

“I’m hanging out with Nat today,” you call from the kitchen. “She wants the full recap on last night.”

Jake snorts. “Yeah? Want me to come? Bet I could give her a better play-by-play than you could.”

“Shut up, Seresin,” you mutter, but he can still hear the smile in your voice. “I’ve listened to you every second bloody night for the past two months. Call it payback.”

He rolls his eyes as he takes the first bite of pancake, summoning every ounce of self-control he has not to moan. Because holy shit, these are good.

“Yeah?” he calls. “Well, I know for a fact none of my sleepovers have ever been that loud.”

You appear again, almost startling him as you set a mug of coffee on the table in front of him.

“Well, maybe,” you say, eyes narrowed, “you should do better. Then your sleepovers might be a little louder. A little more... enthusiastic.”

Then you turn and stroll back into the kitchen.

Jake shuts his eyes, breathing slow and deep through his nose.

Do not get hard. Do not get hard. Do not—

He’ll be fine.

As soon as you’re out of the apartment and he can jerk off in peace.

Half an hour later, you’re showered and dressed, standing by the door, sliding sunglasses onto your head. Jake is in the kitchen, elbow-deep in warm water and suds, cleaning up after your breakfast concert—something he volunteered for, of course. A small price to pay for borderline orgasmic pancakes.

“I’ve got a heap of laundry to do before tomorrow. Can you make sure the machine’s free when I get back?” you ask, one foot already out the door, brows raised.

Jake glances over. “Want me to start it? I don’t mind.”

“Really?”

He nods. “Yeah, I’ll be here all day anyway.”

Your brows lift even higher. “Oh? No Sunday sex appointment?”

“Not ‘til tonight,” he grins.

You roll your eyes, a playful smirk curling your lips. “Okay. That’d be great, actually. You know where my hamper is?”

He nods again, and you flash a wide smile before slipping out the door, calling an airy “Thanks, bye” over your shoulder.

After washing, drying, and putting away the dishes, Jake wipes down the kitchen, vacuums the floor, then moves on to the laundry. He retrieves your hamper from your room, trying not to let his eyes wander too much—but even after all the times he’s been in here, it feels different now. Like the walls are holding onto something he wasn’t meant to know. Something raw. Something private. Something that would make the devil himself blush.

He shakes his head and forces his feet to move out of your room, taking the hamper with him to the laundry closet. He swings the doors open wide and pours your laundry into the plastic basket sitting atop the machine. Then he shifts the basket to the small bench on the left, opens the washer door, double-checks that it’s empty, and starts sorting through your dirty laundry.

He doesn’t want to be a creep—he really doesn’t—but some things just can’t go in the wash together. So he tries. He spots your work clothes and sets them aside, knowing they need a hotter wash—grease and all that. Then he picks up a bra and remembers you mentioning something about an undergarment bag...

With a clipped sigh, he drops the bra and rummages through the cupboard beneath the bench, quickly finding the spotted mesh bag he’s seen you use before. Whether you use it all the time, he isn’t sure, but he’d rather be safe than sorry.

Working quickly now, he slips your bras into the bag and sets aside anything he’s unsure about mixing with the rest. And then—

Something catches his eye. Nestled between a pair of blue jeans and the top you wore last night lies a delicate matching set of lingerie—deep burgundy lace, silky and soft-looking, way too pretty and intimate for him to be seeing.

His breath hitches. His pulse spikes. He tells himself to shove the thought aside—it’s just laundry. Stop being a creep. It’s just laundry.

But he can’t stop picturing it—your skin wrapped in that delicate fabric, your most intimate places covered by just a whisper of lace and silk. God. He can’t fucking stop.

His sweatpants start to swell at the crotch, growing until there’s a prominent tent between him and the bench where that lingerie lies. Taunting. Teasing him.

Jesus. It probably still smells like you. He could almost—

No. Stop. Stop right now.

But he doesn’t. He can’t.

He shifts his weight, eyes locked on the burgundy lace. His fingers twitch, itching to touch, but he clenches them into fists at his sides, clinging to what little control he still has left.

His breath turns shallow, uneven. Each inhale sharper than the last. His head spins as blood rushes south—away from reason. Away from restraint.

His mind races, painting every inch of you in that fucking lingerie. How the lace would hug your curves, how soft and warm you’d be beneath it. Your scent. The slope of your hips. The arch of your back. How wet you’d be... just for him.

He can't take it anymore.

With a strangled grunt, his hand slips beneath the waistband of his sweatpants, fingers trembling as they close around his hot, swollen length—already leaking into the grey fabric.

His hips twitch, breath catching, eyes squeezed shut. All he can see is you. That lace. The sounds you made last night. He strokes harder, faster—every thrust frantic, sloppy, desperate. He’s too far gone, lost to the hunger clawing its way through him.

It doesn’t take long. He’s too worked up. Too far gone.

He steps closer to the bench, bracing himself with one hand, his other still working beneath his sweats. His head drops forward, and—

His fingers graze the lace. Just barely. The faintest touch.

But it’s enough.

His whole body seizes—hot and tight—and he cums with a gasp, clutching the edge of the bench as pleasure crashes over him. His hips stutter, grinding through it, riding the wave until he’s shaking.

When he opens his eyes, his hand is slick and his sweatpants are soaked through, a dark stain spreading across the front of them. His shirt isn’t spared either—there’s a damp patch blooming near the hem.

“Fuck,” he mutters, breathless.

He wipes his hand on his pants and forces himself to finish sorting your laundry, tossing the lingerie into the garment bag like it might burn him if he holds it too long. Then, without looking down, he strips out of his ruined clothes and shoves them into the machine.

He tosses in two detergent pods, taps a few buttons, and hits start—watching the drum begin to spin like that alone might be enough to wash away what just happened.

Then he heads for the shower, grabbing his phone on the way—because if he has any chance of pulling himself together before you get home, he’s going to need more than just his hand.

PART TWO

[tojicide]

chapter four ── lab partners.

the spider’s sense: a spidercaleb series.

♥︎ spider-man!caleb 𝑥 fem!reader

(i forgot to post it with tags the first time around so i have to repost it… so sorry for spamming your notifs </3)

synopsis. caleb’s life was perfect—until it wasn’t. a radioactive spider bite turned him into linkon’s friendly neighborhood spider-man, the daily bugle started hunting for the man behind the mask, and to top it all off, he was forced to partner up with you—his smart, competitive, and infuriatingly perfect classmate who threatened his spot as number one in the class rankings.

tags/warnings. college/modern au, academic rivals to lovers, fluff, angst, eventual smut, gran isn’t evil in this LOL, the canon event, college parties, alcohol consumption, cliches, depictions of serious crime, references to the spider-man comics and movies, mdni

chapter summary. after a series of unfortunate events, caleb shatters any hope of reconciliation with you… or so it seems.

prev: chapter three. ┆ series masterlist. ┆ next: soon!

Caleb didn’t remember making it to his bed last night.

That wasn’t unusual these days. Most nights ended in a whirlwind of aching limbs and crashing adrenaline, a blur of alleyways and sirens, limbs sore from swinging through Linkon’s crumbling skyline until he could scale the fire escape outside his dorm and collapse.

Sometimes he didn’t even bother removing the suit.

The only proof he was even back in one piece was the dull throb in his shoulders and the familiar, worn-in scent of his dorm—old laundry detergent and someone’s leftover Cheetos. That, and the familiar protest of the bunk mattress digging into his back.

A groan slipped from his throat as he tossed an arm over his face, shielding his eyes from the god-awful morning light filtering through the slats of their half-broken blinds.

He could feel the grime still clinging to his skin, last night’s victories sticking to him like second skin. Three attempted robberies, a handful of purse snatchers, and one very memorable dive into a dumpster full of Caesar salad.

(He was trying not to think about that last one.)

The sound of someone clearing their throat sliced through the morning silence.

His whole body went rigid.

He cracked one eye open slowly, only to find Zayne sitting across the room in his desk chair—legs crossed, arms folded, wearing a judgmental expression that practically screamed intervention.

“…Morning, Batman,” Zayne said flatly.

Caleb groaned and rolled over, his voice muffled by the pillow. “Don’t call me that.”

“Then explain why you came in at three in the morning with a limp, croutons in your hair, and—unless I was hallucinating—a fork sticking out of your shoulder.”

Caleb blinked, slowly reaching beneath the blanket to pull the crumpled remains of his suit deeper out of sight. “I got it out. No biggie.”

Zayne gave him a look that could only be described as hardened. Silent. Cold. Stern.

“The silence is so loud,” Caleb muttered, burying his face in his mattress.

“I can wait all day.”

“Okay, okay,” he groaned, pushing himself upright and scrubbing a hand over his face. His hair stood up at odd angles, and he knew from the ache in his back that he probably looked as bad as he felt. “But you have to swear you won’t tell anyone. Not even the snowman plushie on your bed.”

Zayne raised a single brow, then solemnly held up two fingers. “The snowman takes all secrets to the grave.”

“Good.” Caleb exhaled. “Alright, I’ll just rip the bandaid off. I’m Spider-Ma—”

“Spider-Man. Yes. I know. Figured it out two weeks ago.”

Caleb’s words stuttered to a halt. “…You what?”

Zayne reached down, plucking something off the floor. It was Caleb’s mask—plain as day, just lying there like a dirty sock. “Aside from the suspicious injuries, the weird new muscles, and the fact that you literally crawl through the window every night, this thing hasn’t exactly been subtle.”

“Aw, man,” Caleb collapsed dramatically onto the mattress. “I’m so bad at this.”

“You are,” Zayne agreed cheerfully, tossing the mask onto Caleb’s stomach. “But, for what it’s worth, I admire your… let’s call it ‘unshakable sense of justice.’”

Caleb peeked over the edge of his pillow. “Really?”

“Sure. Very noble. Very heroic.” His roommate tilted his head. “Unless you get arrested, in which case it is just incredibly embarrassing.”

Caleb snorted, grabbing the nearest pillow and chucking it at him. 

“Anyway,” he said, fluffing the pillow in his lap, “that was question one.”

“There’s a second question?”

Zayne leaned forward with a nod. “Have you seen the paper this morning?”

Caleb squinted. “The school paper? No offense, but I’m pretty sure you’re the only person who reads that before noon.”

“Unfortunately for you, today’s edition is a little more… relevant than crossword puzzles and department bulletins.”

He pulled out his phone and chucked it toward Caleb, who caught it with the sluggish reflexes of someone who had dodged bullets but not slept.

Bright screen. One swipe. Bold title.

The Spider’s Sense.

And beneath it, a photo—clear, high quality, unmistakable—of him, mid-air, suit vivid against the valley of skyscrapers.

Who Is Spider-Man? Weeks ago, witnesses reported a masked individual, clad in red and blue, moving with inhuman agility...

Caleb didn’t even register the rest at first. He was too focused on the photo. That was him. There was no doubt, and his stomach churned.

The rest of the article blurred into a wash of phrases. Masked vigilante. Real-life superhero. Enhanced human? Technology? Guardian or threat?

His hands trembled slightly as he scrolled. “Who wrote this?”

Zayne shrugged. “No clue. It’s anonymous. Might’ve been a student, or one of the permanent writers trying to make a name for themselves.”

Caleb’s chest tightened. The words on the screen burned themselves into his brain. His entire existence was no longer just speculation—it was documented.

And worse? That was just the beginning.

“Check socials,” Zayne added. “It’s… sort of everywhere.”

With the dread of someone opening a cursed scroll, Caleb tapped the next app.

Twitter. Instagram. TikTok.

The internet was flooded. Hashtags. Edits. Fan accounts. A clip of him saving a cyclist from an oncoming truck looped with dramatic music.

And the comments—

victoriastoji: nah girl if he’s saving cats from trees i’d let him web me up aaaanytime batmanstanfr: This has to be AI. No way he’s real. coolgirl45: oh yup. I just know there's some fine shyt under that mask. BRING ME HIM.

“My Lord,” Caleb whispered.

“You’re famous,” Zayne said, chewing thoughtfully on a granola bar. “Or infamous. I suppose we’ll find out.”

Caleb dropped the phone into his lap and buried his face in his hands. “There’s no way.”

“There is a way,” Zayne echoed. “And that way is: you’ve gone viral.”

He should’ve felt proud. This was what heroes were, right? Public symbols. Masked protectors. Instead, all he found in its absence was a sinking weight.

This wasn’t just about sneaking around and stopping small-time crooks anymore. It wasn’t just about helping old ladies cross the street or making sure kids didn’t get their bikes stolen.

This was bigger.

His name—his face, sort of—was out there. His anonymity was already cracking.

The mask had kept him safe. But now… the city was watching. 

♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎

Tara was sprawled across your bed like a tragic heroine from a Victorian novel, one arm slung over her face as though she’d just received news of an ill-fated engagement. Her jacket had half-slipped off her shoulder, one boot still on, and one sock-covered foot twitching in dramatic protest.

“If I still smell like car wax for the rest of my life,” she whined, “at least I’ll die knowing I did something charitable.”

You snorted quietly, glancing at her from the mirror where you sat cross-legged at your desk. Lip pencil in one hand, tiny sharpener in the other, you worked through the uneven point with surgical focus. Your fingers still ached from scrubbing windshields and hoods three days ago, but the ache was a dull, familiar one. The kind that said: you did something that mattered. That helped, even if it left you sore.

“At least you raised more than your goal,” you said, turning slightly to flash her a small, knowing smile. “Enough for all your upcoming events, and then some. Plus, the extra for the community clinic next month. And, most importantly: more than Lambda Chi Alpha.”

Tara shot up like she’d been electrocuted, her eyes suddenly alive again. “Okay, so— about that,” she said, voice hushed like she was letting you in on a secret. “Because we absolutely crushed it, and because the universe is clearly in our corner for once, the boys are throwing a party this weekend.”

You blinked. “The boys?”

“The frat rats. Xavier, Raf, the entire losing side.” She twirled a hand in the air. “They’re calling it the Midterm Mixer, which is… definitely a choice… but it’ll be so fun, I promise..”

Your face already contorted into a grimace. “Mm, I don’t know. That actually sounds like my worst nightmare.”

“Come on,” Tara pleaded, flopping back into the—your— pillows. “It’s just one night of pretending we’re not slowly drowning in deadlines. A final hurrah before midterms.”

You hesitated, stomach tightening with quiet reluctance. It wasn’t just the looming tests or the pile of lab reports waiting to be written. It was the chance that he might be there..

Caleb. 

You hadn’t seen him properly since the meeting prior to your lab presentation. He’d left you hanging—again—and you’d buried your irritation in your workload, trying not to dwell on it. But you had. Of course you had, no matter how much you tried to hide it.

Tara, of course, picked up on your hesitation like a bloodhound. “Wait… is this about he who shall not be named?”

You frowned. “What? No.”

“That was the most suspicious ‘what’ I’ve ever heard. It had, like… three silent subtexts.”

You tried to wave her off, but she grinned, relentless in her pursuit of the truth. “Oh my God, it is. You don’t want to go because you’re afraid of seeing your favorite academic nemesis.”

“He’s not my favorite anything,” you muttered, opening your laptop a little too forcefully.

Tara tilted her head. “Sure he isn’t. That’s why you twirl a finger in your hair every time his name gets mentioned.”

You paused, lip parting in protest, then closed it again. Your hand not-so-suspiciously fell from your hair and into your lap. There was no winning this one.

“What? There was a knot…” you grumbled.

“Right,” she said, lying through her teeth with a smile. “Just admit it. You don’t want to go because you don’t want to look like you care.”

“I don’t care.”

She looked at you, entirely unimpressed. “Whatever helps you sleep at night. Just know that whatever it is that you’re avoiding, it’s pretty obvious that he feels it too.”

A scoff breaches your lips. “If he did, would he have skipped out on me for the past few labs? I don’t think so.” 

Even with your back turned to her, you can hear the smile in Tara’s voice. “Hmm… you certainly have a lot of bitterness in that beautiful voice of yours for someone who ‘doesn’t care.’”

You flushed, caught. You shook your head without a reply, fingers nudging your laptop open once more.

The page for the Linkon Gazette was already pulled up, cursor hovering over your article. The one about him—the masked figure who’d swung across your city like a myth in motion. The one who, for reasons you couldn’t quite explain, kept showing up. The one who’d endured your pepper spray like it was a mild inconvenience and vanished before you could ask a single question.

You knew it was just a story. A journalistic lead. But still… something about him stayed with you.

You weren’t sure why.

Maybe it was the adrenaline. Or the way he’d moved—graceful and fast and human in the most impossible way.

Or maybe it was the lingering suspicion you couldn’t seem to shake: that you knew him. Or had seen him. Or—

No. That was crazy. 

Still, the article had gone semi-viral. Readers were hungry for updates. And you—no matter how much you told yourself it was just curiosity—kept thinking about the man in the mask.

You hadn’t written everything. Not yet, that is.

“I’m not saying yes to the party,” you mumbled, mostly to distract yourself.

Tara smirked. “You will. You’ll pretend to hate it, then show up wearing that liner and make someone’s son question his entire life path.”

You rolled your eyes, though the corners of your mouth tugged upward in a way you couldn’t fight off.

She stood and stretched, looking far too pleased with herself. “I’ll circle back later. I’m gonna go ice my legs and emotionally prepare myself for Xavier’s attempts at DJing.”

“Good luck,” you said through a laugh, already clicking through the Gazette’s backend to check the article’s traction.

As she reached the door, she called over her shoulder, “By the way, if you don’t come, I’m sending you a selfie of me at the party every ten minutes until your phone explodes.”

You made a noncommittal noise in response, but something about her words lingered. You didn’t want to go. Not really—but maybe that was the problem.

Because part of you did want to. And you weren’t sure if it was the music, the drinks, the celebration—or the possibility of running into someone whose eyes you hadn’t stopped remembering.

Whoever he was.

♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎

The lab room was too quiet.

Not the comforting kind of quiet that came with focus and cooperation. This was…. tense. Brittle. Like if you breathed too loudly, too harshly, the whole ceiling might come down on your heads.

You sat hunched over a spreadsheet, orange highlighter uncapped. Your eyes scanned row after row of Caleb’s recent data entries, and your stomach sank. These weren’t just lazy mistakes—these were guesses. Sloppy ones, too. Unlike him from what you knew of him, both firsthand and through the grapevine. You knew it because you’d been carrying this project on your back for weeks while he’d been… elsewhere. Distant. Distracted.

He stood across the table, spinning a pen between his fingers like it was the only thing keeping his world in balance. You noticed the way his foot tapped incessantly against the tile floor.

It wasn’t for the stress relief.

He was spiraling.

Not just from guilt—which had been eating away at him since the day the spider sank its fangs into his skin—but from everything. The missed assignments. The long nights swinging between rooftops. The adrenaline spikes. The way his GPA was inching closer to ruin, and his spot as top of the class, the thing he’d clawed toward for years, was now hanging by a thread.

And the worst part?

He couldn’t even explain it to you, the single person who might be owed as much.

His gaze flicked—again—to the terrarium at the edge of the bench. Three spiders inside. Neatly labeled, color-coded tags. Clicked shut. 

But there were supposed to be four.

And the second your eyes drifted toward it, he saw the exact moment you noticed.

“Hold on,” you muttered, blinking down at the log sheet in your lap. “Where’s the fourth one?”

Caleb swallowed, heart pounding in his throat. “Huh?”

“The… the striped one,” you clarified, already cross-checking labels. “The one we dosed with the neuromodulator last week.”

He leaned in, squinting at the enclosure like maybe—maybe—it would pop back into existence if he looked hard enough. “Weeeird,” he said weakly. “Maybe it’s in the soil?”

You didn’t even dignify that with a full look. “It’s not a burrowing species.”

Your voice was clipped. Frustrated. Like you’d had enough.

And Caleb couldn’t blame you. He’d been showing up late to labs, forgetting deadlines, spacing out mid-analysis. You had every right to be pissed. Every time he left you to pick up his slack, he told himself he’d make it up to you somehow. And then something else would happen—a car chase, a mugging, a building on fire—and he'd vanish all over again.

Maybe you didn’t know why, but you felt the absence.

“Maybe it teleported,” he tried.

You whipped your head around and gave him a look sharp enough to cut steel.

“Seriously?”

He raised his hands like a white flag. “Just sayin’. Science is full of surprises.”

You rolled your eyes and leaned toward the tank, muttering to yourself as you checked the corners. Caleb watched the way you tucked your hair behind your ear, the subtle furrow between your brows. Your fingers moved with purpose. Precision. You were good at this. So good. Better than him, really.

“This doesn’t make sense,” you said under your breath. “Dr. Rappaccini keeps everything airtight—she’s obsessive about it.”

Caleb shrugged, voice too casual. “Maybe one of the other labs took it?”

“Without logging it?” You looked up sharply. “That’s not protocol.”

And there it was again—that hint of disappointment. Not the loud kind, but the quiet, exhausted one. The one that meant you expected more from him.

He felt it like a gut punch.

“Well, we’ve got enough data from the other three, right?” he offered, trying to sound optimistic.

You hesitated. “Barely. It’s not as conclusive without the fourth set, but… I guess we can still present the trends.”

He nodded quickly, seizing the olive branch. “Yeah. And we’ll figure out how to make up the missing variable later. I’ll talk to Rappaccini.”

You blinked, eyebrows lifting. “Since when do you volunteer for extra lab time?”

He looked down at the pipette in his hands. “Just tryin’ to be better.”

Your gaze lingered on him a second longer, like you didn’t quite believe it. “Is this your attempt at a redemption arc or something?” you asked dryly.

Caleb coughed, recovering fast. “You wish.”

You snorted, but the tension between you didn’t ease. He watched you scribble something in your notebook, your pen tapping against the margin in steady, rhythmic bursts. It was always like this—silent patterns, little rituals you probably didn’t even realize you had. He used to think they were annoying. Now they grounded him.

Now they made his chest feel tight.

He wasn’t sure if it was the spider venom mutating his bloodstream or just… you.

Without a word, you slid your notes across the table toward him. “Here. You’re presenting Part B, right?”

He blinked. “Uh… yeah.” He hesitated, frowning. “You sure you don’t wanna split it more evenly?”

“I’ve got the intro and the methodology,” you said, not meeting his gaze. “I trust you to handle the analysis.”

A pause.

“…Ish.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Ish?”

You smirked, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Well, I did hear you tried to answer a short-answer question last week with ‘vibes.’”

Caleb groaned. “That was in philosophy! C’mon, it was a joke.”

But you were already standing, packing up your notes with brisk efficiency.

Before he could say something else, Dr. Rappaccini’s assistant poked his head in. “You’re both up next.”

Chairs scraped against tile. Caleb shoved his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, repeating his talking points in his head like a mantra.

Buzz.

His phone vibrated once.

Buzz. Buzz.

Twice more.

You turned to him, already scowling. “Seriously? Put it on Do Not Disturb already.”

“I— sorry,” he mumbled, pulling it out to check.

LINKON PD ALERT: Robbery in progress. 5th & Linwood. Nearby units respond immediately.

His stomach dropped.

Everything in him screamed go. People were in danger. If he waited, if he chose himself—chose you—people could get hurt. But—

Your voice broke through, sharp with disbelief. “Caleb?”

He looked up. Your expression was expectant, slightly nervous. Vulnerable.

You needed him here. Just once.

“I—uh,” he stammered, backing away. “I gotta go.”

Your eyes widened. “What? Caleb, we’re literally about to present!”

“I know, I just—something came up, okay?”

“Caleb!” Your voice was louder now. Shaken. “I— I don’t have your parts practiced! I trusted you!”

“I’m sorry, I just— I gotta go!”

And just like that, he turned and ran.

You stood frozen in the lab, fists clenched, heart hammering. All the missed labs. All the vague excuses. All the silence.

You didn’t know where he was always running off to, and maybe you didn’t care anymore.

But what hurt the most was that a small part of you did, even if it was for a reason you couldn’t name.

♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎

It wasn’t until later that night—or more rather, early the next morning—that Caleb got around to checking his emails. 

His most recent email was from you. 

Subject: I HATE YOU I HATE YOU. I HATE YOU!!!!!!!!!! we got a C+. thanks a lot bucko.  Sent from my iPhone.

Right as he opened it, a Canvas notification pinged at the top of his screen.

Your instructor has updated: Lab Partners – Spring Semester.

His eyes scanned the page.

Lab Partner: None

Lab Partner: None

His slot—and yours—were both empty.

And just like that, the panic he felt in the alleyways of the city wasn’t so different from the one spreading in his chest now.

♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎

Caleb spotted you across the dining hall like a spy on a mission, armed with a tray that held exactly one sad cookie and all the dignity of a man facing trial.

You sat at a table with Tara and Yvonne, both mid-conversation while you absently picked at your salad, two chocolate chip cookies lined up beside your bowl like trophies. Unbothered. Thriving. The vision of a girl who had deleted him from a shared spreadsheet like she was erasing a stain.

And the worst part? You hadn’t answered his apology emails.

He swallowed and approached anyway. “Is the second cookie for me, or…?”

You didn’t even glance up. Didn’t have to.

“It’s for my dignity,” you said flatly.

“Ah. So… symbolic.”

“Exactly.”

Yvonne looked between you both and muttered something under her breath about emotional turbulence before grabbing her tray and ghosting out of there. Tara followed a moment later, tossing Caleb a brief good luck with that expression.

Now it was just you, him, and the two cookies between you.

He sat down across from you, setting his tray down with a thud that sounded louder than it should’ve. “Okay, I get that you’re mad—”

“Oh, do you?” Your tone was clipped. “Because ditching me during our presentation with zero warning kinda gave the impression that you dropped the class entirely.”

Caleb winced. “It was an emergency.”

“Right. A life-or-death emergency?”

“Yes.”

And it had been. Just not the kind he could explain.

You finally looked up, eyes sharp and cold, and for a second he forgot what language was. “Well, while you were off saving the world or whatever you’re calling it, I had to present your analysis with no prep. I looked like an idiot.”

“You never look like an idiot,” he said instantly. Too instantly.

You blinked.

He blinked.

“…W-What I meant was—” he started, voice catching.

“Too late.”

“Okay, fair.” He shifted in his seat, suddenly aware of how warm the room was, how close you were, how he could still smell the faint citrus of your shampoo from across the table. “I’m sorry.”

You arched a brow. “For?”

He hesitated. “For… ditching you.”

“And?”

“…And making you carry the project alone.”

You tilted your head, gaze unreadable. “And?”

He exhaled slowly. “And pushing you to the point that you deleted me from the lab spreadsheet like I was some failed experiment.”

You gave a little hum of satisfaction, grabbing one of your cookies and taking an infuriatingly slow bite. “Apology not accepted.”

Caleb slumped. “C’mon. Seriously?”

“Not unless you find a way to make up the points you lost us.”

He narrowed his eyes. “So this is, what—conditional forgiveness?”

“This is consequential forgiveness,” you corrected, calm as anything. “You cost me an A. You’re lucky I haven’t broken a beaker over your head.”

He nodded slowly, a wry smile creeping in. “That… actually feels fair.”

The truth was, he had screwed up. Repeatedly. Not just with the lab, but with the way he’d pulled away from everything lately—classes, responsibilities, you. And maybe what made it worse was that you noticed.

He didn’t want you to notice.

He didn’t want you to care.

But he really didn’t want you to stop.

You held him accountable, and never wavered. It was… refreshing, in a way.

“I’ll figure something out,” he said. “Extra credit or… something. Just—don’t write me off yet.”

You shrugged, licking a crumb from your thumb in a move that was definitely not lethal but still managed to short-circuit his brain. “If you do that, then maybe I’ll consider reinstating you. Maybe.”

Caleb leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table. “You drive a hard bargain.”

“You bailed mid-step,” you easily reminded him. “You’re lucky I didn’t file for academic abandonment.”

“Academic abandonment,” he repeated, chuckling despite himself. “That’s new.”

“I’m submitting the paperwork as we speak.”

“Ooh. Terrifying.”

You didn’t break eye contact as you reached across the table, plucked his lone cookie off his tray, and took a bite.

His eyes widened. “That was mine.”

You chewed. “Should’ve brought two.”

“You’re a menace.”

“You’re a flake.”

“You’re… kinda evil.”

“And you’re lucky I haven’t poisoned your food.”

There was a pause. Not icy, but charged. He looked at you—really looked—and wondered when exactly the rivalry had blurred into this. This feeling in his chest that had nothing to do with radioactive spider venom.

Caleb leaned back, the smile still tugging at the edge of his mouth. “I’m gonna fix this. Mark my words.”

You narrowed your eyes, but something behind them softened. “You better,” you said. “Or next time, I’m eating your entire tray.”

He stood, picking up his tray and muttering as he walked away, “Betrayal stings more when it’s chocolate chip.”

You didn’t answer.

But you were smiling.

Just a little.

♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎

Caleb stood outside Dr. Rappaccini office, staring at the little nameplate on the door like it might spare him. It didn’t, of course. He could never be so lucky.

He knocked three times for good measure.

“Come in,” her voice called from inside—calm, efficient, a little like she had five other things she’d rather be doing than speaking to one of her students.

He pushed open the door and stepped inside, trying to look less like someone whose lab partner had asked this very professor to sever their lab partnership.

Rappaccini didn’t look up at first. She was grading with the speed and surgical precision of a woman who’d seen one too many poorly labeled graphs in her day. When she finally glanced up, she set her pen down slowly.

“Mr. Xia,” she said with a forced smile. “I was wondering when you’d crawl out from whatever hole you vanished into.”

Wow. No sugarcoating. Maybe he really had been missing class a bit too much lately.

“I deserve that,” he admitted with a wry grin, hoping it’d earn him brownie points. “Totally fair.”

“Mm.” She leaned back in her chair. “Let me guess. You’re here to ask for extra credit.”

“Sort of. I’m here to ask how I can fix what I broke.”

She stared at him, then gave a dry little laugh. “Well, that’s a refreshing amount of self-awareness. Most students come in blaming poor time management or divine intervention.”

Caleb smiled sheepishly once more. “No lightning strikes or mysterious illnesses. Just… bad decisions. And poor communication.”

She gestured for him to sit. “Your partner already presented the project. I imagine she wasn’t… thrilled.”

“She left me an email that said, ‘I HATE YOU. I HATE YOU’ in all caps, so…” He paused. “I’d have to agree with you there.”

Rappaccini allowed herself the tiniest smirk. “Concise.”

“I’m just… I’m trying to make it right,” he then said. “If there’s anything—and I mean anything—I can do to make up the points for us, I’ll do it.”

There was a long pause as she folded her hands over the stack of papers in front of her.

“Funny you should say that,” she said. “Dr. Connors is running an independent experimental study this month at Oscorp. It involves cellular regeneration—specifically, lizard DNA.”

Caleb blinked. “Lizard DNA?”

“Yes,” she said. “He’s studying regenerative properties—limb re-growth, accelerated healing, that kind of thing. It’s early-stage, but it’s part of a bioengineering cross-collaboration with Oscorp’s pre-clinical research team.”

Caleb sat up a little straighter, curiosity stirring. “And he needs students?”

“Volunteers,” she corrected with a raise of her finger. “No grade boost guaranteed, but participating students will receive consideration toward incomplete assignments if the data is thorough and the effort is there. Both you and your lab partner can volunteer. It’s not easy work, though. It’ll take late nights and actual commitment.”

Caleb asked hesitantly, “Do you think my partner would even want to sign up for this?”

Rappaccini deadpanned. “She already did. Yesterday.”

And once he heard that, Caleb didn’t even hesitate. “Okay. I’m in. I mean—we’re in.”

Rappaccini raised an eyebrow. “That confident?”

“I have to be,” he said. “I need to prove I’m not just… the guy who bails when it matters.”

She nodded slowly, then reached into a drawer and pulled out a small stack of forms. “Here. Fill this out, and bring it to Dr. Connors’ office by the end of the week. Orientation starts Monday.”

He took the form, feeling something like relief start to uncoil in his chest.

“Thank you, Dr. Rappaccini.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” she said, picking her pen back up. “This is you digging yourself out of a hole you made. Don’t stop halfway.”

“I won’t.”

“Oh, and Caleb?”

He looked back over his shoulder.

“If you ditch this study the way you ditched that presentation,” she said, looking directly at him, “I will personally request your removal from the department.”

He raised a hand solemnly with a sheepish smile. “Message received, ma’am.”

She went back to grading, placing her glasses on her nose bridge. “Good. Now go earn back your lab partner before she finds someone smarter and… less difficult.”

“Wouldn’t blame her if she did,” Caleb muttered on his way out. But even still, he clutched the Oscorp packet in his hand like it was gold.

Because somewhere between the disaster presentation and the sound of your voice yelling his name as he sprinted away from you… he realized something.

He didn’t just want to make this right for the grade.

He wanted to make it right for you.

series masterlist. ┆ next: soon!

a/n i’m an idiot and forgot to post it without tags, i’m sorry to the taglist bc i tagged you guys like four times 🙁🙁🙁

anyways….. long time no see………. the semester is officially over sooooo i can finally get back to writing. i have a few other wip that i’d like to finish before chapter 5 tho ☝️☝️ currently working on a knight!sylus fic and zayne in a pride and prejudice au :p

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[neo-nomatrix]

In a world of boys, he’s a gentleman

Luke Castellan x Apollo kid!reader

word count: a little over 1k

summary: you’ve had your heart broken many times, maybe the Hermes boy will be different

You have only ever wanted to be loved. For whatever reason you haven’t had much luck. Sure, there were many guys.

Callum from Ares. The only thing hotter than him was his temper.

Ryan from Hephaestus. He would forge copper to make you jewelry, little did you know three other girls had the same gift.

Ezra from Athena. Always thought he was so much smarter and better than you. Made you want to shoot your arrow straight at him.

Aiden from Hermes. A liar who couldn’t take anything seriously.

Elliott from Ares. Was dared by Callum to lock you in a dark room. And he actually listened.

Being the child of Apollo had its perks, but it more often had downsides. Your least favorite being your ability to fall in love so easily. After Elliot you swore off falling in love. A pain even you couldn’t heal. You couldn’t understand why nothing seemed to work out for you, you were a dreamboat!

A beautiful daughter of Apollo who glowed like the sun. Not only were you his daughter, you were his favorite, the hundreds of freckles on your face proved it. You were kind and generous, always willing to take in an injured camper from dusk to dawn. Your smile quite literally lit up a room. Perhaps you were too nice? Maybe they thought they could take advantage of your kindness?

Whatever the reason was doesn’t matter. You decided to take a page from your aunt Artemis’ book. No more boys, no more falling in love. Things will be easier this way. You know it.

You should’ve been at the bonfire with everyone else. You chose to skip it tonight because you wished to be alone, at the archery range. Maybe you’d earn another freckle if Apollo saw you practicing your already perfect shot. Luke should’ve been at the bonfire too, singing with your half-siblings and roasting marshmallows.

“Hey! I need some help!” A deep, painful cry said.

Immediately worried, you turned around and saw Luke Castellan holding his abdomen. You immediately run over to him, taking his arm over yours and getting to your cabin as soon as possible. You decided the infirmary was too far and you could use the cot in your cabin.

You slam through the cabin door and lay him on the cot in the middle of the bunk beds. “Lay down.”

You pull up his blood stained orange shirt to reveal a large gash on the side of his toned stomach. You held your hand on his abdomen for a moment to assess what happened. A second degree burn and large slices, as if by a horn, caused this.

“How did this happen?” You ask as you start to transfer some of the pain to a potted plant, causing it to wilt.

“Accident with a hephaestus kid, wrong place, wrong time I guess,” He says slightly wincing.

“I can take most of the pain but it’ll still take a while to heal,” You explain.

“Weren’t you supposed to be at the bonfire, leading a song with the rest of your cabin?” He asks.

“I could ask you the same thing, wandering around the blacksmiths. You know those things they make are pretty hot right?” You scoff at him.

“Yeah I guess I do now,” he rolls his eyes.

You begin to bandage the wound and give him a slice of bread. “Bread? What the hell is this gonna do?” he questions.

“My sister Melody made it, it can heal the burns for the most part,” you say.

“Aren’t you the girl who dated Aiden?” He asks bluntly, taking a bite of the bread.

“That’s none of your business,” You roll your eyes.

“If you ask me-” he begins to say before you cut him off.

“I’m not.”

“He was an idiot. All those guys were. I mean seriously, didn’t anyone teach them how to treat a pretty girl?” He continues, not fazed by you interrupting him.

“All those guys? You know about them?” You question.

“I guess. I mean after word got out about that shithead Elliot I did some asking,” he shrugs. You frown at the mention of Elliot.

“Whatever, they’re all in the past. No more guys for me,” you tell him.

“You shouldn’t give up entirely, these guys are stupid. There’s someone out there who deserves you, trust,” He assures you.

“Oh yeah? Tell me when you meet him,” You laugh.

“I think i know a guy, actually,” He responds, sitting up slightly.

“Oh yeah? Do tell.”

“Well, he’s tall, tan, and goddamn gorgeous. Has these soft brown curls, and I heard he’s the best swordsman at camp. Perfect for the best archer,” He explains to you, smiling.

“You seem to be fond of him, maybe you should go date him,” You joke.

“Nah, I think he likes this girl from Apollo. Kind, generous, beautiful, best healer and archer around,” He locks eyes with yours, darting between your eyes and your lips.

He holds your face in his hand, circling his thumb. His shirt rides up exposing his stomach and bandages.

“You like what you see?” He teases.

“You’re an idiot,” You smile.

“That seems to be your type,” he shrugs and knits his brows.

Before you can say another word he presses a kiss against your lips, moving them softly against yours. One of his hands stays on your neck while the other ventures down to your waist and then the chair you sat in. He pulls the chair closer to him and puts his hand back on your waist. You move one of your hands to his knee and the other to right beside him, leaning in closer.

“Fuck, you’re amazing,” He’s whispers into the kiss.

You smile at him before pausing. “The bonfire’s almost over, maybe you should head back,” you say.

“Yeah probably,” he gives you one last hard kiss followed by another few pecks.

He stands up and steadys himself, the injury clearly still pains him. He starts to walk away but before he can leave he turns back to you and presses a few more kisses against you.

“Okay, I’m done. y’know for now,” he smirks.

“You’re welcome anytime,” You laugh and he leaves. He gives you two looks before exiting.

Maybe you’ll give this boy one more chance.

[lady-of-endless]

"Veiled Intentions" (Hwang In-ho/Player 001/Front man x player!reader)

Summary: No game of cat and mouse ends well.

Author's Note: Thank you so much to everyone who voted for this fic to be done first. I'm happy to provide. He might be a little obsessive, but you should've expected it by now. Don't worry; I got a softer, heartfelt, and angsty fic on the go for tomorrow. Hope you'll enjoy this one until then, darlings!

(Squid Game masterlist here)

Whenever he flashed a smile to the team, no one noticed how the coldness of his eyes was somehow still persistent. The charm of his smile always eclipsed that detail. It was enough to successfully manipulate most players, except for you. The only one who seemed to see the bigger picture was you and he could sense it. No amount of calculated smooth-talking, apparent encouragement, or fake short smiles could trick you too.

The others seemed to accept him easily, either for the calmness that made him seem reliable or for the vital need to have more people with the same vote. Not you, and it was clear to him.

In-ho had a plan going on; he had no intention of wasting time and trying harder to trick you too, letting you do your silent judging. But still, you were slowly becoming more and more present in his mind. You weren't warming up to him, weren't impressed like the others. Why not? More importantly, why did he like it that way? You were smarter and he enjoyed watching you analyzing everyone around, including him. Yes, you were a problem for him, but he was almost proud of having such a fascinating problem to take care of.

In-ho was too good at looking relieved, and joyful whenever the other players from player 456's team made it during the games. You noticed a strange spark in his eyes whenever you also completed the games. Was he really relieved or just glad that with each game he was getting closer to taking care of you personally?

Even now, he was watching you silently when the speakers announced bedtime. You all remembered what was the plan Gi-hun came up with to stay safe and looked around for a lonely bed bunk. Your constant doubt pushed you to come up with a plan to figure him out and now it was the perfect time to strike.

In-ho was ready to make a strategic choice when your voice interrupted his thoughts again.

"Join me?" You asked bluntly, with a warm smile on your face. A fake smile, a reflection of his. He looked at you, raising an eyebrow at your proposal. "For bonding time, getting along." You added, encouragingly, almost playfully, not to stir suspicion in others.

All the other teammates noticed how you kept your distance from him and were glad to see you try to get along.

In-ho almost wanted to chuckle at your reasoning but his expression remained composed. He could tell that you were trying to convince him with your charm and that you only played a role. And he was doing the same.

"Lead the way then." In-ho responded calmly, as always.

In-ho had a small, almost imperceptible smirk on his face the whole time following you, and his eyes were glued to the nape of your neck. How could he ignore you?

You crawled carefully under a bed that was placed closer to a corner no one else chose. A shiver ran down your spine when he joined you effortlessly, making almost no sound at all. The lights dimmed. However, that wasn't the problem. The problem was that the space from under the beds was not enough for two. Both of you were lying down on your backs, staring at the bed from above. His shoulder was pressed against yours, the feeling was impossible to push aside.

You closed your eyes tightly, cursing the tight space and sighing deeply. Why didn't you think this through? In-ho was amused by your frustration and how your body tensed next to his.

"You seemed so sure about this." He teased with a mocking tone he didn't even try to hide.

The way his voice sounded so intimate in the dark and how his warmth surrounded you, were making it hard to stick to the plan. You grew a little hotter under your clothes but you had to go for it. You took a breath in and spoke in a whisper.

"I can see right through your tactics." You said bluntly, still looking at the bed from above to avoid his gaze, knowing how intense it gets sometimes. You were almost proud of the sternness of your tone. "What are your intentions?"

He didn't respond right away, taking time to just look at your expression. In-ho was a meticulous man, he was expecting that question sooner or later from you.

"Wasn't I clear from the start?" In-ho asked calmly, almost innocently, switching his position to lay on his stomach and elbows, never losing sight of you. That position forced you to look up at him, exactly the way he liked it. He was getting too comfortable for someone who was cornered. Seeing how there was no sign of panic or surprise on his face, the previous boost of confidence was starting to slowly diminish in you.

"I think we both know what I mean." You added coldly, letting him know you've had enough of his games. He could feel your patience running thin and he was enjoying it.

Your assumption was true; you were so close to figuring it out but, at the same time, so far away, so clueless about what he really wanted, what he really was capable of. It gave him the freedom of acting anyways he wanted for a little bit.

"Indeed." He said, seeing an opening and moving a hand to the opposite side of your face on the floor, making it look like he was just supporting himself and not caging you. "And that's because you're playing the same games, don't you agree?" He asked smoothly. He watched as you rolled your eyes and looked away to hide your real reaction, taking you longer to respond. In-ho didn't insist, wanting to take his time exposing you bit by bit. When you turned your head back at him to answer, your heart halted, words dying. Your eyes met intimately, his face was even closer than expected.

"It won't work with me." His breath touched your lips. He brushed a strand of hair behind your ear to see your face better. He frowned when he caught himself giving in to his instincts, his fingertips caressing your cheek and stopping on your lower lip without thinking.

"But your tries were..." He added, applying pressure on your sensitive skin and moving his lips even closer to yours slowly. "Entertaining, to say the least."

In-ho watched your expression closely, observing the details of your face in the dark. He couldn't get enough that moment but his face didn't betray any sign of the greed that was coursing through him. So he didn't stop there, using the momentum of your shock.

"Was it fun?" He asked, mercilessly but blissfully tormenting and playing you. "To feel like you had the upper hand?" He whispered while his hand descended to the base of your neck.

In-ho looked at your parted lips again, waiting for your answer and not moving away. There was a storm of conflicted thoughts in your mind and the warmth of his palm on your pulse point was not helping you find a good answer in time.

"Answer me." His grip tightened slightly, his tone smooth yet demanding. "And look at me, darling"

You looked up at him and nodded, admitting silently. Finally, you understood what you got yourself into and felt more than exposed. It was frustrating how easily he switched the roles from being the one interrogated to the one asking whatever he wanted.

You shivered at the sight of his subtle smirk. It was nothing like the bright fake smile he offered to the team. One corner of his lips curled upwards while the rest of his expression remained composed. His eyes glinted with icy, calculated sharpness. Finally, you could see him, whoever he was, and not the simple player 001.

In-ho was studying her, thinking about how you weren't aware of the effect you had on him from how well he was concealing it. Still, none of your questions were answered.

"What are you going to-"

"Hush." He murmured against your lips, cutting your words. "Don't wake the others."

In-ho slowly traced your collarbones through the thin material of the shirt with your player number and placed his whole palm on your chest over your racing heart. He paused, just to feel your heart, taking credit for its hectic beating. The silence that surrounded you was not helping either, you could hear every breath, every move, enhancing the intimate feeling so much you had to remind yourself that you were still in the middle of a sick challenge with daily deadly games.

He looked back into your eyes and spoke softly, seeing your inner conflict, wanting to distract you from it. "I've caught you staring at me so many times."

"I was just spacing out." You whispered, not hesitating this time but still telling him another lie.

Even the always calm, rarely out of character In-ho chuckled at that. It was a pleasant, unfiltered but still strange sound.

"Liar." He said while caressing your hair again but making sure to tug gently at the roots as a warning. "You had so many opportunities to push me away since we got under here." He whispered, almost tenderly, meaning it. His eyes were not locked on yours. Was it because he was letting himself think out loud? "But you don't want to do that..." He added, pausing his touches, giving you time to object. But the truth was that your denial ended with him calling you 'darling'. That waited objection never came and In-ho understood.

With that, he allowed himself to take what he wanted. He thought to himself that it was inevitable. His lips found yours with an unexpected gentleness despite his restrained hunger. The hellhole you were trapped in seemed to fade away with the way his lips explored yours. His fingers tightened possessively against your skin as the kiss deepened. His warmth was embracing you blissfully but his tongue was making you dizzy with each breath he was stealing from you.

After what felt like time, bending to his will, In-ho broke the kiss slowly. Even if you didn't say a word, he still covered your lips with his finger for a moment.

"I'm expecting you to still be smart about this and keep it private." He spoke in your ear, an expectation or a warning. "Do that and you'll be safe no matter what."

What you couldn't understand was that this was a hidden promise. If you kept whatever he gave you a secret for yourself, he would pull all the strings to get you alone with him, away from that game.

[gianna-z-xdx]

!LT simon! x !reader!

Simon Riley, the strong lieutenant, having a soft spot for you? Ha! Never. But deep down, in the quietest part of his heart, he couldn't fake it anymore. Maybe—just maybe—he did have a slight soft spot for you… but who said you had to know that?

You didn’t.

Then one day, as you were casually walking past his quarters, not paying much attention, you bumped right into him—into his broad, solid chest. You looked up quickly to see who it was.

Oh shit.

You just bumped into Lieutenant Riley.

Panic rushed through your chest. You were afraid of getting chewed out or written up, so you stammered quickly, “S-Sorry, Lieutenant…” Your voice was small, shy, barely above a whisper.

Simon looked down at your smaller frame and muttered, just loud enough for you to hear, “It’s fine. Just be careful next time.”

And then he walked past you.

You stood there for a good minute, frozen, brain still trying to catch up with what had just happened. You were so confused… but he was so fine that you immediately forgot about the awkwardness.

You shook your head and made your way to the mess hall, eventually plopping down onto a cold metal bench. It wasn’t the most comfortable thing in the world, but it would do.

Then, out of the corner of your eye, you saw Lieutenant Simon Riley sit down right next to you.

Your brows furrowed. Why was he sitting with you? This was the second encounter today… and in the mess hall of all places? That never happened. Simon never mingled like this. This was weird.

Was he doing this on purpose? Or was it all just a coincidence? Maybe it was an accident? You didn’t know what to make of it. So finally, curiosity got the best of you, and you turned to him.

“Mr. Riley… are you purposefully coming up to me?”

He glanced at you, cool and unreadable, and replied with a short but steady tone: “No. Just a coincidence.”

And he knew damn well that was a lie. He wanted to see you. Every single day. He didn’t even know why he felt so possessive over you—but he did. He wanted you. He needed to claim you.

Meanwhile, you were just sitting there confused as hell, unsure what to make of any of this. You ignored it, stood up, and walked out of the mess hall. There wasn’t much to do there anyway. You made your way toward your quarters, only to hear the overhead speaker blare:

"READER. SIMON. COME TO MY OFFICE."

You sighed and turned on your heel, heading toward Price’s office.

When you got there, Simon was already standing inside. You stepped in and quietly shut the door behind you. The room was heavy with silence. Price motioned for both of you to sit across from him, and you did—nervous, waiting for whatever this was.

Then Price spoke, voice sharp, straight to the point: “So. We’ve got too many recruits on base. We’re doubling up rooms. You two are the first pair. Hope you understand.”

The silence that followed was thick.

You opened your mouth to speak, but Simon beat you to it.

“Yes, sir. Which quarter is it?”

“Room 653,” Price replied simply.

Without another word, Simon stood up and began walking toward the assigned room. You stood too, following closely behind. His steps were purposeful, loud. Dominant.

When you got there, Simon opened the door.

The room was small—standard issue. A bunk bed in the corner, one nightstand, a rug on the floor, and plain-painted walls. No decorations. Nothing personal.

This wasn’t a princess castle. This was the military.

You both took a moment to look around, then you spoke, “I’m taking the bottom bunk.”

Simon let out a soft chuckle. “All good.”

You each began unpacking your things. You silently hoped Simon wasn’t the messy type—you hated mess. Thankfully, it didn’t take long to settle in, and the room stayed neat.

You sat down on the edge of the bed and said, “It’s actually kinda comfy…”

Simon looked over and replied, “Is it now? Well, that’s good.”

The air was a little awkward at first, but eventually, it softened. You talked until about 8 PM, and by then, it was time to get some rest. You both settled into bed.

But by 1 or 2 AM, you were still wide awake.

Frustrated, you quietly climbed up the bunk ladder and reached Simon, gently shaking him. No response. You shook him a little harder.

He groaned, eyes blinking sleepily as he rubbed his temples and sat up.

“I… I can’t sleep,” you whispered shyly.

He sighed. “Well, just use the military method. You already know it.”

“I tried, Simon. It won’t work. I tried multiple times!”

He sighed again, more deeply this time, and turned his back toward you.

You frowned. “Simon—! I wanna sleep just as much as you do. Please…”

Something about the way you said please made something shift in him.

Without a word, he pulled you into his arms, spooning you gently but firmly. “This means nothing… it’s just friendship,” he muttered.

But he knew damn well that was a lie.

It meant a lot more than friendship for him.

pt 2 when🤨? i loved this sm you guys DO NOT know

[keeryhours]

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Total: $35.20 (3.5k words oops)

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Masterlist Tag Lists

The vibe in the van was one of pure exhaustion as it rumbled up to the shitty Colorado motel. You had just played a show hours before, and everyone was sweaty and gross and ready to pass out after a good shower. 

This was Corroded Coffin’s first tour, mostly financed by the band themselves. The shows were great, the crowd was energetic and excited to be there every night. But the run down motels and long hours in the van were getting tiresome.

“Okay,” Eddie said. “Everyone’s got their own room. So we can all get a shower and pass the fuck out.”

“Sounds good to me,” Gareth said, yawning as he opened his car door.

Everyone climbed out, stretching sore muscles. Eddie walked into the lobby, leaving everyone else at the van. He approached the receptionist, a teenage boy who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. He looked up as Eddie approached, his expression bored.

“Hey,” Eddie greeted. “Uh, we have 5 reservations? Should be under Munson.”

The guy typed on the massive computer. “Edward?”

“Uh…yeah,” Eddie said.

“It looks like you only have two rooms booked.”

Eddie blinked. “I booked five rooms.”

“Well, here, it says you have two.”

Eddie’s head dropped in exasperation. “Well can I get three more rooms?”

The boy gave him a fake pitying look. “Sorry, we’re all booked up.”

Eddie clenched his fists. “Awesome.”

“Do you still want the two rooms?”

“Yeah,” Eddie said, pulling out his wallet. He paid the guy in cash for the rooms. He handed him two keys. “Enjoy your stay, sir.”

Eddie rolled his eyes as he turned around. He met back up with the rest of you at the van, where everyone was dead on their feet, ready to get into their rooms.

“So, bad news,” Eddie said as he walked up, swinging the keys around his fingers.

“What?” Grant asked, already dreading whatever their frontman was about to say.

“We’ve only got two rooms.”

“What?” you said. “You were supposed to book five.”

“I did,” Eddie said, “but apparently something got messed up. We have two rooms and they’re all booked otherwise.”

You and the guys all looked at each other. “So…” Jeff said, “…who gets the rooms?”

“I’ll sleep in the van,” Eddie offered. “Just let me get a shower first in one of the rooms.”

“By yourself?” you asked. “I’ll sleep out here with you.”

His eyebrows drew together. “You don’t have to do that. It’s not gonna be very comfortable.”

“I’m fine,” you assured him. “I’ll bunk with you.”

“Works for me,” Gareth said. “I call my own room. Jeff and Grant can share.”

While the three guys argued over who got the room to themselves, you and Eddie snuck into the hotel rooms to take the first showers. It felt like heaven after a long day of performing and feeling so gross. The hot water washed away not only the sweat and dirt but also the stress of the day, the anxiety of tomorrow’s performance.

When you were done, you dried yourself off, dressing in your pajamas - shorts and a t-shirt. You brushed your teeth and walked out of the bathroom, seeing Grant on the bed.

“I won,” he smiles.

“Congratulations,” you laughed. You left Grant alone to take his own shower and headed back out to the van - your accommodation for the night. You found Eddie already in the vehicle, having laid the back seats down and made a large space for you two to sleep.

He was dressed in nothing but some low hanging sweatpants, leaning back against the seat with his lyric notebook. You climbed in next to him. “Whatcha working on?”

Eddie glanced up at you. “Ah, just some songs I’ve been messing around with. Nothing concrete yet.”

“Can I see?”

Eddie paused. “Yeah, I guess.”

You took the notebook from his hands and began flipping the pages, reading the notes and lyrics and chords he’d written down. There was one thing that stood out to you about these lyrics - they were all love songs. Corroded Coffin didn’t do love songs. None of you had much experience to write about, after all. But these lyrics were all longing, yearning, pining. Desire.

It wasn’t what you expected from Eddie. Eddie wasn’t soft, he was rowdy, wild, the life of the party. He wasn’t tender, like these lyrics. These lyrics were beautiful, they were poetry. But they were also dark, longing without the belief you can ever have what you truly want.

“Eddie…” you said, lowering the notebook. “These are…”

“They’re stupid,” he said quickly, taking the notebook back from your hands. He shoved it under the seat. “They’re not done or anything. Just some stuff I was messing around with.”

“Eddie, they’re beautiful,” you said. “I didn’t know you wrote songs like that.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, “I don’t.”

He seemed like he was being a little hostile, so you backed off. You reached into your bag and pulled out your body lotion, pumping some into your hands and then rubbing it into your legs, part of your usual post shower routine.

Eddie watched. His eyes were glued to your long, smooth legs, the way your hands caressed them, and he thought about those being his hands. How badly he’d love to rub your body like that, feeling every inch of your skin beneath his palms, calloused from years of guitar playing. 

He made himself look away.

Once you were done, Eddie closed up the van, settling down into the makeshift bed in the back. You laid down next to him, with a respectable distance between you. You stared up, looking at the sky through the windows, the stars twinkling in the clear night sky. It was almost romantic.

You figured Eddie had fallen asleep next to you, but he shifted, and when you looked his big brown eyes were looking right at you. Your heart stuttered in your chest - maybe he startled you, what other reason would there be? But he was looking at you so intensely, it made it hard to breathe.

“Eddie?” you said his name like a question.

He just looked at you. “I…”

The starlight shining on your face through the van windows made you look ethereal. Eddie had loved you since the moment he met you, he thought you were the most beautiful person on the planet, but he had never seen you looking so soft, so otherworldly.

“Every love song is about you,” he whispered.

You froze. “What?” you whispered back.

“Those songs I wrote,” he said softly. “They’re all about you.”

Your brain couldn’t process this. Eddie? Into you? In love with you? Those songs hadn’t been light. They had been pure need. You had been best friends with Eddie for forever and never had you gotten the vibe that he was interested in you.

Eddie took your lack of response as a rejection. He looked up at the ceiling of the van, his heart sinking in his chest. He felt like an idiot. He had kept this inside for so long, and here he went and ruined everything, and while you’re on tour together, too. How could he be so stupid-

“I love you too, Eddie.”

His heart stuttered. He wasn’t sure he heard you right. “You-?”

“I feel the same way,” you whispered. “I have for a long time.”

Eddie turned on his side. He placed his hand on your cheek, thumb gently caressing the skin. It was silent for a few minutes. Just the two of you looking into each other’s eyes, finding so much said without words.

“I don’t think you know you’re the most beautiful girl in the world,” Eddie said gently.

Your lips parted. You weren’t sure what to say. You’d never had someone say something like that to you before. Your heart was thudding hard in your chest, your stomach buzzing with nerves.

“Whenever I watch you on stage,” he continued, “I can’t look anywhere else. I’m supposed to be working the crowd, but I’m watching you. You’re always…you’re everything.”

You were misty eyed, at a loss for words. You had to have been dreaming, because what was this? A literal dream come true?

“Eddie…” you said, your voice still slightly hoarse from the show. “I…are you serious?”

“Dead serious,” he said, his voice an octave lower. Then, as if to prove how serious he was, he moved in slowly and kissed you.

You had thought many times about what Eddie’s lips might feel like. You had certainly fantasized about his mouth in multiple places, his long, skilled tongue-

Eddie’s lips moved against yours in a slow kiss. His hand brushed through your hair slowly. Yours rested on his bare chest, feeling the skin beneath your palm moving with his heavy breaths. He let out the quietest moan as he kissed you, a barely there breath of a moan, all his longing put into that kiss.

He nibbled on your bottom lip just slightly, testing the waters. You opened up for him, and the feeling of his tongue just slightly touching yours brought you heavily to the present. This was really happening. You met him eagerly, tongues slowly pressing together, exploring intimately.

You let out an involuntary moan, his kisses bringing your body to life. Your nipples hardened in your thin t-shirt, wetness collecting on your panties. You wanted to know what else he could do, maybe with those long dexterous fingers -

As if he read your mind begging for more, his fingers crept under your shirt, slowly enough that you could easily stop him if you wanted to. You absolutely didn’t. His hand slid up your side, sending goosebumps across your skin. You shuddered, squeezing your thighs together. Eddie didn’t miss it, and you felt his smile against your lips.

“Naughty,” he mumbled. You wanted to tell him to shut up like you usually would, but you found you didn’t want him to. You wanted his mouth to keep doing all kinds of things.

His hand crept up slowly until it reached your breasts. He cupped one of them gently, his thumb brushing over your sensitive nipple. You gasped, and Eddie nipped playfully at your bottom lip again.

“You have the perfect tits,” Eddie said. “I’ve known that for a long time, but now I know for sure.”

He pushed your shirt up, exposing your tits. He separated from your lips and sat up, pulling you onto his lap, your legs wrapped around his waist. He dipped his head down to wrap his lips around your nipple. You drew in a shaking breath, your hands grasping onto his back.

He moaned as he sucked on your nipple, running his tongue over it, suckling at it like it’s the best thing he’d ever had. His hand played with your other breast, massaging it and pinching at your sensitive bud.

Eddie was in heaven. Your tits in his face, in his mouth. He had dreamed of this alone in his hotel room with his cock in his hand more times than he could count. His fingers dug into your soft hips, and you experimentally rolled your hips down against his. It drew a moan from deep in his chest, and you could feel him hardening against your core through both of your clothes.

“God, you’re fuckin’ unreal,” Eddie groaned against your lips. “I can’t believe you’re in my fuckin’ lap.” He went right back to your tits, enveloping the other with his mouth this time.

“Yeah?” you said. “Well I can’t believe I’m making out with the Eddie Munson.”

He pulled off your tits with a wet pop. “The Eddie Munson is about to be doing a lot more than making out with you.” He grinned at you sheepishly. “If you’ll let him.”

You answered him with another kiss, tongues tangling together. He guided your hips down against him, back and forth, rolling low against his rapidly hardening cock. Every drag of his hard length against your dripping core was making your clit throb, your pussy clenching around nothing as you imagined having him deep inside you.

He pulled your shirt off before he flipped you over, laying you softly down on the blankets. You couldn’t help your eyes drifting down, noticing his massive dick pressing against his grey sweatpants. It made you a little nervous. You weren’t a virgin, but you weren’t the most experienced, either.

Eddie squeezed his cock over his pants, you could see the print of his dick through the material. His thick mushroom tip was obvious, cock bobbing in his pants as he moved. He kissed down your body until he reached your tiny little shorts, sliding them down along with your panties at an agonizing pace.

Once they were off he threw your legs over his shoulders and dove in. His tongue traced along your glistening folds, tasting you - finally. He moaned against you, sending vibrations through your clit. “Tastes so sweet, baby.”

You whimpered, tangling your fingers in his curly hair. “Oh, Eddie.”

“Yeah, pretty girl?” he cooed, tongue flicking over your clit. A loud gasp escaped your chest as he pressed a long finger into you, pumping it slowly.

“It’s- ohmygod-“

Eddie chuckled, never stopping his movements. He sucked on your clit hard before going back to lapping up your wetness with his tongue. He was eating you like a starved man, like he was loving every second of it. He pressed another finger into your hole, stretching you further.

“Gotta get you ready for my cock, baby,” he said. “Think you can take another?”

You whined. “Yeah.”

“My good girl.” He pressed a third into you, the stretch uncomfortable at first. But he was pumping them so slowly, curling them deeply inside of you to press against something that had you breathing harder, squeezing your eyes shut, tiny moans coming from your lips over and over.

“Eddie, that feels so good,” you whined. “So so good. Please…”

“I’m not gonna stop, sweetheart,” he said, reading your mind. “Gonna make you feel so good. Gonna make you cum on my tongue.”

You were close. You’d never had a guy make you cum before, only your own toys had brought you there. The guys you’d slept with had no interest in your pleasure. Eddie was different.

“Eddie…Eddie…” you cried out, body writhing in pleasure. “G’na cum…”

“I can feel it, baby. Can feel you tightening around my fingers, squeezin’ me, pullin’ me deeper. She’s greedy, isn’t she?”

He wrapped those lips around your clit again and sucked, fingers pressing right against that spot, and oh god oh god oh god-

“Eddie! Oh, fuck, Eddie!” you cried out, grinding your pussy against his face, taking everything he’d give you as you had the biggest orgasm of your life. Eddie went even harder, devouring you with his sinful tongue. He moaned against you as he drank you in, tasting every bit of your slick, rutting his hips against the blankets.

He kept going until you couldn’t take it anymore, whimpering as you pushed him away. He looked up at you from between your legs with your wetness coating his lips and chin. He grinned.

“Gotta have you,” he growled. He shoved his sweatpants down, cock bobbing against his stomach. Your eyes widened at the sight of it, even bigger than it looked covered by his pants.

He reached into the front seats, opening the glove compartment and pulling out a condom. Of course, they were always readily available on the road. You were grateful for it now.

He bit the package open. His tip was flushed red, the tiniest bead of precum at his slit. In an impulsive moment, you sat up and licked it off.

“Shit!” Eddie cursed, surprised. “Fuck, baby. If I didn’t want to fuck you so bad right now, I’d tell you to do it again.”

You giggled - but you were admittedly intimidated by the thought of taking all that down your throat. Another day.

You watched as Eddie rolled the condom onto his dick, clenching your thighs together. You felt the excitement building between your legs all over again, as if you hadn’t just cum all over his face.

Eddie positioned himself between your legs. He lifted your thighs, spreading them wide, gazing down at the view. “Christ,” he muttered. “Look at you.”

You blushed, but Eddie didn’t notice. His attention was elsewhere. He tapped his cock against your pussy, rubbing it between your folds, just feeling it all over his shaft, coating the condom with your slick. He didn’t think he’d ever been this hard in his life.

He lined himself up with your entrance. He was thick, and that was the first moment you actually felt a little scared.

Eddie sensed the change in you as if you’d said it out loud. “I’ll be gentle,” he said, kissing you softly on the lips. “If you don’t like it, just let me know, yeah?”

You nodded. “Okay.”

“Okay.” He kissed your cheek, then your lips again. He kissed you gently as he slowly pushed into you, and you keened, feeling him stretch you the way only he could.

“Oh, god, baby,” Eddie bit off a choked groan as he felt you envelop him, every inch he pressed into you lighting up every nerve ending in his body. He shook with his attempt to keep himself under control, to not pound into you like a fucking animal the way he wanted to.

He bottomed out inside of you, and you finally felt like you could breathe. You let out a shaky exhale, your nails digging into his back like you were holding on for dear life. “S’big.”

Eddie chuckled breathlessly. “I know, baby. You’re taking it so well. I’m so proud of you.”

He pulled out a little before rolling his hips back into you, watching your face to make sure you were alright. He pulled out a little more with every thrust, each one getting deeper and deeper. You could feel him in your fucking stomach it felt like.

Once he felt like he could set a steady pace, he was thrusting his hips into you in a firm rhythm, the van rocking with your movements. You moaned and dragged your nails down Eddie’s back, making him hiss. “Damn, baby. You gonna mark me all up?”

“Maybe,” you breathed. “Can I?”

“Do whatever you want to me,” he said, low. “But I get to mark you, too.”

He buried his face in your neck as he sped up his hips, biting and sucking at your neck like he was determined to let everyone in the world know he’d fucked you. He thought about you on stage with your neck bruised and marked, all the fans seeing, wondering who gave them to you, jealous.

“You’re mine,” Eddie growled into your neck. “Mine. All fucking mine.”

“All yours,” you agreed, your brain hazy as he fucked you stupid. “Yours, yours, yours.”

Eddie threw his head back, the muscles in his neck and shoulders tensing. He was holding back, not wanting to cum too fast. “Your pussy is too fuckin’ good. Gonna make me bust too quick.”

“You can,” you said. “I wanna make you cum.”

“Wanna cum in you,” he grunted. “God, I wish I could fill you.”

“Can you?” you said quickly.

Eddie paused. “Are you serious?”

“Dead serious,” you said, repeating his words from earlier. “I’m on birth control.”

“Oh, fuck yeah.” Eddie pulled out of you, quickly pulling the condom off and tossing it. He slapped his cock against your pussy one more time and then he buried himself back into you in a single thrust. You cried out, fingers digging deeper into his skin.

He was fucking you like a madman now, hips pounding into you relentlessly. The slapping of your skin was so loud it made you blush. You held onto Eddie, your lifeline, your constant.

“Gonna cum deep,” he grunted. “It’s gonna be dripping out of your little pussy for days. You’ll be on stage, feeling me, remembering all I did to you.”

You whimpered - it was all you could do. Eddie thrusted into you at a punishing pace a few more times, then he stilled, grounding out a deep moan as his cock twitched inside of you, rope after rope of his spend coating the inside of your pussy, filling you just like he promised.

It took him a while to come down. You were both shaking, clutching onto each other. Eddie was peppering your skin in kisses all over, whispering, “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

“I love you too, Eddie,” you mumbled back sleepily. Eddie pulled out, and you felt his release dripping out of you. He smirked, wiping it with his finger and pushing it back inside.

He collapsed on the floor next to you, pulling you into his body and wrapping you up in his arms. You laid your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat slowing back to normal. He rubbed your bare back soothingly.

And you were happy.

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[carlosainzgf]

REVENGE

thanos x fem!reader (smut)

warnings: kind of noncon so read at your own risk

you were minding your own business, sitting at your bunk, eating the shitty meal you were given when you heard some yelling.

you turned your head to where the noises were coming from only to see your brother myung gi, who you didn’t even know was here until now, getting beaten up. instinctively, you storm over to stop them.

"not thinking of interfering, are you?"

the purple haired man asked as he tilted his head, his eyes widened sadistically.

you threw a punch in his face without even considering for a second, landing right on his nose, making him loose his balance and stumble back.

in an instant, he lunged at you. he gritted his teeth as blood ran down his nose, his eyes filled with a deadly rage. grabbing you by the collar and pinning you to the wall. "you think you can just hit me like that? huh!? you've got a lot of guts for someone so small." he spat, eyes narrowed as he glared at you.

some other players had turned their attention to the sight of the commotion, some had ceased their betting and others watched with intrigue and anticipation as they witnessed what would unfold.

player 001 stepped in, putting a swift end to the conflict before thanos could hurt you. he took it upon himself to discipline thanos and his friend by delivering a thorough beating, leaving both of them bruised and battered.

thanos stayed put on the ground, coughing and panting from exhaustion, his nose still stinging from your punch and the beating he just received.

“you’re gonna pay for this, you bitch!” he yelled after you between coughs when you and your brother headed to the bathroom to clean up.

he still had enough spunk left in him to send a threat your way even after his beating.

he was determined to get revenge.

after cleaning the blood of your brothers face and a small skirmish between the two of you for joining this game you heard that lights were out in 5 minutes so you head back to the dorm.

you could feel thanos’ eyes on you as you got ready for bed.

as the minutes ticked by, the lights slowly dimmed, signaling that it could only mean one thing - it was time to sleep. the dorm fell quiet, dimly lit by the faint glow of the piggy bank.

players were trying to find some level of rest, laying down on their beds with blankets or just simply sitting on their beds.

thanos' eyes stayed on you, watching you as you got into bed, his resentment still burning bright. he was waiting for a moment to catch you off guard and get his revenge.

after laying down with your eyes open, which felt like hours, you decided to go to the bathroom. to wash your face or just to get out of the dorm full of people to get your mind together. you didn’t really know.

you looked over to your brother to see him sound asleep before heading to the door. after convincing the guard you headed to the bathroom, not realizing thanos who left the dorm right after you.

you only took notice of him when the door to the ladies bathroom was kicked open. you, startled, look back to see who it is.

fuck.

“i told you you’d pay for what you did. now…how should i make you pay?” he talked like he was talking to himself.

“i could kill you. easily. but…it would be a shame if something happened to such a beautiful girl like you.”

your words were caught at your throat, not daring to come out.

“maybe i should teach you a lesson, huh?”

that’s how you ended up with your legs wrapped around his waist, his hands gripping tightly at the flesh of your ass as he made you move on his dick, like a little sex toy. his own little fleshlight.

you didn’t know if you hated him for fucking you or yourself for liking it.

he held you up on the air as he thrusted himself into you like you were light as a feather. hands repeatedly landing on your ass, leaving big red hand marks on the surface, making you moan and yelp at the same time.

“fuck! you like this don’t you? you filthy little slut.”

you held onto his shoulders as his pace got faster and he fucked you harder. a knot growing in you, making you disgusted at yourself for liking this but too cock drunk out to care. your eyes closed, too lost in pleasure.

his hand moved from your ass to your stretched out pussy. you didn’t notice it until he pinched your clit, hard, making your eyes shot open with a little scream.

“you look at me when i fuck you.” he ordered. you could only nod.

“tell me who makes you feel this good, bitch. tell me!”

“you! you a-are thanos! fuck-fucking me so good!” you could barely form a sentence at your state.

“yeah i am! come on my cock, baby. make a big fucking mess.” that’s all it took. you fell apart. your walls spasming around him, brain foggy, nails digging at his back, head thrown back, yells and moans spilling from your lips as you came undone.

just when you were about to come down from your high thanos hit your sensitive and twitching clit repeatedly. the pain and pleasure of the act, and how sensitive your body was right after cumming you couldn’t stop yourself from gushing around his dick. your juices covered his lower stomach, his thighs, your thighs as well, and his dick.

that’s when he lost it. he came, hard, when he felt the warm wetness on himself. he held your face, harshly, making you look at him.

“if you even try to do anything to me ever again…you pussy won’t be the only thing i ruin.”

then he kissed you so sweetly. almost sweet enough to make you forget that he threatened to kill you and then fucked you dumb.