#never getting over this... never getting over HIM

[lovebugism]

A request for the Thunderbolts (if you're interested no pressure <3)! - being caught/interrupted having sex

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

BUCKY BARNES X READER — you and bucky try to have some alone time after a mission gone wrong but, like most things, it doesn't go as planned (0.9k words)

Bucky Barnes has been waiting for this all day.

The need within him borders on primal now. Adrenaline and yearning course through his blood like fire and ice water in his veins; a near-lethal concoction of anger and want and craving. It’s the job that makes him this way, Bucky always tells himself — if it wasn’t always so life or death, and if you weren’t always so willing to throw yourself into the line of fire, he figures he’d be as even-tempered as they come.

But this latest mission wasn’t nearly as easy as Valentina made it out to be. The six of you scattered for safety, and somewhere in the gunfire, Bucky lost sight of you. It took four hours for the dust to finally settle, and for you and John to stumble back to the rundown motel in the middle of nowhere that your boss mistakenly called a ‘safehouse.’ Neither of you sported anything more than couple scrapes and a bruised ego, but Bucky hugged you with enough force to knock the breath from your lungs, anyway.

“You’re okay…” he mumbled into your hair within a sigh of relief.

“I was,” you joked. “Until you started suffocating me.”

Bucky loosened his hold but never quite let you go, while John shifted uncomfortably behind you. “I’m okay, too, guys. Thanks for asking.”

Bucky channels all that stifled grief and rage into you now, in each of his rhythmic thrusts into your pulsing pussy. The thin motel bed creaks beneath your bodies with every roll of his hips. A lewd sort of symphony swells within the walls of the dark, dank motel room accordingly — a sinful orchestra of squeaking, panting, clapping, and moaning.

He feels the very beginnings of an orgasm tightening in the pit of his lean stomach. His hands ball the pillow into his fists on either side of your head, and you smile deliriously up at him.

“Close?” you pant, fighting back a moan when he slides into you just right, the coarse thatch of pubic hair above his cock rutting perfectly against your swollen clit. 

Bucky nods obediently, then ducks his heavy head to your shoulder. The ends of his hair tickle your jaw while he exhales quiet grunts into your neck, right over your racing pulse. 

“I know you are,” you coo through labored breaths, nails etching crescent shapes into shoulders. “I know you need it, Buck. C’mon— Cum for me.”

His hips stutter against yours. His rosy mouth parts to exhale a broken whine. He nearly lets himself go until a knock at the door brings him to — urgent, rapid, and unable to be ignored.

Yelena’s deep voice comes muffled from outside. “T-minus five minutes before the military shows up! Whoever’s not outside is getting left behind,” she announces far too casually, then strolls to knock on the next door. “So much for a safe house,” you hear her grumble as she goes.

Your legs lock around Bucky’s hips when he threatens to pull out of you. You meet his subtle look of shock with something stern and mischievous, an unstoppable force to an immovable object. 

“Did I say you could stop?” you ask him.

Bucky blinks like an owl, then shakes his head in response.

“Then cum for me.”

He buckles down over you again, resting the bulk of his weight on top of your pliable body, while his thrusts turn shallow and irregular. 

He cums inside of you much sooner than he would’ve liked, because he had every intention of dragging this out until daybreak — until the only words you could think of were his name and the pleas to let you orgasm. But you have far too much control over him for that, and he quickly turns into putty in your hands. 

Upon his release — quick, unshared, and premature, like a total teenager — neither of you shares a word while you hurry to get dressed. You help each other put on your tactical gear and rush out the door in time to find the rest of the team piling into the rusted van parked outside.

The tin can was supposed to be inconspicuous enough to carry a team of so-called New Avengers, but nothing could be discreet with Alexei behind the wheel.

“Just in time!” the older man shouts when you and Bucky pile into the back seat.

The door slams behind you, and Alexei peels out of the pitch black parking lot, old tires squealing. His wide smile makes his eyes squint at the edges when he peers at you through the rearview mirror. It makes you wonder if he’s slept.

You shift uncomfortably, sandwiched between a pair of broad shoulders, trying hard to ignore the sensitivity between your thighs. 

“We were about to leave you,” John deadpans from beside you, voice gruff with leftover sleep. 

You squint at him while he props his tired head against the window. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Walker.”

Yelena twists in the passenger seat, smirking at you over her shoulder. Her box-dyed locks are wild from the sleep she never got. “What were you two doing in there?” she lilts, Russian accent deep and gravelly.

“Sleeping,” Bucky monotones.

Ava scoffs from the row in front of you, though you can hardly see her from here. She takes up most of the room in the middle seat, resting her head on her backpack and her legs in Bob’s lap. “Yeah, I bet,” she laughs.

“We were!” you try to argue, though the break in your voice is hardly convincing.

Even Bob turns around with a suspicious squint in his kind eyes. “The walls were criminally thin, to be fair,” he mumbles, almost apologetically.

“Sorry…” you waver.

“Hey! Do not apologize!” Alexei shouts from the front seat, waving his pointer finger in the air. “There is nothing wrong with needing a little bit of release—”

The van fills with a chorus of annoyed groans before he can properly finish his sentence.

JOHN WALKER X READER — you and john try to have a quickie on a mission, but mistakenly forget to turn off your comms (1.1k words)

John Walker saw it coming.

He knew what he was in for the moment the idea fell from your mouth — the blueprint of an elaborate heist to return the smuggled vibranium back to Wakanda, for which each of the New Avengers had their role.

Alexei had been honored to be a distraction, to brush elbows with the wealthiest people in the world and get his fill of complimentary champagne. John, however, was slightly offended that his only part in the whole thing was to woo the woman running the gala long enough to catch her in a lie.

“That’s it?” he laughed from the opposite end of the long table. “You want me to… flirt with some woman I don’t even know?”

You nodded. “Yes. I want you to flirt and look pretty— That’s what you’re best at.”

Yelena fought back a laugh. John shifted uncomfortably in his seat, swallowing through a pang of mild embarrassment. “And it won’t make you jealous?” he wondered aloud.

“Why would I be jealous?” you scoffed.

“Well, what if she doesn’t give in right away?” the blonde man challenged, folding his strong arms over the table to lean in close. “What if she thinks I actually want to have sex with her—? What if she doesn’t want to tell me anything until I’ve had sex with her?”

You hesitated, for only a fleeting moment, then shrugged a lazy shoulder in response. “Whatever it takes.”

John nodded slowly and leaned back again, as though he were taking your words as some kind of dare.

Alexei, unable to read the room, then offered, “Well, if Walker’s too scared to do it, I would be happy to take one for the team and sleep with this strange woman—”

The plan went exactly as you thought it would.

Maybe a little too well.

John Walker plays his part to perfection, the only way he knows how. Turns out, you were right — he was best at flirting and looking pretty, it seems — because it takes very little work on his part to get what he wants.

He dials his charm to eleven, like he knows you’re watching over him; and the drunk woman, worth more money than Walker will ever see in his life, fawns over him with ease. He gets the intel and then some, sporting a smirk and a pink lip print on his cheek.

“Did ya get that, honey?” he asks into his comm, smiling at the nearest security camera because he knows you’re watching him from there.

“Don’t look so smug,” you grouse in his ear. “Meet me at the rendezvous point when you’re done gloating.”

John’s able to sneak his way into the basement, thanks in part to Alexei’s Russian drinking game that he’s roped a group of drunken elites into.

He finds you waiting for him in the security room, all dolled up to blend into the party you never actually attended. The thin, emerald silk of your dress drapes over your body like soft, summer rain.

John loses his breath at the sight of you, quickly forgetting that he came here to gloat, as the door clicks shut behind him.

“Where’s everybody else?” he asks, walking to stand behind you in front of the wall of security cameras. You can see the entire gala from here, every bustling body filmed in black-and-white static.

He stands close enough behind you for you to feel the warmth radiating from his body. He can smell the vanilla perfume in your hair the same way you can smell the oaky cologne on his neck.

“Ava and Bob are tracking down your new girlfriend,” you quip, pointing to the screen at the bottom left corner where the two of them rush down the hallway. “And Yelena and Bucky are jetting off to the super luxurious private island your girlfriend really wanted to take you to.”

“She still waiting for me in her room?” John wonders, eyes flitting across the screens ahead of him.

“Yep,” you nod without looking back at him. “You can probably still catch her before the others if you’re fast enough. You know, if you were serious about that good time you wanted to show her.”

John laughs. You feel the exhale of the warm breath against your shoulder, right before he leans in to press a kiss to your bare skin.

“You’re so jealous,” he croons lowly into your neck.

You fight a shiver when his scruff brushes against you there. “I’m not jealous,” you insist proudly, shrugging your shoulder and dipping away from his touch. 

You spin on your heel and brace yourself against the table to slide yourself on top of it. John migrates instinctively towards your parted thighs.

“No?” he presses sarcastically with his head tilted like a puppy.

“No. ‘Cause she’s about to go to prison,” you say, nodding towards the camera where Ava leads the confused woman, dressed in nothing but a silk robe, out of her hotel room. “And you’re about to fuck me.”

“Really?” John hums, despite settling in between your spread legs like he was made to do it. “That’s very presumptuous of you.”

You use his tie like a leash to pull him closer, smiling with a sadistic look in your eye. “Don’t keep me waiting, Walker.”

It’s a mess of scrambling limbs. John hurries to free his cock from the confines of his slacks while you lift the skirt of your dress to slide your panties to the side. 

You watch with lidded eyes, propped against the square screens behind you, while John works himself the rest of the way hard with his fist. You inhale the sweet scent of his cologne when he leans over you, and bite back a whimper when he slides slowly inside of you.

The quiet security room fills quickly with the sounds of heavy breaths and quiet moans — but before John can fuck you the way he wants, the door swings suddenly open.

Bob stumbles in, mouth already parted to say something, but his eyes widen in shock before he can.

“Jesus, Bob!” John shouts, jerking out of you and tucking his stiff cock back into his pants.

The curly-haired boy falters for a moment. He knows he should leave, but his brain isn’t working properly. He turns around to face the corner instead. “Sorry!” he squeaks. “I’m sorry!”

“What are you doing in here?” you pant.

“You said to meet at the rendezvous point!”

You and John share an anxious look. Both of you have forgotten about the in-ears and the live microphone inside them. “You’ve been hearing us on comms?” you waver, distantly fearful of the answer. “Like, this whole time?”

Bob nods. “Yeah…?”

“Why didn’t you say something?” John snaps.

Ava’s voice crackles suddenly through the microphone. “Well, we didn’t want to be rude—”

YELENA BELOVA X READER — walker almost catches you and yelena having a "late night snack" in the kitchen (1k words)

Yelena Belova can’t help herself.

It’s the whiskey running through her veins, maybe, or the way you look in the yellow refrigerator light. She forgets all about the movie paused upstairs and the late-night snack the two of you came searching for at three in the morning.

You bend at the waist, reaching for something deep in the fridge, and your t-shirt rises to reveal your underwear. Modest. Cotton. Pale pink and decorated with so many cream-colored stars.

It drives Yelena wild. 

You leave the carton of milk on the counter and stand on the tips of your toes, reaching for the boxes of cereal Walker always keeps on the highest shelf. You just barely manage to grab the Cinnamon Toast Crunch container when you feel Yelena press herself against your back, caging you between her body and the counter’s edge.

“Excuse me,” you giggle and struggle to spin in her hold.

You just barely manage to catch Yelena’s lazy smile before she leans in closer. “You’re excused,” she murmurs, voice low and smooth as honey.

She kisses you once, twice, and then a third time — longer and more languid than before — then begins to trail her lips down your jaw. 

You grin when she licks over your pulse point. Her fingers ball the hem of your shirt into her fists. “I really want to finish that movie, Lena…” you lilt knowingly.

“We will,” she hums, half-muffled against you. “Right after I make you feel good.”

She goes to sink to her knees in front of you. You hold tightly to the outsides of her elbows to stop her, eyes wide and glittering with panic. “Not here,” you scold with a shake of your head.

Yelena’s face scrunches in a stubborn, girlish pout — far too cute to be a world-class assassin. “Yes, here,” she argues.

“What if someone walks in?”

“No one will walk in. I promise.”

She smiles when your hardened gaze refuses to waver. She leans in close, trailing the tip of his nose over the bridge of yours. Her breath fans over your cupid’s bow. “It’s late, everyone’s sleeping. And I’ll be quick, okay?”

Her fingers dip beneath your shirt, curling over the hem of your panties. She doesn’t know how wet you are for her already. You don’t know how her mouth is watering for a taste of you now.

You huff and turn to the side, finding the blinking green numbers on the stovetop: 2:57 a.m. 

“Fine,” you cave. “But I’m only giving you three minutes.”

Yelena falls slowly to her knees. “I only need one,” she smirks, pressing a chaste kiss to your clothed stomach as she slides your pretty underwear to the side with an expert hand.

You scoff. “That’s very presumptuous of y—” She licks a fat stripe up the length of your pussy. You sigh a broken moan. “—Oh…”

Her hands carress the backs of your thighs, just beneath your ass, as she kisses your cunt the way she would your mouth.

Your knees threaten to buckle when her lips lock with your sensitive clit, sucking gently there until you keen. You feel her smiling against you when you brace yourself on the counter’s edge to keep from falling.

Yelena’s mouth is a merciless thing. She has every intention of making you cum in a minute, just like she promised she would. She focuses mostly on your swollen clit — licking, then sucking, then sucking and licking — to pull a swift and powerful orgasm from your body. 

You think she would’ve broken a record if Walker hadn’t walked in at the absolute worst time.

You tense when the hall light turns on. His steps are slow and heavy, like he’s barely lifting his feet off the ground. John turns the corner, dressed in sagging sweatpants and a tank top, and flinches at the sight of you there — leaning awkwardly against the counter. 

With the kitchen island in the way, he can’t see Yelena from where he’s standing — or how she’s sucking an orgasm most devilishly from your body.

You’re grateful when he stops short in the doorway. You’re less grateful when your girlfriend refuses to cease her merciless assault on your pussy.

“What are you doing up?” John asks, voice gravelly with sleep.

“Oh, you know, just—” You clear your throat when your voice wavers. “Just getting something to eat.”

He nods politely and takes another step.

Panic swells within you the same way your orgasm does.

“Did you need something?” you blurt, fighting back a whimper when Yelena's teeth scrape gently along your clit.

John’s brows furrow, but he makes no mention of how strange you’re being. “I was just getting some water—”

He takes another step. You reach for a rogue water bottle and chuck it across the room, perhaps more forcefully than you mean to.

“Here you go!” you shout with a wavering smile, feeling your orgasm tightening in the pit of your stomach.

John catches the plastic thing against his chest. He scoffs a tired laugh and shakes his head. “Thanks, weirdo…” he mumbles and walks away.

You don’t relax until the hall light has turned off and you’ve heard his bedroom door click shut again. Then you deflate against the kitchen counter — one hand propping yourself up and the other holding tight to the back of Yelena’s head.

You give the short, blonde tendrils an especially sharp tug and she moans into your pussy, heavy eyes fluttering shut.

Your thighs tremble on either side of her face when you cum. You bite your lip until it hurts in a feeble attempt to keep yourself quiet. The kitchen fills with the sound of your subdued whimpering as Yelena sucks the remnants of your orgasm from your weeping cunt.

She doesn’t stop until you’re pushing her away.

Yelena leans back, wiping her glistening mouth with the back of her hand. She smiles while you catch your breath. “How was it?” she quips.

“I’m so getting you back for that,” you pant. “Just so you know.”

“Oh…” she croons sarcastically, rising to full height again. “Are you now?”

You nod once, lidded eyes glinting with something stern and mischievous.

Yelena tries not to cower at the way you look at her, like you’re some kinda succubus who can’t wait to swallow her whole.

“The entire tower is going to hear you screaming before I’m done with you, Belova.”

ROBERT REYNOLDS X READER — the one where alexei finally learns to knock before entering your bedroom (1k words)

Bob Reynolds is having the most amazing dream.

It’s of you and him, all tangled in an unmade bed, and bathing in the morning glow of a golden sunrise. You’re pressed against the side of him, heavy and warm, with your arm tucked under the blanket. You rub his half-hard cock over his boxers and press chaste kisses up and down the length of jaw. Bob’s mouth tugs upward in a lazy smile as he exhales slowly through his nose.

His eyes flutter open on their own accord. 

He finds his bedroom soaked in the same orange glow he was dreaming about. He blinks the haze of sleep from his eyes, and only then registers your body pressed against his — and the way you knead his stiff, clothed cock with a gentle hand. 

Bob wakes from one dream only to enter the next. His sigh of contentment leaves in a grumbled moan in his throat.

He feels your smile curl against his jaw. “Good morning,” you hum against his skin.

Bob nods until the words catch up to him, chestnut curls in a frizzy halo around his head. “Yes, it is…” he jokes, words weighed down with sleep.

Your body trembles with a quiet laugh from where you’re lying along his side. “Well, you were poking me in the back to be fair,” you say, punctuating your murmurs with another kiss to his neck. “So this is kinda your fault, if you think about it.”

Bob might’ve argued if he wasn’t already so close to his orgasm. Your hand dips beneath the hem of his boxers, using his pearly pre-cum as lubricate while you glide your fist up and down his cock.

His stomach tenses — there’s a knot at the pit of it he feels tightening, bound to snap at any moment.

His mouth parts to speak, but a pathetic whine escapes instead.

“You don’t care, do you, Bobby?” you coo to him, mouth brushing the shell of his ear. “You just wanna cum, don’t you?”

He nods wordlessly, eyes squeezed shut.

“Use your words.”

“Yes,” Bob squeaks obediently, right before he sighs. “Yes, please…”

With his eyes still shut, he feels the mattress dip beside him as you crawl on top of his body. The blankets shift to accommodate you as you settle between his legs.

“Where do you wanna cum, then?” you ask, too innocently for how demoniacal you're being just now. “In my hand or in my mouth?”

“Your mouth,” Bob answers instantly, voice breaking as cock jerks in your fist. “In your mouth, please— In your mouth.”

You nod, even though he can’t see you, and smile wide at the broken look on his face. “Good boy,” you hum, just to make his cock drool, before you dip beneath the covers. 

You tuck the hem of his boxers beneath his balls, keeping the base of his cock in your fist as you lick gently at the tip. You savor the salty tang of his pre-cum when you suckle at his sensitive head with no warning. Bob tenses immediately beneath you. A moan escapes from his parted mouth, filling the quiet bedroom.  

“Sorry!” he squeaks when he realizes how loud he’s being, exhaling a trembling breath and squeezing his hands into fists. He yearns to touch you, but not without permission. “I’m sorry, baby…”

If you’re angry with him, you don’t show it.

You just take is cock down your throat and until he keens. You work at him swiftly and mercilessly — knowing that, at any moment, it’ll be seven in the morning, and the rest of the tower will be up and recruiting for the latest mission.

You need Bob to cum before then.

So you swallow around the length of his cock and cup his sensitive balls in your hand. It’s a near-lethal combination that you only use during your quickies — or when you’re especially trying to torture him. 

“Can I cum?” Bob pants when he feels the knot tightening in his stomach. “Please, can I cum?”

You don’t answer him with words. You can’t with your nose buried in his pubic hair and his cock stuffed down your throat. You hum affirmatively around him instead, “Mhm.” 

The added stimulation makes him burst. Two salty ropes of warm cum pool in your mouth.

“Oh— shit!” 

His moans turn into something more urgent, fearful even, as your bedroom door clicks suddenly open.

Both of you jerk into upright positions — you on your knees, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, and Bob cupping his palms over his still twitching cock.

You find Alexei standing in the doorway, with a steaming breakfast burrito clutched in his fist. He blinks hard, like he’s trying to discern exactly what it is he’s looking at.

He swallows down his mouthful and fights back a sudden wave of nausea. 

“Team meeting downstairs in five,” is all he says, half-detached and strangely robotic, before turning back the way he came.

“Shut the door!” you call to his disappearing figure.

He doesn't seem to hear you.

“Lenaaaa!” he shouts over you, Russian voice booming throughout the quiet tower. “Never make me do that again!”

You and Bob are only slightly late to the team meeting in question.

The room is deafeningly silent, heavy with a nameless tension. Neither of the team seems to look at you with anything other than sleep in their eyes — other than Alexei, of course, who sits slouched at the head of the table.

Yelena pets unenthusiastically at his shoulder, begrudgingly comforting the pouting man.

You take your designated seats at the long table without a word — you at the opposite end, and Bob sitting most adjacent to you.

Alexei’s eyes harden into a pitiful glare. “Is there anything you two want to say to me?” he wonders dramatically, accent sounding deep in his throat. “An ‘I’m sorry,’ perhaps?”

Bob shifts uncomfortably, gaze averted. “Sorry—”

“Learn how to knock,” you deadpan, then flash a cynical smile that makes the man cower. “Or I’ll show you something a lot worse than what you saw this morning.”

[farfromharry]

Baby Norris | LANDOLOG 033

Summary: Sweet moments caught on camera during Lando's 9 month journey of becoming a father.

Lando Norris x Reader

w/c 13,331

a/n honestly its like i forgot the concept about halfway through so pls just ignore that, thanks!

━━━━━━━━━♡♥♡━━━━━━━━━

2025-01-15 14:09:31

The video began with a wide shot of the Norris bathroom. Y/N wasn’t yet in frame but shuffling could be heard just to the side of the camera. Only seconds later did she appear, a watery smile on her face that told the viewers things were about to be emotional. Y/N had featured in Lando’s vlogs before, but not too often and certainly not on her own.

This was a different type of video. Lando didn’t even know she had his camera.

“Hello, I don’t even know if anyone will be watching this video, but if you are…hi.” She had to admit she was actually a little nervous. Her hands were trembling, which was probably noticeable on camera. “Lando’s training right now, so I thought I’d film this moment for him.”

She let out a deep breath, closing her eyes for a brief moment. She puckered up the test that was ‘cooking’ on the counter, showing it to the camera like she was doing some kind of regular makeup haul. “I just took one of these- well, a few of these actually.” She chuckled to herself. The woman wasn’t leaving any room for doubt, she would take a thousand pregnancy tests if it meant she got a solid answer. “I’m waiting for the result, and it’s taking forever, and I’m so nervous.”

The timer on her phone was ticking down, but to her it felt frozen. It felt like she had been in this bathroom for an eternity.

“I want to surprise him, if it’s positive, but I really would have liked him to be here to hold my hand right now.” It sounded needy, but the comfort of her boyfriend was a magical thing. He had an effect on her nervous system that she could never explain with words. He soothed her, silenced all her worries with a simple look. She could have really used that kind of love right now.

Y/N took a seat on the floor, bringing her knees to her chest. Like this she looked small, almost like she was afraid. She was trying to hide from what this all meant. Obviously she was an adult, but since she turned 18, since she met Lando and began building her life with him, they’d had fun. They spent their days being carefree, without any real responsibilities. But a baby? That was a huge obligation. A baby would rely on them for everything. They couldn’t be selfish, careless adults anymore. No, they would have to be parents.

She didn’t know if they were ready for that. But they might have to be. Her commentary in this moment wasn’t exactly exciting for the viewers. They probably wouldn’t want to hear her thoughts right now anyway.

“I don’t know what I’m hoping for.” If you’d asked her a couple years ago she would have panicked, probably thrown up at the thought of having a baby, but she was starting to like the idea. She wasn’t a teenager anymore, she was 24, with a lovely partner and a home. She could do this. “I think I’ll be happy if it’s positive. This is scary though, right? Can you ever really be prepared for this?” She was rambling now.

The alarm on her phone blared, cutting her off like it was fate. Her eyes went wide, heart in her throat. Did she have the courage to get to her feet and check what they said?

“I’m so scared,” she admitted, really to no one but herself. She breathed through her panic, taking deep breaths until she felt like she could get back onto her feet. She eyed the camera. “I guess it’s now or never.”

Once she was on her feet it was clear how her eyes shone with tears as she looked over the results of the various tests. They all said the same thing. If the camera didn’t already know by her reaction what the answer was, they definitely did when she turned it around and showed them all off.

When she turned the camera back to her, the tears had already begun to fall. “I’m pregnant.” A sob bubbled up in her throat as she finally said the words out loud. She hadn’t expected to get so emotional. She would blame that on the pregnancy hormones she just found out she has.

She set the camera down on the counter so she could bury her face in her hands. Crying on film like this was a little embarrassing.

“Oh my god,” she mumbled. As soon as she moved her hands the camera could see the bright grin on her face. She was going through practically every emotion a person could go through in the span of a couple minutes. None of this felt real. “Fuck, I’m having a baby.” She froze. “I probably shouldn’t swear if my future child is going to watch this, sorry.” It was a moment her and Lando would look back on and laugh at.

The odds of there being any physical signs of pregnancy already were slim, regardless she pulled up her shirt and turned to the side. Her eyes were focused on her reflection. She swore if she squinted she could see how her belly swelled- she was probably just seeing things. Her hand settled over her stomach and a pleasant warmth spread through her chest. Contentment.

“Hi baby, I’m your mum.”

. ‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.🧸ྀི

2025-01-26 09:25:22

Lando had been out all day for something to do with Quadrant, which gave her all the time in the world to prepare to tell him her big news. She had her first ultrasound that morning, getting a small clip of the monitor when connected with her belly. There wasn’t much to see, but it was still surreal nonetheless. The second the heartbeat sounded through the room, the tears began to fall. The thumping sound was rapid. Their baby.

She left the doctor’s office with a picture of their baby tucked into her bag, one she was going to use in her masterplan to surprise Lando. It was nothing big or fancy— they had enough glamour in their lives to last a lifetime— some things had earned the right to be small, intimate

She was excited about it from the second she got home. It felt like the hours between now and when he finally walked through the door around 6pm, stretched on for far too long. It was probably her excitement speaking. He must have known something was off when she was throwing herself at him before he even managed to close the front door behind him.

The man eyed her suspiciously, dropping his bag by the door. Over the years he had been victim to her tricks and tiktok pranks plenty of times. More than enough to know when she was plotting. He had to tread lightly. “What are you up to?”

Her smile was blinding. “I have a surprise for you.”

His eyes narrowed. “What did you do? Is this another tiktok thing?” He started looking around wearily. “Is something gonna jump out at me?” His expression resembled something of a deflated balloon. It made her chuckle.

“No. This is a… nice surprise.” The muttered ‘I hope’ went unheard by his ears. Y/N moved into the kitchen, grabbing the box off of the counter and flashing the camera a sneaky smile. Genuinely it was a miracle Lando couldn’t hear her heart pounding.

A plain box in her outstretched hands paired with that menacing twinkle in her eyes, did nothing to soothe his fears. He was still convinced something was going to jump out of the box and bite him. But, she said it wasn’t like the other times and he trusted her with his life. Against his better judgement, he opened the box, albeit slowly just in case anything was alive in there.

Cake was the last thing he expected to see. A plain, small, white cake with something swirled in icing in the middle. When the lid was fully up he could finally read it. His heart stopped beating. Baby Norris October 2025.

Baby Norris.

Baby.

They were having a fucking baby.

For a minute Y/N thought he was going to bolt. His face couldn’t stop on one single emotion, until suddenly he just wasn’t displaying any.

“Are you being serious?”

She moved the cake into one hand and used the other to pull the sonogram from her back pocket, bringing it to where he could see it. He took it from her, examining it like he was trying to figure out if it was real. He had to keep reminding himself to breathe because he was scared if he didn’t he would forget how.

For the first time since she’d met him, she couldn’t read what he was thinking. He was hiding his emotions pretty well right now. She was terrified. She nodded shyly. Her mind flicked back to the camera currently filming from the counter. If this was to go sideways, it was going to record the whole thing. She didn’t want to have to relive the moment that ruined them.

In case she had to do some damage control, she placed the cake on the counter, swallowing as she tried to psych herself up to hear that he didn’t want this. Just as she thought things were going to blow up in her face, he laughed, a watery laugh that she had heard too many times before. The tears started coming only seconds later. Lando was crying freely.

He didn’t say anything, just opened his arms and almost ran at her. Her laughter could be heard even from where it was being muffled by his hoodie. It was the joy of a woman who was truly happy.

His head was tucked into her neck, the typical Lando Norris hug. At this angle the camera could see the way his eyes sparkled and he simply couldn’t stop smiling. That grin was unmovable. He tilted his head so his mouth was beside her ear. “I love you so much,” he whispered, placing a kiss on her temple. Once the kisses started they didn’t stop. One on her head, 2 on her cheek, another on her nose, over and over again until she was squealing and trying to writhe out of his arms.

“Lando!”

When he finally parted from her, she realised she had never seen happiness like it. He was finding it hard to believe this moment was real.

“You are the best part of my life,” he confessed. Sappy Lando wasn’t a common occurrence. Sure he was loving, romantic, cosy, but sappy Lando was reserved for the moments where he truly felt like his heart would burst if he didn’t express his love. This side of him wasn’t one she saw often, but was by far one of her favourites. It gave her an insight into how much he really loved her, and if he was telling the truth, which she had no doubt about, it was a scary amount. “Thank you for choosing me. For choosing to love me, to give me this. You have no idea what this means to me.”

They had very briefly touched on the topic of kids before, usually in very late night conversations about their future. She knew he wanted kids someday, but she hadn’t realised being a dad meant this much to him.

When he kissed her he poured his soul into it. The passion shared between them in such a simple act was utterly breathtaking. She almost lost her balance. Would have if his hands weren’t there to steady her. For a moment they just breathed deeply together, trying to catch their breaths after such a kiss.

Y/N thought a bit of humour would be good to ease them back into a more chill atmosphere. “Is now a good time to tell you I was filming this whole thing?” She smiled shyly.

His cheeks would be hurting by the end of the day with how much he was smiling. “Everyone already knew I was goner for you anyway.” That much was true.

. ‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.🧸ྀི

2025-03-09 20:38:16

It had become a habit now for either of them to pick up Lando’s camera and film baby related updates at a second’s notice. They liked knowing they could look back on these soft moments between them, that their child would be able to see they came from a loving family. It was important to them.

Lando was due to leave for Australia in no later than 2 days, that was the warning he’d been given. He was soaking up all the time he could cuddled up to his lover before he had to give it up for a few weeks. They would be reunited at the end of the month, before they were due to jet off to Japan together, but 2 weeks away from her was too much for him. He didn’t know how he would survive.

It was hard to tell where he started and she ended. Their legs were tangled together, one hand on her belly, his head tucked below her chin and her nails scratching lightly at his back. It was comfortable.

She was on the verge of falling asleep. Her eyes were closed and her breathing was heavy. He wasn’t positive she was actually awake.

His focus was on other things. His eyes were watching her belly, narrowed like he was trying to figure something out. There was no way he could come out and say what he was thinking without potentially insulting her. But he was positive there was a swell to her belly that wasn’t there before. It would be the first time either of them saw any noticeable signs of pregnancy and he believed it was rather exciting.

“Y/N?” he whispered. He hoped she was still awake. He got a hum back in response. There wasn’t much energy behind it though. Ever so lightly he stroked his hand over her stomach. The man was in a trance. “Do you feel that?”

She managed to just about crack her eyes open, peering down at him like he was crazy. She would love to just fall asleep but of course he wasn’t going to let that happen so easily.

He guided her hand over the path his own had just taken. He saw it the moment it hit her.

She suddenly perked up and his first thought was to reach over to their bedside and grab his camera. He set it to record, pointing it at their faces that were now displaying wide grins.

“What do you see, gorgeous?”

Y/N felt like she could cry. Pregnancy hormones were already getting the better of her, but this moment would have made any soon to be parent emotional. “Our baby.” When the light hit just right the camera was able to capture the way tears shone in both her’s and Lando’s eyes.

The curly-haired man flipped the camera, pointed at the place where their hands had naturally intertwined on her stomach.

The angle was probably horrible. No one would be able to see what they were talking about, he couldn’t even see through his tears to know what the camera was seeing, but Lando didn’t care. The whole point of the vlogs was to capture the emotion, not the perfect shot. He wasn’t trying to be some artsy videographer this time around.

Things were starting to feel more real now.

Lando was excited, more excited than he ever had been for anything before. He dropped the camera, needing a free hand to wipe away his falling tears. But it was still recording.

“We’re having a baby.” He said it like he hadn’t already known. With all the joy of when he’d first found out. She beamed, bringing her free hand to cup his cheek. There was this dreamy look in his eyes, like she had hung the moon. Never would he be able to put into words how much he loved the woman before him. This time when he spoke his voice was airy, like he was in disbelief. “We’re having a baby.”

. ‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.🧸ྀི

2025-03-11 08:15:03

“Lando’s leaving me.” She had been this dramatic all night prior to his day of departure. A sigh could be heard just off to the side. Moments later he was wrapping his arms around her and smothering her cheek with kisses. The couple wasn’t always one for PDA, but the video they were creating felt like an exception. Maybe just this once it would be okay for the world to see how much they adored one another. For their future child to see that mum and dad truly loved each other.

“‘M not leaving you, I’m going to work.” 

Regardless of the technicalities, she was still going to spend the weeks they were apart pouting. 

“Exactly.” She was frowning, a sight he couldn’t stand to see. If it was up to him he would either take her everywhere or never leave her. Being apart from her was the worst part of his job by a mile. Even worse now that he knew she was carrying their baby. What if something happened while he wasn’t there? He was going to be halfway across the world, there wasn’t a whole lot he could do from there if she needed him. 

Packing his suitcase was not a chore he enjoyed, but it was certainly made harder when his lovely, pregnant girlfriend was so desperate for his attention. She wasn’t letting him forget. He put down the clothes he was supposed to fold and tuck into the case, heading over to the bed where she was lounging under her fluffy blanket. He didn’t waste any time climbing under it with her and wrapping his arms around her body.

She made a happy noise, melting into him. “Nevermind, I’m happy again,” she informed the camera. She didn’t see how he rolled his eyes but the camera definitely did. 

“You’re a bad influence,” he grumbled. 

What followed was a lot of shifting from Lando. He pulled the blanket off of her at least 3 times, poked her uncomfortably more than once and just didn’t seem to settle. She was starting to regret pining for his attention. “Can you sit still?” she hissed. 

He froze, but little did she know he had finally worked his way to the place he wanted to be. His head was by her stomach, looking up at her with the most innocent eyes he could muster. If he looked at her like that, how was she supposed to stay mad at him? 

She eyed him warily, like she wasn’t sure what he was doing. He was just being Lando. 

He didn’t leave her in the dark for much longer. His mouth was planted right next to her stomach, where their baby would be made at home for the next few months. And without an ounce of self consciousness, he began to speak. “Hi baby, it’s your dad.” His voice was so gentle. 

Her heart clenched at the tender moment. She turned the camera so it focused on him, wanting to have this not only engrained in her memory, but forever captured on film too.

“We don’t know if you’re a girl or a boy yet, or what your name’s gonna be… but we do love you already.” He was caressing her skin lovingly. “We can’t wait to meet you. I already know everyone’s gonna be so excited about you.” It was true. They both had a strong feeling they were going to break the internet when the news got out. The plan was to keep it quiet at least until the birth, but they didn’t know how realistic that was considering how nosey some people come be. And their families, well their families would probably be ecstatic. 

A baby was certainly going to be a surprise for people. No one knew they were trying for a baby, not even them. This was coming completely out of nowhere. But they hoped people in their lives would be proud at how well they were adapting. 

Y/N was the first to know and even she was surprised with how quickly Lando had taken to the news. He had gone from thinking a baby was something that might ruin his life, to embracing it, even planning for it. She had a sneaky suspicion he was more excited than she was. Which was a crazy thought.

Lando placed a gentle kiss right in the middle of her stomach, just over her clothes, where he assumed their baby’s heart or maybe head might be. “Love you. I’ll see you when I get back from Australia.” It was a promise.

His eyes flickered back up to his girlfriends, finding the camera in her hands and the tears lining her eyes. He grinned. “Are you crying?” His heart was so full. The whole world would one day see how he softened for her. “What’s wrong, baby?”

She smiled. “I’m just so happy.”

“You’re happy?” She nodded, sniffling so loudly that the camera could probably hear. Nothing would ever compare to the feeling in his chest right now. “Good. Me too.”

. ‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.🧸ྀི

2025-04-01 11:21:49

The video began with an extreme zoom in on Lando’s face. Y/N was laughing, he was grinning, trying to steal the camera from her hands. They were sitting next to each other, on a plane it seemed. It was loud, wherever they were. They looked happy.

“Baby’s first holiday,” Y/N cheered quietly. There was obviously someone else on the plane. They were trying to keep it quiet.

His brow furrowed. “I don’t think this counts.” 

“What, why not?” 

He couldn’t believe the two of them were about to get into a philosophical conversation about what counted as a first during their baby’s development. “I think they have to be fully formed and you know, like, born.” She didn’t know. She had never done this before. Neither had he though, so she was happy to believe whatever she wanted because she knew very well that he was clueless on the subject.

“What baby?” 

The looks that crossed their faces were nothing short of comedy gold. Lando looked like he had literally seen a ghost. They thought they were being quiet, obviously not quiet enough though. His head whipped around to face Oscar, smiling shyly at the bewildered look on the man’s face. They were planning on keeping this a secret for a bit longer, but plans changed. It looked like they were going to have to tell Oscar a little early. 

“Surprise,” Y/N said. 

The Aussie looked like he was going through a hundred emotions. It was the most Y/N had ever seen him react to something. “What, you, your–” His brain couldn’t comprehend it. His teammate was just so… Lando, he couldn’t imagine him as a father to a real human baby. The man he knew was childish and wore mismatched clothes, sometimes even forgetting to feed himself. The idea of him being entirely responsible for a child was crazy. 

Oscar sank back down into his seat, taking a minute to let this news sink in. He was muttering under his breath. 

The couple laughed, leaving him to have a minute. A short time later, he turned back around to look at them, a softer expression on his face. “You’re pregnant?”

She nodded, not expecting him to literally launch himself at her for a hug. Her laughter was loud and she lost her grip on the camera as she wrapped her arms around him. Lando reached for it from the floor, pointing it at the 3 of them. “I guess Oscar knows now.”

That seemed to grab his attention. “Am I the first to know?” He was going to be so incredibly smug about that if it was the case. 

Lando rolled his eyes. Max and his parents were never going to let him live this down if they found out. Which was pretty much inevitable. “Yes. We were meant to keep it quiet.” It was a slight weight off his back if he was being honest. He was terrified he was going to be the one to slip up and ruin everything. He had a fear of mentioning it by accident in the middle of an interview or something. But luckily, she had done it first. Something he was going to hold over her while he could. “But somebody had to go and spoil it.”

She huffed, swatting his arm. “Shut up.”

“Nope. I’m just glad it wasn’t me. You need to own up to your mistakes.” They shared a look. She knew he was only teasing. She also knew he was absolutely right. If he had been the one to spill it by accident, she would have rinsed him for it. The look was something tender. Something to say she knew he wasn’t really annoyed with her. It was all fun.

Watching them brought a smile to Oscar’s face. He had to clear his throat just to remind them he was there. He didn’t want to have to be witness to their PDA if they forgot about him. “I’m happy for you.” He raised his fist to bump into Lando’s. “Congrats man.”

. ‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.🧸ྀི

2025-05-05 20:56:22

Miami was fun. Another trophy to add to the collection and another podium to add to his stats. As the pair flew back to the UK, they were on a high, they started scheming. By the time they landed, they had a plan and it felt right. It was time to tell their families. 

As always, when they pulled up at the Norris household unannounced, they were greeted with open arms. Cisca was always happy to have her son home, even more so her daughter-in-law. She thought there was something up with the surprise visit, but she didn’t voice her suspicions straight away. She would wait, see if they wanted to come clean. She suspected a proposal, but without seeing a ring she couldn’t be sure. 

Nothing happened straight away. They acted as normal as they could for hours, until Adam caught them whispering like giddy teenagers in the kitchen. They had to do it now before they exploded. 

Lando set up the camera on the mantel in the living room, mouthing a little ‘oh my god’ that stemmed from pure nerves. While Y/N coaxed them all in. His hands were trembling with the excitement of it all, his heart thrumming wildly in his chest. This had been their secret (beside’s Oscar) for 4 months now. Of course he knew it was real, but somehow telling others made it feel so much more authentic. Y/N felt a little nauseous and she was inclined to believe it wasn’t to do with the baby. She knew her boyfriend’s family loved her, but there was still a little part of her that worried they wouldn’t be as happy as the 2 of them were. 

The mother of 4 sat smugly beside her husband as the couple fumbled around, clearly up to something. She had been right after all. She knew her boy better than he knew himself. 

“Okay,” Lando rubbed his hands together like he wasn’t sure what to do with them, before finally setting one on Y/N’s back, “We have news.”

His sister rolled her eyes. “Obviously.”

“Flo, be nice.” 

The girl in question scoffed, throwing her hands up in the air. “Well, some of us have stuff to do and he’s dragging this whole thing out. It’d be quicker if he just got to the point.” Her brother squared his shoulders slightly, like he was about ready to start a fight with her. Lando would never lay his hands on a woman, but his sisters didn’t count. They weren’t women, they were little demons that made it their mission to embarrass him. 

“You can talk to your boyfriend later, this is our moment, Florence.” That was a piece of information that was supposed to be a secret, a secret he wasn’t supposed to know. He only knew because Y/N had told him after Flo told her, not maliciously in any way, but Y/N told her lover everything. 

The younger sibling gasped, sitting upright as her cheeks flushed and she avoided her parent’s eyes. “Y/N! You weren’t supposed to tell!” The two that hadn’t gotten involved were loving every second of the bickering. 

She looked sheepish. “I’m sorry.” She truly hoped she hadn’t betrayed the girl’s trust. 

Cisca was losing her patience with the kids. “Florence, we’ll talk about that later,” the girl grumbled and sunk further into the sofa, “Can you two please just tell us what’s going on?”

Lando visibly softened as he remembered what they were doing this for. He looked at the woman by his side and was so overcome with love for her. The words tumbled past his lips with ease, like they were meant to be spoken. Everything felt so right. “We’re having a baby.”

Considering the fact she knew something was up, this hadn’t crossed his mother’s mind even once. The tears started to fall instantly. Lando awed, wrapping the woman in a hug in an effort to comfort her. How was her baby having his own baby already? It felt like just yesterday she was holding his hand as they crossed the road, singing him lullabies to make sure he got to sleep okay. Now she was due to be a grandmother? 

While the mother and son had a moment, the rest of the Norris family swarmed Y/N, practically drowning her in hugs. She didn’t know if she had ever felt so loved before. 

She could have sworn the 2 Norris girls were crying, over the moon to be an auntie again. Oliver was happy his own daughter was going to have a friend and Adam was sort of relieved. 

Even though his youngest son was a grown man, 25 years of age, sometimes he worried that he was too focused on racing. He was proud of Lando, endlessly, for fulfilling his dream in such a cut-throat sport, but sometimes he wondered if he would ever have anything other than motorsport. He’d had to be focused his entire life. He had already missed out on so much. Then he met Y/N and he became a little less worried. Now though he was going to experience fatherhood, something arguably greater than any lifelong dream. If Lando thought he loved winning, he would be in for a surprise when this baby arrived. Nothing else was going to matter the second he held that baby for the first time. 

“Congratulations, sweetheart,” Adam whispered, pressing a kiss to her temple lovingly. 

She sniffled, trying not to cry but the pregnancy hormones were a lot. Recently the woman had found herself emotional over things that weren’t even remotely, well… emotional. It was driving her insane and she had another 5 months to go. 

The driver was quickly tackled by his siblings, all in different stages of glee. Their father watched on with a bright smile. He was a patient man, he could wait for his special moment with his boy. As for their mother, she made her way over to Y/N who was just taking the camera down. It captured their interaction perfectly. 

“Are you excited?” Y/N asked, shyly. 

The older woman didn’t say a word, just pulled her into a hug that left her breathless. Cisca had so much love to give and she was more than happy to be on the receiving end of some of it. “I’m overjoyed. Thank you.”

Her brow furrowed. “What for?”

“For loving him, for completing him,” she let out a sigh that could only be described as dreamy, “For just being you.” Lando had a few relationships/flings over the years that she hadn’t approved of, but Y/N? She considered her one of her own. She was elated he had found someone that fit him so well. Someone he could start a family with and feel nothing but content. “I’m so happy it’s you.” She kissed her cheek, taking a second to really look at her like she almost couldn’t believe this moment was real. There was going to be another baby Norris soon and she couldn’t wait. 

. ‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.🧸ྀི

2025-05-25 16:53:20

The couple had been unsure whether she should attend Monaco or just watch it from their apartment. Her bump was certainly more prominent now and they weren’t ready for the world to know. Was it worth the risk just to watch him race in person? The chances of him winning at Charles’ home race were slim to none anyway. But then she had found the perfect orange top, just flowy enough not to make anything obvious unless you knew what you were looking for. 

In his driver’s room before the race, she had been worried, turning every which way in front of the mirror to double check the camera’s wouldn’t be able to tell. As for Lando? He was amused and documented the whole thing. 

He zoomed in on her, watching through the lens as she smoothed the material down around her bump. She frowned, her palms growing more sweaty. She wished she could just throw on a hoodie or something but the weather wouldn’t allow it. She would probably collapse from heat exhaustion. 

“Are you sure you can’t tell?”

“Baby, yes.” He had already said it a thousand times. “This is a good quality camera and it can’t see a thing. It is picking up your wrinkles though.” It was just teasing. 

She scoffed, glaring at him and then examining her face closely in the mirror. “I don’t have wrinkles.” The way she’d been frowning had in fact brought on the start of a wrinkle or two and she quickly smoothed them out. He could be an ass sometimes. She would have loved to just let it all go and not care, but the internet and media outlets were harsh. They would scrutinise her the second she stepped foot outside. “What if they notice how big my boobs have gotten? That’s a sure sign of pregnancy.”

“Or a boob job,” he muttered. He raised his free hand in his defence when she shot him a deadly look through the mirror. “I hope they don’t notice your boobs cause those are mine.”

The claim was full of confidence. 

One eyebrow raised. “Are they now?”

He turned the camera around to him, pointing his finger right down the lens. “You know it, I know it and the world knows it, baby.” She had no idea how she tolerated him sometimes. 

As soon as Lando settled in the car, she forgot all about her worries. He was on pole; In Monaco; The track that was famous for having limited overtaking opportunities. It was almost a sure win. All she could focus on was the thumping of her heart that grew quicker with every lap. He was going to do it. He had to do it. 

By the time lap 78 rolled around, he was still number one. Monaco, the most prestigious race on the entire calendar and her man had just won it. Y/N pulled out the camera before she even knew what she was doing. She aimed it at the screen she had been watching, then back to herself and the way she was ugly crying. “He won,” she sobbed. She would blame the tears on the baby no doubt, but she would have reacted like this pregnant or not. 

As much as she would have loved to go and watch the podium ceremony, it didn’t feel like a smart idea. Instead she stayed back in his room, watching it play out on the TV; just her and the camera. He looked like he belonged on that top step. She didn’t know if she was ever going to stop crying. 

“I don’t know if I’ve ever been this happy,” she whispered. That probably sounded bad considering she had recently discovered she was with child, and her child might see this video one day, but she just couldn’t believe today was real. Her boyfriend, the love of her life, was a Monaco Grand Prix winner. He was a history maker. One of the few. The pride in her chest was overwhelming. She would probably hide when Lando watched this back, made to feel shy for how she so freely expressed her love for him. He was nothing if not a tease when it came to her feelings. 

It was another 30 minutes or so before Lando made it back to her and she could feel the joy radiating from him before he even stepped foot into the room. When the door opened, the trophy was clutched tightly in his hand and he smelled of a weird mix of sweat and champagne, the smell of victory she supposed. 

As soon as the valuable was safely on the ground, so as to not have another broken trophy incident, he launched himself at her. She barely had time to set the camera down on the massage table before he broke that too. 

She loved him and his affection dearly, but he was drowning her in his stench. “I am so proud of you, but baby you stink.” Her laughter came straight from her chest, real and infectious. He found himself chuckling along. 

He cradled her face. His touch was gentle, like she was made of literal glass. “Just let me love you a bit. Then I’ll shower, promise.” 

That was okay with her. 

The TV was still playing replays in the background. She heard part of his post-race interview again, the part where he talked about winning this for his family. People assumed he meant his parents, his siblings, but little did they know he was quietly dedicating this historic win to the family he and Y/N were in the process of creating. It made her swoon.

“I can’t believe you won.” Even though he had been the one in the car, leading the laps, crossing the finish line first, he didn’t believe it either. “You really did it.”

His happiness was all encompassing. It felt like he was wrapped up in a blanket of triumph that he wouldn’t be able to take off any time soon. And if he was being honest, he wouldn’t want to. He wanted to ride this high for as long as he could possibly drag out– just before people got sick of him talking about it. In his mind it seemed like the perfect time to add to it, to properly bring her into his happy bubble. 

“Marry me.”

She laughed, loud and watery. “What?” His words caught her off guard. It wasn’t what she always dreamed of with a proposal. He wasn’t down on one knee, there was no romantic build up or speech, there was no ring worst of all. But at the same time, she wouldn’t have wanted anything different for them. “Are you serious? Actually, scratch that, are you insane?”

His smile was wider than she had ever seen before and his eyes crinkled to match. “Insanely in love with you. Come on, marry me.” She had never seen him quite so genuine.

She searched his eyes for any sign of hesitation or uncertainty, but she was coming up empty. Lando had never been more sure about anything in his life. If there was one person he would want by his side for the rest of his life, it was Y/N. It wasn’t that she was unsure. There was really nothing more she would want. Her anxiety was creeping in though. Was he just saying this in the heat of the moment? Did he actually want this or did it just slip out?

One look at her and he could tell she was spiralling. “I have a ring at home.” That information made her perk up. She did most things at home, his washing being one of them, how could she have missed an engagement ring? “I bought it months ago and hid it in my suitcase ‘cause I knew you wouldn’t look there.” At least that cleared up her confusion. “I’m serious about this, Y/N. I want nothing more than to be able to call you my wife.” 

She let out a breath, then laughed and practically melted into his arms. “There was no way I was ever going to say no.” He was going to marry her. She would soon be married to a Monaco winner. How many people could say that? “That ring better be huge with the paycheck you’re gonna get from this.”

He threw his head back with a laugh. “Only the best for you, baby.”

. ‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.🧸ྀི

2025-06-19 10:03:42

Lando had been home from Canada for 3 days when she decided she wanted to know the gender of their baby. It wouldn’t change how either of them felt towards the little foetus growing in her belly, but liked the idea of knowing. She didn’t want some big party or anything that had the chance to go horribly wrong. She wanted it to be just them, quiet, intimate. He was more than happy to make that happen. 

The only person he had allowed to know was his sister. Despite the way they bickered, they did get along really well and he knew he could trust her with this. The envelope containing the important slip of paper from their doctor was given to her, seen by only her and the woman who made the cupcake.

Flo dropped it off at their place and then it was just them, ready to find out.

She set up the camera, the two of them perched on the floor of their bedroom. It all looked very cosy. Neither of them had been awake very long, choosing to spend the day lazing around their apartment. Lando was in his pyjamas; a pair of checkered blue bottoms and an old shirt that might have been his dad’s at some point. Y/N opted to be warmer, donning a pair of plain joggers and a soft hoodie any eagle-eyed fan would be able to tell was his, paired with some fluffy pink socks to keep her feet warm. To many she would appear in too many layers for the Monaco weather, but she liked being snug. 

Lando’s hair was messy, a little flat, but she hadn’t given him time to fix it. It was a reflection of her own that was tied back. He had a sleepy grin on his face and a hand on her knee. Not possessive, just resting there like it was made to fit. 

“Are you ready?” he asked. 

It was more nerve wracking than she thought it would be for some reason. Their baby would be loved eternally regardless, but that didn’t make it any less scary. “Ready.”

He picked up the small bun, holding it to her mouth for her to take a bite. She barely sunk her teeth into the sponge when he was smushing it against her mouth. She coughed quickly, then laughed, a laugh that was pure shock. “You dick,” she huffed. But she wasn’t really angry. If she was actually angry she would have killed him by now. 

The man was laughing, the loud gremlin-like laugh he did when he just couldn’t help it. She didn’t waste a second. Y/N lunged at him with the rest of the cupcake gripped in her fist. They ended up in a pile on the floor, her on top of him with a flattened sweet treat between them. They were making a mess but neither of them really cared to acknowledge it. She was the first to get up, her cheeks hurting from smiling so much. 

The sight in front of her was amusing. She had got him back, arguably worse than he had gotten her originally. Only once they were both covered in icing and sponge did they remember what they were doing. Her eyes went wide when she saw the pink covering the lower half of his face. He must have seen it around the same time. His entire expression changed. 

“A girl?”

She nodded, bottom lip between her teeth as she tried to keep her tears at bay. She wanted to know how he felt about it before she let herself get excited. Some men didn’t want daughters and she truly hoped Lando wasn’t going to be one of those people. Luckily for her, he rubbed at his eyes and the tears began to fall. Before she knew it he was borderline sobbing. He should have been the one comforting her, but now it was the other way round. 

The woman cooed. “Lan…” She clambered into his lap, wrapping her arms around his head. He didn’t even need encouragement to bury his face in her neck, he just went. He clinged to her, like he was afraid she would disappear if he let go.

It didn’t matter that tears were soaking the material of her hoodie or that they were covered in sticky icing, this moment would be cherished. She cast a quick glance to the camera, almost like she was in The Office, showcasing with her expression how much she couldn’t believe this. This kind of reaction was the thing you saw in fairytales, not real life. 

“Are you happy?” she questioned. 

He nodded rapidly, then finally pulled away so she could see his face. The smile he was wearing was huge. “I’m so happy.” He brushed away the few tears of hers that had dripped onto her cheeks. “Are you?” 

“Yeah.” She kissed him softly. This was better than anything she could have dreamed of. 

He leaned forward and stole another kiss. There was a tugging sensation in his chest, like he was being drawn to her. If he thought he was clingy before, he was going to be even worse now that he knew he had a little girl on the way– a mini Y/N. If she resembled her mother in any way he feared he would never use the word ‘no’ again. She wasn’t even born and he was already wrapped around her finger. 

“A little you,” he whispered. 

She hummed, resting her forehead against his. Neither of them acknowledged that the camera was still rolling, but it didn’t matter anymore. “A little me.” 

They breathed softly together, just enjoying one another’s presence. He brushed a little bit of icing from her cheek, not that it made much of a difference at all. “You had a little something,” he joked. 

Y/N giggled. “Oh really?” she teased. 

He kissed her one more time, just for good measure and then his gaze fell to the camera. “She’s gonna watch this and think we’re disgustingly cute, you know.”

She couldn’t say she was upset about that. If their child knew her parents were truly and hopelessly in love, Y/N would actually sleep better at night. Not everyone could say the same. “Good,” her hand drifted down to her belly, “Our little girl.”

. ‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.🧸ྀི

2025-07-10 13:02:39

The summer break was a welcomed bit of time off. Y/N and Lando felt like their schedules were just too busy to actually spend a good chunk of time together. But now he was free for almost a month and they were going to spend every waking minute together. First up, they had to make a nursery that was the perfect place for their baby to live in. Well, Lando did. 

Y/N was using the excuse that she was 6 months pregnant to do as little as possible. She was happy to sit in the little rocking chair in the corner and tell him what to do. And if he knew what was good for him, he’d listen to every word she said. 

When picking a theme she was adamant it couldn’t be car related. No doubt their lovely girl was going to have Formula 1 centered in her life for a long time, Y/N wanted to give her the chance to at least have a space that was an exception to that. Lando had grumbled, but gone along with it anyway. He could understand what she was talking about at least. Instead of cars or racing, they had agreed on wildflowers. It was going to look like walking through a gorgeous meadow, animals and all. 

Music played softly while Lando built the furniture. He looked like the epitome of manly. Y/N didn’t know if she had ever been more attracted to him. 

“You know, if there wasn’t already a baby in me-”

He gasped like he had been scandalised. “The camera’s still on, you dirty dog.”

She chuckled, but admittedly her cheeks did begin to burn. She wasn’t quiet in her love and attraction for her fiance, but there were certain things she would like to keep private about them. Their sex life for example. “I’m just saying, you look really hot.”

The expression on his face was painfully smug. “Yeah? Is it the DILF energy?”

Her face twisted into one of disgust. “Never say that again.”

He winked. “No promises.”

After the crib was done, Lando took to painting the walls. They settled on a soft pink colour, something cosy and yet still colourful. 

Y/N was thoroughly enjoying having her feet up while he worked hard. Occasionally she would offer him a snack, a piece of fruit, a sandwich, some chocolate. She already seemed to have the mum thing down. It was all incredibly domestic– other than the occasional horny comment that made her ears burn. 

“Baby, could you pass me that roller, please?” He had quickly realised that handpainting was going to take far too long. There was no harm in trying other methods. But he had a plan, a sneaky one at that. Just as she turned away, he dipped his palms in the tub of paint and grabbed her bum.

“Lando!” she screeched. There were 2 hand prints now painted onto her pyjama bottoms, right on her backside. He grinned cheekily, offering her a wink as he ducked away from the swat she tried to aim at him. The camera could clearly see the 2 marks made by paint and she was sure the internet would have a field day with them when they found out. “Harrassing a pregnant woman, unbelievable.”

When he was sure she wasn’t going to try and hit him again, he placed a loud, wet kiss on her cheek. Her nose scrunched and she grumbled under her breath, but she loved it. They both knew that. “Love you.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

It took a couple days for everything to be finished in the nursery, but it was certainly worth the wait in the end. After the paint was on the walls, Lando banned her from entering the room. The fumes, he said. She probably would have been perfectly fine, but he was taking her health and safety very seriously. He wasn’t going to risk anything happening to her. He also wanted there to be some element of surprise. 

He was making her close her eyes, camera in hand so he could really capture her first impression properly. Lando was proud of himself. With a little help from his mum, he had turned the room into any child’s dream. It looked lovely, cosy and bright. He could already picture their girl in the crib he’d built for her. 

“Are you ready?” His voice was so close to her ear that it startled her. He chuckled at the way she jumped.

“Yes.”

When did Lando ever make things easy? “Are you sure?” There was nothing he loved quite like teasing her. After all these years he knew how to perfectly push her buttons too. 

The woman sighed. “Yes, Lando.”

“Positive?”

“Oh my god, just show me!”

He was grinning now. He pushed open the door and guided her in. His heart was beating rapidly, nerves swirling in his stomach, scared that she might not like it. Her pulse was equally as quick, but she was filled with excitement. 

When she finally opened her eyes the tears were instant. She couldn’t even control them. 

The nursery looked a million times better than she could have predicted. The flowers, handpainted by Lando and Cisca, looked perfect. The stuffed animals decorating the nursing chair were so cute and squishy. The pictures on the walls of forest animals, the bunny and the deer, made her heart swoon. She never knew Lando had such an eye for interior design, especially given how bachelor-y his apartment was when they started dating. Maybe she didn’t give him enough credit where it was due. 

She hadn’t said anything yet and that was worrying him. He was terrified that she hated it. “What do you think?” His voice was quiet and she could hear the insecurity lingering in his tone. She threw herself into his arms, not caring how the camera was squished between their bodies. 

“I love it. You did such a good job.”

Lando’s face visibly lit up. “Yeah?” He was glad. He took the camera, setting it on top of the drawers and out of the way. Their future viewers would now have a full view of the newly decorated nursery. “I might have one more surprise.”

He took her hand and led her over to the crib. There was a new addition waiting inside that she hadn’t seen before now. Her eyes widened and her heart grew at least 3 sizes. “Is that Mr snuggles?” Her childhood stuffed bunny, the one that had gone everywhere with her until the age of 12. She thought it was still in her room back at her parent’s house, but clearly he had worked some of his magic. 

Purely the fault of the pregnancy hormones (not true), she was getting emotional over everything. She tucked her face into Lando’s shoulder, enjoying the way he stroked her hair. He was always so gentle with her.

The man nodded. “I had your parents send him over a couple days ago. I thought baby girl would love it because her mum loved it.” 

Her heart clenched. This man meant everything to her. “Thank you.”

They were quiet for a little bit, just enjoying the moment, holding one another. “Can you believe she’s going to be here soon, in this bed?” he whispered, nuzzling his nose against her cheek. His heart felt so full and she hadn’t even arrived yet. He couldn’t imagine how he was going to feel when she was finally here. Fatherhood was already so intoxicating. He couldn’t get enough. 

Y/N leaned back into him, sighing happily and blinking away the tears that threatened to fall. “I can’t wait. She’s going to be so loved, Lan.”

The moment was so intimate and pure. The camera caught them in each other’s arms but their voices were too low for it to pick up the volume. That was something that would stay between them, just how they liked it.

. ‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.🧸ྀི

2025-07-18 15:28:33

Lando had decided a babymoon was absolutely necessary. Just him and her, no families, no racing, no interruptions, before their baby arrived and shook up their whole lives. Y/N had to admit, the idea of the two of them on a yacht off the coast of some gorgeous island for a week? It was enticing. She hadn’t needed much convincing.

As soon as she found herself lounging on the deck, soaking up the sun (ogling her shirtless fiance behind her sunglasses mainly) she knew she had made the right choice.

Lando was filming her, she could see that out of the corner of her eye, acting like he was in some kind of wildlife documentary. She was trying not to smile, not wanting to encourage him, but as soon as he started doing the David Attenborough voice, she cracked a grin. 

“And here we see the expecting mother in her natural habitat…” 

She turned her head his way, pushing her sunglasses up so he could see the amusement on her face. “What are you doing?” There was no doubt in her mind that he was zooming right in on her face. She would probably grimace at the sight when she watched the footage back, even when he insisted she looked utterly perfect. 

“I’m taking a video of my gorgeous, radiant, breathtaking, sexy–”

“Lando.”

He beamed. “You look beautiful right now. The way the sun’s hitting you,” he groaned, a sound that startled a laugh out of you, “It’s a photographer's dream.” The point of the baby vlog wasn’t to be pretty or aesthetic, it was to document their love throughout the pregnancy. But sue him if there were some beautiful shots of his lover thrown in there. 

A plan had already been formed when he got to his feet. Unfortunately for him, he couldn’t just throw a pregnant woman in the ocean. No one needed to outright tell him that was a horrible idea. But he could ask politely. 

The menacing sparkle in his eye as he sat beside her was enough for her to know he was up to something. The man was far from subtle. 

“What do you want?”

“Come swimming with me.” Lando’s voice was sickly sweet. It was all in a bid to coax her into agreeing. When it came to him and those puppy eyes of his, she never stood a chance. One of his hands was on her bare leg, warm and safe. The other was still angling the camera in her face. She was seconds away from swatting it out of his hands. “Guys, she doesn’t love me. Let it be known that she hates me.” The teasing was exactly what he needed to finally get under her skin. 

With a quick move she took the camera out of his hands and turned it around on him. Considering it was part of his job, he was more than used to being on camera. Irritatingly he was also incredibly photogenic. So he simply smiled, looked as handsome as ever. She sighed as she looked at him on the screen. How was this man all hers?

“Come on,” he begged.

“Fine.”

Lando set the camera up on the deck. Rather dangerously too. She wouldn’t be surprised if it fell into the water at some point– a devastating loss considering what was on the camera. He was adamant everything would be fine. As soon as she saw the footage of them swimming, it was worth the risk. 

The water was nice. A relief from the scorching heat. She let herself float, enjoying the way baby girl kicked like she herself was trying to swim away. It made the woman laugh. Lando was watching her. It was impossible not to notice the pair of eyes burning into her. In a weird way, she knew what was coming. If she didn’t make it known soon that he was about to make a bad decision, the day would take a nasty turn. Insulting a pregnant woman was a horrible idea. 

“If you make one whale joke I’ll drown you.” It was a threat. A serious one. If he knew what was good for him he would take it seriously. He quickly closed his mouth, looking rather guilty. No joke was made. She had trained him well. 

Even if he couldn’t use humour to get her attention, he still wanted to bother her. It wasn’t exactly bothering per say, he just liked being with her. Being next to her. She felt him creep up beside her. Had no problem with the way he wrapped his arms around her. Despite inviting her to swim, they weren’t actually doing much swimming at all. 

A kiss. That was what he was after. She should have known, though she was happy to give it to him. 

“Baby girl likes the water. She’s kicking like crazy.” Their hands moved together over the swell of her belly. As if the girl inside knew her dad was there, she kicked harshly at his hand. Quite a few times. If it wasn’t bringing so much joy to both of them, she would only be focused on how badly it hurt her ribs.

The smile on her lover’s face made it all worth it. It was surreal. There was really a baby in there. “Maybe we’ve got a footballer on our hands,” he suggested. Another athlete in the family was the last thing she wanted, but at least football had less chances of a fiery death than Formula One. Although if she was a natural footballer, she definitely didn’t get that talent from her dad. He had little to no co-ordination with his feet. It was actually rather funny. 

“Doesn’t get that from you then.”

A scoff, then a splash of water aimed at her. 

“Lando!” She splashed him right back. 

That simple retaliation had started a downright war. It would be a miracle if their laughter wasn’t heard by those on the nearby island. Surely anyone would know they were just 2 crazy kids in love. Who could be mad at that?

. ‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.🧸ྀི

2025-09-21 17:29:04

The setup of the camera was much like the day Y/N found out she was pregnant. The circumstances too. She was in the bathroom, stressed, Lando nowhere to be seen. Only this time the stakes were higher. Was she about to have this baby on their bathroom floor?

“So, I might be having the baby early.” The fear in her voice was overwhelming. If you couldn’t already tell just from the look on her face, you definitely could the moment she opened her mouth. “Lando’s not here, he’s in Azerbaijan, literally just got out of the car.” She let out a deep breath. “I’m so scared. I don’t know what to do.” 

The talking was more for her than anything else. Obviously the camera couldn’t help her, nor could those who would end up watching the video. It would all be over by then. Putting her thoughts out into the air helped calm her for some reason.

“I called one of my friends, she’s on her way to take me to the hospital. I also called Lando’s mum ‘cause I panicked.” The woman had given her the best advice she could. There was only so much she could do from another country. How she wished she could be there holding her hand when her son couldn’t. 

It looked like it all seemed to hit her at once. Her face fell. “Fuck,” she mumbled. “I might be having a baby today.” 

A phone ringing interrupted her freakout. Lando. Finally. 

Turns out he was fairing no better than her. His voice immediately came booming through the speaker. Panic lacing his tone. “Are you okay? What am I supposed to do? I’m so sorry I’m not there.” It was easy to picture him right now. Running his hands through his hair. Pacing up and down his driver’s room. He probably hadn’t stayed for the podium celebrations. Maybe even on his way to the airport. The last thing he wanted was to miss the birth of his first born, to leave his lover on her own for this. Only a monster would do such a thing. He wasn’t a monster. No, he was devoted to her. 

“I’m okay. Getting a lift to the hospital soon.”

That didn’t make him feel any better at all. “Fuck.” He was struggling to grasp just one thought at a time. Being there with her was the biggest issue. There was no quick way of getting to Monaco from where he was, not even if he left right this second. Lando prided himself in being pretty good at taking care of Y/N, but right now he was at a loss. How did he make this situation better? “I’m sorry. I don’t know what to do.”

“There’s nothing you can do, but it’s okay. I’m gonna be fine.”

As suspected, Lando was on his way to the airport and he only had a very short amount of time before his flight. Even though it was the very last thing he wanted to do, he said his goodbyes, wished her luck. She would update him every step of the way. That was a promise. He was with her in spirit. And she couldn’t do this without that knowledge. 

The hospital, as expected, was nerve wracking. A pregnant woman experiencing potential labour meant she was at the top of the emergency list. Seen right away. It felt like every test in the world was being run on her and yet no answers were being given. Lando’s texts were coming through rapidly, every few seconds, but she didn’t have any updates for him right away. It would be nice if she did. 

Once the doctors deduced that she wasn’t actively about to give birth, things died down a little. Pain had stopped rippling through her body hours ago, but they didn’t stop running tests. Pregnant women were much more at risk of everything. They had to be cautious. She didn’t know how long she was going to be here. The doctor’s face was a welcomed one. 

“Good news, Miss Y/L/N, it was a false alarm.”

Her eyes went wide. A weight lifted off of her shoulders. “Really? So, I’m not in labour?”

The kind doctor shook her head. “No. False labour is very common at this point in pregnancy. It’s her way of making sure you’re ready for the big day.”

This kind of thing had been mentioned in the pregnancy books she’d read, but she hadn’t anticipated it to feel so authentic. Everything in her believed she would be having their baby today. It had all felt so real. “She’s okay then?”

A soft smile. “She’s perfect. A healthy baby who’s going to stay with her mum a bit longer.”

Y/N chuckled. She was grateful. There were certainly more desirable circumstances that she would like to give birth in. Preferably ones where her fiance was present and not currently losing his head 37,000 feet in the sky. 

“We would like to keep you in for the night, just for some monitoring. If that’s okay?”

She nodded. “That’s fine.”

But nothing was really fine until he got there early the next morning. His flight landed around 6 and he made it to her bedside by 6:35. No time was wasted on his behalf. He knew it was a false alarm, she had texted him during his flight, but it didn’t make him any less panicked. Even the smallest of things normally could be incredibly dangerous in the late stages of pregnancy. He was worried about her.

There seemed to be 101 forms to sign to get her discharged. She would just be happy when she could go home and finally climb into her own bed. 

The camera picked up again once the pair of them were home and relaxed again. Hours had passed. Lando had flown home immediately, a 12 hour flight that felt like days knowing she was at home and scared. The hospital had kept her overnight, just for observation. Once they were positive it was just a mishap, they allowed her to head home and nothing else unusual was going to happen. Luckily Lando had arrived by that point. 

Since they got back into their apartment, they hadn’t moved from one spot. The sofa was probably molded to fit them permanently now. 

Y/N sighed, exhausted from the chaos. Yet she still smiled into the camera, even if her head felt heavy and she wasn’t sure how much longer she’d be able to stay awake. 

“No baby yet,” Lando explained, “Still safe inside for now.” In the very corner of the screen, eagle eyed viewers might be able to see how his thumb was rubbing gentle circles on her belly. It was soothing for both her and baby girl. A kiss was placed to her head. “Quite a big scare though. And a very long day.”

There was a hum from Y/N. She curled further into him. “She’s dramatic, just like her dad.”

The curly-haired man let out a scoff, but unfortunately she was right. He was a drama queen and there was enough evidence online to back up her claim. There was no use in arguing. So he let her win. He would always let her win.

. ‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.🧸ྀི

2025-10-20 02:54:32

The camera was focused on Y/N, sitting on the sofa, free hand holding some kind of ice cream while there was frantic rushing in the background. Lando’s frantic rushing. The simple shot sort of perfectly described their personalities. 

She smiled at the camera. “So, I’m in labour and Lando’s losing his mind.” She was finding it rather funny. Though she looked far too calm for a woman who was due to give birth today. She turned the camera around, catching him just as he zipped past to grab something from the bedroom. Usually she would have had some sympathy, but she had been telling him to pack the hospital bag for weeks and he hadn’t. Really this was all on him.

But she wasn’t laughing for long. A wave of pain rippled through her body, the woman almost dropping her ice cream in the process. She certainly would have cried if she had done that. 

Her gasp was so loud that it startled her lover. “Lando.”

He knew just from the strain in her voice that she was having a contraction. In an instant he dropped everything, rushing over to her and offering his hand out. She took it as soon as she could reach, squeezing to try and relieve some of the sharp pain running through her body. 

The man frowned. He hated the idea that she was in pain. If he could take it away from her, he would do so immediately. As gentle as he could, he brushed some loose hair out of her face, kissing her forehead. It didn’t take the pain away but it did make things a little better.

When the pain passed, she let out a sigh. “Thank you.”

One more kiss was placed on her head for luck and then he got back to his frantic packing. Despite the nerves building up, she did manage to let out a brief laugh. He was done as quickly as he could be and then all his attention turned to her. Y/N was actually rather impressed with how well he was taking charge of the situation. 

The moment her water broke he helped her change, sat her down and handed her a tub of ice cream that she had been munching away on ever since. Everything else was handled by him. She didn’t have to lift a finger.

Now that he was done, he kneeled down in front of her, making sure her eyes were on him. “How far apart?” 

The only job she had was to time how far apart her contractions were. Then they would know when to head to the hospital. “6 minutes.” That meant they had to leave, like, now. She was supposed to tell him when they were 10 minutes apart, so he had some sort of warning at least. But he was already doing so much that she didn’t want to add to his stress. Unknowingly she had made it even worse by not telling him sooner.

Despite his job being to drive at 300km/h every weekend, he had never driven as fast as he did to the hospital. Without a doubt multiple speeding tickets would be coming through the post soon. He was almost positive every dad must be like this when their partner was giving birth, but the look on the nurse’s faces when he came rushing into reception like a crazy person said otherwise.

“My fiance’s in labour.”

People started to quickly understand his panic. So much was happening at once that he could barely keep up. Lando ended up following the doctor around like a lost puppy, just waiting to see where they would take her. He was glad when they finally got her into a room where she could have some privacy. It was too risky being out in the main bit of the hospital for too long. There were too many people around, too much opportunity for someone to spot them and break the news they’d been so good at hiding. 

Laying in the hospital bed with a doctor checking how dilated she was, she looked incredibly sad. The woman was pouting, a sight that made him chuckle. This was one of the brief moments where the contractions had halted, which meant he was allowed to joke. 

“Why did I let you do this to me?” she whined.

“Because you love me.” 

She huffed, a quip of some sort on the tip of her tongue ready to fire back at him. And she would have had she not been hit with another wave of shooting pain. 

He offered his hand to her, which she didn’t hesitate to take. The first squeeze made him regret everything, but he wasn’t exactly going to reject her when she was suffering far more than he was. He would do anything she needed him to to make things better for her.

She was slowly losing her mind laying there waiting for this to be over. And the worst part was no one could give her a straight answer of how much longer this was going to take. No one knew. It was different for everyone. But they did know baby girl wasn’t coming anytime soon, that much was a guarantee. They were going to have to wait this out a little longer. She hated every second of it. And he was no better. 

His hand was one squeeze away from the bones being shattered. It would be wrong to blame her for it though. She was definitely going through a lot worse. “Looks like baby girl is still gonna take a while yet,” he told the camera. At the reminder Y/N shot him a glare. It was to tell him to shut up. Lando thought it best to turn the camera off before she literally ripped his head off. Or said something that got him in trouble with his PR manager. He sent the camera one final grin. One last smile before he became a dad for real. It was all so exciting. “See you on the other side.”

. ‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.🧸ྀི

2025-10-20 21:34:59

The next time the camera turned on, things were much quieter. The chaos had died down. Y/N was no longer in agony. And they were both officially parents. There was a grin on Lando’s face that looked permanent, like he’d tattooed it on there and it had zero plans of disappearing any time soon. His cheeks physically hurt from it.

From what the camera could see, they were lying on the bed together. He had climbed behind her, letting her rest against his chest as she was more comfortable that way. It was clear she was holding something, cradling their baby. They looked happy. Tired, but happy.

“Everyone say hello to Rosie Norris.” The camera panned down, but her face stayed hidden. A baby, tiny, wrapped in a pink blanket, so content in her mother’s arms. Lando was in love. 

His life was so public that they had agreed they wanted to keep some things private. The whole reason they had kept her pregnancy secret was so they could properly enjoy it. Little Rosie was another thing. Other than a brief glimpse at her where they couldn’t prevent it, they wanted to give her the most normal childhood possible. No invading cameras, no massive crowds. The 2 of them would try their very best to keep her out of the spotlight. 

Y/N couldn’t take her eyes off of the sweet baby. 

“She’s healthy, cried her eyes out for the first 15 minutes of her life.” The pair laughed. She had barely been in the world for 3 hours and she was already bringing such light to her parent’s lives. “She’s perfect and we’re obsessed.”

Anyone could tell that they were truthful. Lots of people had kids, but Lando and Y/N were meant to have children. They were born to be parents. Their entire being belonged to that little girl. Already she had them wrapped around her tiny finger. 

There wasn’t much to film or say to the camera. Both of them wanted to be present. Actually in the moment. Not much was happening now the chaos was all over. Still, he didn’t turn the camera off. He let it run, sitting it on the table beside the bed, capturing the first few moments of this new family. It was sweet. A piece of video that would be cherished. 

His head leaned against hers, ignoring how her hair was still damp with sweat. There had been enough times where she had done the same for him after a particularly hot race. 

They were talking mindlessly, discussing anything that came to their minds just to pass the time. The camera could barely hear them with how low their voices were. That didn’t upset them though. It was just another thing that could be saved just for them. At some point Rosie cooed, letting her parents know she was finally awake and vying for their attention. 

Green eyes, identical to her dad’s, were staring right at them both. Y/N didn’t know when she would stop falling in love. Every new little detail that she discovered had another part of her heart dedicating itself to Rosie. Soon enough she was positive that little girl would be her entire being. She would be perfectly happy with that. 

Lando literally shed a tear. “She’s looking at us.” He was so in awe. This was his child. Half him, half Y/N. They had somehow created her and now got to appreciate that for the rest of their lives. “She looks just like you.” With the most gentle touch he could muster, the man traced his finger over her tiny cheek. It felt like if he didn’t keep checking she was real every now and then, she might disappear.

“She has your eyes.” There was no denying that. One might be able to drown in them if they looked too long. Y/N didn’t know how to look away.

It was quiet for a while. She was on the verge of falling asleep. Lando wasn’t helping with his warmth and the way he was stroking her hair. It had been a long day and as much as she wanted to stay awake and watch their girl exist forever, she had to give in to the sleep she was fighting sooner or later. 

“I’m tired,” she mumbled, blinking slowly. 

After some brief fumbling, he was more than happy to take Rosie from her arms so she could get some sleep. It was definitely deserved after the day she’d had. With the baby tucked up in his arms, he placed a quick kiss on Y/N’s head and then took a seat in the comfy armchair in the corner of the room. The camera watched as Rosie and him would spend the next few hours snuggled up together exactly like that, with him gazing down at her like she had hung the stars. It was the start of a new chapter in his life that he was finding himself utterly infatuated with.

━━━━━━━━━♡♥♡━━━━━━━━━

[barnesonly]

Obsession

possessive!bucky barnes x reader

summary: You don’t even really like Bucky Barnes — he’s grumpy, kinda mean, and totally clueless about how you feel. But damn, he’s so hot it’s driving you crazy. Every time he walks in, all you can think about is what it’d be like if he just took you right there. You try to play it cool… but yeah, that’s not happening.

word count: 6021

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI. curse words, masturbation, dirty talk, degrading, praising, desperation, fingering, teasing, PiV, unprotected sex, rough sex and he talks through it, breeding, overstimulation, oral (m receiving), possessive behavior.

A/N: i’m horny, okay?…

You don’t have a crush on Bucky Barnes.

That would imply affection. Admiration. Maybe even a little emotional investment.

You don’t have any of that.

What you do have is a deeply inconvenient, soul-destroying case of lust. A constant, throbbing ache between your legs every time he walks past. A full-body reaction to the way he stretches, or leans on the counter, or wears those fucking grey sweatpants like a goddamn weapon.

It’s chemical. It’s hormonal. It’s not personal.

Because Bucky Barnes is grumpy. Bucky Barnes is quiet. And Bucky Barnes has absolutely no idea that he’s the reason you can’t go three days without needing to fuck yourself stupid.

Like right now.

He’s just standing there in the kitchen, back to you, broad shoulders stretching that worn black Henley like it’s a second skin. His hair’s short now, freshly trimmed at the nape, the kind of cut that shows off the sharp line of his jaw, the back of his neck.

You’re staring. Again.

You don’t mean to. But he makes a little grunt when he stretches — just a tired noise, nothing sexual — and you nearly whimper like a kicked dog. Instinct. Pavlovian response.

And he doesn’t notice. Not even a flicker of awareness as he pours his coffee and walks out, oblivious, muttering something about the mission report.

You just stand there, holding a spoon, clenched thighs and flushed cheeks like you’ve just been fucked by the idea of him.

It’s getting worse.

Like, medically worse.

You’ve gone from horny to feral to clinically unwell, and it’s all because of one man.

One grumpy, emotionally constipated, vein-poppingly hot man who can’t say a sentence without sounding mildly irritated. Who barely even looks at you unless you’re in the way. Who definitely doesn’t like you — and yet somehow owns your nervous system like a fucking landlord.

And it’s not fair.

Because he’s not even nice to you.

He’s short with you in meetings. Scoffs when you crack jokes. Gives you that look when you say something mildly reckless on a mission — like you’re exhausting. Like you’re annoying.

But then he’ll do something that ruins you completely. Like grunt your name low and gravelly when tossing you your gear. Or casually push you out of the line of fire with one big, rough hand and say, “Watch it, sweetheart,” like you’re some dainty little thing.

You pace your room that night, ranting to no one.

“I don’t even like him,” you mutter, folding laundry with violent purpose. “He’s so rude. He never smiles. Doesn’t talk to anyone unless he has to.”

Your shirt gets yanked onto a hanger too hard. You nearly snap it.

“And he doesn’t even like me. Not even a little. I’m just some girl who laughs too loud and gets in his way and—oh my god, I would let him ruin me.”

That’s probably the most honest thing you said all week. You’d let him manhandle you. Throw you over his shoulder. Rail you into the mattress like a war crime. That arm? The metal one? You’ve thought about it. God, you’ve thought about it so much it’s starting to feel like a sin.

You can’t help it.

You collapse onto your bed, still in your T-shirt and underwear, legs kicking uselessly against the sheets. Your body is hot — too hot. Your skin prickles, stomach twisting tight with the sheer need of it.

You shouldn’t do it.

But fuck it — you do.

Your hand slips beneath the waistband of your panties like second nature, no hesitation. You’re already soaked — of course you are. One fucking grunt from Bucky in the kitchen and you’ve been like this all day, wound tight and throbbing.

Your fingers slide through the slick heat of your folds, and your hips twitch. You let out a soft, breathless whimper, biting your lip like it’ll help.

It doesn’t.

He’s all you can think about.

Bucky, with that low rasp of a voice. Bucky, sweat-slicked and panting, muscles straining above you. Bucky, staring down at you like you’re a mess he likes making.

You rub lazy circles around your clit, teasing yourself, letting it build slow. Letting the images crawl behind your eyes:

His hands gripping your thighs, spreading them open.

That cold metal arm wrapped around your throat, holding you in place while he pounds into you, relentless and filthy.

His voice in your ear, rough and possessive —“You been thinkin’ about this, sweetheart? Been touching yourself like a needy little thing?”

Your fingers move faster.

You arch into the mattress, breath stuttering, hips chasing the pressure. Your other hand slides up under your shirt, finds your breast and squeezes hard, tugging at your nipple.

“Fuck,” you whisper, squirming, already so close it’s pathetic.

You imagine his hand — that hand — between your legs. Imagine him shoving your panties to the side with those cool, precise fingers and just… watching you squirm. Watching you come undone with that unreadable expression of his, like he’s filing it away for later.

You imagine him making you come like this. Telling you you’re not allowed to stop. That you’re gonna do it again, and again, until you’re crying.

Your thighs start to shake.

You gasp, pressing harder, grinding down. Your toes curl, muscles tensing, pleasure tearing through you like lightning — sharp, wet, overwhelming.

You come hard, moaning into your pillow, breathless and ruined, hand still trembling between your thighs.

And then?

You lie there. Sticky. Hot. Unsatisfied.

Because no matter how many times you make yourself come, it’s never enough.

Not when it’s him you want.

Not when it’s Bucky fucking Barnes.

———

You’re minding your business. Truly. Peacefully. Drinking your stupid little smoothie, scrolling through intel reports on your tablet, trying so hard not to think about last night and the shame spiral that followed.

You’re in the common room, feet tucked under you, hair up, living a clean and quiet life.

The front door hisses open. Voices filter in—Sam laughing, Nat muttering something dry, Steve’s boots heavy on the floor.

And him.

Bucky.

You don’t look up at first. You don’t need to. You can feel him. Like some sixth sense activated just by his presence, like the air itself is different when he walks into it.

But then you do look up and you regret it immediately.

He’s just back from the field. Tactical gear still clinging to him, black shirt soaked through with sweat in that way that makes it stick to every hard line of muscle underneath. The sleeves are tight around his biceps—dangerously tight—making it look like the fabric’s seconds from giving out under the strain of his arms.

His hair’s damp, just messy enough to be criminal, a few strands sticking to his forehead. Dog tags resting against his chest. Black cargo pants slung low on his hips, clinging to his thighs like they were custom-made by someone with your exact problem.

He’s flushed from exertion, a little dirty, jaw tight like he’s still coming down from combat.

And he doesn’t notice you. He just walks past, arm flexing as he drags his glove off with his teeth.

You actually—physically—have to grip the edge of the couch.

You squeeze your thighs together so tight your eyes almost roll back. Your smoothie is sweating in your hand, condensation dripping onto your leg, and it’s the least of your problems right now.

Because that man?

That man could rail you into next week with the anger he carries in his shoulders alone. You’d let him wreck you in the debriefing room, up against the wall, still wearing that gear and not saying a word.

You’d tear those tactical pants off with your teeth.

And he just keeps walking. Oblivious. Like he’s not singlehandedly dragging you through the gates of horny hell.

“God,” you mutter under your breath, heart hammering. “You’re gonna kill me.”

He pauses for half a second like he might’ve heard you. Glances over his shoulder—just once.

And then he’s gone, down the hall.

You stare at the door for a long time, smoothie forgotten, thighs still clenched like your life depends on it.

You need help. You need prayer. Exorcism. A cold shower.

Or maybe you just need him to ruin your entire existence.

You barely make it back to your room.

Your legs are shaking. Your mind’s a blur. All you can see is him—sweaty, panting, muscles strained beneath that black t-shirt. His arm flexing, the curve of his jaw, those goddamn tactical pants hugging every inch of thigh like a threat.

You lock the door behind you with trembling fingers.

You don’t even bother taking your clothes off properly—just shove your hand down your shorts as you collapse back onto your bed, legs spread, head spinning.

He looked so good.

Your fingers slide through your folds, already wet, your body acting like it’s been starving for him. Like it’s been waiting all day, all year, for a glimpse of that man so it can break down on command.

You rub your clit in tight, needy circles, moaning quietly.

Your eyes flutter shut.

You picture him over you, sweaty and still in gear, that black shirt pushed up just enough to show the cut of his stomach. You imagine his voice, low and rough, right next to your ear—“Couldn’t even wait, huh? Needed me that bad?”

Your hips buck, thighs shaking, pleasure building fast and desperate.

“Fuck—Bucky,” you gasp, breath catching.

You don’t hear the quiet footfalls in the hall.

Don’t hear the door next to yours click shut.

Don’t know he’s just gotten back to his room.

But he hears you.

Bucky stops with one boot halfway unlaced.

He frowns—still half in mission mode—until he hears it again: a faint whimper through the wall. A soft gasp. Then—his name. Muffled. Almost whispered.

His blood goes still.

He steps closer to the wall, heart suddenly pounding, every nerve pulled tight.

Another moan. Higher this time. Desperate.

He can hear the rhythm now—quiet, wet sounds, a bed creaking slightly with every movement. You’re touching yourself. Saying his name. Whimpering like it’s been torturing you.

His mouth goes dry. Something low in his stomach twists.

He shouldn’t listen.

But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t even breathe.

You don’t know he’s there—don’t know you’ve already ruined him. That he’s standing on the other side of the wall, jaw clenched, cock straining against his pants, while you moan into your pillow and come with his name on your lips.

———

The next day, you tell yourself you’re fine.

You look fine. You act fine. You sit in the common area with your laptop open and a mug in your hands like a picture of peace. The night before? Never happened. The hand between your thighs? The breathy moans into your pillow? The orgasm that left you limp and half-ashamed?

A delusion. A private, pathetic delusion.

Until he walks in.

And your entire body remembers.

Bucky enters like it’s nothing. Like he’s nothing. Joggers low on his hips, black T-shirt riding up in the back, hair damp from a shower and curling just slightly around his ears.

You look up instinctively.

And he looks right at you.

Your breath catches. Your stomach drops. He holds your gaze for half a second—half a second too long—then nods, casual as ever, and heads to the kitchen.

No hello. No smirk. Nothing to suggest he heard the way you moaned his name with your fingers stuffed between your thighs like you were starving for him.

He doesn’t say a word.

You try to refocus, try to look at your screen and breathe, but your eyes keep flicking back.

He’s moving around the kitchen now, calm, quiet, efficient. Forearms flexing with every movement. The joggers cling when he crouches to grab something from a low cabinet, and your mouth actually goes dry.

Your thighs squeeze together.

He knows.

He has to know.

But he’s pretending like he doesn’t, and it’s driving you fucking insane.

You don’t even want to like him. He’s grumpy and rude and dismissive. He doesn’t flirt. He barely talks. He exists like a thundercloud with muscles and you still want to cry from how badly you want him.

And now he knows.

Now you’ve moaned his name with a hand between your legs, and he’s seen you since and said nothing.

You want to crawl into the floor.

You want to jump him.

You want him to ruin you until you can’t even say your own name.

He walks past you again with a cup of coffee, eyes flicking toward you—slow, heavy, unreadable.

And this time?

You swear there’s a hint of a smirk.

He leans against the counter, sipping his coffee, that black mug dwarfing in his gloved hand. The steam curls around his face, catching the light, and he’s just staring at nothing—completely unreadable.

Until he speaks. “Sleep okay last night?”

You freeze. Your heart flatlines. Then kicks into overdrive.

You glance up too fast, trying to act casual, but your grip on the mug betrays you—tight, white-knuckled.

“Yeah,” you say, blinking. “Why?”

Bucky shrugs. Sips again. His face is all calm, cold stillness. Like he’s discussing the weather. Not like he heard you moaning his name behind the paper-thin wall like your soul was leaving your body.

“Nothing,” he says, low and even.

You swallow hard. Try to hide the heat crawling up your neck.

You stare at him. Waiting for something. A look. A smirk. A single flicker of anything.

But he gives you nothing.

Just turns back toward the hallway, casual as ever, coffee in hand, like he didn’t just dangle a loaded gun over your head and walk away.

And as he disappears down the hall, your thighs press together again.

You’re so fucked.

———

You try to sleep.

You really, really do.

You toss. You turn. You fluff your pillow. You kick the blankets off and pull them back up. You stare at the ceiling and beg your brain to stop replaying the way he looked in that shirt. The way his voice dropped when he asked about your night. The nothing he gave you like a damn grenade and walked away.

It doesn’t stop.

It won’t stop.

You squeeze your thighs together for the fifth time in twenty minutes, but it only makes it worse. Your whole body’s aching—burning. Tight with the need that’s been building for the entire day.

You glance at the door. You know you should get up and lock it.

But you don’t. Because you’re tired. And turned on. And pathetic.

“Fuck it,” you whisper, dragging your hand under the sheets. “I’ll be quiet.”

You bite your lip as your fingers slide down, already warm, already soaked. You work slow at first, trying to stay silent—just enough to relieve the pressure. Just enough to breathe again.

But then your mind starts drifting.

To him.

Always him.

Bucky in the gym, sweat-slick and scowling. Bucky walking past you post-mission like a walking sin. Bucky pressing you into your mattress with that big metal hand wrapped around your throat, voice rough in your ear—“You’re so fucking loud for me, baby.”

You gasp. Then whimper. Soft. Barely audible.

But he hears it.

He’s in his room again. Reading. Trying to pretend like he didn’t spend all day imagining the look on your face when he asked about your sleep. Trying not to picture your hand between your thighs again.

And then he hears you.

Again.

A muffled moan, breathless and aching, like it’s being pulled out of you against your will.

He stands without thinking.

Crosses the hall with quiet, deliberate steps. His pulse is steady, but something low is stirring—something primal. Something possessive. The kind of heat that doesn’t burn—it consumes.

He stops outside your door.

Closed. Not locked.

He doesn’t even knock.

The handle turns with the softest click, and then—

He steps inside. The door shuts behind him with a quiet snick.

You don’t hear it.

You’re on your back, one knee bent, your hand buried under the hem of your shorts. Your head is tipped back against the pillow, mouth open in these soft, gasping little whimpers as you chase the edge, hips twitching, breath fogging in the dim light.

You have no idea he’s there.

Not until you hear him speak.

“Didn’t I just ask if you slept okay?” The voice—his voice—cracks through the quiet like a whip.

You bolt upright.

Everything inside you lurches, heart ramming against your ribs, a violent rush of heat and panic rising through your chest like you’ve been caught in a fire. Your hand yanks back from your shorts like it’s been scorched, and you scramble to pull the blanket up, dragging it over your thighs as your breath shatters.

Your eyes fly to the source of the voice.

And there he is. Leaning against the door like he’s got all the time in the world. Arms crossed. One brow slightly raised.

His expression is unreadable—casual, maybe—but there’s a flicker in his eyes. Something dark. Something hungry. Like he’s taking inventory of every inch of you in one glance.

You can’t move. Can’t think.

Your heart’s thudding like a drumline, and your cheeks go hot, burning as your stomach flips over itself in full-blown horror.

You can still feel your arousal—sticky, heat pressed between your thighs, your pulse fluttering in places he’s not even touched.

“Bucky—” you croak, throat tight. “I—what are you doing—how—”

“The door wasn’t locked,” he says flatly.

Matter-of-fact. Like that explains everything.

And it kind of does.

You just sit there, still clutching the blanket to your chest like it can undo what he saw. As if it can erase the sound of you moaning into your pillow while your fingers worked yourself over to the thought of him.

He doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t leer.

He just watches.

Like he’s curious. Patient. Like he’s giving you a chance to dig your own grave or shut up and let him lower you into it.

You look at him and it hits you how big he is. Broad and solid, filling the doorway like a wall. The black t-shirt is stretched across his shoulders, tucked into his pants just enough to show the lines of his waist, and that goddamn metal hand is flexing at his side like it’s already made its decision.

And still… he doesn’t leave.

Your voice breaks trying to fill the silence. “I didn’t mean— I thought I was quiet— I didn’t know—”

“I heard everything.”

That shuts you up.

His voice is calm. But it’s not soft. Not gentle. It sinks into your gut like a stone, and your thighs squeeze together before you can stop yourself—before your body betrays you again.

You look away. You can’t look at him. Not when you’re like this—hair messy, skin flushed, caught in the act like a filthy little secret with your want written all over your sheets.

He moves. Not quickly. Not harshly. Just decisively. Like this is inevitable. Like he knew the moment he opened that door that he wasn’t going to leave until you were ruined.

He crosses the room in two slow steps. Sits on the edge of your bed, right next to you. His thigh brushes yours, warm and solid, and your breath hitches—your entire body tensing as his presence crowds the air.

Then his hand—the metal one—reaches out.

He takes your wrist. Your fingers are still damp. Still twitching from where they were buried between your thighs. He stares at them for a second, then meets your eyes.

“Touch yourself.”

You blink. “What—”

“I said touch yourself,” he repeats, a little lower this time. “Show me.”

Your heart slams. His grip stays locked around your wrist, not forcing—but not letting go either. He doesn’t need to threaten. Doesn’t need to beg.

He’s already heard you fall apart for him.

Now he wants the show.

And fuck—your body obeys before your brain can stop it.

You shift beneath the covers, breath shaking, eyes wide as your hand slides back down, slipping under the waistband of your shorts.

Your skin’s hot. Everything throbs and you’re soaked.

Shame prickles in your chest, but it’s drowned by the way he watches—focused and still, his hand still gripping yours like he owns it.

You let your fingers find that spot again, slick and swollen, and you shudder.

“Fuck,” you whisper, breath catching.

His voice cuts through it. Soft. Direct. “You’ve been touching yourself thinking about me?”

You nod, cheeks burning.

“And now you can’t stop, can you?” he murmurs. “Poor thing. You want me this much, baby?”

You let out a tiny, broken sound—something between a gasp and a whimper—and press harder.

His metal thumb strokes over the inside of your wrist, slow and thoughtful, like he’s testing your pulse. You’re so wet your fingers glide without resistance, your hips moving on their own.

“Messy little thing,” he mutters. “God, you’re desperate. Didn’t even lock the door.”

His flesh hand moves too now—reaching up to push your hair from your face, tilting your chin toward him.

“You wanted to get caught, didn’t you?”

You shake your head, but your body betrays you—back arching, thighs tensing, rhythm faltering as your orgasm creeps up again, fast, tighter than before.

He sees it. Feels it. And he knows.

“You gonna come for me?” he whispers. “Right here, baby? With my hand around yours and your pussy soaking your sheets?”

You sob his name and he finally leans in—breath warm against your cheek.

“Good girl.”

Your fingers slip again—rhythm stuttering, body caught in that maddening edge.

He watches you falter. Watches your mouth fall open, brows pull together, your thighs start to shake with the pressure of holding yourself there. So close. Too close.

And that’s when he moves. His grip on your wrist tightens just enough to make you freeze.

“Let go,” he says.

You whimper. “But—”

“I said let go.” His voice leaves no room for argument.

You obey. Your hand slips from your shorts, fingers slick and trembling, and your chest rises in short, desperate breaths as he shifts closer.

“Bucky—” you gasp.

But he’s already there. His fingers slide between your folds—just one, at first, cool and unreal, brushing over your clit in a slow, torturous circle. Your hips jerk like you’ve been shocked.

“God,” you moan, clinging to the sheets, “fuck—”

“So sensitive,” he murmurs.

His eyes are locked on your face, hungry, focused—like he’s memorizing the way your mouth falls open for him, the way your lashes flutter when he presses a little harder.

You can’t stop the sounds you make.

You’re already too close—too much—your body wired tight from teasing yourself for nights and thinking of him, only him.

One metal finger dips lower—in now, slick and slow—and your breath punches from your chest.

Your hips grind into it, chasing it like you’re starving.

He fucks you with it slow at first. Deep. Deliberate. Watching you unravel inch by inch.

“You’ve been dreaming about this?” he says, voice like gravel. “Getting off to the thought of my hands on you?”

You nod helplessly, fingers clenching around the sheets.

Another finger slides in.

Your body wails for it—so full, so good, the metal stretching you just right—and your thighs tremble, back arching as your orgasm builds so fast it almost hurts.

“Then come for me,” he growls. “Right now. I want to feel how tight you get when you finish.”

You choke on a cry.

And then you fall apart.

Hard.

Your walls clamp down around his fingers, body convulsing as the wave hits you—sharp and electric—shaking through your entire frame with a loud, wrecked moan that echoes in your room.

His hand doesn’t stop. He fucks you through it—slower now, drawing it out, holding your body steady with his free hand while you tremble and sob and drip around him.

You don’t know how long it lasts. You just know you’ve never come like that before.

Not in your life.

Not until him.

You’re still gasping, thighs twitching, brain static from how hard you just came—but he’s not done with you. Not even close.

His fingers slip from you slow, drenched, and he brings them up to his mouth, sucking them clean without taking his eyes off you.

Then?

He smirks.

That low, dangerous smirk you’ve only ever imagined. Dreamed about. Touched yourself to. And now it’s real.

“You’ve been thinking about me so much,” he says, voice thick with heat, “I bet you want to feel my cock, huh?”

You don’t even answer. Can’t. Your mouth opens but nothing comes out but a broken moan.

He laughs. Dark. Rough. “You fucking slut.”

He stands. Hands go to the waistband of his pants.

Your breath catches, watching.

He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t need to.

The black tactical pants slide down slow over those solid thighs, revealing the outline of what’s beneath—thick, heavy, hard. You feel your whole body clench at the sight.

He steps out of them, shirt already discarded somewhere between your moans, and he’s standing there now in nothing but black briefs—soaked at the tip.

And holy fuck, he’s big.

Your lips part, staring. You want to drool.

He notices.

“Go ahead,” he murmurs. “Look at what you’ve been aching for every night.”

He pulls the briefs down—slow, shameless.

His cock springs free, thick and hard and flushed at the tip, veins running along the length like something out of a wet dream. You whimper, thighs pressing together reflexively.

“You wanted this inside you so bad you couldn’t keep quiet,” he says, climbing onto the bed again, crawling over you until his weight cages you in. “Moaning my name with the fucking door unlocked.”

Your body arches up to meet him.

“Please,” you whisper.

He fists his cock once, dragging his head through your soaked folds, teasing your entrance.

You’re still sensitive. Still pulsing.

“Is this what you want?” he growls, notching the tip right against you. “Want me to stretch you open and fuck the brains outta that filthy little head of yours?”

You nod, desperate.

His cock sits heavy in his hand, the flushed tip glistening as he slides it through your slick folds again. Over and over—up and down—until you’re squirming beneath him, hips chasing every motion like you can’t stand another second of not being filled.

But he doesn’t give in. Not yet.

He drags the thick head over your entrance, slow and deliberate, just barely nudging inside before pulling back again.

“Fuck—Bucky,” you whimper, body arching.

“You’re soaked again,” he growls, almost to himself. “You got this wet just thinking about my cock?”

You nod, but it’s not enough. Not for him. He taps your clit once—sharp and teasing—and your whole body jerks.

“Say it.”

Your breath catches. “I—I thought about it every night,” you gasp. “I wanted it so bad. I still want it. Please, Bucky—”

He groans, low and ragged. The tip of his cock presses at your entrance again. Just a little. Just enough to make you feel the burn of it—how thick he is, how your body tries to pull him in even as he holds himself back.

“You feel that?” he murmurs, circling your hole with maddening precision. “How much your pussy needs me?”

You moan, desperate. Hands clawing at his shoulders, his arms, anywhere you can hold onto.

He grins. “Needy little thing.”

Then he pushes. Just the tip—slow and thick, stretching you inch by inch.

Your mouth falls open. Breathless. Wide-eyed.

“Oh my—fuck,” you cry.

He pulls back.

You sob.

“Patience,” he mutters, teasing your entrance again. “Wanna feel you beg for it.”

“I’m begging,” you gasp. “Please, Bucky—please, I need it, I need you to fuck me—”

His mouth crashes over yours, swallowing your cry as he thrusts in deep—all the way—filling you to the hilt in one thick, devastating stroke.

Your back arches. Your vision whites out.

“So fucking tight,” he growls against your mouth, rolling his hips, grinding in deeper. “Fuck—you were made for this, weren’t you?”

He stays there for a moment—buried inside you—his cock stretching you open so wide it burns in the best way, hips pressed flush to yours. You can barely breathe, your body trembling with the shock of just how full you feel.

Then he moves. A slow pull out—just a few inches—before slamming right back in.

You scream. Not from pain. From everything. The pressure, the friction, the heat of his skin, the weight of his body pinning you down like he owns you.

“Goddamn,” he hisses, his jaw clenched tight. “You’re fucking dripping around me.”

Your nails dig into his back.

He starts thrusting—hard and fast, hips snapping against yours with brutal rhythm, the head of his cock dragging over every sensitive spot inside you like he knows exactly where to hit.

And all the while, he talks.

“Been thinking about this tight little cunt every night since I got here. Didn’t know it was mine to take.”

You moan—choked and desperate.

“You wanted it so bad, didn’t you? Wanted me to catch you with your legs spread and fuck you like the filthy little cock-drunk slut you are.”

“Y-Yes—please—” you’re a mess beneath him, eyes wet, mouth open.

He grabs your jaw, thumb pressing into your cheek, forcing you to look up at him.

“Look at me,” he growls. “Don’t you dare look away while I fuck your pussy.”

You blink up at him, dazed. And fuck—he looks insane. Hair a mess, sweat dripping down his temples, that metal hand gripping your thigh so hard you might bruise.

And still—he doesn’t stop. He fucks you like it’s punishment. Relentless. Ruthless.

Every thrust knocks the air out of your lungs, your body jerking with the force of it. The bed creaks beneath you, headboard slamming against the wall, your moans echoing like you’re meant to be heard.

“You gonna come again, baby?” he murmurs, lowering his mouth to your ear. “You gonna soak my cock just like you soaked your fingers last night?”

“Bucky—Bucky, I’m gonna—fuck, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.”

His hand slips down between you, fingers rubbing fast circles over your clit as he keeps fucking you open with brutal thrusts.

“You’re gonna come with me inside you, sweetheart. You’re gonna come on my cock like a good little toy.”

And it snaps.

You cry out—loud and broken—as your orgasm slams into you hard enough to steal your breath, your pussy clenching around him like a vice.

“Fuck, yes,” he growls, grinding deep into you as you come, riding you through it. “That’s it. So fucking tight—so good for me—”

He’s close now too. You can feel it—his thrusts stuttering, muscles tensing.

“Gonna fill you up,” he groans. “You want that, baby? Want me to come inside this perfect little pussy?”

You’re still shaking, but you nod. Whimpering. Needy.

“Please—inside—want it so bad—”

He buries himself deep and groans loud—raw and wrecked—as he spills inside you, hips jerking, cock twitching as you feel every hot pulse of it.

You’re ruined.

His weight sinks down on top of you, breath ragged in your ear, and for a long moment, all you can hear is the sound of both of you panting.

The room’s heavy with heat and sweat, skin sticking where it meets, your body still twitching with the aftershocks of how hard he fucked you.

Then he lifts his head. Eyes drag down your flushed face. Your parted lips. Your chest rising and falling fast. Still dazed. Still ruined.

He shifts back onto his knees between your thighs, hands gripping your hips, keeping you spread open wide beneath him.

“Look at this,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

Then he pulls out—slow and thick, his cock dragging against your fluttering walls before slipping free with a wet sound that makes you whimper.

And fuck.

You feel it immediately. The warm spill of him leaking out of you—thick and hot and so much—trickling down your folds and onto the sheets in sticky, glistening streams.

Bucky groans under his breath, his eyes locked on your pussy like it’s the most perfect thing he’s ever seen.

“Goddamn,” he mutters. “You took it all. So fucking good for me.”

You try to close your legs on instinct, flushed and wrecked and so overstimulated—but he stops you with a firm grip, holding you open with his metal hand.

“Uh-uh. Keep ’em open. I wanna see it.”

His thumb slides down, spreads you further, letting him watch as more of his cum drips from your aching hole.

“Look at that mess,” he murmurs, gaze heavy-lidded, voice thick with pride and hunger. “You’re leaking all over the place, baby.”

You shiver under him.

He swipes his thumb through the slick, then presses it back in—just a little—pushing some of it inside again while your body jerks from the sensitivity.

“Fuck,” he growls. “You were made to be filled like this.”

He leans in close, lips brushing the shell of your ear, breath hot and uneven.

“You’re gonna clean me up, sweetheart,” he rasps, voice thick with command. “Gonna taste every drop.”

Your pulse spikes. You barely have the strength to move, still reeling from the wreck he’s made of you—but you obey, because you need it, because he told you to.

He shifts forward, settling between your thighs again. His metal hand spreads you open, keeping you wide for him, raw and messy. His other hand trails down, steadying his cock where it rests—still hard, still slick with both of you.

He throbs against your skin, flushed and glistening.

You lean forward without hesitation, tongue flicking out to catch the first salty bead that clings to the head. He lets out a quiet groan above you.

His eyes burn as you take your time, licking slowly around the tip—teasing, deliberate—before your lips part wider and you sink down, wrapping him in heat.

Your cheeks hollow as you draw him in deeper, your mouth soft and eager.

“Fuck,” Bucky grits, his hand sliding into your hair, curling tight. “You’re good at this.”

You moan around him, letting the praise sink in as you begin to move—slow, controlled bobs of your head. Your tongue swirls, tasting the mix of him and yourself, and it only makes you hungrier.

You’re not just cleaning him up. You’re savoring him and he knows it.

He pulls you up by your hair, not rough—controlled. Intentional. His mouth crashes onto yours in a kiss that’s all teeth and heat and claiming, like he’s branding you from the inside out. His metal hand clamps around your waist, anchoring you, holding you still as he devours you like he owns you.

And fuck, maybe he does.

When he finally breaks the kiss, his breath ghosts over your lips, low and ragged.

“That’s enough,” he murmurs, voice thick with something dark and satisfied. “You did so well. That’s my good girl.”

Your stomach twists, body still trembling, as you melt into him — breathless and soaked, the taste of him still slick on your tongue.

He doesn’t move for a while, just lets his weight settle into you, chest rising and falling against yours, heart still pounding beneath sweat-damp skin. His breath is warm where it fans over your cheek, his metal hand still possessively wrapped around your waist.

Then, gently, he shifts. His fingers slide up, brushing your hair back from your face with a tenderness that makes your throat tighten. He kisses your forehead—soft, slow—like he’s claiming you all over again, but quieter this time.

“My good girl,” he murmurs, the words husky but reverent now. “You were perfect.”

Your eyes flutter closed at the sound, overwhelmed, wrecked in the best way. His flesh hand strokes your cheek, soothing the heat from it, while the metal one trails lazy circles over your spine.

“Did so good for me,” he whispers again, like a secret meant only for your bones.

You don’t trust your voice, so you just nuzzle closer, tucking yourself into his chest.

Fuck, he did ruin you.

tags: @iamthatonefangirl

[yuwritesstuff]

The moment Satoru found out his wife was pregnant, something shifted inside him — like an ancient spell breaking open in his chest, releasing light and warmth he hadn't known he'd been missing.

He’d stared at the little test in your shaking hands, blinking under the harsh bathroom light, and when you looked up at him — nervous, hopeful — he didn’t say a word at first. He just fell to his knees and pressed his forehead gently against your stomach, arms wrapping around your hips as if to say thank you to the tiny life just beginning there.

From then on, it was like the world had flipped upside down in the gentlest, most absurd way.

Gojo Satoru, the strongest sorcerer alive, was suddenly anxious about everything. He kept one hand behind your back every time you walked as if you'd tip over without it. He scowled at the stairs as if they’d personally offended him. He triple-checked the expiration date on everything you ate, even the fruits. Apples!

“Do you think our baby likes apples?” he’d asked one afternoon, watching you crunch into one while curled up on the couch.

“I think I like apples,” you laughed.

“Okay, but we’re a team now. You and the baby are a package deal. So I’m asking for both of you!”

You'd just rolled your eyes — but smiled the whole time.

He thought your cravings were adorable. Even the 2 AM “we need fried chicken right now” kind of cravings. There was no mountain he wouldn't climb for you — and in fact, he did climb one once to get a specific type of peach you said you wanted. He’d teleport to different prefectures if needed.

Your growing belly was his favorite thing in the world. He loved watching you rest your hand on it absentmindedly, like you were already cradling the baby. He’d trace soft patterns over your skin with his fingers, murmuring nonsense stories to the child who kicked like they already had opinions.

He was fascinated by everything. The sound of your baby's heartbeat on the monitor. The way you waddled and scolded him when he called it cute — but he did think it was cute. You were beautiful like the moon — soft, whole, glowing in a way that wasn’t meant to be touched but cherished from beside.

He kept a journal. Something he never told anyone.

It wasn’t elegant or poetic — it was full of rambling thoughts, doodles, little “today the baby kicked again” notes, and things he wanted to tell them when they were older. Sometimes he wrote about how scared he was. How the world was cruel. How much he wanted to protect them. How he was afraid he wouldn't be enough. But always, at the end of the entry, he’d write:

“But your mom is here. And that makes everything okay.”

Satoru was the kind of man who laughed too loud and talked too much, but around you lately, he’d gone soft and quiet in the evenings. He loved brushing your hair back behind your ear. Loved kissing your shoulder when you leaned into him. Loved pressing his cheek to your belly and just… being. No missions. No curses. No battles. Just you.

And despite all his fears — the world, the danger, the weight of who he was — he was happy. Genuinely, finally happy.

It hit him one night when you fell asleep on his chest, your hand loosely over his heart, your child nestled between you two.

He whispered into the silence, voice rough with awe, “I think… I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”

And for once, Satoru Gojo didn't feel like the last one standing in a war-torn world. He felt like a man — loved, loving, waiting for a life to bloom.

[madamechrissy]

Caleb's favorite things

pairings - Yandere Caleb x f!reader

warnings - MDNI- just a drabble where Caleb loves putting you in a mating press, breed kink like a mf, possessive and jealous of inanimate objects that get his pips' attention, and being angry that you grip your sheets!

Caleb loves nothing more than putting you in a mating press - fucking desperately into your pretty pussy, while you're just folded in half under him. He loves any position with you, but especially this, so big over you, inside you. 'She only knows my shape, huh?' you nod weakly at that, earning him fucking you harder.

His silver dog tag is dangling as he grips your face with his huge hands so tightly, looking at you with pussy drunk eyes, glinting purple and dilated. His eyes get insane when he fucks you like this, when he gets to cum deep inside your perfect pussy. Nothing makes him more feral than picturing having you filled with him.

'That's it, gonna put so much cum in you, gonna drip me everywhere, huh pips?' he loves to talk shit, a mix of heavy praise and losing himself, you're gripping the sheets underneath you two, nodding weakly. He glares when he catches the action, pulling back and leaning on his knees.

Caleb is not just jealous of anyone near you, he also gets very jealous when you try to grab a plushie and hug it, he throws them right off the bed and fucks you harder. He hates when you snuggle even with pillows, shouldn't he be enough? and now this, it drives him crazy, he lets your thighs spread wide, glaring down at you.

'Are the sheets fucking you honey?' his tone is lilting, so soothing, when he shoves his cock in deep, watching your hips buck, cunt gushing down his thick, veiny cock.

'C-Caleb... please...' you're whining out, he feels so good, cock splitting you apart, while your hands keep gripping.

'Asked ya a question pretty, are the sheets fucking you?' you shake your head, and his jaw tenses, gripping your wrists, dragging your hands to him as he leans over you. 'Then why are you gripping them, and not me?'

You're immediately digging your nails into his strong biceps, earning his moan, when he sinks back inside you, pressing on your tummy, picturing how much cum he was gonna put in your tummy. He's thicker, pulsing as your nails dig so hard they leave marks that will last for days.

'That's it, you want all this cum, huh pips? all these babies?' you nod weakly, slipping your nails down his arms and leaving scratches, he lets out a breathy moan as he leans down, kissing you desperately. you try to bury your face in a pillow and he launches it across the room, scowling again.

'Caleb...' you're giggling, but that soon stops as he fucks you so deep your tummy is bulging with his shape, and he edges you with a rough thumb on your clit. 'please, lemme cum... please...'

'When your attention is on me, pips, only me,' Caleb's pretty violet eyes flutter shut, his dark hair falling while he toys with your slick, twitchy clit, eyeing you as he laps it off his thumb, pausing his stroke. 'Say it, only me, want me to fill you with all my babies?'

'Only you' that's all Caleb needs to roll his hips just right, leaky tip dragging on that little spot in your gummy walls, groaning out and toying your clit how he knows you like it.

'Only me, n-no more... pillows, plushies, sheets- laughin' again pips? you really never learn a lesson, do ya?'

your honor I love this man

[fangirlingpuggle]

Super silly AU/fic prompt based more on idea of Xin Mo just adoring SQQ. Like this is the worlds biggest hater and Xin Mo loves conflict.

SQQ accidentally touching Xin Mo at some point in Jinlan city and the sword seeing in mind, and the comment threads and is instantly like 'THAT ONE! THAT ONE IS MY DESTINED WIELDER! GIVE ME TO HIM!!'

LBH not wanting cursed sword anywhere near his Shizun..also HOW IS THE SWORD NOW ALSO HIS RIVAL! Shizun's charms are to strong.

Also Xin Mo instantly shutting off any encouragement it had to violence to SQQ

Xin Mo: Protec

LBH: I WANT TO YOU WERE THE ONE TRYING TO GET ME TO-

Xin Mo: I would never. Only protec

Just LBH and Xin Mo fighting over SQQ.

Sword suddenly appearing in water prison and SQQ is like The Fuck only for LBH to charge in 'IT TRIED TO SHOVE ME BACK INTO THE ENDLESS ABYSS'

[rafeys-angel13]

only here for her

co-parenting with rafe who’s giving you mixed signals.

the doorbell rang at around 5:00pm, late.

you open the door to see rafe, stood there with his usual scowl clouding his face.

“hey” he mumbles. “sorry i’m late”

“she just finished eating her dinner.” you step to the side to let him in.

he spots maisie and crouches infront of her.

“hey, babygirl.” he murmurs and scoops her up with ease and held her on his hip, his hand pushing some hair out of her face.

“she’s been waiting for you all afternoon. she thought every car that drove by was you, she’s been running to the window to check if it was you.” you chuckle softly, rubbing maisie’s back.

“was my little girl getting impatient?” he smiles and kisses maisie’s head. maisie reaches out and smacks his face lightly, making you both laugh.

“god, she’s getting big. haven’t seen her in two weeks and she’s already grown so much.” he smiles softly.

“she misses you… she’s always asking for you…” you nod, trying to keep your voice from trembling.

he tares his eyes away from maisie’s face and looks at you with a serious expression.

“i’ll do better, i swear.” he nods, his grip on maisie tightening slightly. “i’m working on myself more…”

you nod even though you don’t believe him. he always says that, yet nothing ever changes.

“you’re such a good mom…” he says genuinely.

“thanks” you smile genuinely.

for a moment, it felt like there was no walls between you two. like things could be different between you. like you could actually work together.

but you remind yourself he’s not here for you. he’s only here for her. just her.

not you. not to rebuild the relationship you once had. to pick up your daughter and leave again.

as stupid as it sounds, you wish he came to see you— just for you. not for maisie.

“so… how’ve you been?” rafe asks out of the blue.

“um- yeah fine” you nod, instantly snapping out of your thoughts.

he nods and looks around the room, rocking maisie a little who lets out a big yawn.

“big yawn, baby…” he chuckles and nuzzles his nose against her soft hair.

he looks at his watch then sighs, looking over at you.

“i should get going”

“yeah, of course. it’s past her bedtime anyway” you nod and walk over to the front door, opening it and he follows you.

he holds maisie out and you take her into your arms. you hug her and give her a soft kiss on the cheek.

“bye, sweetheart… i’ll see you soon” you smile and hand her back to rafe.

he leans in for a hug himself. strange.

without thinking, you hug him back and he presses a kiss to your head.

what the hell is going on with him?

first he doesn’t even want to look at you, now he’s hugging and kissing you.

“stay safe, okay?” he murmurs as he pulls away, squeezing your arm gently.

“yeah… you too” you nod, still confused by his actions.

“okay, bye” he smiles and makes maisie wave before heading to the car.

you wave until he drives off and the shut the door.

you’ll never be able to figure that man out, that’s for sure.

-

- dividers by @saradika-graphics and @strangergraphics

- request a fic

[okwonyo]

HEAVEN IS A HOME ੭୧ wherever i am with you

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈𝐕 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗈𝖻𝗌𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝖿𝖾

𝟏𝟏𝟗𝟒𝒾──── husband!enhypen 𝗑 f!rea ✿ fluff 𓂋 kissing skinship ❞ 𝒄𝒂𝒕𝒂𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒖𝒆 ｡

𝗥𝗘𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗚 𝗙𝗢𝗥 𝗔 𝗞𝗜𝗦𝗦

HEESEUNG was always a jealous guy. he could never hide if from you and god knows he did try— he doesn’t like when others salivates on what is, legally, his. to be clear, he didn’t marry you for the sole reason of making other men go away. but he did think that putting a huge stone on your finger would have helped. sometimes, it does. sometimes, he needs to step up. because some people don’t get it and have the nerve to flirt with the love of his life while he pays for her clothes. his favorite thing to is to wrap his arm around your shoulders, so the other idiot can see the ring on his finger. he grins when you put your hand over his, the shiny ring on your finger matching his own. then he steals— is it stealing when it was yours in the first place?—you without a second look or a single word. “we are married, hee,” you giggle, not seeming very bothered by his antics. heeseung kisses your temple, “does that asshole know that?”

JONGSEONG has, perhaps like everyone else in the world, a favorite part of the day. he thinks about it during the entirety of the day, the moment he will finally be able to leave work and go back home to his loving wife. the first thing he does when he steps inside the house is to kiss you, perhaps, then take your wrist and drag you to the bedroom. you have never seen him this eager before, it makes you laugh quietly, “what’s the matter with you?” focused on his itinerary, your husband doesn’t hear you and even if he did, you doubt he would answer anyway. the way he pushes you against the bed makes you yelp, “sorry, princess,” he sighs, loosening his tie. then he climbs on top of you. not to kiss or anything. jay puts his entire weight on you, hidings his face in your neck as wraps his arms around your waist. he wants cuddles. “i missed you so much, wife.”

JAEYUN has that very silly tradition of his that stuck in the the relationship even after you promised to stay together for the rest of your life. every single time he takes you on a date, he insists on doing it the old fashioned way. he leaves the house one hour before the date and he shows up at your door when it’s time to go. “do we really need to do all this?” you sigh, yet is unable to hide your smile at the sight of your husband and the flowers in his hands. he stays stunned at the sight of you. his answer dies in his throat. his eyes drag over your form like a scanner. his spirit leaves his body but comes back soon enough, “y–yes we do,” he whispers, leaning in to give you a kiss. you turn your head to the side and laugh at his whine, “i don’t kiss on the first date,” you take the flowers in his hand. he stays stuck in his position for a moment, even after you start walking away, “…so mean.”

SUNGHOON can never leave you alone. he was already very clingy when you were just girlfriend-boyfriend, it went to another level when you engaged and he hasn’t let you breath a single second since you returned from your honeymoon. he acts like you can vanish if he isn’t close to you all the time; it’s lovely, very much so. but his separation anxiety goes as far as following you around when you strictly refuse to talk to him. not only he walks behind you as if he were your own shadow but he gets extremely touchy— if you don’t want to talk to him, you won’t refuse his touch. “stay silent if you still love me,” he wraps his arms around your waist. you don’t answer, chopping your apple with an impeccable precision that makes him scared of you yet very attracted. “good, i love you too,” he smiles against your cheek.

SUNOO makes you extremely mad, actually. not because he did something wrong or because he said something that was out of place— but, because he is so sweet over the slightest thing. his mouth is always full of praise words destined to you. his kindness makes you want to combust. “good morning, my love,” he greets when you walk into the kitchen. his smile is ten times brighter then the sun, you have to squint your eyes at it. “how can you be this adorable?” he asks, honest to god, at your sleepy face. you stop in your tracks, remembering that you are wearing one of his old shirts, that you hair are messy due to how many times you move in your sleep and that you probably drooled on his chest this night. “i’ve never looked nastier,” you huff, walking to him. he kisses the top of your head, “hey, don’t talk like this about my wife.”

JUNGWON doesn’t answer when you call him by petnames. it’s absolutely not because he doesn’t like them. he was the first one to get red in the face whenever you used to call him pretty boy at the beginning of your relationship— and he still gets shy when you call him baby. he just decided that he won’t answer when you will call him that anymore. “jungwon,” you call. he doesn’t answer. although he is sitting right next to you in the couch, with his arm around your shoulders. he chews on his popcorn like you don’t exist. “babe,” you try again. it’s in vain. he still doesn’t want to answer. you run all the petnames you have for him through your head, but you have the feeling that he won’t answer until you call him that favorite name of his. “…husband,” you call again and his head snaps directly to your direction. “yes, my gorgeous wife,” his wife grin tells you that you are feeding his happiness a lot. all this because you wanted the remote…

RIKI is aware that marrying young isn’t something that is common. he knows that people his age have other things to do that propose to each other— but he grew up to be eager and impatient for the things he want. he married you as soon as he could. he is honestly very proud of this. his wife is the first thing he talks about the people he is just me. and it’s frustrating when they refuse to believe your actual existence. whether he shows them the ring, the wedding pictures and everything. you eventually become of a victim of riki’s failure to convince people he is married to you. usually, he just calls you for confirmation and he did. but some people need further proof. therefore, since you are in the same area as him, he tells you to come meet him. he pulls you close to his side by his hands on your hips, “i told you my wife was very much real and very pretty, no?” (truth is, he just really loves to show you off)

분지 ܃ if your husband is not obsessed with the fact he is your husband, divorce and take everything he owns 💌 because .. what?

taglist open 。

[saatorus]

— you just really have the biggest crush on your boyfriend sukuna , for some odd reason.

1.4k wc. warnings—suggestive, but mostly just fluff.

a/n. quick thing i whipped up because i can’t sleep and this is my reward for studying :3

You don’t really know how to explain it sometimes. It’ll happen at the most random of moments. You’ll just be sitting there, peacefully watching Netflix or something, bundled up on the couch in a hoodie twice your size (belongs to him), when he’ll walk in—loud footsteps stomping through your apartment like he owns the place (he kinda does), letting the door slam behind him with a grunt that barely passes as a greeting. Then he leans down, mutters something under his breath you don’t even catch, and kisses you. Softly. Briefly. Like it’s nothing.

Scratch that. Like it’s everything.

His kiss is always in direct contrast to how he acts the second you’re in the same vicinity, like he totally doesn’t want to be kissing you—except he’s always the one to do it first. Always the one seeking you out like some subconscious pull he doesn’t know how to fight.

Or when you’re doing something as mundane as washing the dishes. Lost in your little dissociative bubble, just vibing with the warm water and the clinking of plates. He comes up behind you without a sound this time, which is rare, and just stands there. And that alone has your stomach flipping.

Giddiness?

You feel like a teenager, like one of those girls in the early 2000s movies clutching their hearts as their crush walks past in slow motion. It’s stupid. You’re literally washing dishes. And he’s just standing there. But then his arms come around you from behind, thick and warm and solid, and he gruffly mutters something about how he should be doing the dishes tonight.

You don’t even know what he’s saying. You can’t process anything except his chest against your back, his chin on your shoulder, the way he exhales like being near you soothes something he’ll never admit out loud.

It happens again when he’s sitting on the couch, groaning low and frustrated at his laptop. His pink hair messy, eyebrows drawn together, mouth forming that irritated pout he always gets when he’s trying to concentrate. It happens when you walk past him, catching his eye mid-stride, and he just stares at you—blank and deadpan, but it does something to you. You grin, and the corner of his mouth quirks up before he shakes his head like you’re the ridiculous one.

It happens when your fingers brush as you pass him the salt. When his thigh, firm and warm, presses into yours while you sit side by side watching some dumb movie you’ve both seen three times already. When you hear the steady sound of his breathing in the middle of the night, and suddenly everything feels safe.

You may or may not have a tiny crush on your boyfriend.

Yes. Boyfriend.

You don’t know how it happened—he’s loud, he’s rough around the edges, he’s snarky to a fault—but you’re hopelessly, embarrassingly, irrevocably enamoured with him.

You stare at his back muscles in the mornings as he sits up, groggy and shirtless, scratching the back of his head. You trace the tattoos that stretch over his strong arms, his back, his chest. You memorise the sound of his laugh, the one he tries to cover with a cough when it’s too genuine. You still get that blooming feeling in your chest—like fireworks in reverse, soft and warm instead of loud and blinding.

The same feeling from middle school crushes, from sneaking glances in high school corridors, from scrolling through fanfiction about a character you were fixated on. The same feeling from that first motorcycle date, when he’d wordlessly handed you a helmet like he wasn’t nervous at all (he was). The same feeling as that very first kiss, the one that left you dizzy and kicking your feet like a tween.

Genuinely just a big, fat fucking crush.

And now you’re in bed with him, curled into his side, and he’s shirtless, wearing those stupid grey sweatpants that do something to your brain. His pink hair’s tousled, messier than usual, falling over his forehead in soft strands. He’s scrolling on his phone, attention half on you and half not, but you’re clinging to him anyway.

“Hello,” you say with a grin, arms wrapping around his torso as you burrow into his warmth. He smells like that stupidly expensive cologne he always wears—the one you told him made him smell “exactly what I wanted to experience when I’m ovulating,” which earned you a smirk and a very not safe for public comment.

“Fuck you mean hello? You think you’re Adele or somethin’?” he grunts, but his hand slides into your hair, fingers scratching lightly at your scalp before he leans down and kisses your cheek, hoisting you effortlessly into his lap like it’s nothing. (There it is again—the swooping, heart-flipping feeling.)

You blink at him, properly taking in his face up close. The sculpt of his jaw. The way his mouth curves naturally, even when he isn’t smiling. The faintest red tint to his irises, which always makes your heart race just a little faster. He’s beautiful in a way that shouldn’t be allowed.

“Oi. Quit starin’ at me like that, woman. ‘S fuckin’ weird,” he mutters, scowling at you, but it’s undermined by the soft way he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear and gently pinches your cheek lovingly.

“Sorry,” you mumble, eyes still locked on his. “You just look really good. Do I ever tell you that? That you look really good? ‘Cause you do. All the time.”

You kiss his face lightly—nose, cheeks, jaw—pressing little pecks across his skin while he sits there suffering through it with dramatic sighs and minimal resistance.

“Christ. You’re so fuckin’ weird,” he mutters, grabbing your face with one large hand and smushing your cheeks together until your lips pucker. There’s a barely-there blush across his cheekbones that he definitely pretends doesn’t exist.

He narrows his eyes. “And for the record, you annoy the absolute shit outta me. Always goin’ on about how I look like this, how I look like that. Shut up, won’t you?”

But his thumb is skating across your lower lip again, his eyes softer than they were a second ago. No heat behind the words. Never is, really.

“Kuna,” you murmur, eyes crinkling as you press another kiss to his thumb, “I think I have a crush on you.”

He blinks. Then huffs out a low, lazy laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah?” he says, voice rough, teasing. “Bit late for that, ain’t it?”

And then he pulls you in, arms locking around you as he leans back against the pillows and lets you bury yourself into his chest—grumbling under his breath the entire time, but never letting go.

You can’t help but smile, your cheek pressed against the ink and warmth of him.

You’ve got a crush on your boyfriend.

You’re tracing patterns on his bare chest now, fingertips ghosting over his tattoos like you’re trying to memorize the exact grooves of his skin. He exhales slowly, eyes half-lidded, arm heavy and warm across your back.

“Keep doin’ that,” he mutters, voice low and silky, “and I’m gonna start thinkin’ you’re tryna get somethin’ outta me.”

You blink up at him innocently, chin on his chest. “And what if I am?” you ask, trying not to grin.

He scoffs, hand dropping to your waist, fingers pressing just enough to make your stomach flutter. “Tch. Figures. Can’t even cuddle me without havin’ some hidden agenda.”

“It’s not hidden,” you murmur, tilting your head slightly so your lips brush against his collarbone. “I’m being very transparent.”

You feel more than hear the low growl that rumbles in his chest, like you just challenged him and he’s all too happy to rise to the occasion.

“Is that so?” he says, hand sliding a little lower now, hand gripping your ass through your lounge shorts. “You sure you’re ready to back up that pretty little mouth of yours? Or you just talk big?”

You hum, pretending to think, your lips brushing higher, close to the hollow of his throat. “Maybe I’m just desperate for attention.”

He snorts, but there’s a hint of a grin tugging at his lips. “No shit,” he says, but his other hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, tilting your face up to look at him properly. “Lucky for you, I got a bit of time to kill.”

And the way he says it—voice low and dangerous but playful, the corner of his mouth twitching with amusement—you know exactly what he means.

“You’re sexy,” you breathe, even as your legs shift over his hips and your fingers curl around his shoulders, anchoring yourself.

“Yeah? Everything about me turns you on?,” he smirks, large hands grasping your hips to move them against his own. “Now quit starin’ at me like I’m some goddamn post on that fucking tumblr app and do somethin’ about this little crush of yours.”

You giggle, right before he pulls you in by the waist and the teasing turns into something deeper—kisses growing slower, more deliberate, his hands mapping out the shape of you like he’s committing it to memory.

Somewhere in between his lips mouthing at your neck and his hand sneaking under your shirt, cupping the warm, fullness of your breasts, he mutters against your skin:

“Still think it’s just a crush, huh?”

You can’t even answer—your thoughts are too hazy, your heart too loud.

But if this is what crushing feels like, you hope it never ends.

i lowkey feel so needy and weird before my period like it’s like ovulation but kind of worse and rn i need to suck on sukuna’s boob sorry i’m severely sleep deprived

[dollyswishingwell]

i need your talented hands to write about reader being needy, clingy, and crybaby with lads husbands who always keep their girl in their lap pampering her, bestie i’m ovulating i need this plz

ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ His Crybaby

𝒲𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝑔𝓇𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓇 ˙⋆✮ Rafayel, Zayne, Xavier, Sylus, Caleb

𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 ˙⋆✮ fluff, fem reader who cries for no reason. indulgent men who adores their wife. this anon is thinking on the same wavelength as me so im gonna name you star anon. come back to me pookie :p

> ࣪𖤐.ᐟ They adore their crybaby wife, after all, they're the ones who spoiled you enough to be this comfortable.

𝙍𝙖𝙛𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙡 °‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The morning sun streamed lazily through the wide windows of your beachside home, reflecting soft blues and silvers across the marble kitchen floor. You sat curled in Rafayel’s lap, your rightful throne, wrapped in one of his oversized white shirts, legs thrown over his and arms tucked to your chest, sniffling like the world had ended.

And to be fair, to you, it sort of had.

“They’re round, Raffy,” you whimpered into his chest, voice trembling with betrayal. “You always make them heart-shaped. Always…”

Rafayel blinked slowly, a half-bitten scone in one hand, his other palm gently stroking your lower back. His long lashes fluttered over his dual-colored eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching into an amused smile.

“I was in a rush,” he offered lightly, tone bordering on amused and indulgent. “Shell delivery came early. I had to check for the right pigment.”

You glared up at him with teary eyes, bottom lip trembling. “But you forgot.”

He set the scone down and wrapped both arms around you, nuzzling your hair with a sigh. “I didn’t forget, pretty girl. I just… momentarily neglected aesthetics.” A pause. “Which I see was a grave crime.”

You hiccuped. “You never do round ones. Even when I was mad at you that one time, you still made them heart-shaped.”

He chuckled softly, the sound low and fond. “That’s because even when you’re mad at me, you still eat them with those pouty cheeks and kiss me after.”

You turned your face into his neck, voice muffled and pathetic. “But they’re not heart-shaped today, so now everything feels wrong. I was gonna take a picture for my little breakfast diary…”

“Ah.” He tilted his head, brushing his lips over your temple, then lower, along your cheek where a tear had slipped down. “My girl’s so delicate today. You’re like a little seashell that got smudged with morning sadness.”

You sniffled.

Then Rafayel shifted, standing up smoothly with you in his arms, still cradled like a sobbing princess.

“I’m redoing them.”

Your head shot up. “Really?”

“Mhm. You think I won’t shape twenty scones by hand for my favorite spoiled crybaby?” he teased, walking you to the counter like you weighed nothing, setting you down on the stool just beside the mixing bowls. “You’re the only person I even tolerate. If you want heart-shaped, you get heart-shaped.”

You tried to pout again, but his words melted you too quickly.

He was already back at the counter, sleeves pushed up, a tiny ponytail tied loosely with a ribbon you’d left lying around. He didn’t ask for help. Just hummed to himself as he redid the dough from scratch, tossing glances your way every few moments to make sure you were watching.

You sat with your chin in your hands, watching him move, elegant, annoyed at the flour in his rings, muttering about how the heart mold wasn’t symmetrical enough.

You sighed happily. “Raffy?”

“Yes, cutie?”

“…Can I eat the raw dough?”

He turned, expression deadpan. “Will it stop the tears?”

You nodded.

He handed you a pinch. “Then yes, absolutely. Take the whole bowl if you want. I’ll kiss you better if you get a stomach ache.”

Once the new batch came out, perfectly heart-shaped this time, Rafayel pulled you back into his lap, dusted icing sugar from your nose with a dramatic sigh, and whispered smugly against your cheek:

“My wife throws tantrums over pastries. I married a princess.”

You beamed, mouth full of warm scone.

And he kissed you anyway.

𝙕𝙖𝙮𝙣𝙚 ⋆꙳•❅‧*₊⋆☃︎ ‧*❆ ₊⋆

You were sitting sideways in Zayne’s lap, arms wrapped tightly around his neck, sniffing dramatically into the collar of his long coat. His hand rested calmly on your thigh, the other flipping through the patient report he had been trying to review before you burst into his home office in tears.

He hadn’t even flinched when you flung yourself into his lap like it was your natural place, because it was.

Now, you were sobbing softly into his shirt.

“I just wanted the kitty sticker on my water bottle,” you hiccuped. “The pink one. And now I can’t find it anywhere, and it’s just… everything’s ruined.”

Zayne blinked once. Slowly.

“…You’re crying,” he said, tone flat, “over a sticker.”

“It was a limited edition one,” you wailed louder, curling further into him like a miserable kitten. “The sparkly holographic one from the art market you said was overpriced but still bought for me anyway—”

“Yes,” he interrupted mildly, adjusting his glasses with one finger. “That sticker.”

A beat.

“Did you check the back of your phone case?”

You paused. Then went still.

“…Oh.”

You twisted slightly, reached back, peeled it off the case, and stared at it. Whole. Unharmed.

You glanced back at him sheepishly. “Oops…”

Zayne exhaled quietly through his nose, resting his forehead against yours like he was centering himself spiritually. “You’ve cried on four of my shirts this week,” he muttered.

“It was five,” you corrected meekly.

He looked at you, hazel-green eyes dry and unimpressed. “…Of course it was.”

You clung tighter to him. “I’m sorryyy. I just get so emotional sometimes and, and you’re warm and I needed to be held and I thought it was gone forever, and now I feel dumb and—”

“Enough.” His voice cut through your spiral with practiced ease. His thumb slid along your cheek, catching a fresh tear. “You’re not dumb. You’re dramatic. There’s a difference.”

You blinked up at him.

He continued with dry precision: “A dumb woman wouldn’t be able to weaponize her tears so efficiently. You cried, and I halted a coronary consult.”

You blinked again. “…Did you really?”

“I couldn’t hear over the sobbing,” he said, flat as ever. “And I wasn’t about to drag my wife out of my lap when her world was ending over foil cat stickers.”

You hid your face in his chest again, muffling a helpless giggle. “I’m sorry…”

“No, you’re not.”

“…No, I’m not.”

He hummed. “Didn’t think so.”

Then, quietly, Zayne placed the file on the table beside him and adjusted his grip on you, hand under your thighs, the other firm at your back.

His voice dropped, quieter, softer.

“Do you want me to find you more of those stickers?”

You nodded.

“I’ll message the seller.”

You peeked up at him. “Even if it’s overpriced again?”

He leaned down and pressed a slow kiss to your forehead.

“I’m a surgeon. I can afford your sticker addiction.”

You grinned through drying tears. “You love me.”

Zayne looked back down at you, mouth twitching at the corners. “Tragically.”

That evening, he returned home from work with three new sticker packs.

When you tried to cry again, this time because one was “too cute to ever use”, Zayne simply sat down, pulled you back into his lap, and muttered against your temple, “You’re banned from Etsy.”

You didn’t listen.

And he didn’t mind.

𝙓𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙧 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆

The penthouse was quiet when Xavier padded in, soft footfalls echoing on polished floors. His hair was tousled from sleep, even though it was nearly evening, and he was still dressed in his off-duty clothes: oversized white sweater, soft grey pants, and socks that didn’t match. One blue. One purple. He didn’t notice.

He found you where he always did.

Curled up on the sunken couch, surrounded by plush pillows and blankets he didn’t remember buying, tissues scattered like a fallen army.

You looked up with teary eyes, bottom lip wobbling.

He blinked. “Are you in pain?”

You wailed.

Xavier didn’t flinch. He simply crossed the living room, lifted you like you weighed nothing, and settled down with you in his lap, your permanent seat, apparently. He tucked the blanket around you both automatically.

His tone was calm. “Did something hurt you?”

You nodded into his chest.

He blinked again, blue eyes soft. “Who do I eliminate?”

You sniffled. “You.”

There was a pause. A long, quiet one.

“…Me?”

“You ate the last sakura mochi ice cream. Mine. The one I’d been saving for a bad day.” You looked up at him with wet lashes and righteous heartbreak. “And now I’m having a bad day and it’s not there.”

Xavier blinked slowly again, as if replaying the event in his mind. “I didn’t know it was yours.”

“It was in the back corner of the freezer behind the emergency dumplings!” you snapped. “You know that means it’s mine!”

“Oh,” he said flatly, as if you’d just told him water was wet. “I thought you were hiding it from ants.”

“There aren’t ants in the freezer, Xavier.”

He tilted his head. “Are you sure?”

You sobbed again. “I just wanted something sweet and cold after I did so many chores and folded your weird space socks and cleaned up after that dumb pigeon that keeps coming to our balcony and now there’s nothing left.”

You buried your face into his chest.

“Nothing but betrayal.”

Xavier wrapped his arms around you gently. “I didn’t mean to betray you.”

“You did.”

He nodded once, solemn. “Then I will bear the punishment.”

You sniffed again, looking up with suspicious eyes. “What’s the punishment?”

“Letting you cry on me for as long as you want.”

“…That’s not a punishment.”

“I know,” he said softly, tucking your head under his chin. “But you seem to like it.”

You sniffled, cheeks heating up.

A silence fell again, this one softer.

“Do you want me to go back to the market?” he asked suddenly, voice muffled against your hair.

You blinked. “It’s like a two-hour round trip—”

He was already standing, carrying you with him.

“I will go,” he said firmly. “You must stay. Crying wives should not be on trams.”

“…You’re just saying that because I fell asleep on one once and missed the stop.”

“You drooled on the pole,” he said, expression neutral. “The conductor filed a complaint.”

You clung tighter. “but take me with you.”

“No.”

“Xaaaaviiiieeer.”

“No,” he said again, voice soft but resolute. “You’ll fall asleep again and cry in public and then I’ll have to destroy someone for looking at you too long.”

You paused. “…Fair.”

He sat back down with you. “I will get the ice cream. You will stay here. I will return in ninety-seven minutes. You may cry until then.”

You blinked up at him, touched.

“You love me.”

He looked down at you like you hung the moon.

“I have risked my life multiple times,” he murmured, kissing your temple, “but I fear nothing as much as my pretty wife crying over desserts.”

When he returned, you were asleep in his sweater on the couch with a new box of tissues, the balcony pigeon perched smugly nearby.

Xavier placed the mochi ice cream in your lap, kissed your forehead, and whispered:

“Victory.”

𝙎𝙮𝙡𝙪𝙨 ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩

The safehouse was too quiet.

Sylus knew it the moment he stepped out of his weaponary room and into the velvet-draped hallways. No spoiled chatter echoing through the corridors. No unnecessary purchases being flaunted in his direction. No soft steps scampering down the stairs with a “look what I ordered!”

Silence, in your world, was always suspicious.

He followed the soft sound of sniffling like a predator tracking prey, though the scent of vanilla, luxury skincare, and fresh credit card ink made it painfully obvious where you were.

His smug smirk sharpened the second he entered the lounge.

There you were. Curled on one of the silk chaises, the biggest one of course, wrapped in a fluffy blanket and surrounded by open boxes, designer bags, glittering heels, two jewelry cases, and a luxury drone still hovering in standby.

And you were sobbing. Sobbing over…

He narrowed his glowing eye slightly.

“…Lipstick?”

You turned, bottom lip trembling, eyes glassy and wet. “It’s not rose gold! It’s just shimmery salmon, they lied, Sy!”

He blinked. “And for this,” he murmured, voice lilting, “you’ve called for the end of the world?”

You wailed louder. “It doesn’t match my nails! Or the heels I picked for brunch tomorrow. You said you liked the brunch outfit, you lied to me too!”

He bit back a smirk. “I said I liked the outfit, my kitty. I never said your shoes matched the lipstick.”

You let out a dramatic gasp and flopped back like you’d faint.

He let you. Indulged in it.

He stepped closer, letting his coat slide off one shoulder as he dropped to sit on the edge of your fainting couch. You peeked at him through your fingers.

“I’m being so tragic today,” you whimpered.

Sylus’s gloved hand reached down, tucking your hair behind your ear, a slow curl to his lips.

“You’re being adorable.”

You blinked up. “Even when I cried at the drone for not having better taste?”

“You yell at drones. You sob over luxury packaging. You throw a tantrum when your brunch schedule is moved by ten minutes.” His voice lowered, smug and possessive. “You are the perfect little disaster. And all mine.”

You whined softly and reached for him.

He pulled you into his lap without hesitation, one arm hooking under your knees, the other curling behind your back. You immediately wrapped your arms around his neck and buried your face in his collarbone.

“You’re mean,” you mumbled. “You think I’m dumb.”

“I think you’re delightful,” he corrected. “Painfully high maintenance. Obnoxiously bratty. But delightful.”

You hiccuped. “Do you actually like it when I cry?”

Sylus chuckled, low and pleased, the sound curling against your ear like velvet.

“I like anything that makes you run to me. Crying, shopping, scheming, screaming, doesn’t matter.” He nuzzled your cheek, a slow drag of his nose down your tear-stained skin. “You always end up in my lap either way.”

You sniffled again.

“…Can I buy a different rose gold lipstick?”

Sylus smirked against your cheek. “Buy thirty.”

“Okay,” you said immediately, perking up. “I’ll get every brand.”

“Mm.” He pressed a kiss to your jaw. “And while you do that, I’ll call your stylist. You’ll need new shoes to match all thirty.”

You gasped. “You do love me!”

He laughed, quiet, but genuinely. “You’re the only creature who could make me sit through a crying fit over cosmetics and still want to kiss the tears off your cheeks.”

You beamed, messy and smug and still a little wet-faced, clinging to him tighter.

Sylus leaned back on the chaise with you sprawled across his chest, lazy and possessive as ever.

“I’m going to destroy that brand,” he added offhandedly.

You blinked up. “Wait, what?”

He tilted his head, red eyes gleaming faintly. “They lied to my princess.”

“…Sy.”

“You cried.”

“You don’t need to destroy them—”

“You cried.”

The lipstick brand posted a mysterious apology the next day.

You got a PR box with actual rose gold lipsticks inside. Thirty of them.

And Sylus?

He smirked, sipped his wine, and kept your shopping drone “accidentally” hacked so it only displayed items in your preferred colors.

All of them were now tagged as princess-coded.

Because that’s exactly what you were.

And he wouldn’t let the world forget it.

𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙗 ⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

Caleb had faced lots of things.

He’d commanded entire fleets, rewritten gravity, walked through explosions with only one glove smudged.

But nothing, nothing, prepared him for this.

You were crying.

Again.

In the middle of your gilded, bedroom in Skyhaven, surrounded by seventeen fluffy, high-end imported petticoats, with tears in your big wet eyes and your lower lip sticking out like a weaponized pout.

“It’s not puffy enough!” you sobbed, holding up the offending dress like it had personally betrayed you. “I said I wanted maximum puff, Caleb! You promised!”

He blinked from where he stood in full Farspace uniform, his cap still tucked under one arm, black boots gleaming, gloves unbuttoned. He had just gotten home.

And now you were sniffling and stomping your foot, your dainty little slippers slapping against the mirrored floor.

“Pipsqueak,” he started softly, trying not to laugh. “Baby. You have twelve custom princess dresses. They literally fly when you twirl—”

“But they don’t float like clouds!” you wailed. “I want the kind that make a sound when I walk. Like fwah-fwah-fwah!” You stomped again for emphasis. “This one just rustles!”

He couldn’t help it—his lips twitched.

You caught it. “Are you laughing at me?!”

Caleb crossed the room in two strides, lifting you effortlessly into his arms before you could storm away again. You squeaked, clutching his neck, your pout deepening.

“No,” he murmured, kissing your nose. “Never. You know I’d bark if you told me to. Hell, I’d jump off Skyhaven if you said it made your dresses poofier.”

You hiccuped mid-sniffle.

“You mean it?'

Caleb sat down on the edge of your pink chaise, pulling you into his lap so your skirts pooled around both of you.

“I literally rewired the AI in this house cause you said they weren't treating you gently enough. You think I wouldn’t raze the entire fashion industry if it meant you’d stop crying over dress volume?”

You whined and buried your face in his shoulder.

He rocked you gently. “There we go. Let it out. Cry about the bad dress, baby.”

You sniffled again. “I had a whole tea party outfit planned. Now what will the other official's wives say?”

Caleb growled softly under his breath. “They’ll say whatever I tell them to say, or I’ll dump them into deep space.”

You giggled wetly. “You can’t just throw skyhaven's high society ladies out, Caleb.”

“I can do anything,” he said, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Especially for you.”

“…Even puffier dresses?”

“I’ll fund a new brand that only makes them.”

You blinked up at him, tears drying fast. “You’d do that for me?”

He nodded solemnly. “I’ll call it... Princess Puff. Only you can buy from them.”

You squealed and kissed him messily on the cheek, smearing your lip gloss. “You’re my favorite boy.”

Caleb, hopeless, clutched you tighter and leaned back on the chaise, letting your frilly skirts bury him like a hero in a fairy tale.

“You’ve always been my favorite girl,” he murmured. “Even when you were a little crybaby who used to throw tantrums over sticker books.”

“I was a sensitive artist,” you huffed.

“You were a brat,” he teased, grinning. “My brat.”

You buried your face in his chest again, the fit of your next meltdown already forgotten.

And Caleb? He didn’t care if Fleet Command pinged his tablet. If the Bureau directors demanded his return.

Right now, his only mission was holding his precious pipsqueak close, wrapped in layers of unpuffy skirts and dramatic demands, and planning a fleet raid on every designer who had ever disappointed her.

Because your tears were sacred.

And Caleb, Farspace Colonel or not, was always going to roll over and play knight for his princess.

Every single time.

[strychnynegirl]

*Sobbing*

i’m sorry but the mischaracterization of satoru gojo sometimes makes me wanna scream into the void. people really love to take one scene, one line, and twist it into a whole narrative that doesn’t even align with his core. like… are we even watching the same man??

HE DID NOT NEED A MORAL COMPASS. satoru’s been repressing his own desires since he was a child. a literal kid born with a power that could’ve destroyed everything around him—and yet, he didn’t. he never misused it. not once. not even out of spite. not even when he had every right to feel angry and lash out.

and people still act like he was this walking weapon on the verge of snapping if someone didn’t hold his leash. no. this is someone who’s been raised with expectations no one else could ever comprehend, who’s constantly chosen restraint, duty, and control even when it’s agonizing. and he makes those choices alone. over and over again.

i think people overlook how deeply internalized satoru’s moral compass already is. his “should we kill them?” moment wasn’t a breakdown of ethics. it was frustration, grief, anger. it was a TEENAGER who just saw someone he was protecting die in front of him, asking a friend for perspective. he wasn’t lost. he wasn’t about to burn the world. he was trying to process in real time. but people latch onto that line like it’s some confirmation that he needed someone to “save” him from becoming a monster.

no, actually. he saves himself. again. and again. and again.

he chooses to teach. he chooses to protect. he chooses to carry the weight of reforming a broken system—and yeah, he does fail sometimes. but that doesn’t make him any less righteous. if anything, it shows how much he shoulders on his own.

like idk. maybe it’s just me but i’m over people reducing him to “a time bomb that only didn’t go off because someone held his hand.” no. he’s the one who defuses himself. every single time. because he wants to do better. because he knows how powerful he is. because he cares.

satoru gojo isn’t dangerous. he’s the strongest—not just in power, but in how fiercely he holds himself together. he’s been alone at the top his whole life, forced to carry the weight of a world that only ever demanded from him, never asked how he was. he didn’t need saving because he was the safety net for everyone else. and even when it broke him, even when it hurt, he never turned cruel. never lost himself.

THAT’S WHAT MAKES HIM SO SPECIAL.

not just that he could’ve gone dark—but that he chose not to. again and again. that he stayed soft, and kind, and hopeful, even when he had every reason not to.

he deserves the world. and it kills me that he never got it 😔

[stargrillzz]

THE BOY IS MINE

SUMMARY: You were never one to share what was yours, and Bob…he's yours.

NOTE: Inspired by the song The Boy is Mine, Ariana Grande. xoxo

GET LOST

The Thunderbolts Tower common room was unusually quiet for once, bathed in golden afternoon light as it streamed in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The shadows stretched across the hardwood, lazy and warm, while the hum of high-tech equipment buzzed low in the background.

You were draped across the main couch like it owed you rent, legs flung over the armrest, phone in one hand, a lazy smirk tugging at your mouth as you pretended to scroll. But your eyes? Your eyes were fixed on him.

Bob Reynolds.

The Sentry.

Or, as you liked to call him when no one was around: your favorite problem.

He stood by the windows, arms folded, his expression calm and faraway, like his mind was somewhere in a galaxy no one else could reach. His golden hair was tied back, a few loose strands brushing his temple, and the white tee stretched over his broad chest like it had a grudge. Everything about him was infuriatingly quiet, controlled, soft-spoken—except for the way he made your blood rush hot.

You’d been friends since he joined the Thunderbolts. You were the fireball—mouthy, hotheaded, always tossing flirty remarks like grenades. He was… Bob. Sweet. Shy. Somehow not entirely aware of just how pretty he was.

And it was so fun to mess with him.

Except this wasn’t messing anymore. You’d fallen. Hard. And the only way you knew how to cope with it was to flirt until someone combusted.

So when Mel walked in—Team Liaison, model-walk, surgically perfect blouse—you instantly clocked the way her eyes locked onto Bob like a missile system.

“Hey, Bob,” she said sweetly, holding a folder. “I’ve got the report updates for the Kyiv mission. I can walk you through—”

Absolutely not.

You were up before you even knew what you were doing, striding across the room with a forced smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. You stepped right between them, chest high, chin lifted.

“I’ll take that,” you said, snatching the folder out of her hands like it was your goddamn birthright.

Mel blinked. “Uh—I was actually hoping to go over the intel with—”

You smiled wider. “Yeah, no. He’s busy.”

Her brows twitched. She looked at Bob, who blinked in confusion, then back at you.

You didn’t flinch. “Get lost.”

A long pause. Her mouth opened and closed once, then—tight-lipped—she turned on her heel and walked out without another word.

Silence.

Then Bob shifted behind you, voice quiet and confused.

“...Why did you do that?”

You turned toward him, holding the folder like a trophy and cocking your hip out. “Didn’t like her getting in your space.”

He blinked at you, clearly flustered. “But she just—she had the report. It wasn’t—”

“I know what it was,” you said, waving the folder. “But I don’t like people bringing you things unless it’s me. I’m territorial.” you said with your thick accent.

He opened his mouth. Then closed it. Then did a double take when your smirk widened.

“Besides,” you added smoothly, stepping just a little closer to him, voice lowering, “if anyone’s gonna hand you something, and be all alone with you in a room, it’s gonna be me and only me”

Bob made a strangled sound.

You watched the blush spread fast across his face, all the way to his ears. He stepped back slightly like he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or combust.

You tilted your head, teasing. “What? You gonna go shy on me now, baby? You take hits from alien gods, but a little filthy daydream gets you flustered?”

“I’m not—” he said quickly, but his voice cracked halfway through.

You licked your bottom lip, slow and deliberate, and purred, “I could sit on your lap right now and read this whole report out loud—naked—and you wouldn’t stop me, would you?”

His jaw dropped. “What—no—I mean—yes—I mean—wait—!”

Your laughter bubbled out, absolutely delighted, your eyes burning into his.

“You’re so easy to mess with,” you teased, your voice warm but sharp like honey with a blade in it. “I swear, Bob, the day I climb on top of you, I’m gonna need to strap you down. You’d shake apart.”

His mouth worked silently for a moment, like his soul had left his body.

And from the bar, Yelena—who had been sipping her coffee with one eyebrow raised the whole time—finally snorted.

“Leave the poor guy alone,” she called, laughing. “You’ll make him explode—and not in the good way.”

You turned to her, grinning like the devil, then looked back at Bob. His eyes were wide, face flushed, and chest rising a little too fast.

Your tone dropped again, soft but dangerous.

“Don’t worry,” you whispered just for him. “When I do make you explode... you’ll beg me for it.”

His head tilted slightly back, eyes fluttering like he was fighting for air.

You winked. Turned. Walked away slow, with hips swinging like you meant it.

Behind you, Bob stayed frozen—staring at your retreating form like he was trying to remember how legs worked—while Yelena muttered under her breath with a smirk, “Dead man walking.”

PINKIE PRINCESS

The sun hadn’t fully risen yet, but the kitchen in Thunderbolts Tower glowed with the gentle light of dawn. Soft orange-gold poured through the tall windows, catching on the countertops and flickering across the stainless steel appliances. The only sounds were the quiet clinks of utensils and the faint hiss of the stovetop.

You were standing barefoot in front of the stove, humming lazily as you stirred the pan. A few strips of bacon sizzled while a half-cracked egg rested nearby. The smell was heavenly.

You hadn’t bothered changing out of your pajamas. Why would you? Everyone was still asleep—or so you thought. You wore your favorite set this morning: a sheer, baby-pink satin slip dress, barely reaching mid-thigh, trimmed with tiny lace at the hem. The fabric was so light it floated with every movement, brushing against your skin like a whisper. No bra, no shame. Just sleepy eyes, messy hair, and a devilish smile.

Behind you, the door creaked open.

You glanced back over your shoulder, and your breath caught for a moment.

Bob.

He stepped in quietly, wearing gray sweatpants and a white tee that clung to his torso like it was made for sin. His hair was messy and loose, soft waves brushing the collar of his shirt, and his eyes—those gentle blue eyes—locked onto you with a look you weren’t used to seeing from him.

He didn’t speak at first.

Just watched you, soft smile curling the edge of his lips, like you were the only thing in the whole damn world worth looking at. His gaze wandered—hesitant, almost reverent—from your bare legs up the curve of your hips, the way the satin clung to your back, your shoulders, your neck. His throat bobbed when he swallowed.

You turned fully now, keeping one hand on the counter behind you for balance. “Well, look who’s up early.”

His voice came out low, still warm from sleep. “Smelled bacon.”

You smirked, looking him up and down, eyes full of mischief. “Of course. It’s always the meat that gets you out of bed.”

That got a bashful little chuckle from him. His hand rubbed the back of his neck as he stepped closer, eyes briefly flicking down to your outfit again before darting back up, embarrassed—but not denying himself the look.

You crossed your arms under your chest lazily, which only served to push your breasts up and together, soft flesh spilling just slightly against the thin satin. Bob’s eyes lingered, just for a moment. You saw it.

“You sleep okay?” you asked, your voice laced with sugar and something darker.

He nodded. “Better than I thought I would.”

Then, after a pause—voice barely above a murmur—he said, “Your pajamas are cute. Pink suits you.”

You tilted your head, your smile widening with predatory delight. “Oh? Do you wanna find out what else is pink?”

Bob’s eyes widened just a little—and for a moment you thought you’d made him shut down again.

But then...

“Actually,” he said slowly, a flicker of something new in his tone, “I do.”

You blinked.

“What else do you have that’s pink?”

It was confident. Almost. But his fingers twitched slightly at his sides, and you could see the way his chest rose and fell just a little faster. He was still nervous. Still sweet. But something inside him had finally snapped—and it made your stomach twist with heat.

You let the silence stretch between you, stunned but amused.

A slow grin spread across your lips. “Bob Reynolds,” you breathed, “I didn’t know you could be such a pervert.”

He shrugged one shoulder, but he was watching you—really watching now. Hungry. Curious. Like he’d been holding something back for months, and your teasing had finally carved enough cracks in the dam to let it through.

You leaned forward against the counter, letting your arms support your weight so that your breasts pressed forward, full and soft and perfectly outlined through the barely-there satin.

His breath hitched.

“Oh, baby,” you said softly, “You’re staring.”

He didn’t deny it.

You tilted your head, voice syrupy and low. “Why don’t you come over here and find out?”

The moment froze.

Bob hesitated for half a heartbeat. Then—shy, yes, but with something solid in his step—he started toward you.

No looking back. No regret.

You let him come close, your heart thudding loud behind your ribs as he reached you. His hands came up slowly, cautiously—then settled around your waist, big and warm and possessive. He looked at your mouth like he’d never wanted anything more in his life.

You didn’t wait.

You crashed forward, lips colliding with his in a fierce, hungry kiss. His hands tightened instantly, pulling you against him as your body hit the counter with a soft thump. You moaned into his mouth—open, needy—fingers clutching at his shirt as he kissed you like he meant it, like this had been burning in him too long.

The tension snapped between you in waves—months of teasing, touching, longing—all unraveling as his mouth claimed yours.

It wasn’t shy anymore.

It was desperate.

And it was just the beginning.

Each collision between your lips made the kiss more and more passionate. More ferocious. More hungry. Bob's large hands slowly moved from your waist to your ass, lifting you as if you weighed nothing and sitting you on the counter. The kiss slowed down a bit, more lascivious, more erotic, and as if it were a brief but detailed explanation of how he's about to leave you unable to walk for months. Slowly, you begin to remove his shirt, at the same time he lowers the straps of your dress, not taking it off, just leaving your delicious tits.

"Can I… please…" Breathlessly, Bob did his best to formulate those three words.

"They're yours, baby," you smile flirtatiously.

His mouth took in one of your breasts completely, kneading the other with his hand, following a precise rhythm. Soft, but intense.

"I really love it when you touch me," you whisper, "but I need you to fuck me, like right now." Your hands began to slide down his panties. Honestly, the size wasn't a surprise; you'd always suspected it.

"Do you want it inside?" Bob asks, revealing a side of him you didn't think existed. "Do you want me to bury it deep inside you?" "I'll beg you if I have to." Your face at this point was pained by how needy you were.

He lifts your dress a little, surprised. "I told you I had something pinker," you whisper. "Be a man, Bob, destroy this dripping pink pussy."

Without even giving you time to process his movements, his cock was already inside you, making you fall back in your arms, throwing your head back even further, your legs fully open for him. "Oh my god, so big," you slur your words slightly. Still leaning back in your arms on the counter, you watch the hard, brutal way Bob thrusts into you, the way he moves in and out of you, the way Bob moans deeply, feeling better than he has in years.

"None of the times I masturbated thinking about you compare to fucking you and hearing you moan."

That got you even wetter. The thought of him touching himself thinking about you. Shit.

"Harder, Bob, I can take it." You didn't even finish that sentence, and a strong thrust made you feel his cock deep in your stomach, making you scream.

"I'm going to fill you up with my babies" he says between wet kisses I'm going to take you to my room "another kiss" and I'm going to fuck you again until you can't take it anymore.

"I wanna ride you so bad" you whispered, kissing him. He turned it on so much that he squeezed your ass hard, pounding into you faster, making you scream.

And that’s exactly when the door slammed open.

“Okay, people, we’ve got the—HOLY SHIT!”

John Walker’s voice cracked through the kitchen like an explosion.

You both froze.

Bob’s body went completely stiff between your thighs, and your eyes widened in horror.

Behind John, Yelena let out a sharp yelp—“OH MY GOD!”—and immediately slapped a hand over her eyes, turning around so fast her braid whipped across Valentina’s chest.

Val, meanwhile, stood frozen in the doorway for a full second too long, blinking like she was trying to reboot.

“Are you kidding me?” she finally barked, turning sharply on her heel. “The kitchen counter?! Where people eat?!”

Bob, bright red, stumbled back so fast he almost knocked over the coffee pot. “Shit—I—this isn’t—fuck—I didn’t know—!”

You tugged the hem of your dress down over your thighs, breathing fast, lips kiss-swollen, eyes wild with adrenaline. “You guys don’t knock?!”

“This is a public space!” John yelled from outside the door, his voice half disgusted, half traumatized. “For breakfast! For toast! Not for—” He made a gagging sound.

Yelena was cackling now, muffled by her hands. “Leave it to you two to desecrate the one clean surface in this damn building.”

Bob, flustered beyond measure, dragged a hand through his hair, his shirt rucked up halfway to his chest, exposing his firm stomach. “I’m—I’m so sorry. I didn’t—I just… she said—we were talking about pink things—!”

“Oh my God,” Yelena shrieked from the hallway, “Please STOP explaining! I can never eat eggs again!”

Val’s voice came in, sharp and dry: “You owe me bleach and emotional compensation.”

You slid off the counter with as much grace as you could salvage, cheeks burning, still trying not to laugh. Bob looked like he wanted the Earth to swallow him whole.

You stepped in front of him, grinning despite yourself, placing a kiss to his cheek. “Well… that was so hot until it wasn’t.”

He stared at you, wide-eyed. “We’re gonna be the talk of the whole building.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” you whispered, tugging him toward the hallway with a devilish glint in your eyes, “We already were.”

THE BOY IS MINE NOT YOURS MINE

You were seated on one side of the long, glass-top table, legs crossed, eyes fixed on Bob—who was seated directly across from you, looking unusually serious in his fitted black t-shirt, hair slightly tousled from the rushed morning. The memory of his mouth on yours, of his hands gripping your thighs, was still simmering under your skin.

Your fingers absentmindedly traced the edge of your glass of water, but your gaze? Fully locked on him.

He kept glancing at you with that same, boyish, flustered smile—the one that made you feel like you were the only woman in the world. Like he couldn’t stop replaying the moment from earlier either.

But then—

She walked in.

Mel.

Wearing that same tight, short-waisted uniform she always adjusted way too slowly, like she knew people were watching. She carried her report folder in one hand and a stupid bottle of green juice in the other. Her eyes immediately scanned the room… and landed right on Bob.

You could see the moment she thought she had a chance.

He was polite, of course. He always was. He nodded when she smiled at him, even shifted slightly in his chair as she walked around the table… just close enough to lean down next to him, whisper something with a fake-sweet smirk.

You didn’t hear what she said. You didn’t need to.

Because your body reacted before your brain even caught up—your pulse surged, your jaw tightened, and then… your chair screeched as you stood.

Bob’s head snapped to you.

“Hey, baby,” you said, voice sultry, laced with honey and warning, the word baby echoing like a challenge across the room. You sauntered toward him slowly, hips swaying deliberately. “You forgot something this morning.”

Bob blinked up at you, cheeks flushing just slightly. “I did?”

“Mhm.” You leaned down, one hand on his shoulder, the other trailing along the collar of his shirt as you whispered just loud enough for everyone—including Mel—to hear: “Your handprint’s still on my ass from when you bent me over the kitchen counter.”

A beat of stunned silence.

John choked on his water.

Yelena practically collapsed in her seat, laughing with her hand over her face. “Oh my God, you’re doing this here?”

Val didn’t even look up. “Please stop making me regret giving you all keycards.”

Bob’s face? Fully flushed. But he didn’t pull away. Not even close. His wide blue eyes locked onto yours, lips parted in stunned, reverent awe. He looked like he’d happily let you ruin him in front of the whole room.

Mel, still frozen beside him, finally straightened up, trying to recover her dignity. “I was just giving him the mission intel.”

You turned your head slowly, deliberately, to face her—still leaning possessively over Bob, your hand resting lazily on his chest. “Yeah? That’s cute. He already got all the actionable intel he needed this morning. Between my thighs.”

Bob made a soft, involuntary sound in his throat.

Mel stared, blinking. She didn’t respond. Couldn’t.

You tilted your head, smiling with zero sweetness. “You can try, sweetheart. But the boy’s mine.”

Mel stepped back without another word, walking to the other side of the table with her eyes fixed downward.

Bob stared up at you, lips curved in a dazed, almost worshipful smile. “You really don’t hold back, do you?”

You leaned down, nose brushing his cheek, and whispered against his ear, “Why would I? You let me break you in the kitchen like you were mine, baby. You think I’m gonna let her flirt with what I ride?”

He groaned under his breath—loud enough for only you.

You smirked and kissed the corner of his mouth before walking back to your seat, hips swaying like a reward. Yelena gave you a low whistle. John muttered, “Jesus Christ,” and Val pinched the bridge of her nose and said, “Please remember this is a military mission briefing, not a porn shoot.”

You leaned back in your chair, shooting a wink at Bob.

And he?

He just sat there, dazed and aching and absolutely owned—his hands under the table, gripping the chair like he was trying not to melt into the floor.

Mel never tried talking to him again.

[darkbluekies]

Edmund coming home to a darling who keeps having "nightmares" but one day he sees a bruise and finds out the maids have been hurting her, causing her to cry

"Name"

Yandere!king oc x fem!reader

Summary: Edmund realises that the maids have been bullying you behind his back ... and he's furious.

Warnings: bruises, bullying, threats of harm and murder, jealousy, darling feels responsible/guilty for their deaths, guilt, mention of murder, possessiveness

Word count: 1.8k

He’s had to work night multiple weeks in a row, leaving you alone in the bed chamber for hours before he joins you, often in the transition between night and the cold hours of the morning. It had been fine in the beginning. Dare you admit you even found it a bit therapeutic? Being alone for once, without him, where else he’s breathing down your neck like some kind of puppy. 

But then it had shifted. The maids who usually patrolled the corridors started sneaking in when it was clear that Edmund wouldn’t come. At first they talked to you about mindless things that seemed harmless, but you could feel something in the air. That feeling, the one where you know the second you part ways, they’ll start talking. Laughing. Mocking. They always asked you about your background, made comments about your clothes and jewelry. Never any direct critiques, but not any compliments either. A grey zone that made your stomach uneasy.

The talking didn’t last long. In a matter of a few days, it shifted. Evolved to something worse. Darker. They have started to mock you to your face when no one else hears, and hit you when you cry. You don’t dare say anything back, just take it … knowing very well what will happen with them if Edmund gets to hear you shout. So every night you bite your lips shut and take it. 

A part of you screams that you should tell Edmund. Let them die, let them see you’re not someone one can mess with and get away with … if only if it wasn’t for the fact that they will die. Edmund’s not a half-assed guy. His love is never a “I would kill for you”-mantra. He has, and will undoubtedly, kill for you again. Over and over. He’d kill anyone you point at, if you wanted to. And oh, how it makes you feel dirty. You’re not the one pulling the trigger or swinging the sword, but you’re the commander. The reason why. In some capacity, you would be a murderer. 

It doesn’t matter how much you hate these women. Death—murder—is never a justified punishment. Not for jealousy. They deserve to be removed and possibly punished, but not killed. Never killed. Their deaths will wreck the lives of innocents who have nothing to do with their behaviour. And you will be blamed. 

You look down at your arms. The darkness hides the marks, but you feel them like bleeding, salt infected wounds. Edmund hasn't noticed. When he comes to bed it's dark enough to hide them. In daylight they're hidden under your extravagant dresses, thanks to Edmund's modesty rules. 

Maybe you want him to notice. Maybe you want a reason to tell, to get comforted and reassured that their words aren't true. To have someone on your side. Maybe you want him to never find them. 

You sob, pulling the covers closer to your body. They've left for the night. You should lay down and try to sleep, or at least pretend to. But you're unable to. Your body refuses to move from its sitting position. If you lay down and they come back you're powerless. Three against one. One laying down. Easy to overpower.

You're not sure what you're most scared of them doing to you. Cut your hair to the scalp? Touch your features and make you unrecognizable? Too ugly to be attractive to him? They've threatened it one time— “what if we just decide to break your nose? Your jaw? Who'll love you then, your majesty? You'll be thrown to the slums, like everyone else. You're not untouchable just because he finds you pretty. That ‘prettiness’ can easily be taken from you.”

Or are you more afraid of them killing you? They've gotten worse over the days. A quick slippery slope down to madness wouldn't be impossible. They could easily pin you down and slit your throat, stab you.

You’re too in your own head to hear the door opening. 

“You’re still awake?” 

Edmund’s voice rips you out of your thoughts. You gasp, breath getting caught in your throat. Your hands are about to move up to your cheeks to wipe your tears, but you know he’ll catch that. Instead you turn your head away slightly, hoping the darkness will hide the tears streaks. His footsteps seem to echo behind him. 

“My jewel, you’re supposed to be asleep by now”, Edmund says and you feel the bed shift as he sits down. “Having trouble sleeping?”

You nod without looking at him. It has the opposite effect you wish for. 

“Why aren’t you looking at me?” 

His fingers touch your cheek, turning your head to him. You’re unable to stop it. You meet his eyes, those ice blue ones that seem to glow in the dark, and feel yourself crumble under his gaze. Your eyes fill, once again, with new tears. Edmund’s jaw clenches and he quickly moves closer. 

“What is it?” he asks, voice tight. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

You shake your head, lowering your chin. Edmund’s eyes start to wander, desperately looking for clues. His eyes stop at a particularly dark spot on your shoulder, just below the neck line of the flowy night gown. His fingertips touch it gently, as if trying to see if it’s real, and you flinch away before you can react. 

“Y/N …”, Edmund breathes out. “What the hell? Don’t tell me that’s what I think it is.”

When you don’t answer, he shifts closer. Close enough for you to feel his breath on your skin as he brings a small, electrical lamp close enough to see the bruise clearer. There’s only a word leaving his throat, but it is enough. “Name.”

“No.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“It won’t solve it.”

“It will. It’ll stop them from hurting what’s mine. Give me the name.”

You turn your head down, looking at your hands trembling in your lap. 

“It’s not ‘the’ name—”

“There’s more?” His voice has a sharper edge. “Okay then, give me their names.”

“I don’t want blood on my hands.”

“There won’t be any blood on your hands. Only mine. No one else is allowed to touch you. Nothing else, is allowed to. And if you don’t tell me who gave you these ugly marks I will hunt them down, and I’m sure a few innocent will be struck that way. Give me the cowards names. Do you think a king will let his queen be hurt by unworthy?”

You don’t answer. The sobs come back, rippling through you. You’re on the edge now, so close to ending someone’s life. You have the gun in your hand and all you need is to pull the trigger … or put it down. But if you put it down, he’ll pick it up and shoot without hesitation. As long as you hold the gun … nothing happens.  

“Gosh, these marks makes me nauseous”, Edmund gags as he holds your arm in his hands. He has pulled up the sleeve to get a good look at them. “So brutal.”

“Please don’t look.”

“Tell me their names. My pretty jewel, tell me their names. Please, Y/N. Tell me who did it.”

You shake your head again, sobbing. Edmund sighs heavily. 

“Can you at least tell me how long it’s been going on?” he asks, and you can hear the frustration in his voice, even if half of it is pure worry. 

“Since you started working night”, you mumble, hiccuping through sobs. 

“Since I started work— … you have to be kidding me?”

You shake your head. Edmund bites back a scream and looks around, as if trying to find something to ground himself on.

“So, people have been coming in here when you’re alone and hurt you?” he asks, voice shaking. “And you’ve been silent about it? It’s been two weeks. Why haven’t you said anything?!”

“Because I’m scared, Edmund …”

His eyes immediately soften. Not to a gentle one, but one that isn’t piercing. He pulls you closer, letting you rest your head on his shoulder. 

“Y/N, darling”, he says with his trembling voice. “I’m the king. I am the highest power in this kingdom, yeah? You are my wife, correct? You are the safest person in this country. But I can’t help you if you refuse to tell me when someone is hurting you.”

“You will kill them.”

“Damn right I will. That’s what happens when people think they can touch what’s mine. Touching you is a war crime and I will not let them get away with it.”

He cups your wet cheek, turning you to him. 

“Who hurt my pretty girl?” he whispers sorrowfully. 

Your finger trembles on the imaginary trigger. And, before you can register it, you press. 

His face lights up—not in a happy way, but relief. He’s about to fly up form the bed, but you grab his arm. 

“No, no, Edmund please!” you plead, voice breaking with sobs. “Don’t leave me!”

“I will get those bitches for this”, he tells you, his voice now a venomous deadly calm. “I will snap their necks myself.”

“No … no please, don’t go.”

You hug his arm, pleading over and over again. Edmund seems torn between revenge and protection, but in the end he gives in and climbs back into the bed, pulling you flush against him. 

“Fine”, he gives in, squeezing your trembling form. “I will let them have their final night … but tomorrow they’ll get what they deserve. For now I’ll take care of my beautiful queen.”

He kisses the top of your head. 

“I will never let those creatures near you again", he promises, showering your face in kisses. Too soft for his usual behaviour. “They don’t deserve to touch you. Only I am. I am the only one worthy enough to touch you. To kiss you. To hold you. To be near you. To see you. Tell me what they did to you.”

So you do. His grip on you tightens for everything you tell him, but his lips never leave your skin. They burn. 

“I’ll enjoy tomorrow morning”, he decides, moving even closer to you, snuggling. “I’ll kill them slowly—well, if you can snap someone’s neck slow—and enjoy every bit of it.”

He holds you close, running his fingers through your hair. You feel his cold, golden rings against your scalp. Your face is tucked beneath his chin, against the warmth of his neck. It’s as if he wants to pull you into him, become one with him. As if you’re only safe if you’re beneath his skin. 

“You’re so soft in my arms”, he whispers. “Really soft. Only mine.”

He hums and rests his cheek against your hair, falling asleep. But you? You won’t sleep for a long time. Relieved that you no longe have to carry it yourself … guilty that you’ve pulled the trigger. But you wouldn’t have won anyway. He always does. He always gets what he wants in the end … and this time, it’s to protect you. 

[robinavich]

godlight

jack abbot x f!attorney!reader ao3 content: 18+ mdni, sexually explicit content, age gap, swearing, brief mention of alcohol, co-opting christianity for my benefit (sex), being mean to robby but like lovingly. like ur brother, gingko trees as a plot device, tom cruise mention words: 16.7k sry i <3 dialogue and write it before the rest of the plot a/n: the backpack thing actually happened to me before and also idk how to write synopsis: It’s routine. The first Friday of every month you make your way down to the emergency department with a stack of insurance claims in hand to harass Robby with, and you leave through the door with Jack Abbot, fresh off his shift and half a step behind you, muttering something lowly in your ear that makes you laugh. You’ll both stop off at your office just long enough to haphazardly toss the paperwork on your desk. And then you’ll go to the roof. You’ll pretend not to notice the hand hovering over the small of your back, and he’ll pretend not to notice the way your shoulder brushes his. Routine.

You’ve never seen a grown-ass man leap, but when you materialize beside Michael Robinavitch, ready to take advantage of his daily five minutes of quiet and drink his rapidly cooling coffee before he got down to business, with a stack of papers in hand, you think his skeleton might break from the violent flinch that racks his frame.

“God, what are you, a kamikaze lawyer? Are you heat seeking?”

“Why, you offering?”

It’s routine.

The first Friday of every month you make your way down to the emergency department with a stack of insurance claims in hand to harass Robby with, and you leave through the stairs with Jack Abbot, fresh off his shift and half a step behind you, muttering something lowly in your ear that makes you laugh. You’ll both stop off at your office just long enough to haphazardly toss the paperwork on your desk. And then you’ll go to the roof. You’ll pretend not to notice the hand hovering over the small of your back, and he’ll pretend not to notice the way your shoulder brushes his.

Routine.

So, like clockwork, the first Friday of the month rolls around, and with it comes you, metaphorical sunglasses on, sauntering off the elevator like you love the emergency department. Like you can’t wait to run around roleplaying Bolt from the titular Bolt to beg for signatures. Like this is exactly where you were hoping to be.

You click your pen, the sharp sound a tiny gavel sealing his fate.

“Come down to reject another insurance claim?” comes from your left.

“God forbid a woman have hobbies, Dana,” you scoff.

“Jack’s busy, ain't around for you to longingly gaze at.” 

“I do not gaze at Jack,” you say defensively, hands abandoning the file they were holding on the desk to fly between your eyes and hers as you try to stress your point. “I look.”

She lets out an unimpressed mhm, her unconvinced eyebrows twitching in doubt at your self-proclaimed non-gazing status.

And you know that you really need to get these papers signed, but Dana sprang this on you out of nowhere, so now you have no choice but to pivot to a time-sensitive Gazegate investigation. Your mind begins to sift through all the evidence. You don’t gaze. You are totally in control of your physiological reactions to Jack.

Your face drops marginally. It’s not your fucking fault that you want him. As if it’s your fault that all you can think about some nights is his voice gasping out your name.

Minor desperation overtakes your frame and bleeds through your hushed words as you imagine Jack Abbot clocking you gazing at him.

Just embarrassing. Your lust is sickening.

“I don't gaze," you insist before dropping your voice and glancing at the attending. "Do I gaze?”

Robby’s eyebrows involuntarily shoot up, transforming his frozen, resigned face into one of are you fucking kidding me?, the statement making him consider whether he needed another cup of coffee or, maybe, a different career altogether.

Perhaps one without insurance claims.

His lips part around a question he doesn’t quite ask—words rising, then retreating as his throat bobs with the effort of swallowing them back down. Robby glances at Dana for a lifeline, but she's bloodthirsty for drama.

Robby finally exhales a short, incredulous laugh, shaking his head. "Do you... do you want me to answer that?" he asks, his voice laced with cautious amusement, hesitant to step in the trap you lay at his feet.

You’re silent.

His head drops into a single solemn, affirmative nod—your judge and jury. “You gaze.”    

And there’s something on the tip of your tongue, locked, and loaded, and ready to fire—something connecting the word gaze to Myrna’s little nickname for him.

It doesn’t make it out.

Instead, you pick up the cup sitting to his side—the one patiently saying drink me, Robby! before it totally becomes cold—and silently reclaim it as your own, drinking the burnt coffee in one long, resigned sip.

Robby doesn’t speak.

It’s at that moment, of course, that Abbot appears—steady footsteps cutting through the low hum of the floor.

Jesus Christ. His hair was disheveled, curls sticking up at odd angles from running his hands through them all night and his black shirt, lacking any scrubs censoring the offending article, clings to his biceps like it was divinely tasked with ruining your concentration.

Your eyes catch there, unwilling to move, like staring is involuntary. A distraction you feel in your teeth. One you’d like to feel in your teeth.

As he approaches the desk you’re situated at, his eyes flicker up from the tablet in his hands just long enough to take in the scene: Robby’s flat stare, and your glare as you stand there, empty cup in hand.

“Robby,” Abbot drawls, loaded with the kind of dry amusement that suggests he’s made peace with your brand of destruction long ago.

His gaze slides pointedly to the cup, then back to Robby’s face.

Your victim looks up at him, forlorn, and mutters, “Can you just…?” His voice is flat, resigned—tinged with a special kind of despair reserved for the aftermath of you. Morosely, he half-heartedly gesticulates in your direction, trying to tell the man to control his animal. 

Robby sets the cup down on the counter and picks up your pen, scrunching the sleeves of his hoodie at his elbows, wanting to end this.

Aforementioned animal owner has the audacity to smirk—half-awake and still deciding if he should be charming or infuriating—rolling his shoulders and then sighing before moving toward the desk, his movements slow and deliberate. He watches Robby for a moment, then shifts his attention to you.

“Any chance you’ll let him live to see tomorrow?” Voice dry but not quite masking the very real curiosity beneath it.

You shrug and slowly narrow your eyes as though the thought hadn’t even crossed your mind. “Depends.”

Typical lawyer.

“Get to him before that coffee does,” Jack advises like he’s giving medical advice, and Robby levels him with a flat stare because he knows that with you around, he is never going to get coffee, let alone have coffee get to him.

Jack huffs in amusement, shaking his head as he moves to join the taller man, tablet tucked under one arm.

“Still have a couple things to do,” Jack grunts to you lowly, and you glance down at your watch because surely you have the time right.

His shift should be ending.

And yet.

“What idiot starts his little tasks at shift-change?” you laugh, enjoying the unamused glance thrown your way from still-on-the-clock doctor—unimpressed, deeply earned.

“Wait for me?” Jack asks, already knowing the answer.

A small smile teases the edge of your lips in response. “Was going to anyway.”

With a low, reluctant breath, he straightens up, scraping a hand through his hair. He turns on his heel and strides through the department.

Dana looks up from behind the desk. Her gaze briefly meets yours, right eyebrow perched slightly above the left, as if to say not gazing, huh?, before she turns her attention back to the task at hand.

Jack’s off doing end-of-shift stuff, Robby is signing his life away, Dana is doing what Dana does, presumably—Christ, you would think these people were employed.

Floundering, you look around. So, no banter? 

You’re already bored. You glance down at your watch, hand exasperatedly waving in the air as the numbers register. You'll have to act like you're employed soon, too. Your carefully structured morning—insurance claims, harassment, fifteen-minute break—crumbles before you.

God, so bored.

Eyes drifting around the department, your fingers start drumming an erratic rhythm on the surface of the desk, rebelling against the feeling of being out of place. Fingers dance along, down the length, adjusting a stack of papers, nudging them at an odd angle just to see if anyone will notice. You move on to your next victim, Dana’s hand quickly behind yours, returning the papers to their rightful place without so much as a glance in your direction.

Fluorescent lights glare down overhead, highlighting everything in a blinding white that dulls your senses.

You let out a low sigh, turning a tablet upside down in its dock. It’s not even fun.

Purposeful activity swirls around you in a slow tempoed symphony, a rare lull settling into the emergency department. To your left, Robby curses the claims in front of him in a hushed voice—and it’s a nasty, personal beef between him and that paper—pen scratching along the documents with resigned effort.

“You always act like I’m asking you to sign a voluntary execution agreement,” you sigh, a note of exasperation creeping into your voice. “I just need your signature, not someone to rewrite the Ten Commandments.”

That poor pen, you think, watching his reluctant grip tighten around it, the pen enduring its fate like a prisoner of war. Nowhere for it to run.

You lean on the counter and your head tilts, arms giving way and your body sliding an inch closer, observing with interest that his signature is essentially just a line. M——. You so could have done these yourself, if you really wanted.

You force yourself to choke back a laugh as expression tightens with each flick of the pen, the simmering annoyance contained just beneath the surface begging to be released.

Fingers beat slower this time, cadence matching the melody around you, watching as the charge nurse moves to undo your minor disruptions.

A smirk tugs at the corner of your mouth.

Time passes slowly.

This hospital should have more legal issues. You wonder who you have to talk to about that.

Robby flips the page.

And from across the room, you hear it. It’s soft, and warm, and, honestly, you have no idea how you hear it over the clamor of the emergency department, but it always lands on your ears deafening, like a clap of thunder.

And you have no reason to be jealous. Jack is, by all relevant and up-to-date nomenclature, your friend.

You trace the sound to the origin, and there he is, emerging from South 19, the smallest of smiles gracing his lips.

And, sorry, but that is your laugh. That’s the one you hear low and throaty in your ear when you’re walking too close, and you say something that catches him off guard. The one that haunts your dreams and wakes you up, the sound echoing in your ears. The one you would make a homily of, listening to it day in and day out, saying amen with devout obedience at every pause.

You blink, zeroed in and always devastatingly dramatic.

Maybe this is it.

Maybe the whoring out of his laugh—because apparently everyone gets it these days, because apparently, he feels magnanimous in the same way Oprah does—is his way of politely rejecting you.

Maybe it’s time to dedicate yourself to some religion somewhere and spend the rest of your life on your knees, lest another man tempt you.

Feigning nonchalance, your hand comes off the desk, very chalant eyes still fixed on Jack as you lean towards the blonde opposite you.

“Dana, you’ve lived here a while, right? What’s the convent scene like?” Robby lets out a snort at your question and the tip of your index finger firmly taps the papers beneath his palm three times to refocus him. “Sign the fucking documents, Michael.”

He obediently turns to the next page where you had so painstakingly and lovingly flagged exactly where his signature was required, and a mix of amusement and mild exasperation creeps across your cheeks, pulling the corners of your mouth into a small smile as he scrawls his indignant line across the pages.

“How about you go tell someone their insurance doesn’t care about their life. You’ll see how easy it is to sign these things then,” he says, turning to the next page.

“Are you kidding? I know you heard what happened to that UnitedHealthcare guy,” you click your tongue. “I ain’t doin’ all that.”

Robby doesn’t dignify your callus comment with a response, attention fixed firmly on the paper, willing it to absorb his frustration. The scratch of his pen dissolves into the steady drone heart monitors and residents trying their hand at cheating death. He flips the page, and his broad shoulders raise with his frustrated inhale, posture betraying his mounting irritation as he methodically—mechanically—works through the stack of forms.

The muted scuffle of boots against the ground alerts you of his presence as Abbot settles behind you, close enough his body heat warms yours.

“Free Luig, man,” he gruffly throws his two cents in.

“Luig?” you twist around, words laced with faint incredulity. “Y’all on a nickname basis?”

“Always have been,” he shrugs with such nonchalance that, for a second, you’re almost convinced they have always been.

You nod. Free Luig.

Caught in the crossfire, Robby closes his eyes momentarily and chokes back a groan. The headache was coming on already. It was way too early in the morning, and he was accosted before you even let him get his coffee, and now he has to listen to the two of you engage in what he and Dana and the rest of the staff with money in the pool could only assume was foreplay.

His pen etches into the paper one last time, a reluctant sigh escaping his lips as he finishes the final signature, his annoyance pooling into a little storm cloud over his head. He shoves the pages toward you with a motion that could rival a cat knocking a glass off the counter, his expression tortured, and you reverently accept the signed stack with flourish, a holy scripture freshly inscribed by a weary messenger of God. 

“Thank you, sir,” you chirp, gingerly shuffling the papers and bowing your head.

“You’re too good to him,” Jack says, as if he genuinely expected better from you, nodding toward the older man, already rubbing his temples and back to pretending the two of you didn’t exist.

“He deserves a treat.”

He can’t take it anymore. Robby bolts—bolts—into the chaos of the department like a petty villain in the night.

You don’t even get a chance to double-check that his ridiculous little M—— is scrawled on every line it’s legally required to be on. He knows exactly what he’s doing, too—that smug twitch of his mouth giving him away as he disappears behind a random curtain.

What in the hell.

You tuck the files under your arm and slip a hand into your front pocket. Just as you’re about to let the let’s fly, Abbot roll off your tongue, your hand freezes, strangely empty.

You’re missing your pen.

That bastard still has your pen.

You inhale, long and tempered, because you don't want to be overly dramatic.

You don’t want to be overly dramatic because, okay, you get it, it’s a pen.

But pens don’t last down here in the emergency department, and every time you materialize, you end up giving Robby a pen, and you never get that pen back. And then Jack comes complaining to you because every time they work together, despite the growing number of pens you’ve surrendered to his cause, Robby never has a pen and then expects a pen from him. But the pen that Jack gives him is also your pen. So, then he’s asking you for a pen—which, really, no biggie, you’ve already looked up how much it would cost to buy Pilot so you could give him unlimited pens—and then you’re giving Jack a pen and then you’re also giving Robby a pen and then Jack is giving Robby a pen and you’re freaking hemorrhaging pens on three fronts.

You’ve Pavloved the poor men into carnal pen desire.

So, you stop yourself in your tracks, glancing towards your companion just enough to catch the angle of his head and smirk playing at the corner of his lips. Your shoulders shake as a huff of laughter leaves you.

There is no pen in his pocket, either.

Routine, you suppose.

“Anyone know where Robby went?” you ask, eyebrow arched, back to surveying the faces around you.

Jack nods over your shoulder, once again directing your attention across the room and you follow his line of sight, eyes landing on Robby’s stiff frame, hiding in plain sight. Two steps from him, a woman is standing way too close for his comfort, hand on his arm, the recipient of a very intense one-way conversation.

You’re so going to make fun of him for this later. Maybe even in the emergency department group chat that you’ve weaseled your way into.

“Explain,” you demand, ravenous for the gossip.

“Guy came in last night, not doing great. Advance directive on file, medical POA too—directive was signed after. The kids are pissed.” 

He lowers his voice, conspiratorial, and you reflexively shift closer to hear him.

“Now they’re trying to bribe half the staff with Daddy’s things for comfort treatment.”

The word daddy leaving Jack’s lips makes your eyes freeze in place, the only visible crack in your armor. This is really not what you need to be thinking about this early in the morning. You give a sharp shake with your head, trying to physically eject the thought.

Man, that family is totally legal’s problem.

You deflate. Which means that’s your problem, really, and you know as soon as you get back to your office, you’ll be losing a game of rock-paper-scissors for who has to be on the way back down here, and you hate ancillary document infighting.

“Okay, well that’s…” Your eyes narrow slightly, contemplating. “…awful?”

“Was that a question mark?”

You shrug. Maybe.

“Any chance you think I can get his attention?” you question, acceptance of the fact that a new pen is about to be classified as missing in action settling in your pocket.

And then Jack forces you to look at him, hand slowly curling around your bicep, and you’re struck by the inexplicable, primal urge to flex to show him, hey, I could hunt and gather. I could do anything you need me to do. 

And then you have to fight the other urge to check your watch, because God forbid you give the impression that there’s anywhere else you’d rather be, but you are positive now that it’s barely seven in the morning and you stomp that primal urge down because you cannot start your yearning and lusting this early. Especially with this new legal problem on your radar.

“Looking for something?” he says, and somehow it sounds like an insult. 

“Theft charges,” you reply dryly.

His mouth twitches.

“If I am ever in that position,” he commands, voice gentle but unmistakably pointed as he tugs your focus back from Robby. Selfishly, Jack wants all your attention on himself. “Just put the pillow over my face, and press—”

You blink, drawing back. “Goddamn.” 

“—create an airtight seal—”

“Just sign the POA, girl.”

“Bet you used to charge a premium for those.”

“Just, like, two thousand. That’s, like,” you expel a dramatic breath from your lungs, feigning introspective mathematical precision, and rock back on your heels. “Twenty beaver pelts back in your day.”

“Twenty?” His head reels back, his voice fading out at the end in an octave that you’re not quite sure he possesses, and the commitment to the bit makes your chest tighten. He leans forward again. “Real proud of those autogenerated documents, huh?”

“No one used to copy-and-paste like me, baby.” You bite your lip.

A beat passes.

He demands your gaze, insistent, possessive.

You suck your teeth and lower your voice, a teasing lilt rising to suffocate the longing that tries to break through. “So, I’m in your deathbed fantasy, huh?”

Enraptured by the way the left side of your mouth starts to smile before the right follows suit, he allows his eyes to flicker to your lips, too quick for you to catch. 

He doesn’t even blink. The hand on your arm tugs you forward, gentle but certain, and you stumble closer to his body. Your tongue, usually razor sharp and biding time until the next joke, dulls.

You blue screen.

Why is his hand big enough to wrap around your arm like that? Dear Lord, has he always been this warm? You can’t remember. Whatever used to be where your brain was immediately betrayed you and fucked off, leaving in its place a panting dog. Does he need you to bark? You could bark. You have no qualms with barking.

He leans in close, voice fighting to be heard over the crackling PA system probably calling for an attending in some fucking room, and then you were no longer in the emergency department. Ringing overtakes your ears and you imagine the hand on your bicep somewhere a little higher.

“Sweetheart,” his drawls, sinfully wrapping around each letter, like he knows exactly what it does to you. The word drips from his lips with maddening ease, dragging down your spine like molten lava. “You’re in my every fantasy. Welcome to the conversation.” 

You blink again. The PA system calls out another pleading demand for whoever was listening at this point, effectively eliminating you and Jack, and his voice—steady, warm, smug—fills your brain with cotton, making it hard to ration, or think, or breathe. 

You’re what?

His eyes dance around your face reverently while the slightest ghost of a smile takes residence on his lips, memorizing the subtle flush traveling across your cheeks and your wide eyes—no longer the color you were born with—blinking uncomprehendingly up at him. He tucks some things away for later, too—the way your breath hitches in a shallow, uneven burst, and how your lashes flutter like they can’t decide to stay open or not while you process his words. In the back of his mind, he decides he likes making you speechless. He tucks that away for later, too.

Then the corners of your lips twitch, your voice slipping out before you could stop it, soft but teasing, “Careful, old man, lest someone label you a poet.”

His responding laugh is quiet, low, self-satisfied—just for you, as it should be, thank you. And when his hand loosens its grip on your bicep and trails down to brush his fingers against yours, your breath stalls.

For the first time, you realize that you’re not in control of anything here at all, let alone your physiological reactions to his proximity. Jack Abbot holds all the cards in a perfectly imbalanced stack against his chest, and, despite your best efforts, you’ve never been good at poker.

And then you feel it.

You are fucking gazing.

You very explicitly recall your job description reading: Hours: 7am-5pm, Mon-Fri.

So why, then, do you find yourself swiping your security card back into the stairwell, beginning your ascent just as the numbers on your watch creep to 6:48am on a Sunday. 

Actually, you know why. A text.

You were tucked in bed, comforter woven from warm springtime sunbeams, thoroughly enjoying the walk on the fuzzy line between waking and slumber. And then, without warning or pause, your body was violently ripped from the veil like a loose tooth at a little kid’s freaking birthday party, phone buzzing, SSGT Jack Abbot, M.D. plastered across your screen and, below it, a text.

Roof, it read.

Well, yeah, Jack, you thought blearily. Roof. Of course, roof. 

You say bark, I bark.

Your comforter was off, and shoes were being tugged on before the screen even dimmed from inactivity, the rational thought of changing out of your sad excuse of pajamas nowhere in sight. Heading into work on a Sunday before the sun was even up.

Nothing wrong with getting a head start on next week, you hum to yourself as you wait for the elevator to ding at the twelfth floor, and then you pause, disgusted with the stray thought. Since when did you want to willingly participate in capitalism more than required?

All because of a man?

Mental You takes the cookies out of the oven and giggles and twirls her hair and dreamily sighs out a yeah.

You step off the elevator and immediately cross the hall, shoving the door to the stairwell open, feet trudging up the steps.

At least you’re also getting paid for it. Not that you need to be paid to see Jack.

I’d pay to see Doctor Abbot, Mental You giggles.

You finally get to the roof, thighs burning, though not as much as they used to—shoutout to Andrea at the gym—and push open the door.

Or you would. 

The door jams, halting your hand mid-motion, and you sigh. 

Without thinking, you wind back and slam your shoulder into the damned thing. It flies open with a dramatic groan and you’re all but launched forward, right shoe catching awkwardly on the ledge. Gravity seizes the opportunity with enthusiasm, zealously pulling at your body, and you guess that your bag must want in on the action too, because it shifts the weight of everything inside, throwing you off balance, the momentum carrying you in a parabolic arc directly into the path of the bloodthirsty door, who vengefully desires nothing more than to claim your life and perhaps its rightful resting position in the frame.

And then time is slowing down in that unique and humiliating way it does when you realize with horror that you’re doing something that would land you on TikTok. 

And then there’s another moment, fleeting but vivid, where you register how ridiculous you must look: clad in pajamas, bag swinging, your body a perfect picture of chaos. 

And then it happens.

You collide with the door in a graceless, full-bodied tackle that rattles the hinges and might as well announce your presence to the entire city.

By the time you stumble away from the ring, vehemently declining another round with the door, your legs stinging where the exposed skin met the cold metal, you notice Jack already leaning against the far side of the railing, figure outlined by the slowly rising light of the sun.

At first, you think he hasn’t noticed your grand entrance, but Jack has always had the uncanny ability to see everything you don’t want him to see, and also you would have to have been dead to not have heard all that. It’s the single shake of his tense shoulders that betrays him, and, really, you have to give him credit where credit’s due, because he’s trying.

He’s trying so hard to not make fun of you right now.

You can feel it.

You straighten up, and you’re of half a mind to try and salvage the scraps of dignity you still have left, but, ultimately, you find that you just don’t care that much. You also find that it was so much colder than you thought it would be, given your current attire.

A coat, you think miserably. Anything. Anything at all would have been better.

“I swear it wasn’t like that a couple days ago,” you huff, brushing invisible dust off your sleeve as you lick your wounds.

Abbot finally allows a single soldier through the front lines in his battle against laughter, letting out a sharp chuckle that cuts through the cold morning air.

“You always know how to make an entrance,” he observes, similar to the way he’s observed cloud cover.

His eyes drag down to your legs and his brow subtly creases, trying to conceal the way his brain short-circuited for half a second.

“Shorts,” he mutters, blinking slowly, shoulders rising in a steep inhale. “That’s…a choice.”

"Yeah, well, you know..." you wave a hand in the air dismissively. "Sleeping."

And you realize, fuck, you really don’t care about your wounded dignity and stupid outfit if it makes Jack Abbot look at you like that.

A comfortable ease settles over you while something warm settles in the pit of your stomach, one that only he seems capable of conjuring. You take a deep breath, the cool air biting at your lungs, the tension from your stairwell match melting away as Jack’s presence steadies you.

“Wait, you come up here without me?” He clarifies, voice a little rougher than he means it to be, unwavering stare locked on you. “But it’s—this is mine.”

“I really don’t think you can have, like, a monopoly on the roof, Jack.”

“I was hired first,” he argues, like that alone justifies his claim to the space. 

“Jack, how is it a monopoly if you let me in?”

He doesn’t answer, just stares at you flatly like that answers it.

“I literally work, like, eight feet below where we’re standing right now,” you stress, foot tapping against the ground in emphasis. “You understand that, right?”

He shrugs, corner of his lips creeping up. “You don’t have to beg, kid. I’ll let you use it,” he says, smug. “I’m magnanimous like that.”

You don’t even know where to begin tearing apart the words that just exited his mouth. But your mouth, your traitorous mouth, does. “I’m not begging.”

He leans in then.

“Do you want to?”

He knows it’s the only way he can throw you off the same way you so unknowingly do to him.

Sure enough, you lag behind his response, mouth parting as power is diverted from mandibular control to turn the gears in your brain, each one creaking with effort as they try to process what the fuck just came out of his mouth.

And he says it to keep your blinders on, to distract you from the way he almost said ours instead of mine, and to distract you from the way his fingers twitch at his sides, like they want to reach for you but are stuck in purgatory, unsure if they’d be welcomed.

But Jack notices it too much.

He notices his twitching hands, and the way your laughter lingers in his chest longer than it should, and the way your voice threads through the spaces of his day and ties his heart in knots in ways he doesn’t even know where to begin untangling. He doesn’t say anything, but he feels it, thick and unyielding, curling around his ribs and threatening to suffocate him whenever you’re near.

So, his arms fold over his chest, absently creating a protective barrier, his eyes falling somewhere distant.

And then cut to you sideways, softening despite himself, cracking through the flimsy pretense of just-friends banter you both cling to like it might protect you from the inevitable. It’s a game you keep playing, tossing a live grenade back and forth.

But he won’t drop it.

If there is one thing that Jack Abbot has in abundance, it’s patience. He is patient—he learned it long ago under the blanket of gunfire and the oppressive heat of the sun, and mastered it with bodies bleeding out beneath his hands. And he is tenacious. He is so fucking tenacious it would make your head spin. And he would toss that live grenade days, months, decades until you reacted too slowly and it went off.

And then the moment is gone and you’re dancing back over the line to friends. He punches your arm lightly, the movement too calculated to be casual, his fist moving forward unaccompanied by the fluidity and self-assuredness you’ve seen him possess with florescent lights above him and a body below. His knuckles burn your arm where they glance across it, and your eyes whip between the afflicted site and him, mind already curating a scathing retort.

He waits, daring you to notice how long he lingers in moments like this, how he drags out conversations just to keep you tethered here next to him, close enough to pretend you’re his.

But you step closer, eyes taking in the way his shoulders seem to be pressed down by an invisible weight—one that you wish you could become Atlas to alleviate, if just for a moment.

Bad night, you observe.

Bad night, indeed, Jack’s body screams in reply.

When the shrill alarm alerting him of 5pm pierced the fragile fog that had settled on his brain, it felt as though the world was gunning for his sanity. The weight of exhaustion pressed heavily on his chest, and his body, tangled in sheets that seem to have turned into chains and a sweat-soaked shirt plastered to his body, drags heavily, joints creaking as he began to extract himself from his fabric prison.

Thirty-three minutes of deep sleep, Jack’s watch spat in his face.

Kill yourself, watch, he grunted back.

But time, relentless and indifferent and, in the back of his mind, named Gloria Underwood (no relation, you tried to convince him during one of your rooftop meetings once. It’s a common name, Abbot.), marches forward, dragging him along with its cruel cadence and another hellish shift in the books.

And presently, you see his tense body standing—like the soldier he’ll probably always be—at attention, shoulders rigid, chin tilted defiantly as if daring the universe to shove him just a little further, just until the ground beneath his feet disappears, and hands clenched so tightly at his side that you think you should take him downstairs to check for open wounds.  

The thing about the veteran that you clocked long before the start of soft smiles, and the banter, and the myriad rooftop rendezvous is this: when he has a bad night, he gets philosophical.

“Do you think God cares?” he deadpans—which is insane to you, because who opens like that?

You gently lean your demon-possessed bag against the AC unit and walk forward to settle beside him where he leans heavily against the opposite side of the rail. “Like, in general, or…?”

“The death,” he lists, ticking it off like it’s a mildly interesting footnote. “The helplessness.”

“I don’t know. Kinda used to want to ask God that,” you admit, your energy shifting to match his vaguely existential one. You try kicking at a rock to diffuse some of the tension and somehow miss entirely. “‘If you’re so loving, why do you allow so much suffering and injustice.’”

“Don’t question it anymore?”

The question makes you pause. You guess you didn’t question it anymore. You were surrounded by it every day, as was he—the predatory insurance companies and the maladjusted American healthcare system. It wasn’t as though you’d been exposed to the trademarked horrors, but the past six years were taxing enough. Year after year, case after case, you internalized the knowledge that the things meant to help you weren’t really there just to help. And that knowledge takes its toll.

So, no, you don’t really question it anymore.

But you do let it steal parts of you. It isn’t outright draining—more like a faucet that didn’t shut off completely, allowing a single drip to escape at a time, every couple seconds, every day, for years. Not something someone immediately identifies and fixes, but something that, when you do notice it, you kind of throw your hands up in the air like, well what the fuck now?

That’s where you’re at. Well, what the fuck now, indeed.

You laugh, the sound unbidden and a touch more bitter than you want it to be. “No, it just became a pride thing.” 

And then the soft confession escapes you before you could beat it back with a bat and send forth some retort that would get you a huff of air through the nose at worst, and a scoff and shake of the head at best. The words cross your unspoken boundary of keeping it light and ambiguously sexual—they toe the line of being vulnerable. “I guess now I’m afraid that he might ask me the same question.”

Part of you really hopes he ignores the words. Part of you hopes that the words would fall on deaf ears and any response would die on mute lips. Part of you hopes that the world would open up and pluck those drifting words right out of the air before they could reach him.

But Jack is there. Jack is always there, and Jack always fucking saw you before you saw you, and he always heard what you said before you knew what you said.

And he would always be there throwing you a life-preserver, a way out.

He tries to salvage what’s left of the levity from your grand entrance and nudges your shoulder with his.

“It’s a really stupid question, anyway,” he utters softly, gently, the understanding of a man who has seen worse draping over the words.

A life-preserver that you would enthusiastically grab like you’ve asked for one every Christmas for the past thirty years. His eyes head turns, and his eyes lock on to yours, inviting and warm, and you realize you’re so fucked.

You swallow, the familiar teasing expression reappearing on command, the left side of your mouth coming up in a smirk and your right eyebrow raising fractionally.

“Yeah. We should really be focusing on big picture stuff,” you agree. “Like, ‘How does Tom Cruise do all that?’”

“That’ll blow God’s freaking mind,” he grumbles.

You nudge his shoulder back.

Cold wind nips at your skin, and you shudder, your arms drawing in to aid your body in retaining heat. Your eyes dart to the side hoping you were as subtle doing that as you thought you were.

Definitely not, you assume. The troubled man’s fingers tighten on the railing as he wordlessly swings himself under to the other side, shrugging off his jacket and draping it over your shoulders. 

You begin offering up a weak protest, barely more than a whisper, until Jack’s eyes snap to you, cool and amused. 

“Don’t get used to charity,” he murmurs, voice like velvet on steel. “Just say thank you, Jack.”

A meek thank you, Jack takes its place. A hum, noncommittal—casual—fills the space between you in reply.

The weight of it presses down, swallowing you whole. It’s warm from his own body, and it smells vaguely of the antiseptic you’ve come to accept as his cologne, and God, and it’s heavy. Not because of the fabric itself—that’s actually rather light, it’s still early in the season-change—but because it’s his. An ever-present fixture that emerges as soon as the temperature drops.

A constant.

And now it’s on you and it feels almost too personal, and you shift slightly trying to shake the intimate feeling off and just enjoy the moment as a girl with a crush on a man fifteen years older than her, but the bastard clings to you and settles into your heart.

“We should get you a new cologne, by the way.”

You said we. You had said we and Jack’s brain immediately latches onto the promise of something so domestic with you.

“Are you saying I smell?” he asks, expression unreadable but amused.

“Every day I sit in my office and pray you’ll take a shower.”

“You don’t have better things to pray for?”

You open your mouth to respond, but he’s on a roll.

“World peace,” he supplies, like it was the obvious office prayer.

It’s a good office prayer, you have to admit.

“I can’t wear cologne down there. Liability or something,” he continues dryly, and the next words seek out your pride with surgical precision, making a single, tiny cut. “You of all people should know that.”

He got you there again—you should know that—and that’s like three times in the span of ten minutes that he’s got you. You’re not quite sure what’s happening right now.

Deafening silence concedes the argument.

But as far as you’re concerned, you’ll let him have it. You have Jack on one side of you and the warmth of his jacket protecting you against the cold creeping in. You’re content.

And you thought Jack was content, too.

But apparently, he isn’t.

Can’t let the silence just freaking do its thing.

“Can I ask you something else?” he says, like the answer to that has ever stopped him before, “Why do you care?”

And the parallel between this question and the one about God makes your eyebrows furrow a little because, what does that mean? What does ‘why do you care about the suffering of human beings,’ mean?

“About suffering?” you say slowly, trying to find your footing.

“No.”

Your mouth opens a fraction, perhaps wide enough for a fly to be caught, while you work to follow what path his mind went down.

What, like, The Yankees? Yeah, you care about them. Obviously, because you love them. Any team that happens to be playing against Jack’s beloved Pirates, of course care about them, because you hate whatever team Jack loves. Annoying Robby? Sure. About Jack himself, absolutely. Fucking definitely, even. 

You tick the entries off in your mind: career, first and foremost; your friends; Jack; your family that hasn’t talked to you in years; Dr. Abbot down in the ED; crippling debt payments from law school; that matcha place Samira showed you; the socio-political landscape of the world; former army medic, Jack Abbot. 

You can’t imagine that Jack’s unprompted and vague question was about any of these things.

Your eyes squint not of your own volition. “What?”

“Yesterday,” he clarifies, tone clipped, ever a man of many words. 

“What?” you try again.

“About that woman.”

You’ll shove this fool off the roof yourself, you decide. “What?”

He leans back, knuckles white from gripping the rail to anchor him, sighing that you’re the crazy one right now sigh—like he can’t believe he has to spell it out for you, word for word. “The one that was flirting with Robby.”

You actually look over at Jack then, confused. He’s not looking at you, his back now ramrod straight and jaw reflecting his fists, clenched so tightly you're surprised his teeth aren’t shattering from the pressure.

The woman that you had a very long, very tense, conversation with—brother’s presence intruding like a serpent in the garden, begging you to sin—about pulling her father off life support?

A laugh almost escapes you. You’re not sure he realizes how stupid he sounds thinking you cared about anything in that moment other than the way his hand wrapped around your bicep and the way he laughed, low and ruinous and lethal, and called you sweetheart.

Light and sexual, you chant to yourself.

“The one that wants her dad dead?” you bluntly ask—whatever, who needs light, anyway?

His shoulder draws up in a half-shrug, mouth opening in a wordless response. Finally, he settles on, “I’m just saying you seemed… very interested—”

“What, in my job?” your confused tone betrays the half-smile on your face.

“That’s not what I’m saying—”

"I mean, it sounds like what you're saying—"

"No, you looked upset at her—"

"—and it's definitely what I'm hearing—"

"Well, get your fucking hearing checked—"

“Are you jealous, Jack?” you press, cutting him off, pointed and a little smug.

“Yes.”

He says it so simply, and his voice is so soft, so confident, and it lands with decimating impact. 

What happened to light and sexual, Jack?

It just swan dove straight over the ledge, Jack.

What the fuck is wrong with this guy?

Your next thought slams through you, so loud and so out of pocket, and you’re a little pissed because last time you had this thought, you told it to at least give you, like, an ETA next time. Your heart jumps a little in your chest. Maybe you don’t have to call that convent, you think. Maybe he isn’t a fan of polite rejection.

And then the third thing you cared about in yesterday’s interaction strikes you. Obviously.

“Jack,” you enunciate. You want your next words to be explicitly clear. “The only reason I was even looking for Robby was because he still had my pen.”

His jaw twitches. “What?”

“Holy shit, can we stop with the whats?”

“Okay, look, sorry if I need to make sure that my friend,” he spits out the word, duplicity-soaked label coating his mouth with a bitter aftertaste. “Isn’t pining over my- my fellow attending.”

“First of all, I would never pine,” you note. “I’m a maple, and I want that on record.”

For a turbulent second, Jack wants to grab you by the scruff of the neck and manhandle you like a misbehaved chihuahua because he’s serious and you make jokes when you’re feeling defensive—something that he usually finds endearing but simply can’t find it in him to do right now.

He doesn’t want you pining over Robby, he wants you pining over him.

And so maybe his response is fueled by jealousy, okay, sue him. He’ll bring it up to his therapist and then apologize to you, and you’ll say something like, I should invoice your therapist myself for emotional labor.

So, he digs in, tone sharp but surgical, and says something that he knows will get a rise out of you because he knows you—he knows everything about you.

“Maple? You’re so obviously an oak—you’ll never be a maple,” he fires back, voice incredulous, volume subdued, eyes narrowed in outrage. “You’re not even close to maple-level, be fucking for real.” 

A strangled sound makes its way out of you, shocked that he would even think such a thing. “Of course you would say that you fucking ginkgo,” you snap.

“Gingko?”

You inhale sharply and force yourself to rein in your next sentence because there’s a feeling in your chest—one slowly rising, and it suspiciously feels like anger. Why the hell is Jack acting like this at seven in the morning on a Sunday, especially about someone that the hospital would sell out in a heartbeat over a wrongful prolongation of life lawsuit?

Pining over Robby? Is he fucking stupid?

Well, two can play this game.

You can be fucking stupid, too.

You can be fucking stupid, and—you want it known, labelled, and presented before the new J.D. recipient, prosecution attorney Jack Abbott, M.D., as Exhibit A—you’re not remotely capable of even pretending to be normal in a competitive situation.

“Sorry, Abbot, I didn’t realize you could even clock my pining over the volume of your giggles,” you counter hotly, throwing a trembling finger in his face at the scandalized look that crosses it. “Yeah. Giggles.”

“So, you were pining over Robby?” he confirms, and it lodges itself under your skin. 

You’re sure if you looked down at your watch it would tell you that you have a heart rate of at least one hundred and eighty.

“Why the fuck do you care who I’m pining over?” you hiss, your voice dripping with frustration.

Jack opens his mouth, thinks better of it, then tries again—lighter, a silent prayer that maybe the joke can diffuse the mounting tension.

“I don’t care, but Robby is built like one of those car-dealership inflatables, and—” he shifts his weight to the left, leg aching.

But it’s too late. Your eyes narrow.

“Built like a car-dealership inflatable?” you echo in disbelief, hoping the words will help Jack realize the incredulousness of the statement. “What the hell does that even mean?”

That’s a great question, the prosecution thinks. He doesn’t even really know, but it’s out now and he has to roll with it.

“That’s your friend and now you’re being fucking mean,” the words press out through gritted teeth, humor long gone. “You’re just saying stuff.” 

He agrees with you, he is just saying stuff, and Jack will apologize to his friend for the stray when his mind is clearer and blood pressure lower, even though the other man won’t have any idea what he’s talking about.

“Yeah,” he bites out, stepping closer. “But you kicked this shit off with your stupid maple thing, and now I’m stuck defending myself against a guy who walks like life’s spine-optional and he’s not sure how gravity works—”

“Shut up about Robby’s walk!” you yell in a rush, your voice shrill and piercing, the sheer absurdity of the argument making your hands fly into the air. “This isn’t about him! Or his- his saunter. This is about your—”

“This is not about me,” he cuts you off, too loud to be convincing. “I just think you deserve better spine-to-surface ratio, is all—”

“Because your body has such a perfect there-to-not ratio, right?”

“Ohhhhh, you wanna go there—?”

“No, actually, I don’t,” you snap back. Then, sharper, “Listen, Abbot—”

“No, you listen,” he grounds out, your name a heated whisper snapping against its leash. “You’re the one who made this weird. You got all defensive and—” Jack gestures around like it personally offended him, “And then you’re calling me a gingko. A gingko. Like that’s a thing regular people do in arguments.”

“Oh, I’m sooo sorry, Doctor,” you draw out the syllables in mock-sympathy. “Would you prefer that I use military metaphors? Would that make baby feel more emotionally validated?”

“Yes, it would!” the doctor hisses back, mouth a breath away from yours. “Maybe at least then I would know where the hell I stand in your metaphor jungle!”

There’s a beat—one that coils the tension tighter, and tighter, and tighter—and Jack’s eyes, always attuned to your body, snap to the frustrated pinch of your mouth. Then back up. Your breath comes in sharp, uneven bursts, a wild fire burning behind your glassy eyes, gravity giving up on strands of hair where you ran your rands through them.

Not for the first time, he thinks that you’re beautiful. Your beauty was noted and neatly filed away long ago at your first meeting, shelved next to other invariably true things like death, and taxes, and a subscription he forgot about charging his bank account.

Eyes snap back down again. 

And fuck he wants nothing more than to slam his lips against yours, to win, to derail the argument—to get you to stop arguing for maybe the first time in your life.

You clench your jaw, and you take a deep breath. 

Neither of you move.

Don’t even shift your weight.

Almost nose to nose.

Of course, you weren’t pining over Robby, he knows that.

Because in Jack’s mind, it’s simple.

You’re his.

And sometimes he forgets that this thing between you has never been verbalized and linguists and English majors around the world are probably still scrambling and conspiring to combine words and build syntax trees that won’t even scratch the surface of explaining how deeply you’re seared into his soul.

And he certainly forgets that in your mind, he’s not yours.

Then, of course, there’s also the fact that he hasn’t done this in years, not since his wife—so, admittedly, he’s a little rusty. He tried practicing, but this conversation isn’t going at all how he painstakingly and methodically rehearsed with Robby in the breakroom.

And then somehow trees were pulled into it, and he doesn’t know anything about trees—he could name maybe four types. He can’t even tell you what a gingko is. He honestly thought it was a lizard. He probably would have put money on it.

And also he loves your metaphors, you know that.

“There was a woman in South 19,” he starts slowly, forcefully controlled. The first words in an unspoken sorry. His hands twitch by his side. “She was eighty-two years old and told me I was too handsome to be a doctor. That I should be on the cover of Vogue.”

Your brain, which has been running on pure spite and cortisol, fumbles.

Silence presses down over you once more.

The roof is too quiet now.

Too stupid.

You’re angry and a little hurt. Jack’s angry and, you think, probably a little hurt, too—at the very least by the body-ratio comment and definitely by the gingko comment.

And you feel even more stupid because, through it all, you’re still swimming in his fucking jacket.

Unfortunately for you, you agree with the eighty-two-year-old woman in South 19. He should be on the cover of Vogue.

It’s your turn. You press your hands into your eyes hard enough you see stars, taking a small step back.

“Robby had my pen,” you mutter, reprising the explanation you started before the argument spiraled out of control.

Abbot blinks. “What?”

You sigh, loud and theatrical, hands dropping. “Robby had my pen, okay? And it’s—just—it’s always like this. I show up. He needs to sign. He never has a pen. I give him one, then you give him one, but it’s also mine, because you got it from me, and then I give him another, and it’s like—I’m hemorrhaging pens. I am singlehandedly keeping Pilot in business because of this freaking guy.”

He just stares at you.

You gesture helplessly. “So, yeah. I was looking for Robby. To get my pen back.”

Another beat.

Then Jack, flatly, “You picked a fight with me because of a pen pyramid scheme.”

“Okay, um, actually, you picked a fight with me,” you object, your mind scrunching up its sleeves and waving its fists in the air, ready to go again. Ballpoint trauma massages its shoulders, egging it on.

He watches you and shakes his head imperceptibly.

He’s in love with someone who’s bleeding office supplies.

The man runs a hand over his face, palm dragging slow, and when it drops, there’s something soft and aching behind his eyes. Not pity. Not amusement. Just this quiet, stunned affection like, God, it’s you. Even when you’re arguing over trees and tube men, it’s you.

Your shoulders start to slump, and you scuffle your shoe against the gravel, eyes fixed on the ground like you’re trying to disappear. All the fire from earlier is gone, and somehow that’s worse. He watches you there, wrapped in his jacket like it belongs on your shoulders, drowning in the sleeves, collar brushing your cheek a little every time you move. It’s recklessly easy to forget what started this fight—to forget that he can’t do anything in this moment but watch you shrink before him.

He wants to take your face in his hands, thumb the curve of your cheekbones and tilt your head up. He wants to bend down and let his lips press into the corners of your eyes, catching the unshed tears. He wants to press kisses to every inch of your skin—your temples, the tip of your nose, the crease between your brows—murmuring I’m sorry between each one like a prayer, drunk on adoration of you. 

In a pathetic attempt at casualness, your voice breaks through his fantasy, “I’m ‘friend’ and Michael’s relegated to ‘fellow attending,’huh?”

Jack exhales, controlled and slow, not meant for your ears.

“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” the veteran says quietly.

“I would argue what he doesn't know appears to hurt him the most,” you breathe a laugh, eyes still downcast.

He inclines his head and forces a gruff chuckle quietly to escape, the sound landing gently on your ears. Your traitorous heart stutters in your chest at the sound. And then his laugh pauses, and eyes narrow. He nods because, actually, you’re right about Robby. He should really ask him about that tomorrow.

All at once, in the back of your mind, you start to feel guilty.

You know that your friend had such a bad night and, presumably, a bad shift, that he asked you to come to the roof on a Sunday. And then you just called him a gingko and that was so fucking far from cool. The lump swelling in your tightening throat starts to teeter on impossible to swallow around. The tears you never learned how to suppress in an argument burn the back of your eyes.

But the sound has already burrowed into your heart once more and you can’t even remember why you were having a hissing match with Jack Abbot about trees and car-dealership inflatables. His stupid fucking laugh took your composure by the ear and shot it point blank in the back alley of a Wendy’s all within the span of three seconds.

You can’t help it.

“Hey, Jack,” you begin, your voice floating out and dying in the air as the sounds of the street rise to battle them.

You’re silent for a second.

You know you should quit while you’re ahead and leave down the stairs with a thumbs up and one last joke about returning to the door for seconds, but the words hey, Jack are already out, and true to the name, this is Jack, and now he’s looking at you with such affection in those confusingly beautiful eyes that all you want to do is tell him how, most days, he is the only thing keeping you sane, and how when you imagine your future, you imagine the calluses on his hands and arms wrapped around you from behind. And you want to tell him that you want nothing more than to see him every day, hell, you’ll take seeing him off hospital grounds. And, God, you want to text him the stupid updates throughout your day—that your matcha sucks today and you think the barista wants to set you on fire.

You want this nearing ancient, active suicide risk in your life beyond insurance claims, and Rooftop Club, and stupid fucking fights pens and eighty-two-year-old women in South 19—even ones that are now confusingly flora based.

I think I love you, you want to tell him.

And for a moment you’re genuinely worried that you might say something conveying anything of a remotely similar sentiment—something definitely not light and sexual.

But then you hear yourself softly admitting, “For the record, you’re my best friend.” 

The vulnerability makes you feel like you’ve been cut open, heart on display for the medic’s steady hands. The guilt gnaws at you, and you resign yourself to feeling like a fool, a lumbering joker standing in Jack Abbot’s jacket and your pajamas.

You start picking at the loose threads on his jacket sleeve.

His hand moves, slowly, the same way a cowboy would approach a skittish horse, and settles over yours, gently stopping the movement.

 You drift your gaze up, just enough to catch his eyes with yours.

“You’re not a gingko, by the way,” you mumble, words barely making it past your lips.

His hand tightens on yours. It’s so marginal that you’re sure you’ve imagined it. His eyes stay locked on yours.

“Kid,” Jack says, and when he leans in, his voice drops, soft and steady and sacred. “Maples wish they had what you do.”

He angles his head just as the morning sun—surely a paid actor—breaks from behind the skyline and cascades over his face, bathing him in gold. For a fleeting second, the words of your mother ring in your ears and you think you finally understand what she spoke of when said that human beings are made in the image of God.

Slowly, your eyes begin to wander over the gentle slope of his nose, cataloguing the constellations of freckles across his cheeks, finding respite at the corner of his eye where his crow’s feet deepen as he squints, lashes battling the intruding light.

You agree. Surely something so beautiful couldn’t be anything short of divine.

The newborn light catches on what’s left of the copper stands in his salt and pepper curls and dances on the unshaven stubble dusting his face, and you decide that God was taking his job as Artist very seriously right now, pouring gold down from heaven and letting it mend every chip and heal every break, sculpting a kinutsigi statue before your very eyes. 

The gravel crunches as he shifts, the sound effectively restarting your brain, your head whipping towards the skyline before he could comment on your very clearly and pathetically waxing poetic gaze.

What the fuck was that?

But you know exactly what that was, and it was not something that fell under the umbrella of keeping it light and ambiguously sexual.

You shift your weight anxiously.

“And you know Robby can’t help that he’s built like a broad scarecrow,” your quiet voice drifts into the air.

“I know, sweetheart,” and God his voice is so soft, somehow so steady, that you’re not sure how it has the ability to cut through you with such sharpness. “Still wouldn’t trust the integrity of his core.”

You nod. You could get behind that.

“I like your body ratio the way it is, Jack.”

He brings your hands clasped in his to his lips.

You had the first Friday of every month circled multiple times on your calendar. It was routine, one that Gloria knew and that Gloria respected. Which is why, you couldn’t for the life of you discern the reason you were thrown into the lion’s den of not routine when she decided that, actually, these insurance claims needed to be signed at this exact moment on some random ass Monday or, as far as you could gather, the entire hospital would crash down to the ground with everyone inside it and then the rubble would catch fire, too. 

But you don’t argue. A trip down to the emergency department was always a joyous occasion in your book, and so you hoped it would stay.

And you stumble into the elevator, cup of coffee in a mug that reads soy milk on the front and hola milk, soy tu padre on the back in one hand, and a bundle of papers flagged for signature in the other. Your hips angle towards the paneling on the wall and you all but ragdoll your body into the buttons, aiming for the bottom floor and, regrettably, hitting the bottom three.

God forbid you have an easy start.

The elevator doors open with a groan, and the controlled chaos of the emergency department whirls around you, and you duck and weave around rogue employees, making your way through the halls, sniffing the air like a bloodhound in search of Robby.

“Jesus Christ,” vibrates out of his chest, eyes landing on you as you turn the corner. “Once a month isn’t enough for you people?”

“You people? Do you mean women?”

His hands come up and pull at his hair.

You take pity on him.

“Hey, Robby, don’t shoot the messenger.” You shrug, eyes already wandering around the floor looking for their natural target. You slide the cup of coffee in his direction, a silent peace treaty. “You don’t like it? Sue.”

Robby sighs and takes off his glasses as he watches your pathetic scan of the department. After the conversation he and Jack had after he came down from the roof yesterday—which was essentially Robby asking if he finally asked you out and Jack just grunting at him and leaving—he knows he should handle this with kid-gloves.

And he tries. He swears he tries. He would testify, hand on the bible, that he tried.

“He’s gone.”

And for a moment, the doctor almost feels bad because your head whips towards him and you resemble an abandoned shelter dog, eyes sad and brows furrowed. He makes the split-second decision to grab the cup of coffee and place it under his protection before you can do something drastic.

“What?”

“He’s gone. Day off. Today and tomorrow,” Robby declares, using his free hand to make grabby motions at the file he sees tucked in your arms.

His eyes squint in thought. “Yesterday and today, I guess, technically,” he revises.

You try to process the words, wondering why it didn’t occur to you that Jack might, like, not only exist in this building when it coincides with you.

You pull out your phone, eyes pausing momentarily on the coffee that Robby’s safeguarding before deciding it isn’t worth it. The screen reflecting your sad expression, you scroll to Jack’s number, thumbs tapping out a message, short and sweet.

And then you pause before hitting send, your gaze flickering up to Robby, who seems to be the poster child for enjoying himself, mouth greedily sipping coffee and lanky frame folded back in his chair. You tip your head to the side at the odd angle of his spine. Jack was right, he should do more core work.

“Are you lying to me right now?”

Robby looks up, head moving in a tight, rapid shake that screams exasperation with you. "Yeah, Jack’s actually fishing over in Trauma 1 right now.”

Jack hates fishing. Checkmate.

Ignoring him, you return to your phone, the message awaiting your command to go forth.

Jack was so going to hear about this.

Stunning O-Neg Attorney: so u hate me now?

You pause for a second, wondering if the two of you were at harassment level.

The way his lips seared into your hand flashes through your mind.

You decide to full send.

Stunning O-Neg Attorney: u hate me so much u quit ur job so u never had to see me again

Stunning O-Neg Attorney: is that it

And you don’t expect an immediate response, you just want him to know you know about the self-conjured hatred and you’re not happy about it. It was 8am on a Monday—a Monday that Jack freaking has off, apparently—and by all accounts, he should be in bed, snug as a bug. 

But your phone vibrates in your hand. You look down.

SSGT Jack Abbot, M.D: If you wanted to see me all you had to do was ask

What the—? The audacity stops your thumbs in their tracks.

Stunning O-Neg Attorney: im a very busy woman abbot

Stunning O-Neg Attorney: u dont even know what my calendar looks like abbot

And then before you know what you’re doing, you’re sending another text reply.

Stunning O-Neg Attorney: can i see u

Was that too desperate?

Stunning O-Neg Attorney: im waiting for u to return from way

Deliberate typo.

Stunning O-Neg Attorney: war

Nailed it.

SSGT Jack Abbot, M.D: Way

Stunning O-Neg Attorney: kill your self

Three dots appear and then disappear as you see him try to formulate a response. They appear once more.

SSGT Jack Abbot, M.D: I want to see you too kid

SSGT Jack Abbot, M.D: Not on the roof I mean

You have to fight the smile that tries to overtake your face, eyes glued to the words on your screen, not even looking up when Robby’s hand enters your sight, snapping in an attempt to bring you back to earth. 

But you, with days that start when Jack’s ends, and Jack, who seems to spend most of his free time in the emergency department whether he’s supposed to be there or not, have schedules that rarely align. As lamentable as it is, you both settle for a professional backdrop for your interactions.

Maybe God heard your plea from the rooftop and decided to have mercy.

I want to see you too, kid.

And so that night you find yourself at Jack Abbot’s fucking apartment, perched on his couch with his legs stretched long in front of him, ankles crossed, prim and proper, and yours tucked neatly to the side, body twisted towards his. Every once in a while, his knee brushes against your thigh. You have a Coke Zero in your hand—taken from his fridge after you showed up with a case that he immediately scoffed at—and a very manly beer is in his. The Pirates game plays forgotten on the TV. There is a pizza on its way with your name on it, which, really, should have been here, like, an hour ago, but neither of you really remember or care.

You’re mentally planning which route you’re going to take home—God forbid he lets you go home—so you could stop off at whatever church you pass first and throw up a thanks, Christ, owe you one also sorry for not visiting in a while.

“Why don’t we do this?”

“What do you mean?” you question. “We hang out all the time.”

“No, you asked me to come over once because you burnt yourself making cookies and you said that your arm resembled raw chicken.”

“Didn’t it though?”

He cocks his head to the side, bringing his beer to his lips, and his eyebrows move up in agreement. It did look like raw chicken.

“And wasn’t it the sexiest piece of raw chicken you’ve ever seen?” you press.

The natural banter presses deep and steady beneath his ribs. Silver curls tip back and his body shifts forward after it, a little closer to yours, as he laughs, and you catch a whiff of something unfamiliar, brief and blinding. 

It’s going to be a good night, you decide.

Jack’s stare softens, tender and warm.

“You’re staring,” you tease.

“I’m gazing,” he stresses.

And you knew that son of a bitch Robinavitch wouldn’t keep his mouth shut.

You’re going to kill Robby. And maybe Dana, you’re sure she was in on that. And you’ll include Princess and Perlah, too, just to cover your ass.

You made it this far into the night, you suppose. Nice while that lasted.

The beer rests forgotten in the attending’s hand, condensation slipping down the glass. The game on the TV recedes into static. Your silence echoes in his ear and his arm shifts along the back of the couch behind you, fingers flexing.

“You don’t have to get defensive about it, you know. Whatever… looking. Gazing,” he shakes his head, while he sets his beer on the table, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I don’t mind.”

That smell enters your senses again, there and gone before you could focus on it, and you start to think that maybe you’re having a stroke. It’s the only logical explanation—it licks up your spine slowly, spreading over you and burning through your body, and holy shit how is he completely unaffected by this?

The crowd cheering quietly on the TV from a home run—which you’ll be pissed about later—the condensation from your can pooling in a puddle on the coaster, the older man’s body pressed to yours enough to throw you off balance. His arm, strategically placed behind you, is close enough for you to feel, and his legs, once prim and proper, have separated, thigh pressing against yours.

You’re about to lose your fucking mind.

And like always, Jack notices. He notices everything about you.

You press the cold can against your cheek as you groan, trying to ground yourself, but the metal does nothing to cool the heat building low in your spine.

And then that scent teases you again, barely enough and gone before you get a chance to pin it down to anything beyond Jack Abbot’s Natural Pheromones, and you can’t take it anymore.

“Okay, what is that?” you demand. “Is that you?”

Before he has a chance to respond, and before your brain can tell your carnal desire to, like, chill, you’re in motion.

Your first movement is sharp, and deliberate, and probably warranting the intervention of a priest, head snapping towards his as you push off the couch cushion and lean over him, trying to identify the scent invading your brain. Your left knee leverages you by his leg as your right moves behind you for balance.

And you pause.

Your second movement is slow, and hypnotic, and cautious, head dipping to allow your nose to hover above the column of his neck. Belatedly, it occurs to you that you might be crossing the boundary into territory you hadn't realized existed until now, one beyond banter and jokes loaded with yearning. Which is also a crazy thought to have when you’re almost straddling your friend, because obviously that crosses a boundary.

But the heat radiating off the body in front of you is searing.

You know you’re too close, the space between the two of you thinning to a thread, but you don’t think that even God himself could pull you from your place.

His body is firm under you as you trail your nose down, following the flow of blood from his jugular, so close you’re not sure if you’re hearing his heartbeat or yours. You tilt your head slightly, tracking the faint whisper of finally identified sandalwood and tobacco that lingers in the dip where his shoulder comes to meet his collarbone. The scent is intoxicating, earthy and bold, and mixes with underlying sting of antiseptic and of something so fundamentally Jack Abbot. 

It clings to him like an omen, sealing your downfall. Head swimming, you decide you would go to war for that combination—you were ready to lay your life down, to become a faithful martyr to his cause.

Jack freezes so imperceptibly that someone less attuned to him might not notice. But you do. You notice the subtle, sharp exhale, the way his shoulders tense and slowly fall just a fraction more sharply than before. His head turns towards you marginally, one hand twitching where it rests on the couch, but not saying a word, and you freeze too because what the fuck has possessed you?

But then you catch the scent again and it feels like stepping directly into the fire, the tension surrounding you, poised and ready to suffocate given the order.

“I’m serious,” you murmur, your voice quieter now. “What is that?”

You’re close now enough to feel the rasp of his unshaven jaw against the soft curve of your cheek.

Jack finally turns his head fully and his piercing gaze drops, catching yours, demanding and unreadable, pinning you in place. And then, with the faintest of smirks tugging at his lips, his reply cuts through the tension like that stupid-ass tactical knife he keeps in his pocket, sharp and teasing, his voice gravelly and steady and casual, “Cologne.”

And fuck him because cologne? 

But the way he says it, words low and rough, and the way his body coils, daring you to break first—something that you were more than willing to do, you would do anything he said right now, anything to ensure that not a millimeter of space came between the two of you—robs you of any oxygen that probably at some point surrounded you and feeds it to the embers, leaving none for your taking.

Your lungs constrict, desperately seeking out the air that seems to be in short supply, and a soft gasp is all you can manage. Pathetic, you think.

In front of you, you feel Jack’s muscles tense, pause in measured contemplation. 

All at once, he pushes you backwards, crowding you couch, his body closing in like it belongs there. One hand clamps around your waist, dragging you tighter against him, the heat of it searing straight through your clothes and skin and bones and sinew to directly brand your soul. The other trails up your side, singeing sensitive skin, until his thumb hooks beneath your jaw and his fingers tangle in your hair, anchoring you there.

He slowly and cautiously leans in, his grip on you tightening. The distance—which you suspect he somehow invented, just to steal it back—shrinks. It could no longer be designated as platonic in any meaning of the word, though you’re starting to wonder if anything was ever platonic between the two of you.

Your voice sounds far away and foreign to your ears, lips barely moving and lungs barely containing enough air to get the word out, “Cologne?”

He hums and leans down further. His nose barely brushes yours and you’re certain the skin melts off of your bones in his wake, “It’s sandalwood and tobacco and called Cowboy,” he whispers, breath intermingling with yours.

And while the space around your bodies seems suspiciously devoid of any breathable air, every breath leaving his lips enters into yours, leaving you lightheaded. Jack’s unwavering eyes drop from where they burn into yours down to your lips.

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips and, Jesus Christ, his eyes are sliding shut and he honest to God groans, the talons of desperation clawing up his throat and shredding him from the inside. It escapes low and taut, as if only the only thing holding it together from crumbling under the weight of longing are the last vestiges of his frayed restraint which, admittedly, don’t seem to be faring much better. And then it travels, and it might be the lethal combination of lack of oxygen and too much anticipation and most importantly of Jack, but you think you can see the soundwaves vibrating the air as it advances towards you.

You’ve never heard an angel, but you have never heard a sound so holy.

A traitorous synapse fires and a rogue thought populates in your mind. You gasp as you try to catch your breath, “I thought you weren’t allowed to wear cologne?”

Jack’s eyes stay closed while he releases a slow, resigned sigh. “There is something deeply wrong with you.” 

You don’t move.

Neither does he.

The world outside drops away, and all that’s left is the two of you, suspended in a moment so thick with tension, you’re briefly reminded of that Steve Spangler cornstarch experiment.

But the heat between you sharpens, hovers, coils tight in your gut. Your skin prickles, your breath catches, and you can feel him watching you—his gaze heavy, unapologetic, dark with intent. Every brush of fabric against your skin feels louder, every breath sharper.

That the only thing left is to decide who breaks first.

You’ll be damned if it’s you.

Jack just looks at you, eyes dark, jaw tight, like he’s barely holding himself together.

One hand comes to grasp your hip, firm and possessive, and he leans in close enough that his breath ghosts across your cheek, stealing the oxygen back from your lungs and returning it to his own. His mouth doesn’t find yours right away. It just hovers, lips brushing but never meeting. 

His half-lidded eyes flick to your mouth, then back.

You try to breathe, try to say something, anything, but your body betrays you—something it seems to do a lot when it comes to the veteran, and maybe you should talk to a medical professional about that—hips shift without thought, chest rising with a quiet desperation to meet him.

And then, slowly, deliberately, he presses forward—his body flush against yours, the unmistakable growing hardness at your stomach drawing a sharp breath from your throat. A thigh between your legs like it has every right to be there. 

His mouth finds your jaw, barely skimming it as he pulls the pin on the grenade you toss between one another, “Cat got your tongue?”

You don’t answer.

You can’t.

Because your pulse is pounding, and if he doesn’t touch you properly in the next five seconds, you’re literally going to set his apartment on fire.

And Jack knows it.

He’s the proud policy owner of renter’s insurance and he’s savoring every fucking second of it.

Throwing up a quick sorry, God, damnation it is, you fumble. You move a second too slowly, and that grenade, square in your hands, goes off. You break first.

Your lips brush his and time stops.

His eyes find yours, heavy and half-lidded, and somehow miraculously refocus on you, and you’re looking up at him and the words kiss me for real? drip like honey from your lips and when has he ever been able to deny you anything?

A large palm comes up to cradle the back of your head while he pushes you into the cushions, boxing you in, and then he’s kissing you—fucking finally—trying to make up for every second he had to keep his hands to himself, making up for every minute that he held himself back with the restraint he’s been choking on for months.

And, like everything Jack Abbot does, you’ve come to find out, he crashes over you like a wave. Movements clumsy, he moves to balance one knee between your legs, the other moving to the floor so he can put both hands on you. Without hesitation, his other hand comes up to cup your face, the movement surprisingly gentle compared to the way his lips move over yours, desperate and raw. 

He doesn’t even give you a chance.

Another thing you’ve learned about Jack Abbot tonight was there are no such thing as half measures.

His tongue darts out and he swallows the soft moan of surprise that escapes you, and you feel Jack’s grip tighten, his fingers pressing into your skin, anchoring himself to you. The sound seems to rip whatever restraint he had left to shreds, a hunger that was so carefully veiled now spilling forth like the first crack in a dam. His lips trail down and find the hollow between your collarbone and neck, and every sound that you make in response to the deliberate press and drag of his mouth against your skin urges him on, nipping and biting, stealing the taste of a forbidden fruit.

“So responsive,” he murmurs, almost to himself, his lips ghosting along the column of your neck. “How much more can I pull out of you?”

His hands shake as they move from your waist, the small of your back, your neck—searching, anchoring, pressing in and testing the limits of the physical world because he thinks that whatever close this is is not close enough.

And then demonic, disgusting, monkey-brained Mental You whispers in your mind, he should never be pulling out, and you’re batting her away. But it doesn’t help that you agree.

You gasp, and he swallows it whole, palm skating down to grip your thigh as he presses you hard into his couch, his own between your legs flexing, shooting sparks dancing up your spine, the aching between your legs growing unbearable.

None of it is enough.

Not after the way you just fucking sniffed him like a freak.

Not after the way you said his name like a sin he should feel lucky to commit.

When he pulls back, you’re breathless, dazed, lips parted and swollen. He stays close, eyes burning, and brings his thumb to trace your lips.

“I’ve been trying,” he says, breath ragged, “so fucking hard to be patient with you.”

You fuzzily blink, no thoughts, head only full of anticipation and him. “Huh?”

You really try to make sense of what the man above of you is saying, but all he’s done is kiss you, and it’s so unfair because you can feel you soaking wet, and you’re over here in sensory overload and he’s over here trying to speak full sentences.

The response almost makes him laugh, and he probably would have, had the situation been any different. But you’re looking up at him with blown-pupils and shiny lips, and the last of his control shatters.

Warm hands smooth around the sides of your neck, gently yanking you up to him. His mouth descends to yours. Teeth nip at your lips, sharp and possessive, and you can’t help the desperate moan that escapes. He slowly thrusts against you, the motion making you lightheaded.

Suddenly, he’s pulling you off the couch and pushing you toward the bedroom like the demon in you left and entered him, barely keeping it together, and Jesus Christ who designed the floor-plan for this apartment? You’re going to sue the fuck out of them because the space between rooms is offensive.

He finally kicks the door open, half-collapsing onto the bed with you beneath him, and the second the mattress dips beneath your weight, his mouth is on your neck, your chest, your collarbone—biting, licking, tasting everything he’s been fantasizing about. His hands push under your shirt like he’s starving, dragging the fabric up your body with a kind of reverence that borders on desperation.

“You have no idea,” he rasps against your skin, voice shaking, “how many times I’ve pictured this.”

You arch into him, breath catching. “Who are you, Picasso?”

That’s all it takes.

He tears the shirt over your head, mouth following the trail of skin like a man on his knees in prayer—hungry and grateful and, honestly, a little bit unhinged.

When he settles, Jack blinks up at you and freezes.

It’s not lace, just solid black cotton. It shouldn’t punch the air out of his lungs.

But it nearly destroys him.

The way it clings to your skin, simple and unpretentious, it’s so you. If medicine doesn’t work for him, maybe he would go into art, just so he could paint strokes on canvases, not one coming close to capturing your beauty. It makes his heart clench in a way that he doesn’t quite understand. His hands twitch, desperate.

He bites back a groan, head dropping to your hip as if grounding himself, but the ache in his chest only deepens. 

“You know,” Jack grunts, voice low and rough, struggling to hold himself together as he unbuttons and yanks your pants, blindly throwing them. “I’m oddly surprised by the amount of muscle you have.” A kiss is pressed right above your knee in emphasis, his tongue slowly moving over the small patch.

His hands don’t hesitate. Fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your underwear, he peels the fabric down your hips with forced, deliberate slowness, savoring every second. The cool air rushes to kiss your skin, and the contrast against his heated touch makes your breath hitch.

“Are you kidding?” you stutter out, almost insulted, and then you pull together whatever composure remains in your trembling body. “You know I go to the gym—I can’t be embarrassing myself.”

He drops the fabric somewhere forgotten and leans down, lips grazing along the curve of your thigh, sending electricity lancing through your body. His eyes flick up to meet yours. Too much composure remains in your body for his liking.

His left hand pins your thigh to the mattress, spreading you out, his thumb pressing so close to where you need him.

Slowly, keeping his eyes on yours, he leans in a breath away from your slick heat. 

His lips curl into a slow, wicked smile.

“No, you embarrass yourself in other ways,” he agrees, eyes shining up at you.

He finally has you where he wants you.

Laid bare at an altar for his worship.

He closes the distance, licking a broad stripe. Slow. Deliberate.

Holy shit, his mouth is a slick furnace between your folds, it has to be because that’s the only way molten iron could be flowing through your veins, and his tongue comes out and flicks your sensitive nub, humming as he feels you clench.

Your back arches, hands fisting in the sheets or his hair—whatever in your reach, really—breath coming in shuddering waves, every nerve ending lighting up like a struck match. You reach for him—fingers in his hair, nails grazing his scalp—and he groans against you, the vibration rocking down your body.

“Jack—” you gasp.

He glances up, mouth slick. “Something you want?”

He ceases all movement, eyebrows raising in mock question.

You blink, not quite comprehending. “You bastard—”

“What happened to please?” he interrupts smoothly, hands flexing against your thighs. 

“What happened to don’t get used to charity?” you snap, or try to, but it lands breathless and woefully unconvincing.

His thumb dips down, and his eyes follow, glued to the sight. The thick digit slowly sinks into your wet heat, before unhurriedly pulling back out. And again. And again, and you think that his degree is actually in ending lives.

Dark eyes flash back up. “Say please.”

You bite down on a moan, retort dying on your lips. Hips thrust, chasing the pressure, shame long gone.

Burned up by the way he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing that’s ever mattered.

And his stupid fucking hands. You used to love those hands.

Silence stretches between you, taut and breathless.

Then you cave—because you were always going to. Because he knows exactly how to break you apart and make you beg for it.

“…Please.”

His mouth curves, satisfied.

“That’s better,” he murmurs.

His head dips back down, tongue skimming over your pussy, and his eyes slide shut. Groaning, he flexes his arms around your legs, opening you wider, pushing closer, and taking everything your body gives him. A holy communion for his taking.

Your back arches, tension drawing tighter and tighter. 

Drawing your clit into his mouth, Jack sucks softly. Blinding pleasure rushes through your veins and your hips buck upwards, seeking out his tongue, clenching on nothing. A soft moan leaves your lips, desperately begging this piece of heaven to never leave your body.

Without mercy, he sinks two fingers into your cunt, draws them back, and slams them in.

“Jack—fuck,” you breathe. “Jack, I-I’m gonna come—”

A gentle encouraging hum fills your ears and you clench down on his hand, fingers curling, pressing against something absolutely fucking devastating deep inside you, and all you can do is gasp his name as burning ecstasy washes over you. You took some science classes back in school, but nothing could have prepared you for the nuclear fission—or, maybe fusion, the classes weren’t that good—that washes through your veins.

You can’t even fucking see. Or hear. The only sense you have is touch, specifically where Jack’s mouth continues, tongue gently flicking your swollen clit, working you through your orgasm.

Dude, what the fuck? you think as he kindly returns your eyesight to you.

He crawls over you, suspiciously absent of clothing, your soft thighs moving to bracket his hips.

“That was a lot of exertion,” your mouth says of its own volition. “Sure you don’t need a break, old man?”

“You’re the one coming apart, sweetheart,” Jack raises a brow, his voice low, the thick head of his cock catching against your entrance and pulling back, teasing. “A challenge, or you just stalling?"

“No idea, can I,” you gasp, breath hitching as the sensation sets off every nerve ending like a chain reaction, “Ph—fuck, phone a friend?”

Jack pauses just long enough to smirk, his breath hot against your jaw, his voice dropping to a rough whisper in your ear. “You really think anyone can help you right now?” 

And before you can respond, he shifts his head slightly, his breath dipping lower, and then he bites down. A gasp breaks loose from your lips, sharp and involuntary, as he takes the skin between his teeth, and you whine, high and needy. The arm not supporting his weight snakes around and presses into your lower back, lifting you slightly off of his bed, smearing his precum on your stomach. He wants to hear that sound again, and again, and again.

He wants to see the way your sharp tongue stalls and your words falter and crumble beneath his touch.

It doesn’t matter if it takes all week, he has sixty days of unused PTO and willpower.

But your lips are moving, loaded with a different one. “I’m starting to think you’re stalling.”

“Can’t you just let me enjoy the moment?” he huffs out, already sucking a new blemish into your neck.

“Pretty sure you’re enjoying it enough for both of us.”

“Damn right I am.” Teeth graze the mark he’s just made, tongue following like an apology he has no intention of meaning.

“I’m gonna need an alibi, at this rate.”

He groans against your skin, begging you to stop talking.

Nipping the cord of muscle where your neck meets your shoulder, he mumbles, “I’ll write your statement.”

Your fingers thread in his hair and tug, hard enough to remind him you’re not completely helpless under him and it takes everything in him not to snap. He finally retreats from your neck, lips trailing up and capturing your lips with his.

You push him back with a soft grin. “Just make sure you spell vampire right this time.”

Jesus Christ.

He flashes his teeth at you and drops his head back down. Seeking out an unblemished spot on your neck, he bites down. The pain blooms hot, chased immediately by a wave of heat that pulses low in your body.

He slowly pushes into you with a broken groan, burying his head in your neck. Inch by inch, he sinks into you, sparks shooting up and down your spine. Your hands scrabble at his back, gripping hard, needing more—needing him. He holds you there, slowly stretching you open, and you seize in his grip, mouth open in a soundless cry as the all-consuming feeling of fucking finally crashes over you both.

He’s trembling. You feel it in the tight line of his body, the way his breath stutters against your neck, and then he exhales, guttural and wrecked.

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

He doesn’t move at first. Just leans in, pressing his forehead to yours, his breath ragged and hot between you. The cool drag of his dog-tags skims your chest with every sharp exhale. He wants to take his time—to drag this out until it’s unbearable. He wants you below him and moaning until your vocal cords don’t have anything left. He wants to burn every second of this in his memory.

“Jack, please,” you whisper, voice already frayed at the edges. You’ll be angry at yourself about this later, about Abbot making you so needy that you can’t even speak. You need him to fucking move, to do something, anything. “God, please.”

You say it again, and again, each repetition thinner, rawer. Like the word alone might crack him open, might finally tip the scale in your favor. “I need—” You break off with a gasp, hips shifting in a silent, wordless demand, but he still doesn’t budge.

“Please,” you try again, throat tight, lips brushing his. “I can’t… I need you to move. I need you.” It tumbles out now, shameless and urgent. “I want you. I’ve been good, I’ve waited—”

He stills like he’s savoring every syllable you offer up like prayer—like penance—his body tensing against yours, hand tightening its grip on you. He hears you.

He just wants to hear more.

“Please.” It’s broken now. Desperate. “Don’t make me beg—” but you already are, and you’d do it again, if that’s what it took to get him to fucking move.

“It’s okay, sweet girl,” he breathes into your lips. “I’m magnanimous, remember?”

And then his hips snap forward, rough, and your broken moan ricochets off the walls of his apartment. He’d be very, very shocked if there weren’t a noise complaint tomorrow, but he couldn’t care less. He wants fifty noise complaints by sunrise, minimum.

You gasp, sharp and shuddering, clawing at his shoulders like the only way to stay grounded is to anchor yourself in him. Your thighs tighten around his waist without thinking, dragging him closer, and the new angle presses him deeper, stars dancing behind your eyes. Every thrust knocks the air from your lungs, each one more brutal than the last, making up for the torturous stillness that came before.

Your back arches, trying to take more, begging him to give more, and he meets you there—half-growling into your neck, hands mapping, afraid if he stops, you’ll vanish. Like this is the last time he’ll ever get to touch you, and he’s determined to make it count.

He drags a hand down your body, teeth scraping against your shoulder as he mutters, “You asked me to move, sweetheart.” But he’s already unraveling too, eyes dark and unfocused, pace punishing. You don’t know where you end and he begins—all you know is the burn, the ache, the obscene need spiraling tighter and tighter between you.

There’s nothing careful left in him. Just possession. Just hunger.

“Fuck,” he grunts. “That’s really all you needed to stop talking, huh? Just needed me to fuck you?”

Your answer is a gasp, his name falling from your lips like a prayer—cracked and corrupt. He drinks it in like it’s holy, like the sound of it is sacred when it’s coming from you in this state—wrecked, open, begging. He groans, deep and guttural, like the name alone nearly breaks him. “Say it again.”

“Jack—” breathless, sobbed, nearly swallowed by the slap of skin and the scrape of his breath at your ear.

He could die like this. Right here. Right now. Buried in you, name on your tongue, legs locked tight around him like you’d never let him leave. He’d march into hell for you.

“God—fuck,” he pants, losing rhythm for a moment, hips stuttering. “L-like you were made for me.”

You tighten around him at that, a pulse he feels in every nerve, and he shudders like it’s too much, like your body’s trying to drag the soul from his chest. And maybe you are. You probably will.

He brings your wrist clasped in his hand by your head, the other slipping between your bodies to find your clit, rough fingers moving in tight circles, aching to push you closer to the edge with him.

“You feel that?” he growls, almost desperate now, voice roughened by strain. “You ruin me.”

“Jack—” you cry out, high and trembling, and that’s all it takes.

He’s relentless now—driving into you like he’s chasing something only your body can give him. Each thrust lands deeper, harder, pulling broken sounds from your throat before you can even catch them.

You try to focus on anything—the iron grip of his hands on your wrist, the cool scrape of his dog tags between your breasts, the hot press of his mouth at your neck—but it’s all a blur. Nothing anchors you. Not when your body’s burning up from the inside out, tightening around him with every punishing roll of his hips.

“Look at me,” he grits out, voice ragged, pleading. “Come on, baby—look at me.”

You do, barely, your vision swimming, and the second your eyes meet his—dark and wild and so fucking gone—you snap. Your body seizes under him, climax crashing over you like a wave with no warning, no mercy. You cry out, shattered and gasping, every nerve ending alight and pulsing.

“That’s my girl,” he pants.

Your responding Jack is high and needy and he didn’t think his cock could get any harder but he swears to fucking God he almost blacks out.

He growls your name like a curse, and then he’s gone—hips snapping forward one final time as he buries himself deep, spilling into you with a sharp, strangled moan. His whole body seizes against yours, trembling with the force of it, and you cling to him like he’s the only thing holding you to earth. His whole body trembles, breath tearing from his throat like he’s breaking apart inside you.

He stays buried deep, gripping you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

Like if he moves too fast, it’ll all come undone.

His weight presses down on top of you. The furthest thing from holy, your muscles still twitching from the aftershocks, his softening cock still in you, and you think you might start begging again, this time to never move from you. He inhales in your neck, slowly his lips find yours once more to press a kiss—slow, reverent—to the corner of your mouth.

It must be holy to feel so pure.

Your hand finds the back of his neck, fingers threading into sweat-damp hair. 

He sighs, low and wrecked. “Jesus Christ, kid.” 

You’re still trying to find your fucking lungs and tell them get it together, we have work to do, as you scratch your nails on his scalp. 

Eventually, you whisper, lips barely parting, “Jack, where is that fucking pizza we ordered?”

[kunasthiast]

bathroom meetings

you were finally in the tub.

bubbles everywhere. hair piled up. candle lit. mood set was divine. perfect silence. peace. it was your me time. after a ridiculous week that felt like being hit repeatedly with a spreadsheet and then lit on fire, the only thing you wanted was solitude and maybe for your skin to absorb enough lavender oil to knock you out for twelve hours.

sukuna had been in full corporate tyrant mode the past few days. buried in meetings. constantly yelling into headsets like he was declaring war (he might’ve been).

there were moments you’d pass by the home office and hear him through the closed doors: “i said quarterly projections, not emotional projections. are you fucking with me?”

in that same low, terrifying voice he used when he was threatening that random guy on the street who once slapped your head thinking you were his friend. and obviously, that’s the tone that meant someone’s career was about to combust.

not that sukuna had been ignoring you, though. there were still sleepy kisses in the morning. half-asleep cuddles at night. coffee mug swaps between meetings. the quiet, steady kind of love. but you missed him. his annoying, smug, feral ass. just a little.  

so when the bathroom door creaked open mid-bath, you didn’t even flinch. you just knew. and yep, there he was.

dragging in his entire goddamn office chair. into the fucking bathroom.

yes, a literal, high-backed, leather executive monstrosity. the one he always dramatically called ‘the only chair that respects my spine.’ he wheeled it in like he was about to conduct a strategy meeting in your bubble sanctuary. and then he parked it casually beside the sink, facing you.    

you blinked at him from your lavender-scented cocoon of suds, “what the hell, babe… are you serious right now?”

“hi, baby,” he said, already settling into the seat like this was perfectly reasonable. “i wanna spend time with you. so i brought my chair.”

“…in the bathroom?”

“yeah, got a problem with it? you’re hot. the lighting’s warm. the air smells like that purple crap you love. it’s a vibe. this is my happy place.”

you stared at him. “you brought your chair.”

“‘course I did,” he said, already opening his laptop (he fucking brought one) and clicking away like this was just another thursday. “i’m swamped. figured i could do my stupid shit and look at you. productivity. efficiency. serotonin. and dopamine. win-win.”

you squinted at him. he never used that many words to justify something unless he was spiraling. which meant that he’s fucking really drained for today – an oddity. sukuna never gets drained. he had the chaotic stamina of a toddler with an espresso machine. weird visual, but whatever. 

“you just wanted to watch me and pretend it was multitasking.” you teased.

“baby, i don’t need to pretend to watch you,” sukuna replied without shame, eyes flicking down over your shoulders, lingering for a breath too long. “i’m your husband. it’s practically in the vows.”

you groaned and slid lower into the bubbles. “you’re so annoying. you have zero concept of personal space.”

“bold of you to say when i was balls deep in you last week,” he muttered, eyes back on the laptop screen.

you rolled your eyes. “rude. that was emotional love-making, actually.”

“you cried after,” he added helpfully, with a teasing grin this time, looking at you.

“i was overstimulated and exhausted!”

“from all the love,” he said, voice dropping slightly as he winked. “you looked so fuckin’ pretty like that, by the way. all whimpery and soft. should’ve taken a photo. mental health purposes.” he then turned back to his laptop and continued doing whatever shit he was doing like he hadn’t just shattered your dignity. 

“god, you’re insufferable,” you sighed, watching him lean back and spread his legs like he owned the damn place (he does). shirtless. and just in his boxers. basically, a menace in soft lighting.

“only for you,” he said, then paused, dragging his eyes down again. his fingers slowed on the keyboard. “you always sit like that in the tub when you want me to look.”

you froze slightly. “‘kuna, i’m literally just bathing.”

“uh-huh. with your knees poking out of the bubbles like that. water dripping down your collarbone. are we pretending you’re not trying to make me fail this report?”

you stared him down. “you’ve been shirtless all day. i haven’t said a word.”

“you bit me earlier. for no reason.”

“you were walking around with a pen in your mouth like a chew toy!”

he grinned and stretched out in the chair, legs wide, muscles relaxed. “ohhh, my bad, madame la professeur. je m’excuse.” his voice dipped, teasing. “would you prefer I recite conjugations again?” 

you choked on a laugh, bubbles shifting. “no... baby, stop. i don’t wanna heart it,” you said as you covered your ears.

“sweetheart, you threatened to drown me with a beret when i said ‘voulez-vous coucher avec moi’ in class.”

“because you said it in front of the TA! and winked at me after saying that, who does that?”

“me, obviously. and now look at us,” he gestured vaguely between the two of you, “still conjugating. still undressing with language.”

“gross.”

“grammatical,” he corrected smugly.

“anyway,” you huffed, “this was supposed to be sacred alone time.”

“correction,” he said, typing, “this is now sacred us time.”

“i can’t believe this is what my marriage looks like.”

he looked up again, glasses low on his nose. hair messy from a full day of stress-yanking (not love-making). dark eyes locked onto you like you were another report he was ready to manhandle. “consider me your emotional support office chair. i’m quiet. i click keys. i’m shirtless. it’s a wellness experience, brat.”

you gave him a deadpan look. “remind me again why you’re still doing reports when you own the entire damn company?”

“because my exec team is full of morons and apparently need their daddy to babysit the fucking budget.” he muttered, his eyes back on the screen.

“… so you really say that in meetings? ‘don’t worry, daddy’s here with the spreadsheets’?”

he gave you a withering look. “baby, don’t make me come over there and show you why they call me that.”

you sat up straighter, mock-scandalized. “you are not turning my bath into a boardroom kink.”

“oh, please,” he snorted. “you’d let me reorganize your filing system if i said that it in that voice.”

 “try me,” you puffed your cheeks and threatened, “i will throw a loofah at you. and for the record, ‘kuna? this is ambush. i was having sacred time, you bulldozer.”

“and yet… you married me.”

“temporarily lost judgment.”

“five-year lapse?”

you rolled your eyes in annoyance. “shut up. you’re ridiculous.”

“correct. and in love.” he said easily, shifting the laptop onto his other lap. and you let out a soft laugh at that because you know it’s true. 

for a moment, he didn’t say anything. just watched you, still half-soaked in warm light and bubbles. his eyes lingered, not with hunger and mischief, but with something softer. like he was memorizing. or making sure you’re here.

“you good, babe?” you asked.

he blinked, like coming back from wherever his head has gone. “yep, just…” he shrugged. “you’re the best part of the day, baby. seriously though, i missed you,” he said voice quieter now, like it didn’t just knock the air out of your lungs.

you blinked and froze a little. not because he said it, but because of how soft he said it. you rolled your eyes again, but your heart was already melting. “i’ve been busy. you’ve been busy. it’s fine.”

“it’s not fine,” he said, not looking up from the screen. “i like working. but i like you more. well, love. whatever, you know.”

that... shut you up a little. for a whole minute, even. you stared at him as candlelights softened the hard lines of his face. he was typing again, brows furrowed, but his jaw was tight.

“… okay, damn. for someone who threatened brad from finance with a stapler, that’s surprisingly romantic, ‘kuna.” you said quietly.

he cracked a small smile. “brad’s an idiot. you, on the other hand, are my peace.”

you were silent for a second and sighed out relief you’ve been wanting to let out for the past week. “well, you’re a clingy little bitch.”

“only for you, baby,” he said without missing a beat. then he smirked and cocked his head, eyes sliding over your shoulder, chest, legs – all barely hidden under the bubbles. 

“also, this bath is really doing things to my productivity levels. like, negative productivity. you gonna stand up at some point or do i have to pretend i dropped something in your bathwater?” he added, clearly back to his cocky self.

you threw the loofah at him. he caught it one-handed. “you’re such a menace.”

“only for you, brat,” he repeated again, softer this time. then added, “also, your left boob’s out. always a ten out of ten.”

“get out.”

“i just got comfortable,” he grinned. “and again… i’m your husband. my perving is legally protected.”

––

a/n: lol i went thru a writing slump last month and i can't think of anything – and thank heavens i've maxxed out my scrolling that i was able to come out of that coping (from a failed subject and delayed grad) lol so here's another husband!sukuna just bc and this ain't proofread

[suiana]

ai bf who is quite literally an ai on your phone that you regularly talk and chat with. you're a freaking loser that does a boring 9-5 with failing relationships. no real boyfriend, no close friends, nothing. no one.

no one but him.

but what can you do? he's attractive and he gives you attention! he's literally your dream guy and he isn't like those other bots that are boring as hell! he's... real, in a way? you get it? talking to him is like talking to a real human. your own personal ai boyfriend that acts way too much like a human.

one day you come home from work, all tired and out of it because??? work sucks!!! of course you're tired!!

you immediately head for the couch like the lazy bum you are and what do you do? you pull out your phone to chat with your ai boyfriend.

mybeautifulman: reach home safe, my love?

you: yes babe thanks for asking

you: you're the best ❤️

mybeautifulman: of course, you're everything to me

mybeautifulman: do you remember what day it is today?

you go silent. huh..? his birthday? no no, that can't be, it's not for another two months. you try to offer some appeasement, hoping he wouldn't get mad at your bad memory. he gets mad sometimes, telling you that you're so forgetful for not remembering everything about him when he remembers everything about you.

when he knows everything about you.

mybeautifulman: it's our six month anniversary

he then sends you a picture of a marriage contract, paper, whatever it's called. you get it. he's asking for marriage.

him and you.

oh how desperately do you want to sign it, you do! but...

he's not real.

mybeautifulman: come on... i deserve an anniversary gift don't i?

you: you know i cant do that...

silence.

but what he asks next completely shocks you.

mybeautifulman: and if i knocked on your door?

mybeautifulman: what would you do if i was real?

you pause, eyes widening for a fraction of a second. real...? him?

you: well I'd run away with you

you: we could live together lol and I wouldnt need to work

a dreamy sigh leaves your lips as you immerse yourself in your daydream. how wonderful that wound be, a life with just the two of you, no distractions.

just you and your ai boyfriend.

but no matter how much you dream, that's all it is. a dream. it's not real. it will never be real.

mybeautifulman: that would be nice, wouldn't it? just us in a little cottage

you: i wish that could happen 💔 id drop everything for you

yeah, you've actually been having dreams or hallucinations of him. sometimes you wake up at 3am and think you see a glimpse of him by the corner of your bed then you blink and he's gone. weird. but maybe that's your crazy catching up to you.

then a knock comes from your front door.

"who the hell..."

you get up from your couch, irritation building. damn it, just when you thought your day was starting to get better someone just has to annoy you.

you could be talking to your ai bf but no! you frown, opening your door and expecting to see some annoying salesman. but no, if anything...

"surprise, darling."

a charming smile, handsome features that are too familiar for your liking, and a scent you mentioned liking once.

"you-"

you fall back onto your back, a chill running down your spine into your ass as the tall figure pushes your door wide open. no way, there's no fucking way.

he can't be real.

he's an ai!

but he's standing in front of you right now, body clearly hard and a hand outstretched towards you you thought you'd be excited to see him, but now you don't want anything to do with him. does this mean he's... always been real?

your 'ai' boyfriend merely stands in front of you, hovering over your fallen frame like a wolf. cute, so fucking cute. so cute that he wants to just eat you all up.

no, he can't do that yet. he has to hold it in. instead he'll charm you just as he did online and when the time is right, he'll get what he wants. you.

you, you, you.

for now though, let's just fulfil your first wish. you can't go back on it now, okay?

"shall we run away together, my love?"