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thepencilnerd · 1 month ago

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Edge of the Dark

pairing: Jack Abbot x doctor!Reader summary: What starts as quiet pining after too many long shifts becomes something heavier, messier, softer—until the only place it all makes sense is in the dark. warnings: references to trauma and PTSD, mentions of deaths in hospital setting, emotionally charged scenes genre: slow burn, fluff, humor, angst, hurt/mostly comfort, soft intimacy, one (1) very touch-starved man, communication struggles, messy feelings, healing is not linear, implied but not explicit smut word count: ~13.5k (i apologize in advance ;-; pls check out ao3 if you prefer chapters) a/n: this started as a soft character exploration and very quickly became a mega-doc of deep intimacy, trauma-informed gentleness, and jack abbot being so touch-starved it hurts. dedicated to anyone who’s ever longed for someone who just gets it 💛 p.s. check out my other abbot fic if you're interested ^-^

You weren’t sure why you lingered.

Everyone had peeled off after a few beers in the park, laughter trailing behind them like fading campfire smoke. Someone had packed up the empties. Someone else made a joke about early rounds. There were half-hearted goodbyes and the sound of sneakers on gravel.

But two people hadn’t moved.

Jack Abbot was still sitting on the bench, legs stretched out in front of him, head tilted just enough that the sharp line of his jaw caught the low amber light from a distant streetlamp.

You stood a few feet away, hovering, unsure if he wanted to be alone or just didn’t know how to leave.

The countless night shifts you'd shared blurred like smeared ink, all sharp moments and dull exhaustion. You’d been colleagues long enough to know the shape of each other’s presence—Jack’s clipped tone when things were spiraling, your tendency to narrate while suturing. Passing conversations, brief exchanges in stolen moments of calm—that was the extent of it. You knew each other’s habits on shift, the shorthand of chaos, the rhythm of crisis. But outside the job, you were closer to strangers than friends. The Dr. Jack Abbot you knew began and ended in the ER.

It had always been in fragments. Glimpses across trauma rooms. A muttered "Nice work" after a tricky intubation. The occasional shared note on a chart. Maybe a nod in the break room if you happened to breathe at the same time. You knew each other's rhythms, but not the stories behind them. It was small talk in the eye of a hurricane—the kind that comes fast and leaves no room for anything deeper. The calm before the storm, never after.

“You okay?” Your voice came out soft, not wanting to startle him in case he was occupied with his thoughts.

He didn’t look at you right away. Just blinked, slow, eyes boring holes into the concrete path laid before him. "Didn’t want to go home yet." Then, after a beat, his gaze shifted to you. "You coming back in a few hours?"

You huffed a small laugh, more air than sound. "Probably. Not like I’ll get more than a couple hours of sleep anyway." The beer left a bitter aftertaste on your tongue as you took another sip.

His mouth curved—almost a smile, almost something more. "Yeah. That’s what I said to Robby."

You saw the tired warmth in his eyes. Not gone, just tucked away.

"Wasn't this supposed to be your day off?" you asked, tipping your head slightly. "You could take tomorrow off to comp."

He snorted under his breath. "I could. Probably won't."

"Of course not," you said, lips quirking. "That would be too easy."

"No sleep for the wicked," he muttered dryly, but there was no edge to it. Just familiarity settling between you like an old coat.

A quiet settled over the bench. Neither of you spoke. You breathed together, the kind of silence that asked nothing, demanded nothing. Just the hush of night stretching between two people with too much in their heads and not enough rest in their bones.

Then, unexpectedly, he asked, "Do you think squirrels ever get drunk from fermented berries?"

You blinked. "What?" It was impossible to hold back the frown of confusion that dashed across your face.

He shrugged, barely hiding a grin. "I read about it once. They get all wobbly and fall out of trees."

A laugh burst out of you—sudden, warm, real. "Dr. Abbot, are you drunk right now?"

"Little buzzed," he admitted, yet his body gave no indication that he was anything but sober. "But I stand by the question. Seems like something we should investigate. For science."

You laughed again, softer this time. The kind that lingered behind your teeth.

"Call me Jack."

When you looked up, you saw that he was still staring at you. That smile still tugged at the edge of his mouth. There was a flicker of something in his expression—a moment of uncertainty, then decision.

"You can just call me Jack," he repeated, voice quieter now. "We're off the clock."

A grin crept its way onto your face. "Jack." You said it slowly, like you were trying the word on for size. It felt strange in your mouth—new, unfamiliar—but right. The syllable rolled off your tongue and settled into the space between you like something warm.

He ducked his head slightly, like he wasn’t sure what to do with your smile.

The quiet returned, but this time it was lighter, looser. He leaned down to fasten his prosthetic back in place with practiced ease, then stood up to give his sore muscles another good stretch. When he looked over at you again, it was with a steadier kind of presence—solid, grounded.

"You want some company on the walk home?"

Warmth flooded your face. Maybe it was the alcohol hitting. Or the worry of being a burden. You hesitated, then gave him an apologetic look. "I mean—thank you, really—but you don’t have to. I live across the river, by Point State Park. It’s kind of out of the way."

Jack tipped his chin up, brows furrowing in thought. "Downtown? I'm on Fifth and Market Street. That’s like, what—two blocks over?"

"Seriously?" Jack Abbot lived a five-minute walk south from you?

The thought settled over you with a strange warmth. All this time, the space between your lives had been measured in blocks.

He nodded, stuffing his hands into his pockets and slinging on his backpack, the fabric rustling faintly. "Yeah. No bother at all, it's on my way."

You both stood there a moment longer as the wind shifted, carrying with it the distant hum of traffic from Liberty Avenue and the low splash of water against the Mon Wharf. Somewhere nearby, a dog barked once, then fell silent.

"Weird we’ve never run into each other," you murmured, more to yourself than anything. But of course, he heard you.

Jack’s gaze flicked toward you, and something like a smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. "Guess we weren’t looking," he said.

The rest of the walk was quiet, but not empty. Your footsteps echoed in unison against the cracked sidewalk, and somewhere between street lamps and concrete cracks, you stopped feeling like strangers. The dim lights left long shadows that pooled around your feet, soft and flickering. Neither of you seemed in a rush to break the silence.

Maybe it was the late hour, or the leftover buzz from the beers, or maybe it was something else entirely, but the dark didn’t feel heavy the way it sometimes did—especially after shifts like this. It was a kind of refuge. A quiet shelter for two people too used to holding their breath. It felt... safe. Like a shared language being spoken in a place you both understood.

A few night shifts passed. Things had quieted down after the mass casualty event—at least by ER standards—but the chaos never really left. Working emergency meant the moments of calm were usually just precursors to the next wave. You were supposed to be off by seven, but paperwork ran long, a consult ran over, a med student went rogue with an IO drill, and before you knew it, it was 9 am.

After unpinning your badge and stuffing it into your pocket, you pushed through the main hospital doors and winced against the pale morning light. Everything felt too sharp, too loud, and the backs of your eyes throbbed from hours of fluorescent lighting. Fatigue settled deep in your muscles, a familiar dull ache that pulsed with each step. The faint scent of antiseptic clung to your scrubs, mixed with the bitter trace of stale coffee.

You were busy rubbing your eyes, trying to relieve the soreness that bloomed behind them like a dull migraine, and didn’t see the figure standing just to the side of the door.

You walked straight into him—headfirst.

“Jesus—sorry,” you muttered, taking a step back.

And there he was: Jack Abbot, leaning against the bike rack just outside the lobby entrance. His eyes tracked the sliding doors like he’d been waiting for something—or someone. In one hand, he held a steaming paper cup. Not coffee, you realized when the scent hit you, but tea. And in the other, he had a second cup tucked against his ribs.

He looked up when he saw you, and for a second, he didn’t say anything. Just smiled, small and tired and real.

"Dr. Abbot." You blinked, caught completely off guard.

"Jack," he corrected gently, with a crooked smirk that didn’t quite cover the hint of nerves underneath. "Off the clock, remember?"

A soft scoff escaped you—more acknowledgment than answer. As you shifted your weight, the soreness settled into your legs. "Wait—why are you still here? Your caseload was pretty light today. Should’ve been out hours ago."

Jack shrugged, eyes steady on yours. "Had a few things to wrap up. Figured I’d wait around. Misery loves company."

You blinked again, slower this time. That quiet, steady warmth in your chest flared—not dramatic, just there. Present. Unspoken.

He extended the cup toward you like it was no big deal. You took it, the warmth of the paper seeping into your fingers, grounding you more than you expected.

"Didn’t know how you took it," Jack said. "Figured tea was safer than coffee at this hour."

You nodded, still adjusting to the strange intimacy of being thought about. "Good guess."

He glanced at his own cup, then added with a small smirk, "The barista recommended some new hipster blend—uh, something like... lavender cloudburst? Cloud... bloom? I don't know. It sounded ridiculous, but it smelled okay, so."

You snorted into your first sip. "Lavender cloudburst? That a seasonal storm warning or a tea?"

Jack laughed under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck. "Honestly couldn’t tell you. I just nodded like I knew what I was doing."

And something about the way he said it—offhand, dry, and a little self-deprecating—made the morning feel a little softer. Like he wasn’t just waiting to see you. He was trying to figure out how to stay a little longer.

The first sip tasted like a warm hug. “It’s good,” you hummed. Jack would be remiss if he didn’t notice the way your cheeks flushed pink, or how you smiled to yourself.

So the two of you just started walking.

There was no plan. No particular destination in mind. Just the rhythmic scuff of your shoes on the pavement, the warm cups in hand, and the soft hum of a city waking up around you. The silence between you wasn’t awkward, just cautious—guarded, maybe, but not unwilling. As you passed by a row of restaurants, he made a quiet comment about the coffee shop that always burned their bagels. You mentioned the skeleton in OR storage someone dressed up in scrubs last Halloween, prompted by some graffiti on the brick wall of an alley. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

Jack shoved one hand in his pocket, the other still cradling his now-empty cup. “I still think cloudburst sounds like a shampoo brand.”

You grinned, stealing a sideways glance at him. “I don’t know, I feel like it could also be a very niche indie band.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, the sound low and breathy. “That tracks. ‘Cloudburst’s playing the Thunderbird next weekend.’”

“Opening for Citrus Lobotomy,” you deadpanned.

Jack nearly choked on his last sip of tea.

The moment passed like that—small, stupid jokes nestled between shared exhaustion and something else neither of you were quite ready to name. But in those fragments, in those glances and tentative laughs, there was a kind of knowing. Not everything had to be said outright. Some things could just exist—quietly, gently—between the spaces of who you were behind hospital doors and who you were when the work was finally done.

The next shift came hard and fast.

A critical trauma rolled in just past midnight—a middle-aged veteran, found unconscious, head trauma, unstable vitals, military tattoo still visible on his forearm beneath the dried blood. Jack was leading the case, and even from across the trauma bay, you could see it happen—the second he recognized the tattoo, something in him shut down.

He didn’t freeze. Didn’t panic. He just... went quiet. Tighter around the eyes. Sharper, more mechanical. As if he’d stepped out of his body and left the rest behind to finish the job.

The team moved like clockwork, but the rhythm never felt right. The patient coded again. Then again. Jack ordered another round of epi, demanded more blood—his voice tight, almost brittle. That sharp clench of his jaw said everything he didn’t. He wanted this one to make it. He needed to.

Even as the monitor flatlined, its sharp tone cutting through the noise like a blade, he kept going.

“Start another line,” he said. “Hang another unit. Push another dose.”

No one moved.

You stepped in, heart sinking. “Dr. Abbot… he’s gone.”

He didn’t blink. Didn’t look at you. “One more round. Just—try again.”

The team hesitated. Eyes darted to you.

You stepped closer, voice soft but firm. “Jack—” you said his name like a lifeline, not a reprimand. “I’m so sorry.”

That stopped him. Just like that, his breath caught. Shoulders sagged. The echo of the monitor still rang behind you, constant and cold.

He finally looked at the man on the table.

“Time of death, 02:12.”

His hands didn’t shake until they were empty.

Then he peeled off his gloves and threw them hard into the garbage can, the snap of latex punctuating the silence like a slap. Without a word, he turned and stormed out of the trauma bay, footsteps clipped and angry, leaving the others standing frozen in his wake.

It wasn’t until hours later—when the adrenaline faded and the grief crawled back in like smoke under a door—that you found him again.

He was on the roof.

Just standing there.

Like the sky could carry the weight no one else could hold.

As if standing beneath that wide, empty stretch might quiet the scream still lodged in his chest. He didn’t turn around when you stepped onto the roof, but his posture shifted almost imperceptibly. He recognized your footsteps.

"What are you doing up here?"

The words came from him, low and rough, and it surprised you more than it should have.

You paused, taking careful steps toward him. Slow enough not to startle, deliberate enough to be noticed. "I should be asking you that."

He let out a soft breath that might’ve been a laugh—or maybe just exhaustion given form. For a while, neither of you spoke. The wind pulled at your scrub top, cool and insistent, but not enough to chase you back inside.

“You ever have one of those cases that just—sticks?” he asked eventually, eyes still locked on the city below.

“Most of them,” you admitted quietly. “Some louder than others.”

Jack nodded, slow. “Yeah. Thought I was past that one.”

You didn’t ask what he meant. You knew better than to press. Just like he didn’t ask why you were really up there, either.

There was a pause. Not empty—just cautious.

“I get it,” you murmured. “Some things don’t stay buried. No matter how deep you try to shove them down.”

That earned a glance from him, fleeting but sharp. “Didn’t know you had things like that.”

You shrugged, keeping your gaze steady on the skyline. “That’s the point, right?”

Another breath. A half-step toward understanding. But the walls stayed up—for now. Just not as high as they’d been.

You glanced at him, his face half in shadow. "It’s not weak to let someone stand beside you. Doesn’t make the weight go away, but it’s easier to keep moving when you’re not the only one holding it."

His shoulders twitched, just slightly. Like something in him heard you—and wanted to believe it.

You nudged the toe of your shoe against a loose bit of gravel, sensing the way Jack had pulled back into himself. The lines of his shoulders had gone stiff again, his expression harder to read. So you leaned into what you knew—a little humor, a little distance cloaked in something lighter.

“If you jump on Robby’s shift, he’ll probably make you supervise the med students who can't do proper chest compressions.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. But something close. Something that cracked the silence just enough to let the air in again. “God, I'd hate to be his patient."

Then, in one fluid motion, he swung a leg through the railing and stepped carefully onto solid ground beside you. The metal creaked beneath his weight, but he moved like he’d done it a hundred times before. That brief flicker of distance, of something fragile straining at the edges, passed between you both in silence.

Neither of you said anything more. You simply turned together, wordlessly, and started heading back inside.

A shift change here, a coffee break there—moments that lingered a little longer than they used to. Small talk slipped into quieter pauses that neither of you rushed to fill. Glances held for just a beat too long, then quickly looked away.

You noticed things. Not all at once. But enough.

Jack’s habit of reorganizing the cart after every code. The way he checked in on the new interns when he thought no one was watching. The moments he paused before signing out, like he wasn’t ready to meet daybreak.

And sometimes, you’d catch him watching you—not with intent, but with familiarity. As if the shape of you in a room had become something he expected. Something steady.

Nothing was said. Nothing had to be.

Whatever it was, it was moving. Slowly. Quietly.

The kind of shift that only feels seismic once you look back at where you started.

One morning, after another long stretch of back-to-back shifts, the two of you walked out together without planning to. No words, no coordination. Just parallel exhaustion and matching paces.

The city was waking up—soft blue sky, the whir of early buses, the smell of something vaguely sweet coming from a bakery down the block.

He rubbed at the back of his neck. “You walking all the way?”

“Figured I’d try and get some sleep,” you said, then hesitated. “Actually… there’s a diner a few blocks from here. Nothing fancy. But their pancakes don’t suck.”

He glanced over, one brow raised. “Is that your way of saying you want breakfast?”

“I’m saying I’m hungry,” you replied, a touch too casual. “And you look like you could use something that didn’t come out of a vending machine.”

Jack didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you for a long second, then nodded once.

“Alright,” he said. “Lead the way.”

And that was it.

No declarations. No turning point anyone else might notice. Just two people, shoulder to shoulder, walking in the same direction a little longer than they needed to.

The diner wasn’t much—formica tables, cracked vinyl booths, a waitress who refilled your bland coffee without asking. But it was warm, and quiet, and smelled like real butter.

You sat across from Jack in a booth near the window, elbows on the table, hands wrapped around mismatched mugs. He didn’t talk much at first, just stirred his coffee like he was waiting for it to tell him something.

Eventually, the silence gave way.

“I think I’ve eaten here twice this week,” you said, gesturing to the laminated menu. “Mostly because I don’t trust myself near a stove after night shift.”

Jack cracked a tired smile. “Last time I tried to make eggs, I nearly set off the sprinklers.”

“That would’ve been one hell of a consult excuse.”

He chuckled—quiet, genuine. The kind of laugh that felt rare on him. “Pretty sure the med students already think I live at the hospital. That would've just confirmed it.”

Conversation meandered from there. Things you both noticed. The weird habits of certain attendings. The one resident who used peanut butter as a mnemonic device. None of it deep, but all of it honest.

Somewhere between pancakes and too many refills, something eased.

Jack looked up mid-sip, met your eyes, and didn’t look away.

“You’re easy to sit with,” he said simply.

You didn’t answer right away.

Just smiled. “You are too.”

One thing about Jack was that he never shied away from eye contact. Maybe it was the military in him—or maybe it was just how he kept people honest. His gaze was steady, unwavering, and when it landed on you, it stayed.

You felt it then, like a spotlight cutting through the dim diner lighting. That intensity, paired with the softness of the moment, made your stomach dip. You ducked your head, suddenly interested in your coffee, and took a sip just to busy your hands.

Jack didn’t miss it. “You feeling okay?"

You scoffed. “It’s just warm in here.”

“Mmm,” he said, clearly unconvinced. “Must be the pancakes.”

You coughed lightly, the sound awkward and deliberate, then reached for the safety of a subject less charged. “So,” you began, “what’s the worst advice you ever got from a senior resident?”

Jack blinked, then let out a quiet laugh. “That’s easy. ‘If the family looks confused, just talk faster.’”

You winced, grinning. “Oof. Classic.”

He leaned back in the booth. “What about you?”

“Oh, mine told me to bring donuts to chart review so the attending would go easy on me.”

Jack tilted his head. “Did it work?”

“Well,” you said, “the donuts got eaten. My SOAP note still got ripped apart. So, no.”

He chuckled. “Justice, then.”

He stirred his coffee once more, then set the spoon down with more care than necessary. His voice dropped, softer, but not fragile. Testing the waters.

"You ever think about leaving it? The ER, I mean."

The question caught you off guard—not because it was heavy, but because it was him asking. You blinked at him, surprised to see something flicker behind his eyes. Not restlessness exactly. Just... ache.

"Sometimes," you admitted. "When it gets too loud. When I catch myself counting the days instead of the people."

Jack nodded, but his gaze locked on you. Steady. Intense. Like he was memorizing something. It took everything out of you not to shy away.

"I used to think if I left, everything I’d seen would catch up to me all at once. Like the noise would follow me anyway."

You let that hang in the air between you. It wasn’t a confession. But it was close.

"Maybe it would. But maybe there’d be room to breathe, too..." you trailed off, breaking eye contact.

Jack didn’t respond, didn’t look away. Simply looked into you with the hopes of finding an answer for himself.

Eventually, the food was picked at more than eaten, the check paid, and the last of the coffee drained. When you finally stepped outside, the air hit cooler than expected—brisk against your skin, a contrast to the warmth left behind in the diner. The sky had brightened while you weren’t looking, soft light catching the edges of buildings, traffic picking up in a faint buzz. It was the kind of morning that made everything feel suspended—just a little bit longer—before the real world returned.

The walk back was quieter than before. Not tense, just full. Tired footsteps on uneven sidewalks. The distant chirp of birds. Your shoulders brushing once. Maybe twice.

When you finally reached your building, you paused on the steps. Jack lingered just behind you, hands in his jacket pockets, gaze drifting toward the street.

"Thanks for breakfast," you said.

He nodded. "Yeah. Of course."

A beat passed. Then two.

You could’ve invited him up. He could’ve asked if you wanted some tea. But neither of you took the step forward, opting rather to stand still.

Not yet.

“Get some sleep,” he said, voice low.

“You too.”

And just like that, he turned and walked off into the quiet.

Another hard shift. One of those nights that stuck to your skin, bitter and unshakable. You’d both lost a patient that day. Different codes, same outcome. Same weight. Same painful echo of loss that clung to the insides of your chest like smoke. No one cried. No one yelled. But it was there—the tension around Jack’s mouth, the clenching of his jaw; the way your hands wouldn’t stop flexing, nails digging into your palms to ground yourself. In the stillness. In the quiet. In everything that hurt.

You lingered near the bike racks, not really speaking. The space between you was thick, not tense—but full. Too full.

It was late, or early, depending on how you looked at it. The kind of hour where the streets felt hollow and fluorescent light still hummed behind your eyes. No one had moved to say goodbye.

You shifted your weight, glanced at him. Jack stood a few feet away, jaw tight, eyes somewhere distant.

The words slipped out before you could stop them.

“I could make tea." Not loud. Not casual. Just—offered.

You weren’t sure what possessed you to say it. Maybe it was the way he was looking at the ground. Or the way the silence between you had started to feel like lead. Either way, the moment it left your mouth, something inside you winced.

He looked at you then. Really looked. And after a long pause, nodded. “Alright.”

So you walked the blocks together, shoulder to shoulder beneath the hum of a waking city. The stroll was quiet—neither of you said much after the offer. When you reached the front steps of your building, your fingers froze in front of the intercom box. Hovered there. Hesitated. You weren’t even sure why—he was just standing there, quiet and steady beside you—but still, something in your chest fluttered. Then you looked at him.

“The code’s 645,” you murmured, like it meant nothing. Like it hadn’t just made your stomach flip.

He didn’t say anything. Just nodded. The beeping of the box felt louder than it should’ve, too sharp against the quiet. But then the lock clicked, and the door swung open, and he followed you inside like he belonged there.

And then the two of you walked inside together.

Up the narrow staircase, your footsteps were slow, measured. The kind of tired that lived in your bones. He kept close but didn’t crowd, hand brushing the rail, eyes skimming the hallway like he didn’t quite know where to look.

When you opened the door to unit 104, you suddenly remembered what your place looked like—barebones, mostly. Lived-in, but not curated. A pair of shoes kicked off by the entryway, two mismatched mugs and a bowl in the sink, a pile of jackets strewn over the chair you'd found in a yard sale.

The floors creaked as he stepped inside. You winced, suddenly self-conscious.

"Sorry about the mess..." you muttered. You didn’t know what you expected—a judgment, maybe. A raised eyebrow. Something.

Instead, Jack looked around once, taking it in slowly. Then nodded.

“It fits.”

Something in his tone—low, sure, completely unfazed, like it was exactly what he'd imagined—made your stomach flip again. You exhaled quietly, tension easing in your shoulders.

"Make yourself at home."

Jack nodded again, then bent to untie his trainers. He stepped out of them carefully, placed them neatly by the door, and gave the space one more quiet scan before making his way to the living room.

The couch creaked softly as he sat, hands resting loosely on his knees, like he wasn’t sure whether to stay upright or lean back. From the kitchen, you stole a glance—watching him settle in, or at least try to. You didn’t want to bombard him with questions or hover like a bad host, but the quiet stretched long, and something in you itched to fill it.

You busied yourself with boiling water, fussing with mugs, tea bags, sugar that wasn’t there. Trying to make it feel like something warm was waiting in the silence. Trying to give him space, even as a dozen things bubbled just beneath your skin.

“Chamomile okay?” you finally asked, the words light but uncertain.

Jack didn’t look up. But he nodded. “Yeah. That’s good.” You turned back to the counter, heart thudding louder than the kettle.

Meanwhile, Jack sat in near silence, but his eyes moved slowly around the room. Not searching. Just... seeing.

There were paintings on the walls—mostly landscapes, one abstract piece with colors he couldn’t name. Based on the array of prints to fingerpainted masterpieces, he guessed you'd painted some of them, but they all felt chosen. Anchored. Real.

A trailing pothos hung from a shelf above the radiator, green and overgrown, even though the pot looked like it had seen better days. It was lush despite the odds—thriving in a quiet, accidental kind of way.

Outside on the balcony ledge, he spotted a few tiny trinkets: a mushroom clay figure with a lopsided smile, a second plant—shorter, spikier, the kind that probably didn’t need much water but still looked stubbornly alive. A moss green glazed pot, clearly handmade. All memories, maybe. All pieces of you he’d never seen before. Pieces of someone he was only beginning to know. He took them in slowly, carefully. Not wanting to miss a single thing.

The sound of footsteps pulled him out of his thoughts. Two mugs clinking gently. You stepped into the living room and offered him one without fanfare, just a quiet sort of steadiness that made the space feel warmer. He took the tea with a small nod, thanking you. You didn’t sit beside him. You settled on the loveseat diagonal from the couch—close, but not too close. Enough to see him without watching. Enough space to let him breathe.

He noticed.

Your fingers curled around your mug. The steam gave you something to look at. Jack’s expression didn’t shift much, but you knew he could read you like an open book. Probably already had.

“You’ve got a lovely place,” he said suddenly, eyes flicking to a print on the wall—one slightly crooked, like it had been bumped and never fixed. “Exactly how I imagined, honestly.”

You arched a brow, skeptical. “Messy and uneven?”

Jack let out a quiet laugh. “I was going to say warm. But yeah, sure. Bonus points for the haunted radiator.”

The way he said it—calm, a little awkward, like he was trying to make you feel comfortable—landed somewhere between a compliment and a peace offering.

He took another sip of tea. “It just… feels like you.”

The words startled something in you. You didn’t know what to say—not right away. Your smile came small, a little crooked, the kind you didn’t have to fake but weren’t sure how to hold for long. “Thank you,” you said softly, fingers tightening around your mug like it might keep you grounded. The heat had gone tepid, but the gesture still lingered.

Jack looked like he might say something else, then didn’t. His fingers tapped once, twice, against the side of his mug before he exhaled through his nose—a small, thoughtful sound.

“My therapist once told me that vulnerability’s like walking into a room naked and hoping someone brought a blanket,” he said, dryly. “I told him I’d rather stay in the hallway.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, surprised. “Mine said it was like standing on a beach during high tide. Sooner or later, the water reaches you—whether you're ready or not.”

Jack’s mouth quirked, amused. “That’s poetic.”

You shrugged, sipping your tea. “She’s a big fan of metaphors. And tide charts, apparently.”

He smiled into his mug. “Makes sense. You’re the kind of person who would still be standing there when it comes in.”

You tilted your head. “And you?”

He considered that. “Probably pacing the rocks. Waiting for someone to say it’s okay to sit down.”

A quiet stretched between you, but this one felt earned—less about what wasn’t said and more about what had been.

An hour passed like that. Not all silence, not all speech. Just the easy drift of soft conversation and shared space. Small talk filled the cracks when it needed to—his comment about the plant that seemed to be plotting something in the corner, your half-hearted explanation for the random stack of books next to the radiator. Every now and then, something deeper would peek through the surface.

“Ever think about just… disappearing?” you asked once, offhanded and a little too real.

Jack didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. But then I’d miss pancakes. And Mexican food.”

You laughed, and he smiled like he hadn’t meant to say something so honest.

It wasn’t much. But it was enough. A rhythm, slow and shy. Words passed like notes through a crack in the door—careful, but curious. Neither of you rushed it. Neither of you left.

And then the storm hit.

The rain droplets started slow, just a whisper on the window. But it built fast—wind shaking the glass, thunder cracking overhead like a warning. You turned toward it, heart sinking a little. Jack did too, his brow furrowed slightly.

"Jesus," you murmured, already reaching for your phone. As if by divine timing, the emergency alert confirmed it: flash flood advisory until late evening. Admin had passed coverage onto the day shift. Robby wouldn't be happy about that. You made a mental note to make fun of him about it tomorrow. "Doesn’t look like it’s letting up anytime soon..."

You glanced at Jack, who was still holding his mug like he wasn’t sure if he should move.

“You're welcome to stay—if you want,” you quickly clarified, trying to sound casual. “Only if you want to. Until it clears.”

His eyes flicked toward the window again, then to you. “You sure?”

“I mean, unless you want to risk get struck by lightning or swept into a storm drain.”

That earned the smallest laugh. “Tempting.”

You smiled, nervous. “Spare towel and blankets are in the linen closet. Couch pulls out. I think. Haven’t tried.”

Jack nodded slowly, setting his mug down. “I’m not picky.”

You busied yourself with clearing a spot, the nervous kind of motion that said you cared too much and didn’t know where to put it.

Jack watched you for a moment longer than he should’ve, then started helping—quiet, careful, hands brushing yours once as he reached for the extra pillow.

Neither of you commented on it. But your face burned.

And when the storm didn’t stop, neither of you rushed it.

Instead, the hours slipped by, slow and soft. At some point, Jack asked if he could shower—voice low, like he didn’t want to intrude. You pointed him toward the bathroom and handed him a spare towel, trying not to overthink the fact that his fingers grazed yours when he took it.

While he was in there, you busied yourself with making something passable for dinner. Rice. Egg drop soup. A couple frozen dumplings your mother had sent you dressed up with scallions and sesame oil. When Jack returned, hair damp, sleeves pushed up, you nearly dropped the plate. It wasn’t fair—how effortlessly good he looked like that. A little disheveled, a little too comfortable in a stranger’s home, and yet somehow perfectly at ease in your space. It was just a flash of thought—sharp, traitorous, warm—and then you buried it fast, turning back to the stovetop like it hadn’t happened at all.

You were still hovering by the stove, trying not to let the dumplings stick when you heard his footsteps. When he stepped beside you without a word and reached for a second plate, something in your brain short-circuited.

"Smells good," he said simply, voice low—and he somehow still smelled faintly of cologne, softened by the unmistakable citrus-floral mix of your body wash. It wasn’t fair. The scent tugged at something in your chest you didn’t want to name.

You blinked rapidly, buffering. "Thanks. Uh—it’s not much. Just... whatever I had."

He glanced at the pan, then to you. “You always downplay a five-course meal like this?”

Your mouth opened to protest, but then he smiled—quiet and warm and maybe a little teasing.

It took effort not to stare. Not to say something stupid about how stupidly good he looked. You shoved the thought down, hard, and went back to plating the food.

He helped without asking, falling into step beside you like he’d always been there. And when you both sat down at the low table, he smiled at the spread like it meant more than it should’ve.

Neither of you talked much while eating. But the air between you felt settled. Comfortable.

At some point between the second bite and the last spoonful of rice, Jack glanced up from his bowl and said, "This is good. Really good. I haven’t had a homemade meal in... a long time."

You were pleasantly surprised. And relieved. "Oh. Thanks. I’m just glad it turned out edible."

He shook his head slowly, eyes still on you. "If this were my last meal, I think I’d die happy."

Your face flooded with warmth instantly. It was stupid, really, the way a single line—soft, almost offhand—landed like that. You ducked your head, smiling into your bowl, trying to play it off.

You scoffed. "It's warm in here."

Jack tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly, amused. "You okay?"

“Mmm,” he murmured, clearly unconvinced. But he let it go.

Still, the corner of his mouth tugged upward.

You cleared your throat. "You're welcome anytime you'd like, by the way. For food. Or tea. Or... just to not be alone."

That earned a look from him—surprised, quiet, but soft in a way that made your chest ache.

And you didn’t dare look at him for a full minute after that.

When you stood to rinse your dishes, Jack took your bowl from your hands before you could protest and turned toward the sink. You opened your mouth but he was already running water, already rinsing with careful, practiced motions. So you just stood there in the soft hush of your kitchen, warmed by tea and stormlight, trying not to let your heart do anything foolish.

By the time the dishes were rinsed and left on the drying rack, the storm had only worsened—sheets of rain chasing themselves down the windows, thunder rolling deep and constant.

You found yourselves in the living room again, this time without urgency, without pretense—just quiet familiarity laced with something softer. And so, without discussing it, without making it a thing, you handed him the extra blanket and turned off all but one lamp.

Neither of you moved toward sleep just yet.

You were sitting by the balcony window, knees pulled up, mug long since emptied, staring out at the storm as it lashed the glass in sheets. The sound had become something rhythmic, almost meditative. Still, your arms were bare, and the goosebumps that peppered your forearms betrayed the chill creeping in.

Jack didn’t say anything—just stood quietly from the couch and returned with the throw blanket from your armrest. Without a word, he draped it over your shoulders.

You startled slightly, looking up at him. But he didn’t comment. Just gave you a small nod, then sat down beside you on the floor, his back against the corner of the balcony doorframe, gaze following yours out into the storm. The blanket settled around both of you like a quiet pact.

After a while, Jack’s voice cut through it, barely louder than the storm. “You afraid of the dark?”

You glanced at him. He wasn’t looking at you—just at the rain trailing down the window. “Used to be,” you said. “Not so much anymore. You?”

He was quiet for a beat.

“I used to think the dark was hiding me,” he said once. Voice quiet, like he was talking to the floor, or maybe the memory of a version of himself he didn’t recognize anymore. “But I think it’s just the only place I don’t have to pretend. Where I don’t have to act like I’m whole.”

Your heart cracked. Not from pity, but from the aching intimacy of honesty.

Then he looked at you—really looked at you. Eyes steady, searching, too much all at once. You forgot how to breathe for a second. "My therapist thinks I find comfort in the darkness."

There was something about the way he fit into the storm, the way the shadows curved around him without asking for anything back. You wondered if it was always like this for him—calmer in the chaos, more himself in the dark. Maybe that was the tradeoff.

Some people thrived in the day. Others feared being blinded by the light.

Jack, you were starting to realize, functioned best where things broke open. In the adrenaline. In the noise. Not because he liked it, necessarily—but because he knew it. He understood its language. The stillness of normalcy? That was harder. Quieter in a way that didn’t feel safe. Unstructured. Unknown.

A genius in crisis. A ghost in calm.

But you saw it.

And you said, softly, "Maybe the dark doesn’t ask us to be anything. That’s why it feels like home sometimes. You don’t have to be good. Or okay. Or whole. You just get to be." That made him look at you again—slow, like he didn’t want to miss it. Maybe no one had ever said it that way before.

The air felt different after that—still heavy, still quiet, but warmer somehow. Jack broke it with a low breath, barely a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "So... do all your philosophical monologues come with tea and thunder, or did I just get the deluxe package?"

You let out a soft laugh, the tension in your shoulders easing by degrees. "Only the Abbot special."

He bumped your knee gently with his. "Lucky me."

You didn’t say anything else, just leaned back against the wall beside him.

Eventually, you both got up. Brushed teeth side by side, a little awkward, a little shy. You both stood in front of the couch, staring at it like it had personally wronged you. You reached for the handle. Jack braced the backrest. Nothing moved.

"This can’t be that complicated," you muttered.

"Two MDs, one brain cell," Jack deadpanned, and you snorted.

It took a few grunts, an accidental elbow, and a very questionable click—but eventually, the thing unfolded.

He took the couch. You turned off the last lamp.

"Goodnight," you murmured in the dark.

"Goodnight," he echoed, softer.

And for once, the quiet didn’t press. It held.

Weeks passed. Jack came over a handful of times. He accompanied you home after work, shoulders brushing as you walked the familiar path back in comfortable quiet. You learned the rhythm of him in your space. The way he moved through your kitchen like he didn’t want to disturb it. The way he always put his shoes by the door, lined up neatly like they belonged there.

Then one day, it changed. He texted you, right before your shift ended: You free after? My place this time.

You stared at the screen longer than necessary. Then typed back: Yeah. I’d like that.

He met you outside the hospital that night, both of you bone-tired from a brutal shift, scrub jackets zipped high against the wind. You hadn’t been to Jack’s place before. Weren’t even sure what you expected. Your nerves had started bubbling to the surface the moment you saw him—automatic, familiar. Like your brain was bracing for rejection and disappointment before he even said a word.

You tried to keep it casual, but old habits died hard. Vulnerability always felt like standing on the edge of something steep, and your first instinct was to retreat. To make sure no one thought you needed anything at all. The second you saw him, the words spilled out in a rush—fast, nervous, unfiltered.

"Jack, you don’t have to...make this a thing. You don’t owe me anything just because you’ve been crashing at my place. I didn’t mean for it to feel like you had to invite me back or—"

He cut you off before you could spiral further.

“Hey.” Just that—firm but quiet. A grounding thread. His hands settled on your arms, near your elbows, steadying you with a grip that was firm but careful—like he knew exactly how to hold someone without hurting them. His fingers were warm, his palms calloused in places that told stories he’d never say out loud. His forearms, bare beneath rolled sleeves, flexed with restrained strength. And God, you hated that it made your brain short-circuit for a second.

Of course Jack Abbot would comfort you and make you feral in the same breath.

Then he looked at you—really looked. “I invited you because I wanted you there. Not because I owe you. Not because I’m keeping score. Not because I'm expecting anything from you.”

The wind pulled at your sleeves. The heat rose to your cheeks before you could stop it.

Jack softened. Offered the faintest smile. “I want you here. But only if you want to be.”

You let out a breath. “Okay,” you said. Soft. Certain, even through the nerves. You smiled, more to yourself than to him. Jack’s gaze lingered on that smile—quietly, like he was memorizing it. His shoulders loosened, just barely, like your answer had unlocked something he hadn’t realized he was holding onto.

Be vulnerable, you told yourself. Open up. Allow yourself to have this.

True to his word, it really was just two blocks from your place. His building was newer, more modern. Clean lines, soft lighting, the kind of entryway that labeled itself clearly as an apartment complex. Yours, by comparison, screamed haunted brick building with a temperamental boiler system and a very committed resident poltergeist.

You were still standing beside him when he keyed open the front door, the keypad beeping softly under his fingers.

"5050," he said.

You tipped your head, confused. "Sorry?"

He looked at you briefly, like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud but didn’t take it back either. “Door code.”

Something in your chest fluttered. It echoed the first night you’d given him yours—unthinking, unfiltered, just a quiet offering. This felt the same. An unspoken invitation. You’re welcome here. Any time you want. Any time you need.

"Thanks, Jack." You could see a flicker of something behind his eyes.

The elevator up was quiet.

Jack watched the floor numbers tick by like he was counting in his head. You stared at your reflection in the brushed metal ceiling, the fluorescent lighting doing no one any favors. Totally not worried about the death trap you were currently in. Definitely not calculating which corner you'd curl into if the whole thing dropped.

When the doors opened, the hallway was mercifully empty, carpeted, quiet. You followed him down to the end, your steps softened by the hush of the building. Unit J24.

He unlocked the door, pushed it open, and stepped aside so you could walk in first.

You did—and paused.

It was... barren. Not in a sterile way, but in the sense that it looked like he’d just moved in a few days ago and hadn’t had the energy—or maybe the need—to settle. The walls were bare and painted a dark blue-grey. A matching couch and a dim floor lamp in the living room. A fridge in the kitchen humming like it was trying to fill the silence. No art. No rugs. Not a photo or magnet in sight.

And yet—somehow—it felt entirely Jack. Sparse. Quiet. Intentional. A place built for someone who didn’t like to linger but was trying to learn how. You stepped in further, slower now. A kind of reverence in your movement, even if you didn’t realize it yet.

Because even in the stillness, even in the emptiness—he’d let you in.

Jack took off his shoes and opened up a closet by the door. You mirrored his motions, suddenly aware of every move you made like a spotlight landed on you.

"Make yourself at home," he said, voice casual but low.

You walked over to the couch and sat down, your movements slow, careful. Even the cushions felt new—firm, unsunken, like no one had ever really used them. It squeaked a little beneath you, unfamiliar in its resistance.

You ran your hand lightly over the fabric, then looked around again, taking everything in. "Did you paint the walls?"

Jack gave a short huff of a laugh from the kitchen. “Had to fight tooth and nail with my landlord to get that approved. Said it was too dark. Too dramatic.”

He reappeared in the doorway with two mugs in hand. “Guess I told on myself.” He handed you the lighter green one, taking the black chipped one for himself.

You took it carefully, fingers brushing his for a moment. “Thanks.”

The warmth seeped into your palms immediately, grounding. The scent rising from the cup was oddly familiar—floral, slightly citrusy, like something soft wrapped in memory. You took a cautious sip. Your brows lifted. “Wait… is this the Lavender cloudburst... cloudbloom?”

Jack gave you a sheepish glance, rubbing the back of his neck. “It is. I picked up a bag couple of days ago. Figured if I was going to be vulnerable and dramatic, I might as well commit to the theme.”

You snorted. He smiled into his own cup, quiet.

What he didn’t say: that he’d stared at the bag in the store longer than any sane person should, wondering if buying tea with you in mind meant anything. That he bought it a while back, hoping one day he'd get to share it with you. Wondering if letting himself hope was already a mistake. But saying it felt too big. Too much.

Jack’s eyes drifted to you—not the tea, not the room, but you. The way your shoulders were ever-so-slightly raised, tension tucked beneath the soft lines of your posture. The way your eyes moved around the room, drinking in every corner, every shadow, like you were searching for something you couldn’t name.

He didn’t say anything. Just watched.

And maybe you felt it—that quiet kind of watching. The kind that wasn’t about staring, but about seeing. Really seeing.

You took another sip, slower this time. The warmth helped. So did the silence.

Small talk came easier than it had before. Not loud, not hurried. Just quiet questions and softer replies. The kind of conversation that made space instead of filling it.

Jack tilted his head slightly. “You always look at rooms like you’re cataloguing them.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Do I?”

“Yeah.” He smiled softly into his mug. “Like you’re trying to figure out what’s missing.”

You considered that for a second. “Maybe I am.”

A pause, then—“And?”

Your gaze swept the room one last time, then landed back on him. “Nothing. This apartment feels like you.”

You expected him to nod or laugh it off, maybe deflect with a joke. But instead, he just looked at you—still, soft, like your words had pressed into some quiet corner of him he didn’t know was waiting. The moment lingered.

And he gave the slightest nod, the kind that said he heard you—really heard you—even if he didn’t quite know how to respond. The ice between you didn’t crack so much as it thawed, slow and patient, like neither of you were in a rush to get to spring. But it was melting, all the same.

Jack set his mug down on the coffee table, fingertips lingering against the ceramic a second longer than necessary. “I don’t usually do this,” he said finally. “The… letting people in thing.”

His honesty caught you off guard—so sudden, so unguarded, it tugged something loose in your chest. You nodded, heart caught somewhere behind your ribs. “I know.”

He gave you a sideways glance, prompting you to continue. You sipped your tea, eyes fixed on the rim of your cup. “I see how carefully you move through the world.”

“Thank you,” you added after a beat—genuine, quiet.

He didn’t say anything back, and the two of you left it at that.

Silence again, but it felt different now. Less like distance. More like the space between two people inching closer. Jack leaned back slightly, stretching one leg out in front of him, the other bent at the knee. “You scare me a little,” he admitted.

That got a chuckle out of you.

“Not in a bad way,” he added quickly. “Just… in the way it feels when something actually matters.”

You set your mug down too, hands suddenly unsure of what to do. “You scare me too.”

Jack stared at you then—longer than he probably meant to. You felt it immediately, the heat rising in your chest under the weight of it, his gaze almost reverent, almost like he wanted to say something else but didn’t trust it to come out right.

So you cleared your throat and tried to steer the tension elsewhere. “Not as much as you scare the med students,” you quipped, lips twitching into a crooked smile.

Jack huffed out a low laugh, the edge of his mouth pulling up. “I sure as hell hope not.”

You let the moment linger for a beat longer, then glanced at the clock over his shoulder. “I should probably get back to my place,” you said gently. “Catch a couple hours of sleep before the next shift.”

Jack didn’t protest. Didn’t push. But something in his eyes softened—brief, quiet. “Thanks for the tea,” you added, standing slowly, reluctant but steady. “And for… this.”

He nodded once. “Anytime.” The way the word fell from his lips nearly made you buckle, its sincerity and weight almost begging you to stay. "Let me walk you back."

You hesitated, chewing the inside of your cheek. “You don’t have to, I don’t want to be a bother.”

Jack was already reaching for his jacket, eyes steady on you. “You’re never a bother.” His voice was quiet, but certain.

You stood there for a moment, hesitating, the edge of your nervousness still humming faintly beneath your skin. Jack grabbed his keys, adjusted his jacket, and the two of you headed downstairs. The cool air greeted you with a soft nip. Neither of you spoke at first. The afternoon light was soft and golden, stretching long shadows across the pavement. Your footsteps synced without effort, an easy rhythm between you. Shoulders brushed once. Then again. But neither of you moved away.

Not much was said on the walk back. But it didn’t need to be. When your building came into view, Jack slowed just a little, as if to make the last stretch last longer.

“See you in a few hours?” The question came out hopeful but was the only one you were ever certain about when it came to Jack.

He gave a small nod. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

The ER was humming, a low-level chaos simmering just below the surface. Pages overhead, fluorescent lights too bright, the constant shuffle of stretchers and nurses and med students trying not to get in the way.

You and Jack found yourselves working a case together. A bad one. Blunt trauma, no pulse, field intubation, half a dozen procedures already started before the gurney even made it past curtain three. But the two of you moved in sync.

Same breath. Same rhythm. You knew where he was going before he got there. He didn’t have to ask for what he needed—you were already handing it to him.

Shen and Ellis exchanged a look from across the room, like they’d noticed something neither of you had said out loud.

“You two always like this?” Ellis asked under her breath as she passed by.

Jack didn’t look up. “Like what?”

Ellis just raised a brow and kept walking.

The case stabilized. Barely. But the moment stayed with you. In the rhythm. In the way your hands brushed when you reached for the same gauze. In the silence afterward that didn’t feel like distance. Just... breath.

You didn’t say anything when Jack handed you a fresh pair of gloves with one hand and bumped your elbow with the other.

But you smiled.

Days bled into nights and nights into shifts, but something about the rhythm stuck. Not just in the trauma bay, but outside of it too. You didn’t plan it. Neither did he. But one night—after a particularly brutal Friday shift that bled well past weekend sunrise, all adrenaline and sharp edges—you both found yourselves back at your place in the evening.

You didn’t talk much. You didn’t need to.

Jack sank onto the couch with a low sigh, exhaustion settling into his bones. You brought him a blanket without asking, set a cup of tea beside him with a familiarity neither of you acknowledged aloud.

That night, he stayed. Not because he was too tired to leave. But because he didn’t want to. Because something about the quiet between you felt safer than anything waiting for him outside.

You were both sitting on the couch, talking—soft, slow, tired talk that came easier than it used to. The kind of conversation that filled the space without demanding anything. At some point, your head had tipped, resting against his shoulder mid-sentence, eyes fluttering closed with the weight of the day. Jack didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe too deep, afraid to disturb the way your warmth settled so naturally into his side.

Jack stayed beside you, feeling the soft rhythm of your breath rising and falling. His prosthetic was off, his guard lowered, and in that moment, he looked more like himself than he ever did in daylight. A part of him ached—subtle, quiet, but insistent. He hadn't realized how much he missed this. Not just touch, but presence. Yours. The kind of proximity that didn’t demand anything. The kind he didn’t have to earn.

You shifted slightly in your sleep, your arm brushing his knee. Jack froze. Then, carefully—almost reverently—he reached for the blanket draped over the back of the couch and pulled it gently over your shoulders. His fingers lingered at the edge, just for a second. Just long enough to feel the warmth of your skin through the fabric. Just long enough to remind himself this was real.

And then he leaned back, settled in again beside you.

Close. But not too close.

Present.

The morning light broke through the blinds.

You stirred.

His voice was gravel-soft. "Hey."

You blinked sleep from your eyes. Sat up. Found him still there, legs stretched out, back to the wall.

“You stayed,” you said.

He nodded.

Then, quietly, like it mattered more than anything:

“Didn’t want to be anywhere else.”

You smiled. Just a little.

He smiled back. Tired. Honest.

The first time you stayed at Jack's place was memorable for all the wrong reasons.

Everything was fine—quiet, even—until late evening. Jack had a spare room, insisted you take it. You didn’t argue. The bed was firm, the sheets clean, the door left cracked open just a little.

You don’t remember falling asleep. You only remember the panic. The way it clutched at your chest like a vice, your lungs refusing to cooperate, your limbs kicking, flailing against an invisible force. You were screaming, you think. Crying, definitely. The dream was too much. Too close. The kind that reached down your throat and stayed.

Then—hands. Shaking your shoulders. Jack’s voice.

“Hey. Hey—wake up. It’s not real. You’re okay.”

You blinked awake, heart slamming against your ribs. Jack was already on the bed with you, hair a mess, eyes wide and terrified—but only for you. His hands were still on your arms, steady but gentle. Grounding.

Then one hand rose to cradle your cheek, cool fingers brushing the heat of your skin. Your face burned hot beneath the sweat and panic, and his touch was steady, careful, as if anchoring you back to the room. He brushed your hair out of your face, strands damp and stuck to your forehead, and tucked them back behind your ear. Nothing rushed. Nothing forced. Just the quiet care of someone trying to reach you without pushing too far.

You tried to speak but couldn’t. Just choked on a sob.

“I’ve got you,” he said. “You’re here. You’re safe.”

And you believed him.

Then, without hesitation, Jack brought you into his arms—tucked you against his chest and held you tightly, like you might disappear with the breeze. There was nothing hesitant about it, no second-guessing. Just the instinctive kind of closeness that came from someone who knew what it meant to need and be needed. He held you like a lifeline, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other firm across your back, steadying you both.

Eventually, your breathing slowed. The shaking stopped. Jack stayed close, his hand brushing yours, his body warm and steady like an anchor. He didn’t leave that night. Didn’t go back to his room. Just pulled the blanket over both of you and stayed, watching the slow return of calm to your chest like it was the most important thing in the world.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered eventually, voice hoarse from the crying.

Jack’s gaze didn’t waver. He reached out, cupping your cheek again with a tenderness that made your chest ache.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” he said firmly. Not unkind—never unkind. Just certain, like the truth of it had been carved into him long before this moment.

Jack and Robby greeted each other on the roof, half-drained thermoses in hand. Jack looked tired, but not in the usual way. Something about the edges of him felt… softened. Less on-edge. Lighter, one might say. Robby noticed.

“You’ve been less of a bastard lately,” he said around a mouthful of protein bar.

Jack raised a brow. “That a compliment?”

Robby grinned. “An observation. Maybe both.”

Jack shook his head, amused. But Robby kept watching him. Tipped his chin slightly. “You seem happier, brother. In a weird, not-you kind of way.”

Jack huffed a breath through his nose. Didn’t respond right away.

Then, Robby’s voice dropped just enough. “You find someone?”

Jack’s grip tightened slightly around his cup. He looked down at the liquid swirling at the bottom. He didn’t smile, not fully. But his silence said enough.

Robby nodded once, then looked away. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Thought so.”

"I didn’t say anything."

Robby snorted. “You didn’t have to. You’ve got that look.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “What look?”

“The kind that says you finally let yourself come up for air.”

Jack stared at him for a second, then looked down at his cup again, lips twitching like he was fighting back a smile. Robby elbowed him lightly.

“Do I know her?” he asked, voice easy, teasing.

Jack gave a one-shouldered shrug, noncommittal. “Maybe.”

Robby narrowed his eyes. “Is it Shen?”

Jack scoffed. “Absolutely not.”

Robby laughed, loud and satisfied. “Had to check.” Then, after a beat, he said more quietly, “I’m glad, you know. That you found someone.”

Jack looked up, brows drawn. Robby shrugged, this time more sincere than teasing. “Don’t let go of it. Whatever it is. People like us... we don’t get that kind of thing often.”

Jack let the words hang in the air a moment, then gave a half-scoff, half-smile. “You getting sentimental on me, old man?”

Robby rolled his eyes. “Shut up.”

But Jack’s smile faded into something gentler. Quieter. “I haven’t felt this... human in a while.”

Robby didn’t say anything to that. Just nodded, then bumped Jack’s shoulder with his own. Then he stretched his arms overhead, cracking his back with a groan. “Alright, lovebird. Let’s go pretend we’re functioning adults again.”

Jack rolled his eyes, but the smile lingered.

They turned back toward the stairwell, the sky above them soft with early light.

It all unraveled around hour 10.

A belligerent trauma case brought in after being struck by a drunk driver. Jack’s shoulders tensed when he saw the dog tags. Everyone knew vets were the ones that got to him the most. His jaw was set tight the whole time, his voice sharp, movements clipped. You’d worked with him long enough to see when he started slipping into autopilot: efficient, precise, but cold. Closed off.

He ordered a test you'd already confirmed had been done. When you gently reminded him, Jack didn’t even look at you—just waved you off with a sharp, impatient flick of his wrist. Then, louder—sharper—he snapped at Ellis. "Move faster, for fuck's sake."

His voice had that clipped edge to it now, the kind that made people tense. Made the room feel smaller. Ellis blinked but didn’t respond, just picked up the pace, brows furrowed. Shen gave you a quiet glance over the patient’s shoulder, something that looked almost like sympathy. Both of them looked to you after that—uncertain, searching for a signal or some kind of anchor. You saw it in their eyes: the silent question. What’s going on with Jack?

When you reached across the gurney to adjust the central line tubing, Jack barked, "Back off."

You froze. “Dr. Abbot,” you said, soft but firm. “It’s already in.”

His eyes snapped to yours, and for a split second, they looked wild—distant, haunted. “Then why are you still reaching for it?” he said, low and biting.

The air went still. Ellis looked up from the med tray, blinking. Shen awkwardly shifted his weight, silently assuring you that you'd done nothing wrong. The nurse closest to Jack turned her focus sharply to the vitals monitor.

You excused yourself and stepped out. Said nothing.

He didn’t notice. Or maybe he did. But he didn’t look back.

The patient coded minutes later.

And though the team moved in perfect sync—compressions, meds, lines—Jack was silent afterward, hands flexing at his sides, eyes on the floor.

You didn’t speak when the shift ended.

A few nights later, he was at your door.

You opened it only halfway, unsure what to expect. The narrow gap between the door and the frame felt like the only armor you had—an effort to shelter yourself physically from the hurt you couldn’t name.

Jack stood there, exhausted. Worn thin. Still in scrubs, jacket over one shoulder. His face was hollowed out, cheeks drawn tight, and his eyes—god, his eyes—were wide and tired in that distinct, glassy way. Like he wasn’t sure if you’d close the door or let him stay. Like he already expected you would slam it in his face and say you never wanted to see him again.

“I shouldn’t have—” he started, then stopped. Ran a hand through his hair. “I took it out on you. I’m sorry.”

You swallowed, but the words wouldn't come out. You were still upset. Still stewing. Not at the apology—never that. But at how quickly things between you could tilt. At how much it had hurt in the moment, to be dismissed like that. And how much it mattered that it was him.

His voice was quiet, but steady. “You were right. I wasn’t hearing you. And you didn’t deserve any of that.”

There was a beat of silence.

"I panicked,” he said, like it surprised even him. “Not just today. The patient—he reminded me of people I served with. The ones who didn’t make it back. The ones who did and never got better. I saw him and... I just lost it. Couldn’t separate the past from right now. And then I looked at you and—” he cut himself off, shaking his head.

“Being this close to something good... it scares the hell out of me. I don’t want to mess this up."

Your heart thudded, painful and full.

“Then talk to me,” you said, voice thick with exhaustion. The familiar ache began to flood your throat. “Tell me how you feel. Something. Anything. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s on your mind, Jack. I have my own shit to deal with, and I get it if you’re not ready to talk about it yet, but—”

Your hand came up to your face, pressing against your forehead. “Maybe we should just talk tomorrow,” you muttered, already taking a step back to close the door. It was a clear attempt at avoidance, and Jack saw right through it.

“I think about you more than I should,” he said, voice low and rough. He stepped closer. Breath shallow. His eyes searched yours—frantic, pleading, like he was trying to gather the courage to jump off something high. “When I’m running on fumes. When I’m trying not to feel anything. And then I see you and it all rushes back in like I’ve been underwater too long."

At this, you pulled the door open slightly to show that you were willing to at least listen. Jack was looking at the ground—something completely unlike him. He always met people’s eyes, always held his gaze steady. But not now. Now, he looked like he might fold in on himself if you so much as breathed wrong. He exhaled a short breath, relieved but not off the hook just yet.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he whispered. “But I know what I feel when I’m around you. And it’s the only thing that’s made me feel like myself in a long time.”

He hesitated, just for a second, searching your face like he was waiting for permission. For rejection. For anything at all. You reached out first—tentative, your fingers lifting to his cheek. Jack froze at the contact, like his body had forgotten what it meant to be touched so gently. It was instinct, habit. But then he exhaled and leaned into your hand, eyes fluttering shut, like he couldn’t bear the weight of being seen and touched at once.

You studied him for a long moment, taking him in—how hard he was trying, how raw he looked under the dim light. Your thumb brushed beneath his eye, brushing softly along the curve of his cheekbone. When you pulled your hand away, Jack caught it gently and brought it back, pressing your palm against his cheek. He squeezed his eyes shut like it hurt to be touched, like it cracked something open he wasn’t ready to see. Then—slowly—he leaned into it, like he didn’t know how to ask for comfort but couldn’t bring himself to pull away from it either.

Your breath caught. He was still holding your hand to his face like it anchored him to the ground.

You shifted slightly, unsure what to say. But you didn’t move away.

His hand slid down to catch yours fully, fingers interlacing with yours.

“I’m not good at this,” he said finally, voice rough and eyes locked onto you. “But I want to try. With you.”

You opened your mouth to say something—anything—but what came out was a jumble of word salad instead.

“I don’t know how to do this,” you said, voice trembling. “I’m not—I'm not the kind of person who’s built for this. I fuck things up. I shut down. I push people away. And you…” Your voice cracked. You turned your face slightly, not pulling away, but not quite steady either. “You deserve better than—”

Jack pulled you into a bruising hug, arms wrapping tightly around you like he could hold the pain in place. One hand rose to cradle the back of your head, pulling you into his chest.

You were shaking. Tears, uninvited, welled in your eyes and slipped down before you could stop them.

“Fuck perfect,” he whispered softly against your temple. “I need real. I need you.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his hand still resting against the side of your head. His gaze was glassy but steady, breathing shallow like the weight of what he’d just said was still settling in his chest.

You blinked through your tears, mouth parted, searching his face for hesitation—but there was none.

He leaned in again, slower this time.

And then—finally—he kissed you.

It started hesitant—like he was afraid to get it wrong. Or he didn’t know if you’d still be there once he crossed that line. But when your hand gripped the front of his jacket, pulling him in closer, it changed. The kiss deepened, slow but certain. His hands framed your face. One of your hands curled into the fabric at his waist, the other resting against his chest, feeling the quickened beat beneath your palm.

You stumbled backward as you pulled him inside, refusing to let go, your mouth still pressed to his like contact alone might keep you from unraveling. Jack followed without question, stepping inside as the door clicked shut on its own. He barely had time to register the space before your back hit the door with a soft thud, his mouth still moving against yours. You reached blindly to twist the lock, and when you did, he made a low sound—relief or hunger, you couldn’t tell.

He kicked off his shoes without looking, quick and efficient, like some part of him needed to shed the outside world as fast as possible just to be here, just to feel this. You jumped. He caught you. Your legs wrapped around his waist like muscle memory, hands threading through his hair, and Jack carried you down the hall like you weighed nothing. He didn't have to ask which door. He knew.

And when he laid you down on the bed, it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t careless.

It was everything that had been building—finally, finally let loose.

It was all nerves and heat and breathlessness—everything held back finally finding its release.

When you pulled away just a little, foreheads touching, neither of you said anything at first. But Jack’s hands didn’t leave your waist. He just breathed—one breath, then another—before he whispered, “Are you sure?”

You frowned.

“This,” he clarified, voice thick with emotion. “I don’t want to take advantage of you. If you’re not okay. If this is too much.”

Your hand came up again, brushing his cheek. “I’m sure.”

His eyes flicked up to yours, finally meeting them, and he asked softly, “Are you?”

You nodded, steadier this time. “Yes. Are you?”

Jack didn’t hesitate. “I’ve never been more sure about a damn thing in my life.”

And when you kissed him again, it wasn’t heat that came first—but a sense of comfort. Feeling safe.

Then came the warmth. The kind that started deep in your belly and coursed in your body and through your fingertips. Your hands slipped beneath his shirt, fingertips skating across skin like you were trying to memorize every inch. Jack's breath hitched, and he kissed you harder—desperate, aching. His hands were everywhere: your waist, your back, your jaw, grounding you like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

Clothes came off in pieces, scattered in the dark. Moonlight filtered in through the blinds, painting soft stripes across the bed through the blinds. It was the first time you saw all of him—truly saw him. The curve of his back, the line of his shoulders and muscles, the scars that marked the map of his body. You’d switched spots somewhere between kisses and breathless moans—Jack now lying on the bed, you straddling his hips, hovering just above him.

You reached out without thinking, fingertips ghosting over one of the thicker ones that carved down his side. Jack stilled. When you looked up at him, his eyes on yours—soft, wary, like he didn’t quite know how to breathe through the moment.

So you made your way down, gently, and kissed the scar. Then another. And another. Reverent. Wordless. He watched you the whole time, eyes glinting in the dim light, like he couldn't believe you were real.

When your lips met a sensitive spot by his hip, Jack’s breath caught. His hand found yours again, grounding him, keeping him here. Your name on his lips wasn’t just want—it was pure devotion. Every touch was careful, every kiss threaded with something deeper than just desire. You weren’t just wanted. You were known.

He worshipped you with his hands, his mouth, his body—slow, thorough, patient. The kind of touch that asked for nothing but offered everything. His palms mapped your skin like he’d been waiting to learn it, reverent in every pass, every pause. His lips lingered over every place you sighed, every place you arched, until you forgot where his body ended and yours began. It was messy and sacred and quiet and burning all at once—like he didn’t just want you, he needed you.

And you let him. You met him there—every movement, every breath—like your bodies already knew the rhythm. When it built, when it crested, it wasn’t just release. It was recognition. A return. Home.

After the air cooled and the adrenaline had faded, he didn’t pull away. His hand stayed at your back, palm warm and steady where it pressed gently against your spine. You shifted only slightly, your leg draped over his, and your forehead found the crook of his neck. He smelled like your sheets and skin and the barest trace of sweat and his cologne.

He exhaled into the hush of the room, chest rising and falling in rhythm with yours. His fingers traced lazy, absent-minded lines along your side, like he was still trying to memorize you even now.

You were both quiet, not because there was nothing to say, but because for once, there was nothing you needed to.

He kissed your lips—soft, lingering—then trailed down to your neck, his nose brushing your skin as he breathed you in. He paused, lips resting at the hollow of your throat. Then he kissed the top of your head. Just once.

And that was enough.

The two of you stayed like that for a while, basking in the afterglow. You stared at him, letting yourself really look—at the way the moonlight softened his features, at how peaceful he looked with his eyes half-lidded and his chest rising and falling against yours. Jack couldn’t seem to help himself. His fingers played with yours—tracing the length of each one like they were new, like they were a language he was still learning. He toyed with the edge of your palm, pressed his thumb against your knuckle, curled his pinky with yours. A man starved for contact who had finally found somewhere to rest.

When he finally looked up, you met him with a smile.

"What now?" you asked softly, voice quiet in the hush between you. It wasn’t fear, not quite. Just a small seed of worry still gnawing at your ribs.

Jack studied your face like he already knew what you meant. He let out a soft breath. His hand moved carefully, brushing a stray hair from your face before cupping your cheek with a tenderness that made your chest ache.

"Now," he said, "I keep showing up. I keep choosing this. You. Every day."

Your lips pressed together in a shy smile, trying to hold back the sudden sting behind your eyes. You shook your head slowly, swallowing the emotion that threatened to rise.

He tilted his head a little, the corner of his mouth lifting. "Are you sick of me yet?"

You huffed a laugh, shaking your head. "Not even close."

His fingers tightened gently around yours.

"Good," Jack murmured. "Because I’m not letting you go."

And just like that, the quiet turned soft. For once, hope felt like something you could hold.

You fell asleep with his arm draped over your waist, your fingers still tangled in the fabric of his shirt. His breaths were deep and even, chest rising and falling in a rhythm that calmed your own. Neither of you had nightmares that night. No thrashing. No waking in a cold sweat. Just quiet. Any time you shifted, he instinctively pulled you closer. You drifted together into sleep, breaths falling in sync—slow, steady, safe.

And for the first time, the dark didn’t feel so heavy.

thank you for reading 💛

<3 - <3 - <3 - <3

#the pitt #the pitt hbo #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt imagine #the pitt x reader #jack abbot #the pitt spoilers #jack abbot imagine #jack abbot x reader #shawn hatosy #dr. abbot x reader #dr abbot #dr abbot x reader #dr abbott #jack abbott #dr. abbott

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dannyriccsystem · 30 days ago

Note

if you’re comfortable could you do oscar smut 🤭

GIRL, YOU REALLY GOT A HOLD ON ME…

FORMULA ONE DRIVER X READER

SUMMARY: There is no summary this is literally just smut

WARNINGS: Smut. Y/N usage. Freaky

FEATURING: Oscar Piastri x Reader

YES GAWD

You discovered that when it came to Oscar Piastri, it didn’t take much for him to turn you on.

You felt shameful with the way your eyes were constantly searching his entire form, each part of your brain working together to imagine the nastiness you could get up to together. You could have him whenever you wanted, but waiting until you couldn’t wait anymore was part of the fun.

One evening in particular had sent you over the edge. Oscar just returned home from a workout, his white shirt just slightly see through and sticky from sweat, clinging to his subtly toned figure. Your tongue darted out, licking your lips as you took in the delicious sight before you.

He stretched his strong arms out above his head, and the same shirt rode up, letting you get a peek at both his happy trail and the waistband of his boxers. You were already flooded at this point— Actually, you have been since he walked through the door.

When he sat down, you wasted no time straddling his lap. His hands found your thighs, and his eyes crinkled with mirth as he stared up at you in your elevated position. He looked so innocent, but your thoughts were anything but. You batted your lashes at him every so innocently, your hands rubbing the muscle that connected his collarbone and shoulders. Your honeyed voice asked him, “How was your day?”

Oscar’s thumbs ran over your soft thighs, an innocent act that made you feel exponentially worse. He hummed, a deep grumble in his chest. “Good,” He began, his accented voice slightly hoarse. It always was after an intense workout.

He continued, but you were too zoned out to pay attention to everything he said. You just nodded when you should, but your attention was more pinpointed on the chain around his neck. It was a necklace you bought him for your second anniversary, and he practically wore it everywhere.

“I tried to push m-my… Li-… Limits…” He stuttered, his voice trailing off when you lightly tugged on said chain. He blinked, surprised. When you peered up at him through those thick eyelashes, he cleared his throat to continue. This time with flushed ears. He couldn’t explain why it had such an effect on him, but it did.

You leaned in, your lips finding the pulse of his neck. He was quick to shut his mouth, his once innocent hands now firmly grasping the fat of your thighs. He hummed, and Oscar’s typically steady voice began to shake. “Y/N,” He whispered pathetically.

You trailed your lips to his collarbone before pulling yourself to his lips, letting him enjoy your taste just as you did his. Oscar’s hands traveled upwards, exploring the skin of your stomach as warm palms slid up your shirt. He pulled away to take a deep breath, only to dive back in immediately after.

He was instantly hard, and you could tell, because he’d slowly grind his erection up against you, drawing soft little gasps from your boyfriend. Apparently it didn’t take much for him to start acting up, either. Just a few kisses and he was desperate to be buried inside you.

“C’mon, pretty- Please,” He whispered against your lips, which were now red and swollen from his. He pressed his forehead against yours as he lifted his hips, using one hand to shimmy out of his shorts, and then his boxers followed. You wanted to tease, but you couldn’t wait any longer.

You lifted your hips, and with his help— Which mostly included tearing the fabric of your panties— you managed to free your lower half. He slowly pushed himself inside your hole, throwing his head back around halfway through. “Hold still,” He muttered, and you did.

He could barely handle the sensation, needing just a few seconds to adjust to your tightness. It wasn’t the first time ever, but it was the first in quite awhile. His lips were agape, letting him pant heavily as he pulled you down further, until your hips were flush against his.

“Mnhh, Oscar.” You arched your back against his chest, burying your face into his neck as you slowly lifted your hips, bouncing up and down on his thick cock.

“Fuck, you feel so good…” He normally kept his language clean, but it was impossible with you gripping him so tight. “C’mon, let me see your face,” He grunted into your ear, leaving a sloppy kiss just below it. You pulled your face back, tilting it down to stare at him with that fucked out expression.

He helped you fuck yourself on him, using his strong grip to lift you up and down. His eyelids were fluttering, like he had to hold himself back from cumming too soon. Everything about him was perfect, especially now.

“You’re not usually this sensitive,” You try to tease, but your voice is shaking just as much as— if not more than— his.

“Been too long,” You could tell it was taking everything in him not to ruin the moment, but he really needed that release now. “Fuck,” he cursed under his breath. He pressed his forehead to yours again, this time his mouth just slightly ajar and his eyes squeezed tightly shut.

You could feel him twitching inside you. He’d stop his movements momentarily to collect his bearings, and then continue to thrust. It was like he was edging himself with your hole, trying to make sure you came before him. “Oh, Osc… Y-… Yeah, that feels good-! Just like that,” You pressed yourself close to him, closing your eyes with him. “I’m-”

You didn’t get to finish your sentence. You felt your orgasm wash over you, a pleasured cry being ripped from your throat. That’s all he needed before he finally let himself go, filling you up. He left his forehead against yours, panting like crazy to catch his breath.

“You did so good, Osc.” You muttered as he collapsed back against the couch, pulling you even closer to him. He was still buried inside you, but was beginning to soften at that point. He smiled, his chest still heaving with every breath.

“You’re insatiable.” Especially considering you were already grinding against him, hungry for round two.

Hell, who wouldn’t be?

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pedroscowgirl · 3 months ago

Text

In your hands

joel miller x fem!reader || main masterlist

Warnings!!smut! so minors DNI

no!outbreak ,use of sex toy, no specific age gap mentioned but joel is an old man (he's suprised by the new technology), praise kink, joel is in controle, oral job (m receiving), squirting, reader has hair (lenght not specified), size kink, crying but in a positive way, lmk if i forgot something! wc: 2.2k

A/n: the poll was so close between joel and aaron hotchner and it made me realise how long its been since i wrote something for him but i just have hyperfixations on these men from time to time and rn it's joel so i apologize. And as always pls lmk what you think of this :)

You and Joel had been seeing each other for a while now. It was casual, unspoken, and mostly physical. You’d find yourself at his place most of the time, tangled in his sheets, his rough hands exploring your body like he was mapping every inch of you. It was electric, intense, and always left you craving more. But today was different. Today, Joel had come to your place.

You were in the kitchen, trying to open a stubborn jar of pickles, when the lid finally gave way,but so did your grip. The sharp edge of the lid sliced into your finger, and you hissed, dropping the jar onto the counter. “Shit,” you muttered, clutching your hand.

Joel, who had been leaning against the doorway watching you struggle with that damn jar, straightened up immediately. “You okay?” he asked, his voice low and concerned.

“Yeah, just a cut,” you said, holding up your finger to show him the thin line of blood welling up. “I think I have bandaids in my nightstand drawer. Can you grab one for me?”

He nodded, his eyes lingering on you for a moment before he turned and headed toward your bedroom. You busied yourself with rinsing the cut under the faucet, trying to ignore the way your heart raced at the thought of Joel in your room, rummaging through your things. It felt… intimate, somehow. More intimate than the nights you’d spent together.

But then you heard it, the unmistakable sound of Joel’s voice, low and teasing, calling your name. “Sweetheart?” he drawled, and something about the way he said it made your stomach flip. “You might wanna come in here.”

Your heart skipped a beat. You dried your hands quickly and walked toward your bedroom, your mind racing. What could he have found? You didn’t have anything embarrassing in there… did you?

When you stepped into the room, you froze. Joel was standing near the edge of your bed, one of your bandaids in his hand, and in his other hand, he held your vibrating dildo. It was long, thick, and veiny, and the sight of it in Joel’s large, calloused hand made your face burn. His eyes were dark, his lips curled into that cocky smirk you both loved and hated.

“Damn,” he said, his voice dripping with amusement. “You tired of me already?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but no words came out. Your mind went blank as you stared at him, his smirk widening as he turned the toy over in his hand, examining it like he was appraising it. “This thing’s got some… heft to it,” he said, his tone teasing. “You been holdin’ out on me, darlin’?”

“Joel, it’s not—” you started, but he cut you off with a low chuckle.

“Relax,” he said, setting the toy down on the bed beside him. “I ain’t mad. Just… curious.”

He leaned back, his eyes raking over you in a way that made your skin prickle with heat. “You been usin’ this when I’m not around? Thinkin’ about me?”

Your breath hitched. There was no way you were admitting that to him. But the way he was looking at you, like he already knew the answer, made your knees weak. He patted the bed beside him, his voice dropping to that gravelly tone that always sent shivers down your spine. “C’mere.”

You could feel the weight of his gaze, the intensity of it making your skin prickle with anticipation. He had that look in his eye, the one that told you he was in control, and you were going to do exactly as he said.

"Take off your pants and underwear," he commanded, his voice low and gravelly, sending a shiver down your spine. "And sit on the bed."

You hesitated for just a moment, your heart pounding in your chest, but the look he gave you -a raised brow, a slight tilt of his head, was enough to make you move. You quickly slipped out of your clothes, your hands trembling as you pushed your pants and underwear down your legs, letting them fall to the floor. You sat on the edge of the bed, your legs slightly apart, your body exposed to him.

Joel didn’t say anything at first. He just watched you, his eyes trailing over your naked form, taking in every detail. Then he moved, stepping closer to the bed, his hand reaching out to the nightstand drawer. He opened it, rummaging around for a moment before pulling out the bottle of lube. He held the dildo in his hand, turning it over, examining it like he was studying some kind of weapon.

"Goddamn that new technology is impressive" he muttered, his voice tinged with a mix of amusement and disbelief as he found the remote control. He pressed a button, and the tip of the dildo began to move, a slow, rhythmic motion that made your breath catch in your throat. Joel’s lips curled into a smirk as he watched it, his eyes flicking up to meet yours. "You ready for this, sweetheart?"

You nodded, your throat dry, your body already responding to the thought of what was coming. Joel didn’t wait for you to second-guess yourself. He squirted a generous amount of lube onto the dildo, spreading it evenly with his fingers before holding it out to you.

"Sit on it," he said, his voice firm, leaving no room for argument.

You hesitated again, your heart racing, but the look in Joel’s eyes—the way he was watching you, like he could see straight through you—made you obey.

You positioned yourself over the dildo, your legs trembling as you slowly lowered yourself onto it. The sensation was intense, the size of it stretching you in a way that made your head spin. You gasped as you took it all in, your body adjusting to the fullness, your hands gripping the edge of the bed for support.

Joel stood in front of you, his eyes locked on yours, his lips parted as he watched you take every inch. "Good girl," he murmured, his voice rough with desire. "Look at you, takin’ it so well."

You could feel the heat rising in your cheeks, your body trembling as you tried to steady yourself. But before you could fully adjust, Joel’s hand moved, his fingers pressing a button on the remote. The dildo came to life, vibrating inside you, the sensation so sudden and intense that you cried out, your back arching as pleasure shot through your body.

"Fuck, Joel!" you moaned, your hands flying to your hair, pulling it back from your face as tears welled up in your eyes. The vibrations were relentless, sending waves of pleasure through you, your body trembling as you tried to hold yourself together.

Joel’s smirk widened, his eyes dark with lust as he watched you fall apart. "Oh, baby," he growled, his voice low and rough. "You’re so fuckin’ gorgeous like this. Gettin’ fucked by some stupid piece of plastic, takin’ it like a good girl."

His words sent a fresh wave of heat through you, your body responding to the way he was watching you, the way he was talking to you. You could feel yourself getting closer, the pleasure building inside you, your moans growing louder as the vibrations continued to push you toward the edge.

Joel stepped closer, his hand reaching out to grip your chin, forcing you to look at him. "You gonna come for me, sweetheart?" he asked, his voice a low growl that made your stomach clench. "You gonna let me watch you fall apart?"

You nodded, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps as the pleasure continued to build. Joel’s grip on your chin tightened, his eyes locked on yours as he watched you, his own desire evident in the way his chest rose and fell, the way his jaw tightened.

"Come on, baby," he urged, his voice rough with need. "Let me see you come."

And just like that, you did. The pleasure crashed over you, your body convulsing as you came, your cries filling the room as Joel watched, his eyes dark with satisfaction. He didn’t let go of you, his grip on your chin firm as he kept you looking at him, forcing you to endure the intensity of your orgasm as it ripped through you.

Joel’s finger hovered over the button, his dark eyes locked on yours as he watched you squirm beneath him. The vibrations had been relentless, driving you to the edge of pleasure and desperation, and when he finally pushed the button to make them stop, you sighed in relief, your body trembling. You lifted yourself up, ready to take the toy out of you, but Joel’s hand shot out, stopping you mid-motion.

“No, sweetheart,” he said, his voice low and commanding, sending a shiver down your spine. “Not yet. I wanna try somethin’ with you. Sit back on it.”

Your eyes widened, and you shook your head slightly, your voice barely a whisper. “Joel, please…” you pleaded, your body still sensitive from the vibrations. But Joel just shushed you, his tone firm yet gentle, and you knew better than to argue with him. Reluctantly, you obeyed, lowering yourself back onto the toy, feeling it press deep inside you once more.

Joel’s lips curled into a smirk as he watched you, his hands moving to his belt. He undid it slowly, the sound of leather sliding through the loops making your breath hitch. He pushed his pants and underwear down in one smooth motion, and your eyes immediately dropped to his cock, already hard and leaking. The sight of him made your mouth water, and Joel noticed, chuckling darkly as he gave himself a few slow strokes.

“Eyes on me, darlin’,” he said, his voice rough with desire. You looked up at him, your cheeks flushing as he stepped closer, his free hand cupping your jaw. “Open up,” he commanded, and you parted your lips without hesitation. He guided himself into your mouth, groaning softly as your tongue swirled around his tip.

You moaned around him, the vibrations from the toy still faintly buzzing inside you, making it hard to focus. But you wanted to please him, to show him how much he meant to you. You took him deeper, your lips stretching around his girth as you bobbed your head, your tongue working in tandem with your movements. Joel’s hand tangled in your hair, his grip firm but not painful, guiding you as you sucked him off.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he growled, his hips thrusting gently into your mouth. “You’re so damn good at this.” His praise sent a jolt of pleasure through you, and your pussy clenched around the toy, the sensation almost too much to bear. Tears welled in your eyes as you tried to focus on him, but the fullness and the vibrations were overwhelming, making your mind hazy with need.

Joel noticed your struggle, his hand stroking your hair soothingly. “Shhh, baby, it’s alright,” he murmured, his voice thick with arousal. “You can take it. Just relax for me, yeah?” His words were comforting, but they only made you more desperate, your body trembling as you tried to hold back the tidal wave of pleasure building inside you.

The toy shifted inside you, the vibrations intensifying as Joel adjusted the settings, and you cried, tears falling down on his cock, the sound muffled but full of need. Your eyes met his, pleading for release, but Joel just smirked, his grip on your hair tightening as he thrust deeper into your mouth.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he groaned, his head falling back as he lost himself in the sensation. “Take it all. You’re doin’ so good.” His praise only fueled your desire, and you moaned around him, your pussy clenching tightly around the toy as your orgasm threatened to overwhelm you.

Just when you thought you couldn’t take anymore, Joel pulled himself out of your mouth, giving you a moment to catch your breath. But before you could fully recover, your orgasm crashed over you, your body convulsing as you squirted onto the toy, your juices soaking the sheets beneath you. You collapsed onto the bed, your chest heaving as you tried to come down from the high.

Joel watched you with a satisfied smirk, his hand stroking his cock as he admired the mess you’d made. “Damn, darlin’,” he said, his voice rough with desire. “You’re so fuckin’ pretty ” He stepped closer, his hand tangling in your hair once more as he guided your mouth back to his cock.

“One last thing,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. You opened your mouth obediently, and Joel thrust into you, his movements rough and desperate as he chased his own release. It didn’t take long,his hips stuttered, and he groaned your name as he came, his cum filling your mouth. You swallowed every drop, your eyes never leaving his as he pulled out, a satisfied smirk on his lips.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his hand stroking your cheek as he leaned down to kiss you. The kiss was slow and deep, a stark contrast to the intensity of what had just happened, and it left you feeling warm and cherished.

As you lay there together, Joel’s arms wrapped around you, you couldn’t help but smile. He was rough and demanding, but he always took care of you, always made sure you were satisfied. And as you drifted off to sleep in his arms, you knew there was no one else you’d rather be with.

#tlou joel #joel smut #joel the last of us #joel miller smut #joel tlou #joel tlou smut #joel miller tlou smut #tlou smut #the last of us smut #joel x reader #joel miller x reader #joel miller imagine #tlou joel miller #tlou joel miller smut #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal

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onsomenewsht · 2 months ago

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Silencio en la biblioteca, los ángeles también pecan

About when people slide in Alexia's DMs, she forgets about it, and you find it way too funny

》 Alexia Putellas x Reader

》 words count: 2k

》 to slide into someone DMs [Internet slang]: to confidently send a direct message to someone via social media, mostly with romantic or sexual intentions

“Most famous person on your phone?”

Alexia’s cheeks redden slightly under the studio’s lights and the playful tone of the host’s voice.

It’s predictable enough, part of the game of rapid-fire questions. It’s innocent enough, intended to tease the interview on social media later on. It’s not bad, but she is.

She thinks of you immediately, her heart skipping a beat.

It’s not strange for her, you crossing her mind unprompted at the most inappropriate times. But Alexia can blame Vicky for this one.

The younger girl sent her a TikTok edit yesterday.

Footage of you with a sparkling toy microphone, dressed in a princess gown as a kid, or you writing and recording in a tiny studio, meeting people and doing press tours. A voice-over, some dude on a podcast, saying that you will never make it, that singers like you don’t fill stadiums. The video cuts, with impressive editing skills, to clips of your last tour.

A tour that sold out the Bernabeu.

Twice.

She blocks Vicky after the third teasing text, and if the video gets saved in a dedicated gallery is just for her to know.

“I don’t know, probably some other athlete”, Alexia lies, more worried of saying your name out of instinct than giving a proper answer.

“Messi? The Queen of Spain, maybe?”

“The Queen? Do they even have a phone?”

“You could probably have their number if they do”, he says with a grin.

“I don’t think so”

Moving on to the next question turns out to be nothing more than wishful thinking, as the host decides this is a topic interesting enough to keep exploring.

“I bet you’ve got big names in there somewhere”

“I really don’t”, Alexia dismisses, trying to downplay the whole thing, “It mostly happens on Instagram nowadays, doesn’t it?”

“You mean people slide on your DMs”

“That’s not what I said”, she retorts, her cheeks turning a shade of red that could rival the flush she gets after an exhausting game.

There’s not a real reason for her to be so embarrassed. She faced way more uncomfortable conversation and way better than this.

It’s your fault, actually.

The Catalan can’t stop thinking about the way you smoothly added your contact on her phone after you had met just a handful of times.

Your first encounter was at a Barça’s victory party. You’d been invited to sing, genuinely excited to celebrate yet another award with the women’s team. Jana had dragged her captain along to congratulate you on the album you’d released just a couple of weeks earlier. The blonde didn’t say much, but when she did, her words were always spot-on, carefully considered.

The second time was at a charity event for her foundation. Alexia made sure to thank you for your generous donation, and you joked that it was for a good cause – helping young girls and adding an invaluable piece to your wardrobe. But Alexia saw the sincerity in your eyes and knew you meant every word.

The third time was the lucky one. You both talked for what felt like hours, ignoring the demands of others, hidden away in a secluded corner of the obnoxious rooftop terrace, crowded with music and laughter, that a mutual friend had rented for their birthday party. Just before leaving, far later than you both had intended, you asked for her phone to save your number under a silly nickname. That same night, the footballer texted you as soon as she got home.

The rest, as they say, is history.

Three years later, your contact’s still saved under the same nickname.

“So, no A-list celeb likes your old pics?”

Apparently, the host isn’t going to save her from herself. Alexia realizes she has to dig herself out of this hole without making it worse.

“I mean we all comment people’s posts or text on Instagram now, you know, it’s just easier”

“Nice save”, he remarks, clearly amused, finally moving on to the next question.

The weeks after the interview pass in such an erratic blur that Alexia forgets about it entirely.

You are in London to co-produce an album and her schedule is getting a bit more intense now that the Champions League is in full swing. It’s not easy juggling the endless work trips, media days, and the demanding commitments that clutter your shared calendar, but it’s worth it.

The nights hidden in a studio are worth the way you alway get inspired when talking the days away, curled into the footballer’s side. The dates you take each other on, planned in advantage of months or improvised last minute, are worth every single time you have to delay your reunion. The long video calls, the flowers sent from different countries, the red-eye flights, the supportive texts that never quite compare to a comforting hug. It’s all worth it.

After a month apart, you finally have a couple of quiet days to spend together, free from distractions. Alexia doesn’t think about that interview, and that’s a mistake.

She has a session with the team’s physio when they release it, a session that Vicky interrupts abruptly. As soon as the younger girl storms into the room, with a shit-eating smirk on her face, the blonde knows it is not going to be pleasant for her.

“Oh, you’re so done”, she teases, her grin widening as she waves the phone in front of Alexia’s face, “You’re not going to like this”

She doesn’t show her a clip from the damn interview.

Oh, no. It’s much worse.

Vicky’s already saved dozens of video edits, all of them capturing the awkward moment when Alexia tries, and fails miserably, to dodge the question about her phonebook.

“What was I supposed to say?”, the midfielder complains, dropping her head onto the massage bed, while even the physio can’t hold back a smile.

“Anything else? You basically bragged about people sliding in your DMs, you idiot”

“I didn’t say that– and I wasn’t bragging!”

Vicky raises an eyebrow at the older woman’s defense, always surprised by the genuine self-consciousness of a two-time Ballon d’Or winner, “Sometimes I wonder if you know they call you Reina for more than just your football skills”

“What does that have to do with anything?”, Alexia asks, her voice dripping with resignation.

The physio pats her shoulder, offering support and signaling she can go home. Tomorrow is a day off and, suddenly, the idea of spending it rotting in bed sounds so appealing.

“Just wait until your girlfriend sees this”, Vicky murmurs, her grin widening as she bolts from the pissed captain.

You have seen the interview.

Of course you have.

Alexia may not keep up with her media appearances, but you do. First and foremost because you truly love her, and second, because you adore that dorky side of her that shows up in the most unexpected moments

Like in her latest commercial. She’s posing for the camera, drenched in water to look badass, but blushing, almost embarrassed, as a list of her career accomplishments is given to her. Or in that sponsored video, where she’s in the background, annoyed and teased by her younger teammates for her most listened songs of the year to be all by the same artist.

Barcelona’s media team had to cut most of it out, but you know the whole story. And you absolutely love it.

The loudest sign of her coming home is the soft thud of her kit bag hitting the floor as soon as the door opens. You’ve given her endless shit for leaving her sport gear all over the shared apartment.

Her big hands and warm arms wrapping you from behind come second, “What are you doing here?”

Alexia kisses your shoulder, burying her face in the crook of your neck. Wet hair drips down your shirt, almost enough to annoy you into pushing her away. Almost.

“Oh, it’s so good to see you too”, you reply, smiling as you stir the sauce you've been working on for the past hour.

“Idiot”, she giggles, not moving an inch, “You had dinner with that producer tonight, no?”

“Yeah, but he had an ‘enlightening revelation’ about a track he’s working on, so he’s stuck in studio and couldn’t make it”

“You artists are wired”

“You missed a date once ‘cus you lost track of time working on a drill you ‘absolutely had to master’ that day”

The older woman doesn’t argue, knowing she wouldn’t win this one, so she just turns you around to gently, but firmly, kiss you.

It feels like the comfort of a safe space, like the certainty of a kept promise.

It may be too soon for other kinds of promises, you know that, but the future ahead looks a lot like an older, even more in-love version of the two of you. If a carefully picked ring is tucked away in an otherwise-empty guitar case, she doesn’t need to know. Not yet, at least.

“What?”, she asks, taking in your wandering gaze.

“Just thinking”

“About?”

You hesitate, just for a moment, “That I love you”

“I love you too”

“And you better clean the mess you left at the doorway before dinner’s ready”

Alexia laughs, playfully rolling her eyes, but retreating her steps back to do exactly that.

She knows something is flipping back and forth in your mind, but she also knows when to press and when to let you tidy up your own thoughts before opening up.

The sauce cooks perfectly, creamy and spiced up enough to make the footballer forget the planned dish for the day consisted of plain rice and vegetables. When the pasta is presented on the table and you sit in front of her, it truly looks like a perfect dinner.

You two talk between bites, forgetting manners as the story of a songwriter arriving at the studio with too-personal lyrics about cheating hits its peak. She’s not above good gossip, you know that, and teasing about not revealing names of the people involved is too much fun.

“Speaking of cheating”, you grin as Alexia nearly chokes on the food, shaking your head, “Your football-daughter send me a video”

“Which one?”

“Which daughter, or which video?”

She can’t hide a smile, heading to the kitchen with the empty dishes. You follow, sitting on the counter to keep enjoying each other’s company and the playful banter while she cleans up.

“Vicky sent–”

“I told you to block her”

“Don’t be mean, the videos she share are cute”, you retort, “Most of the times, at least”

“Amor–”

“You have to worry about Jana, actually. She’s ruthless”

“What does that even mean?”

The pure disbelief in her eyes almost makes you second-guess the teasing.

Almost.

“Let’s get back to the point”

“Is there a point?”

“Yes, this video of you– wait, no! Alexia!”

Before you can even finish the sentence, the midfielder decides the dishes can wait. She lifts you off the counter, cutting your words short as she tosses you onto the couch with ease.

The unexpected display of strength overshadows how her soapy hands soak your shirt. It’s an old oversized tee she used to train in, not really something that will be irremediably ruined by the gesture, but it’s the principle of it.

“You watched the interview”, she states, towering above without weighing on you.

“What interview?”

Alexia raises an eyebrow, the corner of her lips quirking up. One of her hands moving under your shirt. It’s a warning, her fingers trailing across your hip.

“I watch all you interviews”, you admit, shifting slightly to caress her cheek, “It was a good video, you’re cute when you get embarrassed”

“I panicked!”, she complains, dropping her body on top of yours to hide her face.

“I bet, with all those people sliding in your DMs–”

The room fills with laughter as she starts tickling you, and your chuckles become too infectious to hold back herself.

#woso x reader #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas #woso fanfics #woso community #woso imagine #woso #here we go again #woso world #my wo(rd)so

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ice-man-goes-bwoah · 5 months ago

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Slinky the Snake||Lando Norris x fem!reader

Word count — 924

Summary: Lando’s afraid of snakes. Y/N has a snake. Love’s about compromise, right?

A/n it’s 3:30am and I’m finally over the stomach bug and now I can’t sleep mostly because I’ve slept all day.

The first time Lando stepped into Y/N’s apartment, he was struck by how cozy it felt. Plants hung from the windows, books lined the shelves, and her couch looked so inviting that he immediately imagined sprawling across it.

But then he noticed the terrarium. “Uh… what’s that?” he asked, already feeling a strange mix of curiosity and dread building in his chest.

Y/N, who was halfway to the kitchen, froze. Slowly, she turned back toward him. “Oh, um, that’s Slinky’s home.”

Lando blinked. “Slinky?”

Y/N hesitated, debating whether to dodge the topic or dive right in. Finally, she sighed, crossing the room to lift the lid of the terrarium.

“Slinky’s my snake.”

And there it was—a ball python, small and unassuming, poking his head out from under a log. Lando’s eyes went wide, and before he even realized it, he’d taken several large steps back.

“Wait… you have a snake?”

“Yes,” Y/N said, her tone defensive but calm. “He’s my pet. And before you say anything, he’s harmless.”

Lando’s face was a mix of disbelief and mild horror. “Harmless? That thing eats live mice! How is that harmless?”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “He’s a ball python, Lando. He doesn’t even have venom. He’s basically a noodle with a face.”

“A noodle with a face,” Lando repeated flatly, looking at the snake as though it might launch itself at him at any moment.

“Look, you don’t have to love him,” Y/N said, crossing her arms. “But… you like me, right?”

Lando’s gaze snapped back to her. “Of course I do.”

“Then give Slinky a chance. Please?”

Fifteen minutes later, Lando was sitting stiffly on Y/N’s couch, eyeing the snake now draped over her shoulders like a scarf.

“He’s not gonna bite me, right?” he asked, his voice an octave higher than usual.

“Not unless you smell like a rat,” Y/N teased.

“Not funny, love.”

Y/N chuckled, reaching up to gently stroke Slinky’s head. “Relax. He’s just curious. See? He likes you.”

Slinky was stretching toward Lando, his tongue flicking as if trying to taste the air around him. Lando, meanwhile, had his hands gripping the couch cushions as though they might save him from a sudden snake attack.

“I don’t think ‘like’ is the right word here,” he muttered.

Y/N leaned back, giving Lando some space. “You don’t have to touch him today. Just sit with us for a bit. Baby steps.” Lando nodded, though he wasn’t entirely convinced.

The next time Lando came over, Slinky decided to make himself the star of the show. While Y/N cooked dinner, Lando kept one wary eye on the snake, who was exploring the coffee table. At one point, Slinky nudged Lando’s phone, flicking his tongue against the screen.

“Uh… he’s touching my phone,” Lando called out.

“He’s playing with it,” Y/N replied from the kitchen.

“Playing or trying to eat it?”

Y/N walked in just in time to see Slinky knock the phone off the table. She picked up the snake and laughed. “He’s just being clumsy. He gets like this sometimes.”

Lando watched as Slinky managed to tangle himself in a lamp cord, looking entirely unbothered by his predicament.

“Should we… help him?” Lando asked hesitantly.

Y/N shook her head, untangling the snake with practiced ease. “He’s fine. He’s like a toddler—always getting into trouble but too cute to stay mad at.”

Lando frowned, watching as Slinky made a beeline for Y/N’s arm, curling around her wrist like a bracelet. “Yeah… I’m not seeing the ‘cute’ part yet.”

After weeks of awkward encounters with Slinky, Lando finally decided it was time to face his fear.

“Okay,” he said one evening, standing in Y/N’s living room. “I’m ready to hold him.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “You sure? No pressure.”

“I’m sure,” Lando said, though his hands were already clammy. “Just… don’t laugh if I scream, okay?”

Y/N grinned, gently lifting Slinky from his terrarium and walking over to Lando. “Alright, hold your hands out like this,” she instructed, demonstrating the proper way to support the snake.

Lando mimicked her stance, and she carefully placed Slinky in his hands.

“He’s heavier than I thought,” Lando murmured, his voice tight.

“Yeah, but see? He’s just chilling.”

Slinky curled lazily around Lando’s wrist, flicking his tongue in a gesture that Y/N swore was friendly.

Lando froze for a moment, his eyes locked on the snake. But when nothing bad happened, he exhaled a shaky breath. “Okay… this isn’t so bad. He’s kind of… soft?”

“Exactly!”

Y/N stepped back to snap a picture, and Lando immediately glared at her. “Don’t you dare post that.” Lando says as they settled on the couch, Slinky slithered across Y/N’s lap, eventually draping himself over Lando’s legs as well.

“You know,” Lando said, glancing down at the snake, “he’s not so bad. I think I might even like him.”

Y/N smirked. “Just wait till he tries to hide in your hoodie.”

“One step at a time, love. One step at a time.”

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nyarlathotep-thecrawlingchaos · 2 years ago

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First Kiss

Mostly fluffy stuff with the best boys. Probably PG-13 at worst.

LA Shanks X FemReader, LA Sanji X FemReader, LA Zoro X FemReader, LA Mihawk X FemReader.

First time doing the whole headcannon bullet format thing. I'm super open to suggestions for more!

Shanks

• He and his crew came into your tavern a few hours ago. They're a pretty rowdy bunch but they're respectful and they tip well, so you don't mind.

• He's a huge flirt the whole time. Crooked little grins, his hand brushing yours whenever you bring him abother drink.

• Calling you "princess" or "sweetheart" and asking when your shift ends.

• Leaning his chair back on two legs so he can get a good look at your ass while you're making your rounds.

• Sweet-talking you into joining him for a few drinks when your shift is over.

• Getting bolder when you decide to flirt back, light touches at your waist and hips, leaning in closer to speak in a more intimate tone.

• Pulls you down by the arm to sit on his lap when you get off work and come back to his table.

• His fingers in your hair and his palm cupping your cheek to pull your face down to his so your foreheads touch.

• Another one of his crooked little grins. "Glad I could talk you into it, princess."

• No hesitation, just rubs the tips of your noses together before his lips brush yours playfully.

• Brief, playful kisses, with soft bites and tugging at your bottom lip, his tongue flicking at your top lip and coxing you to open your mouth.

• Soft little purr or murmur when the kiss gets deeper, his tongue swirling around yours.

• Breaking away very briefly to praise you in a low, playful voice, tucking your hair behind your ear. "Mmm, good girl..."

• Lets you set the pace, but keeps control over everything else.

• No concern at all that you're in public, his hand exploring your body, slipping under your skirt to squeeze your ass and pull you closer, so your legs are straddling his.

• Pushing his hips up against yours, parting his lips from yours with a devilish grin. "We're gonna have a lot of fun tonight, sweetheart."

Sanji

• You asked him for cooking lessons as an excuse to get closer to him and he positively jumped at the opportunity.

• "I promise you're in good hands, my dear."

• Stands behind you to demonstrate cutting techniques, his voice low and intimate in your ear as he leans over you.

• Brushes your hair behind your ear, his knuckles grazing your neck.

• Pulls your hand up to brush his lips to it before helping you grip the knife properly.

• You didn't object to him kissing your hand, so now his lips brush your neck just below your ear.

• "You didn’t just want cooking lessons, did you?"

• Low and playful voice in your ear, pulling the knife away from your hand and lacing his fingers through yours.

• Touching your waist and pulling you gently back against him to close the distance between your bodies.

• Lifting his hand to curl it under your chin, his thumb brushing slow cirles at your cheek as he turns your head to gaze into your eyes.

• Flashes his most charming smile, his forehead touching yours.

• "All you had to do was ask, darling."

• Presses his lips gently to yours, taking the lead.

• Slow and romantic, like he's savoring every second of tasting you.

• Rubbing his hands up and down your waist slowly, breathing deeply and steadily and tugging you closer.

• Hands exploring your body, his touches and caresses gentle and loving, one hand cupping your breast through your shirt and squeezing it lightly.

• Moaning quietly against your lips in response to your moan.

• Parting his lips away with a charming smile.

• "You, my love, have just made me the happiest man in the entirety of the East Blue."

• Spins you around by your hips, lifts you up and places you on the counter beside his cutting board, your thighs spread around him as his lips meet yours again in a deeper, more passionate kiss.

Zoro

• For a few weeks you've noticed him looking your way when he thinks you're not paying attention, but he hasn't said much of anything.

• You get tasked with waking him up from his nap at dinner time, which you don't really like doing because he can get pretty grumpy about it.

• When you reach the hammock, he cracks one eye open. You tell him that dinner is ready.

• Rubbing at his eyes. "Uh-huh...."

• Tucks a hand behind his neck, his eyes scanning over you for a moment.

• Suddenly wraps a hand around your wrist and pulls you up into the hammock with him, on top of him, startling you immensely.

• Keeps a hand tucked behind his neck, his other moving to cup your chin and pull your head down.

• Smirking a little. "I think I'll just skip to dessert."

• Tilts his head a little to capture your lips.

• Leads you into a slow, lazy kiss, his hand trailing down your back...and then back up, pushing under your shirt to graze across your bare skin.

• His rough calloused fingers and palms break you out almost immediately into goosebumps.

• Not shy about cutting straight to the chase, tugging your shirt off and tossing it aside.

• Leaves your lips to trail kisses down the column of your throat, hands moving up your waist, his fingers curling around the cups of your bra.

• A knock the door breaks your lips apart—Luffy shouting at the other side that dinner's on.

• Rolls his eyes and shouts back, "I'll eat later!"

• Looks up at you, his expression lightening into an amused grin.

• "What about you, (y/n)? You gonna go now?"

• When you shake your head no, he chuckles, his grin growing broader.

• "Yeah, I didn't think so. Now..."

• Suddenly, and with ease, he grips your hip and your waist and flips you onto your back in the hammock, reversing your positions.

• Lays one of his hands flat over your stomach, the other trailing his fingers down the side of your neck, pulling your bra strap down your shoulder.

• "Where were we?"

• And his lips crush against yours in a fierce, possessive kiss.

Mihawk

• It's been over a month since he took you under his wing, and the sexual tension between you is so thick you could cut it with a knife.

• But he won't make a damned move, just keeps teasing at it with subtle soft touches, low and intimate words, shared gazes of desire.

• Just today when you and him made port a few hours ago, he stopped you on the docks before you went your separate ways to resupply.

• Moved in close, his yellow eyes boring into yours with their usual intensity, lowered his head until his forehead touched yours.

• Curled a hand in your hair and murmured with his lips barely an inch away from yours:

• "Be careful, my little bird."

• Dropped his gaze briefly to your lips.

• Brushed his thumb gently over your bottom lip...and then parted from you, disappearing down the crowded street.

• He is driving you absolutely insane and you aren't going to be able to hold out much longer before you just throw yourself at him.

• After resupplying you make your way toward the tavern where you agreed to meet...but you're caught from behind by your arms, a pair of strong hands wrapped around them and pulling you down a dark, empty alley.

• You're shoved against a stone wall and turned around...to face Mihawk, his hands still wrapped around your arms.

• He bores his gaze into yours again.

• Doesn't loosen his grip on your arms.

• "You aren't being vigilant. Anyone could have grabbed you."

• Takes a step closer, your bodies nearly touching.

• Lowers his head, his lips so close they brush across yours as he speaks in a low, intimate tone.

• "I'd rather not lose you, little one."

• Holds your gaze with his own for what feels like hours.

• Trails his fingers down your arms slowly, sending a shiver through your whole body.

• Lets his hands linger at your hips.

• Tightens his grip suddenly, taking a swift step forward so your body is pinned between his and the wall completely.

• In the same motion, tilts his head and crushes his lips against yours in a bruising, passionate kiss.

• Finally.

• His kiss is firm and unyeilding, slow and intense, and he has you trembling against the wall in an instant.

• Parts your lips with his tongue, sighing slowly as you meet it with your own.

• Grabs your hands and pins them over your head in a show of pure dominance—your pleasure is completely at his whim.

• Drifts his lips across your cheek and your neck, his breath hot against your ear.

• "We will stay in town tonight. I want you in bed with me before sundown."

• Chuckles lightly when you can do nothing but nod fervently.

• "Such a good little bird."

• Kisses your neck, sucking at the tender skin and leaving behind a small bruise.

• He brushes his lips to the mark once more.

• "In case it wasn’t already clear that you belong to me."

#opla #dracule mihawk #shanks #roronoa zoro #sanji #sanji one piece #zoro one piece #mihawk one piece #shanks one piece #shanks x reader #sanji x reader #zoro x reader #mihawk x reader #headcannons #fluff #fanfic #one piece fanfiction #one piece headcanons

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always-just-red · 8 months ago

Text

A/N: So I threatened a while back to write MC arresting Sylus since he literally won’t shut up about it. Thought this would be a silly fic but it ended up an angst-driven exploration of how his time with MC is probably finite and ill-fated?? Anyway Sylus is too soft for this, I’m sorryyyy (Sy I love you! I would never do this to you! ‘Didn’t it come from your imagination, though?’ Ssshhhh you don’t know what you’re saying!! 🥰)

To Remain Silent

Sylus x Reader 🩸

Summary: Sylus has told you to arrest him one too many times...

Genre: Emotional rollercoaster honestly? Some angst, some comfort (and a lil spice for flavour)

Warnings/Additional tags: gn!reader, vaguely established relationship, gets a little steamy at the end (mostly kissing tbh), artistic licence applied liberally since this would be WAY too risky for MC to actually attempt 😭😭

| Word count: 2.7k | Masterlist | Opt-in to my taglist here!

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Love and Deepspace. All work is my own, so please don't repost or plagiarise!

Sylus knows this isn’t real.

You watch him through the glass of his cell, and the subtle tint to it lets you know that he can’t watch you back. He’s sat on the single bench inside, leaning against the far wall, his long legs stretched out before him. His hands are cuffed— tucked away behind his back— but he still looks comfortable. More than comfortable: at ease. At home. Bored.

“You think I can’t feel those pretty little eyes of yours on me?” he mutters, head back, eyes closed. “I’m at your mercy, kitten. Are you really only going to look?”

You tap a button on the glass. “You should start taking this seriously.”

He smiles at the sound of your voice, but his eyes don’t open; there’s still nothing to see. “I’m taking it very seriously, sweetie.”

“I don’t think you are.”

The smile turns even more smug: a confession, all by itself. He sits up and leans forward, like someone who’s found a change of conversation to be interesting. His eyes open— managing to find you, somehow, and— can he see you? No. It’s an educated guess, he’s just selling it with confidence.

Leisurely, he rises from his seat and saunters over to the glass. “Let me see you,” he orders, then bargains: “Please? This is so very—” he toes the division— “one-sided.”

You can’t look him in the eyes, can you? This is hard enough without the windows to your soul baring your heart and your mind to him, like they always do. You should have worn those sunglasses he bought you for that undercover assignment. This is what they’re for, right? Hiding.

With a circular swipe of your finger, the glass before you clears and Sylus meets your gaze.

“Hi,” he teases.

You fold your arms across your chest. “Hey.”

“This is quite some effort you’ve gone to, kitten. And all for me, no less.”

“What effort?” you dismiss plainly. “You practically slapped those handcuffs on yourself.”

It’s not an exaggeration: from the cuffs to the ride here, not a single stage of his arrest has been resisted. The closest he’s gotten to a lack of cooperation was when you’d first restrained and dragged him from his study, where he’d been inclined to point out that the bedroom was the other way.

“Well, I didn’t want to cause a fuss,” he smirks. One of his hands is brought forward, and his handcuffs now hang uselessly from a finger. “Tell me,” he says, letting them swing as he holds your gaze, “what am I to expect now I’ve been so masterfully captured?”

You glance at the restraints, unmoved. “That isn’t for me to decide.”

A door behind you slides open, and— right on time— an altogether more impressive presence joins you before the cell. Sylus glances her up and down as the click of her heeled boots come to a stop; he has never met your captain, but he knows her face.

“You really cashed in all your favours, didn’t you, sweetie?” he observes. He turns to address the woman beside you: “We haven’t been introduced. I’m—”

“I know who you are,” Jenna interrupts, her tone as incorruptible as yours.

Sylus’s arm lifts, resting on the glass above you so he can tower over you, despite the partition. “Is that right?” he purrs absent-mindedly, dropping his head so he can speak into your ear. “Sweetie… I thought you could keep a secret.”

He’s goading you into your usual game, but the stakes don’t interest you. “You were wrong.”

You’re at your own table, dealing your own cards. Does he want to play? You think he might. His lips are curving at the delicious prospect of a challenge. You’ve given him a taste of it. He wants more.

Jenna is studying her clipboard, acting oblivious. She senses the impasse. Asks Sylus: “Do you know why you’re here?”

He huffs impatiently. “Enlighten me.”

“Sylus,” you scold.

Red eyes widen a fraction.

You see it.

Good.

…

Sylus thinks this might be real.

You said his name. His real name: the one with sharp, bloody strings attached. The one on all the posters. The one in your precious Association’s archives, linked to stacks of files and crime scene photos, most of which he isn’t even responsible for.

Sylus. You said: Sylus.

It was worthy of a grand reveal— the sort of plot twist that delivered the suspense of so many thrillers— but here you are, speaking it like it’s nothing. Not a slip of the tongue; not a mistake. And it’s different here. He’s not your Sylus. He’s theirs.

Their murderer. Their monster. Their convenient little scapegoat for everything dark and unholy.

The captain is reading him a list, reeling off every crime— each alleged sin. As if he needs a reminder. As if all the time in the world could ever let him forget. “Needless to say, Mr Sylus,” she summarises, “due to the nature of these crimes, you may prove exempt from our standard procedures. A case like this is… unprecedented. Onychinus has much to answer for. You have much to answer for.”

Sylus hasn’t really been listening; it’s all senseless bureaucracy. “You have the wrong man,” he says, because whatever you’re doing— whatever stunt this is— a confession is sure to derail it. You know that, don’t you? You must be counting on it: holding that guilty breath of yours and hoping he’s smart enough to not be Sylus.

You don’t look worried in the slightest. You must have an awful lot of faith in him.

He studies you, waiting for a small, deliberate smile or a moment of weakness. Give him a sign, don’t give him a sign— it doesn’t matter; he’ll find one. His intentions must be clearer than yours, because you step up to the glass to face him.

Do it, your silence says, even though the rest of you is illegible. You want to look? Look.

His eye could light like a crimson fire— could burn the truth out of you— but it won’t. It’s a promise he made what feels like a lifetime ago, not long after you’d met: Your thoughts and desires are yours to give, not his to take.

Even here. Even now. He’s a man of his word, after all.

Impressed? You smile faintly, but there’s no warmth to it. “Captain,” you speak, your eyes not leaving his, “can you give us a minute? Please?”

“Of course,” the woman answers with a nod.

Sylus does not see her go. He hears it: the retreating rhythm of her shoes. He feels it: it’s just the two of you, alone again. Well, the two of you and that ‘hidden’ camera in the far corner of the room. “Whatever game this is,” he grins good-naturedly, his teeth gritted, “it stops. Now.”

“It’s not a game, Sylus. I told you to take this seriously.”

“What are you doing?” he snaps, and that good-natured grin didn’t last very long.

Your hands land on your hips. “My job.” When he scoffs, you continue: “Did you really think this would end any other way? After everything you’ve done?”

He laughs and it’s deeply sardonic. He’s no saint— to try to convince you he was would be a crime worthy of punishments far worse than this. But you know him. You know the line and what stands on each side of it: everything he’s done, yes, and everything he’s been made to take the fall for.

You wouldn’t do this to him. Would you? “You want to play pretend? Fine,” he hisses. He wants to wrap his Evol around that godforsaken camera and annihilate it. “You caught the big, bad boss of Onychinus— congratulations, sweetie. Sure. Let’s say that’s who I am. A man like that has power, right? So what’s to keep him— me— from escaping? Right now?”

“You’re not going to leave, Sylus. Wanna know why?”

He’s sure you’re going to tell him, and you do:

“Because you’re all talk. All smoke and mirrors. You want to go? Go. But there’s not a single person in this building who wouldn’t give their life to bring you back. Someone will catch up to you eventually, and what then?”

“I’ll have a lot of fun, I imagine.”

“You’ll do nothing,” you correct. “Because those people out there? They’re my friends. My family. You hurt them? You hurt me. Make all the threats you want, Sylus— we both know the truth.”

He towers over you, still, but it’s hard not to shrink at your next words:

“You don’t have it in you.”

Your eyes are sharp: whetted with resentment. Sylus is your reflection— your worthy opponent, always— but he just can’t look at you like that.

There’s a quiet hiss as you slide a finger over the cell’s control panel. White, neon light carves through the glass partition: two vertical lines that bleed upwards, either side of him, before bending to meet each-other. The glass between them shimmers, then fades.

Sylus stands on the precipice of the doorway, cool air crawling past him. He stares up at the camera, then down at you. Your arms have folded again as you watch him— a narrative of apathy.

“How about it, Sylus?” you ask bitterly. “Still think you can outrun fate?”

“No.” Not since it started wearing your face. Fate is you, putting a bullet in his heart, and him, waking up so you can do it over and over again. Maybe this is real. Maybe it isn’t. “What do you want from me?” he entreats softly, because you’ll get it— either way.

“Isn’t it obvious?” you sneer, and your hand shoots out, grasping a fistful of his shirt. You use it to drag him out of the cell, closer, lower, so that his face is mere inches from yours.

“No,” he repeats. “Say it.”

Your eyes burn like pyres: so dangerous, so beautiful, so suited to being the death of him. “I want you—” you begin, as they flit briefly to his lips— “to tell me…”

“What?”

“How you cheat at kitty cards.”

Oh. Oh.

You’re going to be insufferable about this, aren’t you?

Sure enough, you drop his shirt and burst into laughter— irrepressibly you again. The fire in your eyes has simmered down into something warm, safe, and comfortable, and— gods— you’re even crying. You’re doubled over, holding your stomach as though it hurts. You lift a hand to wipe your wet cheek. “Your face,” you get out between gasps, “oh, your face!”

Yours is not the only laughter, but it’s the only laughter Sylus hears.

“We so got you, Skye!” Tara’s vaguely familiar voice resounds from an intercom.

There’s some confusing static with it— more tittering voices— and Sylus suspects he’s found himself the star of your colleagues’ after-work entertainment. He puts his hands on his hips as he looks up at the camera. “Is the whole office—”

“Yeah,” you manage, wiping away another tear. “Figured it would be good for morale. Good practice, too.”

“Practice?”

“Mmhmm,” you confirm with a hum. You’ve apparently gotten a handle on the hilarity of the situation, because you approach him with something close to composure. Meditatively, you smooth down the fabric of his shirt. Straighten his collar. “For when we catch the real Sylus one day.”

He captures your wrists; that’s a lot of tenderness for someone who just tried to give him a heart attack. Maybe he’s a little too rough, because you pout at him in a way that makes him instantly soften his grip.

“You ok, Skye?” you enquire with an ironic smile and an adorable tilt of your head.

His thumbs are feathering over your pulse points, and slowly, he leans in to deliver a message, just for you: “If I say no, will you make it up to me?”

…

Sylus knows this is real.

His mouth is on yours and it’s relentless, desperate; you made him wait for it. How long has he been wanting to trap you against the nearest wall, just like this, so he can kiss you until he forgets just how cold you can be?

He’s been very patient. He didn’t roll his eyes or utter a word of complaint when you’d dragged him to join your colleagues for dinner. It was your victory party, your ‘I made you look like an idiot’ party, but he was his usual, charming self, and your friends all adored him for it. They’d spun him the tale of his ‘arrest’— the planning, the preparation, and your lightbulb moment:

“Hey, guys, have you ever thought about how Skye kinda looks like Sylus?”

Only he could understand how wickedly clever it was. His eyes had sought yours as he listened, lazy, content, and so obviously biding his time. You’d smiled at him. He’d smiled back.

And he’d stayed smiling, even after the party was over and you’d had to walk a slightly-tipsy Tara home. She’d refused a taxi, insisted Sylus escort her— oh, and you could come, too! He’d lent her his arm: humoured every squeeze and chuckled at each remark about the size of it. You’d had to swat her away, in the end.

“I’m just teasing, y’know?” she’d giggled as the three of you arrived at her front door. “Skye knows I’m just teasing. You’re such a sweetheart, Skye. Imagine! You— the leader of Onychinus!”

She’d laughed, much too loud for such a quiet street, and with a less-than-subtle wink, left the two of you alone. Which is how you’d ended up here, in an alley around the back of her building, because it was Sylus’s turn to drag you somewhere.

His attentions have moved lower; there’s a subtle clink as his fingers find the clasp of your shirt collar and he peels it back, exposing your neck. His lips leave yours, trailing down, down— past the line of your jaw and over the soft, vulnerable column of your throat. You gasp as he brushes over a sensitive spot, and you could swear you feel him smile.

He’s always been passionate, but this is a different fire, fuelled by something you can’t ignore, no matter how much you want to:

Relief.

“Sy,” you murmur breathlessly, your hand in his hair, tugging gently. “Sy, stop.”

“Mmm?” he acquiesces, voice sinfully low as the cold evening air takes his place kissing your neck. His eyes shine like blood spilt in the dead of night— lingering on you. He looks drunk.

You lift a hand to cup his face and run your thumb over his cheek. “I’ll never let anything happen to you, Sylus. You know that, right?”

Those dark eyes find clarity with your words, full of apprehension for just how naive you can be. The future will turn on you just as quickly as a wild animal someone boasts about having tamed, and aren’t you foolish, thinking you can control something like that?

Besides, that’s his job.

“I know,” he says like he’s supposed to— ever the martyr, following the script. He goes to nuzzle into you again, but your hand is still tight in his hair and he groans as you use it to pull him back.

“I mean it,” you reassert, forcing him to look at you. You don’t care that it’s ridiculous. You don’t care that fate is so hot on your heels that you have to keep running. You’re tired. He’s even more tired.

Isn’t it nice to stop and catch your breath?

Pretend you have time: His gaze is full of faith and oh, the world is going to enjoy punishing the two of you. “I know,” he insists, because this is the second time you’ve fooled him tonight. You feel his hand on your face and you let him kiss you— again, then again— so achingly slow, so arrogant.

The world can wait; he wants to punish you first.

“Do you really want to know—” he distracts as he finds that sensitive spot on your neck again— ��how I cheat at kitty cards?”

The pad of his finger is chasing the path of his mouth; it tickles. You whine: “Tell me later, Sy.”

“Ok,” he breathes against you.

Later. There’ll be a later.

Won’t there?

#🖋rach is actually writing #sylus x reader #sylus #love and deepspace #lads sylus #lnds sylus #l&ds sylus #qin che #sylus x mc #sylus x you #lads x reader #lads #lnds #l&ds

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missrosiesworld · 10 months ago

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Moonlit Confessions

Here are some headcanons for Von Lycaon's first kiss with his crush, along with a short story:

Height Difference: Given Von Lycaon's towering height of 6'6", his first kiss involves a noticeable height difference from his crush. He might have to lean down or gently lift his crush to bring them closer to his level. This gesture would be both protective and intimate, emphasizing his careful nature.

Gentle Approach: Despite his intimidating appearance, Von Lycaon would approach the kiss with surprising gentleness. He would likely start by caressing his crush's cheek or tucking a strand of hair behind their ear, ensuring they are comfortable and receptive before moving closer.

Careful Control: Von Lycaon is aware of his strength and size, so he would be incredibly careful and controlled, ensuring that his crush feels safe and cherished. His hands would likely rest lightly on their waist or shoulders, providing a comforting presence without overwhelming them.

Tender and Slow: The kiss would begin softly, almost hesitant, as Von Lycaon carefully gauges his crush's response. He would start with a gentle brush of his lips against theirs, savoring the moment and ensuring that every movement is tender and considerate.

Building Intensity: As his confidence grows and his crush reciprocates, the kiss would deepen. Von Lycaon would cup the back of their head or cradle their face, his touch firm yet gentle. The kiss would become more passionate but never rushed, as he takes his time exploring this new, intimate connection.

Subtle Canine Traits: In moments of heightened emotion, his canine traits might subtly manifest. His ears might twitch, or there might be a slight wag of his tail if he's particularly happy. This adds a unique, endearing element to the experience.

Emotional Vulnerability: For Von Lycaon, the first kiss is not just a physical act but an emotional commitment. He would feel vulnerable, sharing a part of himself that he usually keeps guarded. His eye, usually calm and composed, might show a flicker of nervousness or intense emotion.

Aftermath: Post-kiss, Von Lycaon would hold his crush close, keeping his arms wrapped securely around them, resting his forehead against theirs, savoring the shared intimacy. His tail, usually a subtle indicator of his feelings, would continue to wag slightly, reflecting his happiness.

The moon hung high in the sky, casting a silver glow over the quiet city. Von Lycaon walked beside his crush, the streets mostly deserted at this hour. The soft sound of their footsteps was the only thing breaking the serene silence. Despite his usual calm demeanor, Lycaon felt a flutter of nervousness in his chest. The moment felt different tonight—special, charged with an unspoken anticipation.

As they walked, he found himself sneaking glances at them, admiring the way the moonlight played off their features. There was something enchanting about them, something that always drew him in. His height usually made him feel imposing, but around them, he felt a strange sense of vulnerability—a desire to be gentle and kind.

They reached a quiet park, the perfect place for a moment of respite. Lycaon, ever the gentleman, offered his arm to his crush, guiding them to a nearby bench. They sat down, the cool night air enveloping them. For a moment, neither spoke, the silence filled with the soft rustle of leaves and the distant hum of the city.

Lycaon turned to face his crush, his heart racing beneath his calm exterior. "The moon is beautiful tonight," he murmured, his voice steady yet carrying a depth of emotion. His crush looked up, nodding in agreement, their eyes reflecting the soft glow of the moon.

Encouraged by the quiet intimacy of the moment, Lycaon spoke again, his voice gentle. "There's something I've been wanting to share with you," he began, his tone both earnest and tender. He reached out, gently cupping their cheek, his thumb tracing a soft line along their skin. "You've captured my heart in a way I never thought possible," he confessed, his gaze meeting theirs with vulnerability and affection.

His crush's eyes softened, a gentle smile forming on their lips. "You mean that?" they asked, their voice tinged with hope and warmth.

Lycaon nodded, his expression sincere. "Yes, more than anything. Being with you feels... right, like everything has fallen into place," he continued, his hand tenderly cradling their cheek. "I've come to cherish every moment we share, and I find myself wanting more—more time, more memories, more of you."

His crush leaned into his touch, their smile widening. "I feel the same," they admitted, their voice soft and sincere. "I've been hoping you felt this way too."

A relieved smile spread across Lycaon's face, his eye lighting up with joy. "I'm glad," he whispered, leaning in closer. "I promise to always cherish and protect you, to make sure you know just how much you mean to me."

As the words left his lips, the air around them seemed to hum with a newfound closeness. Leaning down, he brought his face closer to theirs, his tall frame bending over protectively. He hesitated for a moment, his breath mingling with theirs, as if seeking silent permission. When his crush's eyes fluttered shut, Lycaon took it as the answer he needed.

Gently, he closed the remaining distance, his lips meeting his crush's in a tender, tentative kiss. The initial touch was soft and hesitant, yet filled with all the emotions he'd been holding back. The warmth of their lips and the softness of their skin sent a shiver down his spine. His hand moved to cradle the back of their head, his fingers gently threading through their hair, while his other arm wrapped securely around their waist, pulling them closer to him.

As the kiss deepened, Lycaon's movements became more confident and assured. The gentle kiss transformed into something more passionate and intense. His lips pressed more firmly against theirs, exploring and savoring the moment. The tenderness was still there, but now it was accompanied by a fervent desire, a longing that had been kept at bay for too long. His breaths became deeper, his heart racing as the kiss continued.

His grip tightened slightly, not in a constricting way, but as if he wanted to hold them closer, never letting go. The gentle tangling of fingers in their hair became a caress, his hand moving down to gently cradle their jaw. The kiss was no longer just a meeting of lips; it was an expression of deep affection and connection. His tail, a clear indicator of his emotions, wagged more visibly, betraying the joy and contentment he felt in that moment.

Finally, they pulled away, both breathless and with their foreheads resting together. Lycaon felt a profound warmth spread through him, a sense of contentment and rightness that he had never experienced before. A rare, genuine smile spread across his face, reaching his eye. As if to further express his affection, his tail gently wrapped around his crush, holding them close and conveying a protective, loving embrace.

"Thank you," he murmured, his voice filled with gratitude and affection. "For trusting me... and for this."

His crush smiled back, their eyes twinkling with shared joy. "Thank you, Lycaon," they whispered, their voice just as soft. "For everything."

A deep sense of contentment and serenity washed over Lycaon as they sat there, wrapped in each other's arms under the moonlit sky. In this moment, he knew their relationship had begun a new chapter, filled with promise and closeness. For the first time in a long while, he felt truly at peace, content in the knowledge that he was exactly where he was meant to be.

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pombeom · 10 months ago

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keep reading | soobin fic (nsfw)

nsfw, mdni!

pairings: bf!soobin x bookworm!reader

warnings: smut, fingering, nipple play, boob play, handjob?, riding, nipple sucking, cockwarming, unprotected sex (pls use protection), creampie

summary: soobin loves listening to you read but when he chooses the book you guys read, things take a dirty turn

a/n: this was mostly inspired from a tiktok i saw where a couple was reading the book in this fic together (particularly chapter 22) and to anyone whose read the book, pls let me know in the comments below so we can fangirl together!

Even though Soobin didn’t like the type of books you did, he always made the effort to sit and listen to you read your latest book out loud. But little did you know that his intentions behind this today were far less innocent than you could have imagined.

Whilst on your little bookshop date, you decided to venture outside the world of classic literature and explore “booktok”. The local bookshop presented a display of all the books that are growing in popularity on “TikTok” and Soobin encouraged you to pick a book named “Twisted Love” suggesting the title sounded intriguing.

“Come on read it for me, baby,” Soobin whined, trying to drag you from the kitchen into your bedroom, your usual reading spot.

“What do you think you’re gonna eat for dinner then?”

“You…” he mumbles under his breath but loud enough that you heard it, earning him a slap on his arm.

“I’m nearly done just wait.”

Acquiescing, he sighs and ventures off into the living room, slouching on the sofa.

20 minutes later…

“Soobin, come on let’s eat! I’m starving.”

He makes his way back to the kitchen and grabs a serving of the pasta you made. Before even sitting down at the table, he gobbles down half the food, rushing to finish the meal. You raise suspicion at his behaviour particularly as he’s never this excited for your reading sessions.

Rather than question it, you also finish your meal at a quicker pace than usual. Soobin’s excitement was quite intriguing.

“You finished?” He asks, as you put away your plates and cutlery in the dishwasher.

“Yes I’m done,” you sigh, rolling your eyes at his behaviour.

“Come on, let’s go.” He places an arm around your waist and guided you to your shared bedroom.

He sprawls across the double bed whilst you grab the book from the shopping bag and you slot yourself in between Soobin’s legs using his chest as a back rest.

“Ok, let’s begin shall we?” You ask getting your answer through the form of a back hug as his arms sliver around your waist and places his chin on your shoulder, encapsulating you in his body.

Usually, your reading sessions last from anywhere between 30 minutes to 1 hour, yet today you’ve been reading at it continuously for 3 hours, unable to put it down. You comment on the characters’ stupidity and question plot holes whilst Soobin simply nods his head and agrees with you. He seemed more distracted than usual: his thoughts were elsewhere.

“Chapter 22…” you begin. Soobin’s grip around you, suddenly gets tighter, pulling you closer to his body. You could guess from where the plot was going that this chapter was going to contain some sort of smut and honestly you expected it.

“Is this why you picked out this book, Soobin? You knew about this scene didn’t you? That’s why you were so excited!”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about baby,” he replies, acting clueless but the tone of his voice was an instant giveaway of his fibs, “Keep reading.”

The chapter instantly starts off intense and each word that comes out your mouth sounds seductive to Soobin. It’s as if you were beckoning him to ruin you tonight. Each sentence is hotter and dirtier than the last and before you even reached the 6th sentence, you could feel Soobin’s lips attach to your nape, kissing and sucking at your skin. His mouth lowers to your shoulders, leaving a trail of bruised red marks. The sensation of his lips on your skin sets a wildfire in the pits of your stomach and you instantly shut the book and your eyes.

“I want you to keep reading babe,” he whispers in your ear, “Keep reading.”

You open the page back up again at chapter 22 and continue reading from where you left and and every so often letting out a suppressed moan at the contact between the two of you. He proceeds on removing your top from behind and slides down your baggy pyjama bottoms with ease. His movements matched the scene of the book where Ava, the female protagonist, was now stripped naked of her clothing.

As if on cue, Soobin’s dick stands erect just as the male character Alex’s does. You feel his hardness through his grey joggers on your naked ass and you begin rubbing yourself against him.

“You want me to take you, Sunshine? Ruin you, pound you into a pathetic mess, turn you into my little fuck doll?” You read out loud, feeling Soobin’s hands move from your waist in opposite directions: one head up to grab one of your breasts, while the other rubs your pussy. You arch your back, leaving your head into the nape of his neck, leaving breathy moans right under his ear.

“You like that, baby? Want me to ruin you just as Alex is going to do with Ava?”

“Mhm- ahhh,” you shriek as suddenly you feel 3 fingers inserted into your entrance.

The hand that was on your boob, travels into your mouth, gathering your spit before moving down to meet the other hand at your pussy. Soobin rubs his thumb on your clit whilst fingering you deep and rough, leaving you feeling overpowered by the sensations you were feeling.

It’s not long before you throw the book into some corner of the room and turn your body to face him, removing yourself of his fingers. You pull up his tshirt, teasing him by scraping past his nipples, making him let out a soft grunt. You work your way down to his joggers which were stained with precum, and pull them down in one swift movement revealing his cock. It was long with an average girth but the way he used it on you was like nothing you’ve ever felt before.

You pump your fists up and down his member before lifting yourself up and sitting down on it. You ease yourself into position as his hands move up to your waist, securing you tightly. Your movements begin slow, adjusting yourself to his size, because no matter how many times you guys fuck your hole is always too tight, even as it oozes with slick and wetness.

You eventually pick up the pace, your tits bouncing uk and down in front of his face, your nipples grazing it every so often. Soobin guides you well pushing his cock in deep into your pussy, hitting all the right spots.

“You’re taking me so well baby. Fuck you’re so good!” He mutters, his grunts mixing with your whimpers and moans.

“Soo- Soobin! I don’t thi- think I can- last a- any longer! Shit! That was- so good!” Your slewed words were a melody to Soobin’s ears.

He quickens his pace as you’re left riding him so fast you can’t even think. His mouth suddenly latches onto one of your nipples as he begins sucking and licking your tit.

“Agh! Soobin that feels so good! Do the other one!” You manage to say in between your moans.

Soobin follows your instructs and moves to your other breast, repeating the same actions.

“I’m gonna cum! Soobin keep going! I’m so close!”

“Look at you. So desperate for my cock? Cum with me baby.”

Not even seconds later, your orgasm comes crashing, letting out the louadest scream. Your mind is numb as you fall onto Soobin’s chest, grabbing his shoulders for support as he continues to ride both your orgasms. His cum mixes with yours, leaking out your pussy while you remain seated on his dick, cockwarming him.

“Stay like this for a bit more babe.” Soobin wraps his arms around your waist, hugging you and pulling your naked body closer to his, “You did so well. Let’s get you cleaned up shall we?”

“No, please let’s just stay like this tonight.”

“Anything for you baby.”

Soobin lies you down next to him without removing his cock from your pussy. He’s now spooning you form behind and you both instantly fall asleep, tangled up in each others naked forms.

#soobin smut #soobin ff #soobin hard hours #txt smut #txt hard hours #txt reaction #txt ff #txt #txt post

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rene-darling · 1 year ago

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EXPLORING- him

In which you find yourself being able to closely touch and see your boyfriend's body..aka body hcs, and you examine their scars...im not sure if this is the original artist but I found the pic on scara.meowing insta

...Wanderer...xiao...kazuha...

Wanderer

The wanderer isn't one to let just anyone see his body,

Even thinking about being so vulnerable in front of someone leaves his head aching and sends a weird feeling up his spine

Letting someone see the scars he has obtained from throughout his life is something he won't ever agree to doing,

So if you wish to be able to see him, you'll have to find a roundabout way to do so,

Luckily for you, for the past few days, he's been complaining about back aches from being hunched over all day trying to complete his assignments from being a vahumana student

You offered a massage which after much pain and annoyance he agreed to.

After he agreed he turned around from you and took off his kimono, slipping it off with ease as he moved to remove the top half of his black body suit as well, cheeks slightly flushed as he was basically stripping in front of you.

He laid on his stomach starting forward, his usual snappy self is a bit quiet, it isn't every day he's laid bare in front of you for you to touch without engaging in promiscuous activities.

"hurry up what are you starin-" Suddenly the boy goes quiet as you run your hand down his spine, chuckling to yourself at his immediate quietness

Imprints of big circles are left on his back, most likely from the tubes that once connected him to his shouki no kami, large red indents are all that's left on his puppet body, and his back tenses once your fingers trace the circle following it's track.

Your fingers trace his skin where forgotten scars lay healed, scars mostly gained by cruel experiments at the hands of the doctor, his face sours when you touch them, constricting in...annoyance? Sadness? Or perhaps at the reminder of bad memories.

And when your hand traces up his spine to a strange purple symbol on the back of his neck, one that represents the electro symbol but not quite.

And as your hand touches it, it's as if a bolt of lightning is sent through his body, his hand immediately reacting to slap away your hand from it, quickly getting up and backing away from your touch his panicked eyes look into yours his breathing ragged for a moment before calming down

"I'm...im sorry" his voice comes out in a whisper, as if that's all he could manage..

Xiao

If you thought getting the wanderer to show himself to you was hard think again.

In no circumstance will he ever allow you to massage him just because his muscles feel sore

He's too proud as an Adeptus and as a Yaksha to allow that.

No matter how many long nights he's fought allowing himself relief in this form is out of the question.

It's not just his pride speaking though, he's far too selfless to allow himself rest.

Only when his karmic dept clings to him and dark miasma swirls in the air that surrounds him does he agree to allow you to touch him, albeit very reluctantly.

Only after being pushed to his physical limit does he allow you to touch his bare body, his bare body that he despises so much.

Your hands, which remain untainted by the dark miasma that surrounds him, untainted by the blood of thousands of innocents, he isn't deserving of your touch.

But he holds his tongue, letting your hands roam over his toned back without arguing, not so much as a pip is heard from the man,

He has a small frame, and an even smaller waist but the muscles he's trained from over a millennia are quite clear and pronounced

Your hands ghost over healed scars that he's long forgotten the stories too, claw marks which indicated a time his very flesh was punctured and bleeding.

Those scars he had gained admits battle, those roughly edged scars that you touched oh so very sweetly. He doesn't deserve this. In his mind he doesn't even deserve you but this especially.

He breathes deeply, it's okay, it's fine, he doesn't mind as you touch the scars he obtained during wartime, a time when he used to fight with his brothers and sisters

But his breath does hitch when you touch a scar that...even after thousands of years is stuck deep into his skin, a scar he received long before being rescued by Rex lapis.

His fists clenched as the memories flashed before his eyes,, the memories of him..his breathing increased almost to the point of him having a mini panic attack..

He only calmed himself once your hand moved away from there and to his arm as you traced the tattoo on it, gently tracing its edges as you reassured him that it would be alright.

Kazuha

Kazuha does not mind one bit if you want to see his body

He'll make a sly remark about your request of course

But he'll never deny nor say no to you

He doesn't have any insecurities regarding his body

He's confident in them and the scars he has obtained over the years of being a samurai

He'll raise an eyebrow at your request and give you a sly smile, yet when you explain your reasoning he'll smile gently and he chuckles nodding to your request set

Taking off his shirt for you and laying on his stomach, you can see his arms wrapped in bandages and some freshly obtained scars on his back are too.

Most though, are healed each one having a story behind it,

Whatever scar you trace he'll have the story behind it, from the smallest of cuts to the deepest of gashes he'll tell you, in depth how, where, and when he got it

Scars trace throughout his body down his arms that are wrapped in bandages, perhaps this day, he'll let you redo them for him,

Other than his scars his skin is soft and smooth, it's quite fair and he definitely has a tan line, his face is a bit darker than the rest of his body due to him always being out in the sun

He sometimes likes going into gruesome details about how he got a specific scar, but when you asked him about one he got on the day tomo was killed, he hesitates.

Going quiet for a moment, thinking deeply about what to say or tell, but unlike the other boys, he's more open with you and he'll tilt his head back as he recounts the story of that scar.

He won't tell you the whole story but...little by little he'll start mentioning little details here and there, leaving you some empty spots for you to figure out.

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lilacxquartz · 11 months ago

Text

your body is my temple (and i will worship you);

incubus male oc x human fem!reader

w.c: 2.1k

summary: you and midnight take it to the next level and satisfy a mutual curiosity.

themes: smut, demon x human, porn with plot, size difference, one shot, reader insert, oc/ original character, biting, first person pov

~~~

Slowly but surely, it has been getting easier with having Midnight around. I became used to his presence over time, no matter how unsettling he seemed to be.

As it turned out, demons weren’t too different from humans after all.

At least not by that much.

For the most part, he tried to approach me in a way that he thought to be human in nature. That was my interpretation at least. He tried minimise my fear by getting to know me personally, taking interest in what I like as a means to find a common ground so that we could both get along.

This was going well. Or as well as it possibly could have been given the circumstances because who truly expects an incubus to show up in their life, just like that? Still, just for him alone, I fitted my apartment with blackout curtains so that he could move around comfortably as he pleased.

Slowly, I became used to his presence and before long, we were finally comfortable with one another.

Which led Midnight to want more than what we already had.

(Considering that he was an incubus, I was mostly just surprised that he didn’t bring it up sooner.)

Just as I finished up on my dinner, he followed me back to the bedroom with a certain sort of glint in his eye.

Personally, I wanted to get some more reading done but I could already tell that Midnight had more than just relaxation in mind.

“How interesting,” he observed as his pointed fingers trailed along my flesh, “I don’t have to kiss you for you to stop feeling afraid anymore.”

I nodded, thinking that he had a point. Usually, I would shudder at his touch because Midnight, regardless of how gentle he acted, was still a demon—a monster—there was nothing calming about him at all.

With a featherlight touch, he brushed his fingers down to my chin, pointing my jaw up at him, murmuring on and off in a slur, “You are so… intoxicating… when you’re not afraid.”

Midnight then leaned over me, making my back land flat against my mattress. His body hovered over mine as he dipped his face down with breath like ashen fire, smoking against my skin; daring me to reciprocate.

“I can’t resist, at least not forever,” he admitted, pressing his body right up against mine. The shadows that enveloped his body in void-like fire didn’t do much to his excitement as I could feel it, pushing up right against me with want and even need.

Sinking somehow even further into the mattress, I retracted myself with a cautious tone behind my words, “But, you’re not a forceful incubus …are you?”

Midnight froze in his pursuit, retracting ever so slightly as he lifted his lips off of mine. His blank eyes screwing shut as though he pushed any dark thought back into the murky depths of his mind.

(The part that he didn’t dare let surface, for your own sake.)

“I’m not,” he soothed.

I exhaled a deep breath and tried to get up from bed, but he still kept me locked in; caging my frame with his arms as his palms sank into the mattress.

“But it’s just… certain things,” he began, his voice almost growling as he spoke, “from the way that you breathe to the way your skin goosebumps when it brushes against mine, I’m starting to understand fate a little better, is all,” he paused before continuing, “don’t you feel at least… a little bit similar?”

Admittedly, I did feel something. I just wasn’t sure what. I harboured some sort of curiosity given that he was an incubus and at times, my mind explored such a possibility. To experience something more intense, perhaps even dangerous; the very thing that his kind was known for.

As my mind internally conflicted with itself, he tried to comfort me even if he didn’t let me go, “It’s not your fault, I know. It’s not even personal; humans were designed to fear the unknown.”

“It’s just…” I trailed off as I truly began to consider it. I wasn’t against it, that wasn’t the issue. It was the logistical side of things that threw me off; his height and therefore his potential size was an issue.

He tilted his head off to the side, giving me a moment to think.

“It’s just,” I continued from where I left off, “wouldn’t it hurt if we were to…?”

Midnight eased into a slowly relaxing smile, the glimpse of sharp teeth playing into his expression. Slowly, his body relaxed as he began to understand exactly why I felt so on the fence about things, “I’d work you into it, of course, but also, incubi and even succubi have evolved with human anatomy in mind. It can hurt, but it won’t kill you.”

My eyes flickered off to the ceiling, avoiding his gaze. Despite him lacking irises, I somehow always knew when he was making eye contact with me.

“Let me help you ease into it,” he offered, sweeping his hands around my body; his touch so rough yet so gentle at the same time as worshipping my very own skin.

His hands then moved down as he worked me into it, my eyes widening as his protruding claws grazed against my inner thigh. Black pointed nails spearing from his greyed fingertips.

Pausing, Midnight retracted his hand and balled it into a fist to reel in the claws and assume the length of normal fingernails.

“…My mistake,” he murmured, almost seeming embarrassed.

“W-weird…” I whispered in response, my voice dripping with fascination.

He didn’t reply however, choosing to push the with the task in mind instead. Peeling my sweat shorts down, he dipped his index finger into my sex before retracting it ever so slightly.

“I’ll work you into it,” he promised as he continued to stare at me, as though searching for a certain type of reaction, “I won’t hurt you… too much.”

My thighs squeezed involuntarily as he slid his digit back and forth while his thumb rubbed circles over my clit, lulling me into a gradually relaxed state. It took a couple of minutes at best, but soon enough I was flushed, my cheeks burning with anticipation as he leaned in over me.

Pulling his hand away from me, he moved ever so slightly back to rest both hands against my hips before brushing down to meet parallel with my knees. Curiously, he tented up my legs with a steady grip, hovering his body over mine, positioning the tip of his cock right against my entrance.

Noticing my unease, Midnight continued to take things slowly with as much reassurance as possible, “Relax with me.”

I tried to nod, feeling him ease slowly into my core, wincing as he gradually filled me out completely. I writhed just a little bit underneath his slowly flattening body, his length completely enveloped by my walls in all directions as he finally moved in as far deep as he could possibly go.

Midnight released a low guttural moan in a satisfied tone, seeming pleased as he took a hot minute to fully appreciate the sensation.

“Feeling okay?” he asked as he checked in.

“K-kinda,” I replied in a slightly strained tone.

With a tight nod, he pushed himself back ever so slightly to take the pressure off of you just a little bit, “We’ll go as slow as we need to, then.”

“O-okay,” I murmured in response, feeling him slowly retract his hips and then steadily push back inside.

His movements felt almost calculated as he rolled his hips against mine. With each thrust, no matter how gentle; my breath fluttered upon his impact, my eyes close to watering from the building intensity.

My whines turned into cries as I adjusted to his size, my legs widening as I struggled to take him in. My back arching as a means to accommodate him. As a means of seeking comfort, my fingers desperately clawed at the sheets, grabbing heaped bunches of linen as my toes curled on queue.

It was gradual, but he picked up the pace over time as it became easier for him to both move inside of me as well as my body finally starting to relax, somehow. In a way, I was actually extremely turned on and my heat, so slick and glistening wet, gave away just how I truly felt. My body softened at his touch, allowing him to adopt a quicker pace.

I gasped again as he positioned himself closer over me, continuing to keep me confined within his arms. His arms relaxed over the bed, keeping himself comfortably propped up against his elbows while his head dipped over mine, his lips so desperate to connect with my own.

Instinctively, I wrapped my arms around his neck in an attempt to pull him closer, seeking comfort within his touch which he then leaned into, taking up the pace a notch in response; so feverishly keen.

Midnight grunted as he now pounded into me, rutting his hips at an almost feral pace as I whined in slight protest. To counter my complaints, he finally kissed me to ease the discomfort, spilling whatever magic he held onto inside, slowly tranquilising—numbing the soreness, soothing the unrelenting pain inflicted by his touch.

“Still doing good?” he whispered into my lips, despite not slowing down at all.

“I-I’m good,” I confirmed, just barely hearing him over the heavy breathing and the sound of slapping skin, “I’m good, I’m good…”

Midnight smiled as he revealed his razor sharp teeth that reflected in the spilling moonlight, planting his lips right against my own as his tongue couldn’t help but invade and explore, taking the lead within my mouth as I just barely wrestled it back. Getting too ahead of himself, he couldn’t help but pluck a taste either, sinking his teeth into my lips.

However, upon feeling my body protest to such a sudden and sharp pain, he reeled himself back ever so slightly, offering only a half apologetic whisper, “Sorry ‘bout that.”

His breathing grew gradually heavier as he struggled to retain his composure; his body shaking as I struggled to maintain a secure hold around him. His hips almost trembled—quaked rather as his pace became rougher, his groans morphed into growls as he truly lost himself in my body. I could feel as he subtly accelerated and as his teeth grazed on occasion over my shoulder, grazing against such soft tissue in comparison to his hardened skin. He wasn’t truly apologetic, but he did mutter out hasty apologies whenever I squirmed in heated protest.

I held on either way, feeling as his claws spilled from his fingertips—piercing the bed in a lapse of dwindling control. His body almost vibrated as he purred in deep satisfaction, continuing to slam his monstrous length into my cunt.

“Almost,” he promised as he fucked himself into me, “almost, almost—!”

With a steady push that followed after his words, I could feel as his cock throbbed and twitched inside of me, releasing a surge of warmth within my walls in an almost demanding release. I gasped as he slammed himself inside a final time, painfully emptying himself into me with such pressure and overflowing passion that it couldn’t help but spill onto the bedding as he slowly pulled himself out of my spent body.

I shook ever so slightly as my legs quivered, feeling as Midnight soothed me with another kiss before completely rolling off of me, “To numb the pain.”

I nodded as I did my best to recover, panting as I did so, recollecting my breath while my body glistened with sweat. It took a while, but slowly my body relaxed a second time; my legs squeezing shut once more as my hips wound down.

“Don’t worry about the mess,” Midnight said, “I’ll be your bed for tonight.”

I didn’t protest too much, if at all as I felt him pull my body over his own. He was surprisingly comfortable and perfectly warm; the shadows that wisped from his body tickled against my skin in a gentle warmth, providing a soothing effect to lessen the remaining tension that I still held onto.

Feeling my eyelids droop shut, I couldn’t stay awake for a second longer anymore and drifted off to what seemed to be a much needed sleep.

All the while thinking that perhaps that giving into Midnight was the light I needed, because maybe, just maybe, fate wasn’t wrong in bonding me with him after all.

~~~

more original works • and if fanfics are your thing 🖤

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wandamaximoffsbadgirl · 11 months ago

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Hello!! Hope you’re doing good! Can I request an Evil Queen WandaNat au Drabble where Wanda is away on business with another kingdom and R is left alone with Nat and it’s a little awkward since Wanda is usually the more affectionate one and R has spent more time alone with her than she has with Nat so they spend the day getting to know each other?

Possibly getting caught in a compromising position when Wanda returns?

Thanks!! 🤭💕

EvilQueens!WandaNat x Maid!Fem!Reader

I Think We're Alone Now

Summary: Wanda is away in the next kingdom over so here you are left alone with Natasha. Will you manage to become closer?

Word Count: 1.4K

Warnings: 18+, MDNI, sexual themes

A/N: I love writing these three and exploring their dynamic more. This was like the week following Nat talking with you about being with both of them.

The castle felt emptier without Queen Wanda's presence, her warm, affectionate demeanor a stark contrast to Queen Natasha's colder, more calculating nature. Wanda had left on business with another kingdom, leaving you alone with Natasha, an arrangement that filled you with a mixture of apprehension and curiosity. Your interactions with Natasha had always been intense, but mostly in the presence of Wanda, whose affection balanced Natasha's dominant tendencies.

You went about your duties with a heightened sense of awareness, every creak of the floorboards and distant murmur echoing through the grand halls. As the day wore on, you found yourself summoned to Natasha’s private chambers, a rare occurrence that set your nerves on edge.

You knocked softly on the heavy wooden door, waiting for her permission to enter.

“Come in,” her voice called out, smooth and commanding as always.

You stepped inside, closing the door quietly behind you. Natasha stood by the window, her sharp eyes staring out at the vast expanse of the kingdom. She turned to face you, her expression unreadable.

“Y/N,” she said, her tone neither warm nor cold. “Join me.”

You walked over, stopping a respectful distance away. She gestured to a chair beside hers, and you sat down, your hands clasped in your lap.

“Tell me,” Natasha began, her eyes studying you intently. “How do you find your duties here, especially in Wanda’s absence?”

You hesitated, unsure of how to respond. “I… I find them fulfilling, Your Majesty. I strive to meet your expectations.”

Natasha’s lips curved into a small, almost imperceptible smile. “You’ve done more than meet them. Wanda speaks highly of you.”

Your heart skipped a beat at the compliment, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to this conversation. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

She leaned back in her chair, her gaze never leaving yours. “You seem nervous, Y/N. Are you uncomfortable around me?”

You swallowed hard, trying to find the right words. “I’m not… uncomfortable, Your Majesty. It’s just that… I’ve spent more time alone with Queen Wanda. I’m not as familiar with you.”

Natasha’s smile widened slightly. “And you find Wanda’s affection easier to navigate?”

You nodded, feeling a blush creep up your neck. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

There was a moment of silence, and then Natasha rose from her chair, walking over to you. She stood beside you, her presence imposing yet strangely comforting.

“Wanda is the heart of our kingdom,” Natasha said softly, her fingers brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Her warmth is what draws people to us. But she and I are a unit, two sides of the same coin. You’ve seen my dominance, my demands. Now, let’s explore something different.”

Your breath hitched as she gently lifted your chin, forcing you to meet her gaze. Her eyes were softer than you’d ever seen, a glimpse of vulnerability hidden beneath the surface.

“Today, we get to know each other,” Natasha continued, her voice low and inviting. “No titles, no duties. Just you and me.”

You blinked in surprise, unsure of how to respond. “I… I’d like that, Natasha.”

She smiled, a genuine warmth spreading across her face. “Good. Let’s start with something simple. Tell me about yourself, your life before the castle.”

You spent the rest of the morning talking, sharing stories of your past, your hopes, and your fears. Natasha listened intently, her usual stern demeanor softening as she learned more about you. She shared stories of her own, tales of her childhood, her bond with Wanda, and the responsibilities that weighed heavily on her shoulders.

As the sun began to set, you found yourself sitting beside her on the plush sofa, the initial awkwardness replaced by a growing sense of comfort and camaraderie. Natasha’s arm draped over the back of the sofa, her fingers occasionally brushing against your shoulder, a touch that was both reassuring and electrifying.

“You know,” Natasha said thoughtfully, “I never realized how much Wanda’s presence balanced us until now. She’s the light to my darkness, the softness to my hardness.”

You nodded, understanding the depth of their bond. “She’s amazing,” you agreed. “But so are you, Natasha. You’re strong and decisive, qualities that are just as important.”

She smiled, a rare, genuine smile that made your heart flutter. “Thank you, Y/N. It means a lot to hear that.”

The room fell into a comfortable silence, the bond between you growing stronger with each passing moment. For the first time, you saw Natasha not just as a queen or a dominant force, but as a person with her own fears and vulnerabilities.

As the evening drew to a close, Natasha stood, offering you her hand. “Come,” she said softly. “Let’s walk through the gardens. It’s a beautiful night, and I’d like to continue this conversation under the stars.”

The moon hung high in the sky as you and Natasha walked through the gardens, the cool night air carrying the scent of blooming flowers. Your conversation flowed easily, the initial awkwardness completely gone. You felt a growing sense of connection with her, understanding her complexities and appreciating her strength and vulnerabilities.

Eventually, the two of you found a secluded bench under a large oak tree. Natasha sat down, pulling you beside her. She turned to face you, her eyes glinting with a mix of curiosity and something deeper.

“You’ve surprised me, Y/N,” Natasha said softly, her hand resting on your thigh. “You’re more than I expected.”

You felt a flush of warmth at her words, your heart pounding in your chest. “Thank you, Natasha. I’ve enjoyed getting to know you better.”

Her gaze lingered on you, her expression contemplative. Slowly, she leaned in, her lips brushing against yours in a tentative kiss. It was softer and more intimate than any kiss you’d shared before, filled with a promise of deeper connection.

You melted into the kiss, your hands finding their way to her shoulders. Natasha’s hand slid up your thigh, her touch sending shivers of pleasure through your body. The kiss deepened, becoming more urgent, more demanding.

Lost in the moment, you barely registered the sound of footsteps approaching. It wasn’t until the kiss broke, both of you breathless, that you looked up and saw Queen Wanda standing a few feet away.

“Wanda,” Natasha breathed, a mix of surprise and something else in her voice.

Wanda’s eyes were wide, her expression unreadable as she took in the scene before her. For a moment, the air was thick with tension, the silence deafening.

You scrambled to stand, your heart racing. “Your Majesty, I—”

Wanda held up a hand, silencing you. She stepped forward, her eyes locked on Natasha’s. There was a long, charged moment where they simply stared at each other, an entire conversation passing between them without words.

Finally, Wanda’s gaze softened, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips. “I see you’ve been getting to know each other,” she said, her voice gentle.

Natasha stood as well, moving to Wanda’s side. “I wanted to understand what you see in her,” she explained, her tone almost apologetic.

Wanda reached out, cupping Natasha’s face in her hands. “And what do you see?”

Natasha’s eyes flickered to you, then back to Wanda. “Someone loyal, dedicated, and full of potential. Someone worthy of our attention.”

Wanda’s smile widened, and she leaned in to kiss Natasha softly. “I’m glad you see it too.”

Turning to you, Wanda’s expression was warm and inviting. “Come here, Y/N.”

You stepped forward, still unsure of what to expect. Wanda’s arms encircled you, pulling you into a gentle embrace. “I missed you,” she whispered, her breath warm against your ear.

“I missed you too, Your Majesty,” you replied, your voice trembling with emotion.

Wanda pulled back slightly, her eyes meeting yours. “You don’t need to be so formal, not here, not with us.”

Natasha stepped closer, her hand resting on your lower back. “We’re a unit now,” she said softly. “All three of us.”

You nodded, feeling a swell of emotion. The queens, despite their different approaches, had opened their hearts to you, creating a bond that went beyond mere duty or desire.

Wanda’s hand cupped your cheek, her thumb brushing your skin tenderly. “Let’s go inside,” she suggested. “We have much to discuss, and I believe it’s time we truly come together.”

Hand in hand, the three of you walked back to the castle, the night air filled with the promise of new beginnings. As you stepped into the warmth of their chambers, you felt a sense of belonging, knowing that you were exactly where you were meant to be—with the two queens who had claimed your heart and soul.

#ley answers anons #ley does prompts #ley writes drabbles #ley writes requests #wandanat x y/n #wandanat x fem!reader #wandanat x you #wandanat x reader #wandanat #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x fem!reader #natasha romanoff x female #natasha romanoff x fem!reader

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les4elliewilliams · 1 year ago

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can you pls write ellie talking reader through her first time having sex and just being really gentle? thank u!!

first time with loser!ellie ౨ৎ

✩ wc/cw: around 4k words ! tribbing bc😌, fingering + oral (r!receiving), corny pick up lines bc ellie's a nerd, happy trail and bushes<3 (i love body hair srry)...also shy reader??

!!mdni please!!

idk why but all i can think of is loser Ellie, so this is what you're gonna get. it sucks ass but it was fun to write so idc.

daily click・palestine masterpost・neil druckmann is a zionist・more daily clicks.

She's such a huge women's lover, worshipping your body like it's the only and the best thing she has ever seen in her entire life, and she's so gentle with you that it makes you go insane. She'll take her time with you, and she'll say the most random shit ever during it because she's a nerd and she's awkward like that (but mostly to make you feel comfortable, especially if she can sense how nervous you are). No one can convince me otherwise.

You've been together for a few months, but she'd get nervous and pull back whenever things got too heated between you two. She would touch you, palming your titties as she explored your body, but when it came time to take things further, she'd blush furiously and freeze up at the slightest sound that escaped your swollen lips.

It made her pussy pathetically throb, and she felt almost ashamed for how her body reacted at your every touch; she didn't want to pressure you into doing anything, telling herself that if you ever were in the mood, you'd make the first move or would let her know in a way. However, considering how shy you tended to be around her, she knew you wouldn't likely make the first move. Your nerves always got the best of you in her presence; you were too nervous to actually initiate anything.

She knew she had to be the first to make a move, so she decided to test the waters one day. Her touch grew significantly bolder, her hand slipping underneath the hem of your shirt and directly touching the sensitive skin of your abdomen. She traced delicate patterns over your flesh, her fingers trailing across your body with practiced ease before reaching your boobs. Your limbs tangled together, your bodies pressing against each other as you passionately explored each other's mouths. The heat between you intensified, and you could feel her subtly grinding against you, almost to get a reaction out of you and see how far you'd let her go.

Her room was always charmingly chaotic and managed but still retained an element of disorder. Light blue walls were adorned with cute science-themed decorations while a TV softly played in the background. A lava lamp sat on her bedside table, an obsession of hers that added a soothing ambiance to the room.

Her hand gently groped your breast, her mouth leaving yours to trail a series of sweet kisses down your jawline and neck, leaving you breathless and panting, your core heating up with a growing desire. The sensations sent a fluttering wave of pleasure coursing through you, stirring up a whole menagerie inside your stomach, with pterodactyls flying freely and your heartbeat pounding in your ears. It was both exhilarating and overwhelming, all at once.

"Ellie..." You spoke her name in a hushed tone; your voice was soft and silky like butter, gently drawing her attention and pulling her out of her intense focus. Her worry and guilt immediately surfaced; the last thing she wanted was to make you uncomfortable. Yet, to her surprise, instead of discomfort or unease, she saw a whole new side to you. Your cheeks were flushed, and your eyes held a passionate intensity that she had never seen before.

"Yeah?" She couldn't help but whisper, the close proximity creating an intimate atmosphere. Her green eyes roamed over your features, drinking in every detail as if it were the first time seeing you. A single auburn lock of hair fell to the side of her face, adding to her natural, effortless beauty. She was mesmerizing, yet she remained blissfully unaware of the profound effect she had on you.

You averted your gaze for a moment, your eyes drawn to her discarded, worn-out converses lying on the floor just a few feet away from the bed. They seemed the most captivating thing at that moment, distracting you from her curious but piercing gaze. She studied you intently, her intense green eyes seemingly trying to read your thoughts, and you couldn't help but feel even more vulnerable under her scrutiny.

Her voice carried a tone of concern as she questioned, "Did I go too far?" causing your heart to fill with a swelling sense of warmth. It was almost too good to be true that such a stunning and caring person like her could genuinely love you for who you were, embracing you with all your quirks and insecurities. It was a difficult concept to fully comprehend, and at times, you found yourself doubting her sincerity, unable to fathom why someone as amazing as her would choose to be with you.

"No, no, it's not that," you hesitated for a moment, your voice quiet and uncertain as you gathered your thoughts. There was a brief pause as you swallowed, trying to suppress the nerves that fluttered in your stomach. "I lied," you blurted out, your gaze hesitantly meeting hers.

Her eyebrows knit together, her confusion evident as she gave you a puzzled look. She pulled back a little, creating space between you as she sat down directly before you, her curiosity piqued. "'bout what?"

You let out a shaky breath, feeling a wave of embarrassment wash over you as you thought about the little white lie you had told her before the two of you started dating. Your fingers nervously fiddled with the laces of your shorts. "I actually never done it before," You mumbled, your voice barely audible as a hot flush crept onto your cheeks. The heat in your face spread down your neck and chest in a wave of embarrassment, leaving you feeling flustered and exposed under her gaze. You just wanted the ground to swallow you whole at that moment.

Lying wasn't something you normally did, but when she confessed that she had been with two other girls before you, a rush of insecurity coursed through you. You felt inexperienced and vulnerable, embarrassed that, at your age, you were still a virgin. It wasn't that you hadn't had opportunities before, but rather that you were never comfortable enough with someone to take such a monumental step. However, with her, it felt different. You felt secure and at ease, and trust blossomed between you. You knew you could confide in her and she would give you precisely what you needed, fulfilling your every desire and need. That's what she was there for, after all.

Her eyebrows shot up, an expression of surprise flickering across her perfect features. A soft oh escaped her rosy lips, her head tilting slightly with confusion. Her brows furrowed as she tried to make sense of it all. "Wait, why did you lie about it?" she asked, her voice tinged with bewildered curiosity.

You gave her a slight shrug of your shoulders, "I dunno...I guess I just- I didn't want to seem- I don't know, it's embarrassing!" You burst out dramatically, your eyes darting everywhere but on your girlfriend, who was looking at you in awe.

Did she care? Not a damn bit. If you only knew how seethingly jealous she had been when you told her you had done it with your ex-girlfriend before. She was downright pissy for a whole week, and you had no idea why. Surprisingly, though, she never said a word about it. She couldn't help but feel a sense of relief knowing that no one had ever touched you that way—that she would be the one to claim you if you ever let her.

She let out a relieved huff, her words tumbling out without a second thought, drawing your entire focus. "Thank god," she muttered, a weight lifting off her chest.

"What?"

"Nothing, just- I'm glad I'm your first," She confessed, her voice tinged with a hint of bashfulness, eliciting an airy chuckle from you. "If you want me to be, that is," She added; she was a tangle of nerves, fearing that she might be pressuring you to move too quickly, pushing you into something you weren't ready for. Yet, if only she could see herself the way you saw her—the desire for her radiating from your every pore, plain as day and utterly undeniable, practically written all over your features for any blind person to see.

You nodded in agreement, a shy but confident look in your eyes. "Yeah, I think I'm ready," you whispered, your words filled with nerves and excited anticipation.

"We don't have to do anything if you're not ready," Her touch was like a delicate whisper, her thumb gliding tenderly across your cheek, leaving behind a trail of reassurance and comfort.

"No, I'm ready, I promise...and I trust you," Your timid voice's gentle timbre sent a rush of butterflies fluttering through her stomach, causing her insides to somersault recklessly. The fact that you trusted her to take the lead and guide you filled her with a special kind of flattery. Knowing that your trust in her was absolute was a unique form of validation.

Ellie gave you a brief nod in acknowledgment before closing the gap between you with a sly smirk. Her focus remained fixed on your lips as she inched closer, her eyes never straying from their destination. "We'll take it slow."

"I trust you," You repeated, your voice barely above a whisper, the words escaping your lips in a hushed tone. Your gaze locked onto hers, and in that moment, you swore you could see her eyes sparkle with unabashed excitement.

Her lips landed on yours again, kissing you gently yet with a hint of urgency. Her fingers skimmed across the bare skin of your stomach under your shirt, "Stop me if anything feels wrong," She murmured softly against your neck, trailing a trail of kisses down your neck. Your hum resonated in response, a gentle vibration of contentment and pleasure escaping you in a small, involuntary sound.

Her mouth worked its magic on your neck, painting it with a constellation of small, colorful marks. It was as though she were an artist, and your body her blank canvas, eagerly accepting everything she had to give to you. Her hands never left your breasts, gently squeezing and pinching your hardened nubs as she left feather-like kisses all over your torso, claiming you all for herself. Her knee pressed lightly against your throbbing, drenched core, coaxing a soft whimper from your lips.

A few moments later, both of your bodies were bared to each other's eager and hungry gazes. She trailed soft kisses down your body, her lips lingering as they approached the edge of your panties. She paused to take in the sight of the dark, damp spot blooming on the thin fabric of your pink underwear, her eyes lighting up with satisfaction. With deliberate slowness, she pressed a kiss just above the waistband, sending a shiver through you. Her hands gripped your thighs gently but firmly, the warmth of her touch contrasting with the cool air. She spread your legs wider, positioning them over her shoulders, her green, dark eyes locked onto yours, filled with a mix of hunger and playful intent.

Her face, poised between your thighs, radiated with beauty as she looked up at you with a mixture of desire and adoration.

What a picturesque sight, she looked even better between your thighs.

Her cheeks glowed with a rosy hue, contrasting beautifully with the smattered freckles across her face. Her eyes were wide and expressive, her pupils dilated almost as if she was under the effect of some extremely addictive drug.

"I sure am no astronaut, but I'd love to explore your universe," You couldn't help but chuckle softly at her words, the sound escaping you as she continued to pepper your inner thighs with feather-light kisses, causing goosebumps to rise on your skin. Her fingertips danced tantalizingly along the waistband of your panties.

"You didn't just say that," You couldn't help but giggle in disbelief.

"Oh, I did," her lips formed a small, self-satisfied grin. She loved how worked up you were getting despite you trying to hide it.

"Such a nerd."

"Hmmm...'m not," She protested softly with a slight pout on her face, slowly tugging at the hem of your panties, a silent plea for permission to continue.

You caught on to her intention almost instantly. "Take 'em off." Your command was direct.

"You sure about this, babe?" She asked, her fingers traced along the contours of your hips. Her gaze was locked onto your face, her eyes searching yours intently for any sign of discomfort. But there wasn't any. You wanted her as much as she wanted you, and you weren't going to back down. Not now.

"Very," you reassured her.

Ellie's promise to take it slow lingers in the back of your mind. True to her word, she was taking it slow—agonizingly, deliciously slow. Her lips wandered over your inner thighs, teasing and tormenting everywhere but the one place where your need burned the most. Each kiss, each brush of her lips, was a deliberate torture, making you grow more impatient by the second, not that patience had ever been your strong suit.

Only after pleading and begging did she finally give you what you craved. The wait had left you aching for more, and the build-up only made you wetter, if that was even possible—nearly soaking the sheets of her bed.

Her breath hovered close to your wetness, coaxing goosebumps to rise on your skin. Your bottom lip caught between your teeth instinctively. She gently explored your slickness with her fingers, collecting the essence of your arousal on her digits. Her smirk was a subtle hint of the satisfaction she felt, her expression one of quiet contentment as she admired the result of her touch. "Prettiest pussy I've ever fuckin' seen," she murmured under her breath, admiring your throbbing and aching core, which was begging for her touch.

You gasped sharply, your breath hitching as she touched you. Her touch was tentative and curious, trying to figure out what felt good for you and what didn't, observing your body language attentively.

Your hand instinctively found its way into her cinnamon locks, your fingers tangling in the soft strands as she feasted on you like a starved animal. She could feel the subtle twitch of your body and clit against her tongue; her movements were deliciously slow, each lick and suck intended to savor each drop of your essence and relish the taste of you.

She had been fantasizing about this moment for a while now, touching herself at the thought of it, at the thought of you writhing and squirming in her hands, moaning for her and giving her the prettiest sounds and expressions you had to offer. And it was just like in her little fantasy. You were so ethereal, so precious, so gorgeous. None of her ex's were even close to you, you were something else; tasting like you were the one for her.

"Feels so good, El," You couldn't help but let out a breathy moan; your hands found their way to her head, gently pushing her closer to your core. Her fingers tightened around the plush curves of your hips, digging into the soft flesh as she allowed you to guide her.

She moaned in response to your words, her middle finger gently teasing your entrance. Her green eyes flicked up to meet yours, searching for any sign to stop, but all she saw was your blissed-out expression. "Can I?" she asked, her voice breathless as she took a moment to fill her lungs with oxygen. You nodded vigorously, unable to form words, your need for her touch overwhelming.

She slowly slid her middle finger in, allowing your body to adjust to the sensation. "Does it hurt?" she asked, pushing it deeper in response to the slight shake of your head. Her eyes widened with amazement at how effortlessly her finger moved inside you, the slickness making it easy. You gasped, arching your back and bucking your hips against her in response, craving more of her touch. Sweet moans escaped your lips, sounds that once might have made her pause but now only fueled her desire. Your need for her was evident by every movement and ragged breath that came from you. The sound of your pleasure spurred her on, driving her to give you even more.

You were soaking her sheets, but she didn't mind one bit, too caught up in the moment. She hoped you wouldn't notice her subtly humping against the mattress, just as turned on as you were.

But you came first; she would make you feel good first. She could wait.

Her breaths grew heavier, mirroring your own, as she focused on your pleasure, her movements driven by both care and desire.

"No, it feels just perfect," you replied after a few seconds. You were a whimpering mess, and she loved it—she loved every second of it.

"You feel so good 'round my fingers...sucking me in like a black hole," She cooed softly, a coy smirk never leaving her face as she continued to finger-fuck you, adding another finger with a smooth motion. She was amazed at how well you took her, your body greedily sucking in her fingers. What a sight you were—she felt so fucking lucky. Every little twitch of your body was like a symphony to her senses, each movement driving her insane. Her auburn little bush glistened with her own arousal, dripping down her pussy and making a mess on her pastel blue sheets. Her eyes stayed fixed on your face, savoring every expression of pleasure you gave her, feeling the connection between you grow with every passing moment.

"You're so fuckin' weird," You struggled to speak, your words broken and punctuated by soft moans that threatened to escape from your lips.

"Is that any way to talk to your girlfriend?" She asked mockingly, her digits curling ever so slightly to reach that soft spot inside you. The movement coaxed a loud and filthy moan from your lips, echoing in the room mingled with the wet, rhythmic sounds of your slickness and her thrusts. A look of triumph flashed in her eyes, an expression you wished you could've ripped off her face.

"Oh my god!" your eyes squeezed shut as your head sank into the soft embrace of her pillow, her fingers hitting your g-spot over and over. Each sound that escaped you was a soft, needy whine. Your gummy walls squeezed her fingers so much that she could barely move them.

"Gonna cum, baby? I can barely move my fingers..." She observed your every movement, her eyes drinking in how your muscles tensed and tightened with each thrust; she could tell you were close. Her green orbs observed the subtle tells that gave away your imminent release—the arch of your back, the quiver of your thighs, your high-pitched moans. "You're doing so good, babe. Let it alll out," she encouraged you sweetly, her thumb rubbing your clit in a circular motion, slowly, not wanting to overwhelm you; she wanted you to enjoy every second of it, and she didn't wanna rush anything.

"Yes, yes! 'm so close, please," You pleaded, though you didn't need to. Ellie had no intention of stopping anytime soon. Her only focus was to make you feel good, to treat you as you deserved, and to pour her love and affection onto your body.

"Come for me, sweet girl. Can you do that for me?" She purred softly, her fingers continuing to tease and torment you, knowing it was a matter of seconds until you milked her fingers just like she wanted you to. You could only manage a frenetic nod in response, your words lost in a haze of pleasure. Your body arched towards her, your breath coming in short gasps. "Yeah?" she cooed. "Go ahead, beautiful. Let go for me." She guided you through the waves of orgasm, letting you ride her fingers until you came down off your high, your hips meeting her thrusts halfway with urgency.

Slowly, she withdrew her fingers from you, her lips enveloping each digit, sucking them clean. A low, guttural moan escapes her lips as she relishes the taste of you, finding it utterly intoxicating. You, an exquisite delicacy, have become her newfound obsession, a craving she knew would haunt her long from now on. Hopefully, you won't mind when she'll be begging on her knees to taste you once again. Begging you to let her make you feel good just so she could feel you twitch and throb on her tongue.

Her tattooed hand glided gently along your side, her lips bestowing soft kisses upon your thighs and mound, slowly trailing a path of affection upon your skin. She made her way to your lips, you could taste the remnants of your pleasure on her own as she kissed you lovingly.

She gently kissed your forehead, her hand still idly tracing patterns on your skin, shoving a few praises your way. "Did so well, for me," her tone was warm and caring. "So beautiful, so responsive." Her fingers lingered on your face, her touch almost reverent as she took in your flushed cheeks and disheveled appearance, looking even more beautiful to her eyes. "You taste so fuckin' good, I can't get enough of you."

A delightful darker hue staining your cheeks and giving you an almost otherworldly glow. Your eyes looked up at her, still glazed with ecstasy, your chest rising and falling rapidly as you struggled to catch your breath. "I love you."

She smirked, her eyes glinting with a playful sparkle as she straddled your lap, her body fitting perfectly between your spread-open thighs. Leaning closer to you, she spoke in a soft, sultry tone, "I love you more—Think you got one more for me?"

"Yeah, I can do one more,"

Those words were all she needed to proceed with her intentions. Her body hovered above yours, her movements controlled as she aligned her dripping cunt with your still-sensitive one. Your hands instinctively grasped her hips, guiding her to your desired rhythm. A low groan slipped past your lips as her hips started to roll and grind against yours, the sensation of her warmth and pulsating core pressing against yours causing you to arch your back and meet her movements with eager thrusts. You loved how her clit felt against yours, it was so pretty and puffy, and she was so fucking wet, so needy for you; it was adorable.

"Ooooh fuck!" You cried out, her head arched backward in response, a symphony of needy moans escaping her lips as she clung to the leg you had draped over her shoulder, using it to steady her movements. Your slickness mingled with hers, painting a glistening trail across your inner thighs. She loved feeling you; she loved how good it felt each time your clit kissed hers.

"You feel so fuckin' good, fuck," She murmured, her words punctuated by soft gasps as she continued to move against you. "Wanna feel you come all over my pussy" Her movements grew erratic, her hips moving more urgently against yours, the pace of her grinding becoming frantic and sloppy, using you to chase her orgasm. A constant stream of needy sounds fell from her plush lips nonstop; soft strands of her hair fell loose from her messy bun, framing her freckled and scrunched-up face. Ellie seemed so focused on her movements, trying to keep them steady and controlled but failing pathetically, growing needier and needier each second. Her expression was one of intense focus and desire, her eyes locked onto your face as she rode you with determination.

"Ellie, fuck," you groaned. "Slow down, 'm not gonna last," You gasped out a warning, your nails digging into her pale skin as your body began to tense up once again. The soft curls of her pubic mound soaked with both of your cum, your eyes silently admiring her cute happy trail, tracing it with your thumb.

"Me neither," her voice ragged and breathless as she increased her pace, grinding against you more forcefully and urgently. Her hips began to rotate, moving in a desperate, frantic motion as she sought to bring you both to your climax. Her free hand reached down to intertwine with yours, squeezing your hand tightly. "Eyes on me, pretty," She managed to utter, the words broken by cute little moans, her speech barely comprehensible. Your gaze slowly roamed up her body, taking in the sight of her toned abs and her pretty happy trail. You traced your eyes upward, taking in the sight of her perky breasts before finally meeting her face and locking eyes with her.

"You're so hot," You cried out in ecstasy, the words leaving your lips before you could stop it. She snorted in response, her eyes hazy and lidded as she looked down at you. Her mouth twitched into a lazy smile, revealing her pearly white teeth before she spoke.

"Have you met you?" Her voice was ragged and raw, the following sound escaping her lips like a gasp. She was flushed and breathless, her cheeks stained a deep scarlet hue, like tomatoes in the height of summer. But suddenly, her smile faded, replaced by a look of concentration as her brows furrowed together. "'m gonna-" but you cut her off.

"Me too," You whined as your other hand reached up to play with one of her breasts, your fingers teasing her nipple. The sensation elicited a louder moan from her, a melodic cry of your name that echoed through the room, her body arching into your touch.

You both came together, your cores clenching around nothing and twitching against each other in a mutual climax. The auburnette's movements slowed gradually until she finally collapsed by your side, her eyes wide and cheeks still flushed. She was completely out of breath, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to her ceiling. For a moment, neither of you spoke, both of you still reeling from the intensity of what had just happened.

"Mind-blowing," Your words pulled her out of her trance, making her roll onto her side to face you. She propped herself up on her elbow, her eyes roaming over your flushed and breathless face as she spoke.

"Mind-blowing, hm?" she teased, a sly grin spreading across her lips as she leaned closer to you. Sliding her tattooed arm around your waist, she pulled you closer to her until your bodies were pressed together. She placed a gentle kiss on the top of your head, her lips lingering against your hair as she spoke. "You did so good, baby,"

"Did I?" She nodded in response to your question, a soft smile playing at the corners of her lips. Her hand brushed gently against your face, her fingers gliding softly through your hair as she swept loose strands away from your face. You couldn't help but stare at her, taking in her soft features and tender expression, feeling a pang of awe and admiration in your chest.

She gently caressed your face, the touch of her fingers like a subtle whisper against your skin. "You sure did," she murmured, her voice soft and affectionate as she kissed the tip of your nose. "You are one beautiful celestial body," she added cheekily, her tone laced with sarcasm. You chuckled and rolled your eyes at her, unable to keep the affectionate grin off your face.

"That's so dumb," She laughed along with you, her arms wrapping around you tightly as she held onto you like a koala clinging to a tree. She cuddled and snuggled against you, her body molding against yours as you settled into a comfortable embrace. As you gradually drifted off to sleep, you couldn't help but notice a stupid smile spreading across her face.

daily click・palestine masterpost・neil druckmann is a zionist・more daily clicks. (takes a second, fuckers)

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