#when emotionally repressed people love each other >>>>>>>>>>>

[lostlikesaebyeok]

HIIII!!!!!!!!! 😠😠😠😠 heeheh chronically online reader x 'the one who doesn't even use youtube' se-mi...

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: 𝒔𝒆-𝒎𝒊 :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧

♡･ﾟ₊ title: your chronically offline girlfriend (she actually lives under a rock)

♡･ﾟ₊ pairing: chronically online!fem!reader x chronically offline!se-mi

♡･ﾟ₊ au: college au, media studies majors, opposites attract, slow burn to soft dating

♡･ﾟ₊ genre: sapphic slice of life, jokes, soft romance, emotionally repressed girls in love

♡･ﾟ₊ warnings: light cursing, academic trauma, mentions of tiktok discourse, brainrot

♡･ﾟ₊ summary: you're chronically online, she does all of her assignments on pen and paper without picking up her phone once. you watch edits of park gyu-young into the early hours of the mornings, she thinks youtube is just for music videos. and somehow, both end up falling in love anyways!!

you really don’t expect her to like you.

in fact, the first time you meet, she looks at you like you just told her you collect dead bodies or that you're a discord moderator. you’re sitting in the back of your media studies class, laptop stickers flashing like a gay bat signal: chappell roan, taylor swift, marceline and princess bubblegum.

she doesn’t have a laptop, doesn’t even have a phone in sight. she writes everything down. with a pen. in a notebook. like some medieval scribe.

you don’t notice her at first. she’s quiet when she wants to be. but then the professor makes some offhand joke about how people in your generation have the worst attention spans and can’t even sit through a tiktok video that's longer than 30 seconds and you start laughing everyone turns to look. including her, se-mi.

you don’t know her name yet, but you notice her because she doesn't laugh. she doesn't smile. she just looks at you for a second too long, head tilted, like you’re an anomaly. you find out her name the next week, during group assignments. your professor pairs you up. you glance sideways at her, trying to gauge if she’s pissed.

“hi,” you say. “i’m–”

“i know,” she says. “you answer too many questions in class.”

you pause.

“not in a bad way,” she adds, like that’ll fix it. “just. noted.”

you’re already kind of obsessed with her. she doesn’t use social media, not even youtube. you ask her once. maybe a little too eager, like you’re trying to speedrun friendship.

“do you have insta?”

“no.”

“tumblr?”

“no.”

“tiktok?”

“that one’s the worst.”

“youtube?”

“i’ve seen music videos, in cafes.”

you stare at her. “se-mi,” you say, voice serious. “how do you learn anything?”

she shrugs. “books.”

you nearly pass out because wtf 💔

weeks go by. you become a permanent fixture in each other’s lives, slowly, like moss growing between stones. she’s blunt and bold. not mean, but she doesn’t pad things in soft language. she doesn’t flirt like you do, she doesn’t understand that “💀” means you're laughing and not actually and not in danger (she almost called the cops when you sent it the first time), she doesn't give strong eye contact. she says things like “you’re not funny, but you’re smart” and “you always smell like gum. is that intentional?”

she touches your arm when you’re stressed. she lets you monologue about some new discourse for ten minutes straight and only interrupts to say, “is this a real issue or just something people are mad about for attention?”

she never posts a single photo of you, but she notices when you change your bio. when you cut your hair, when you leave her a message saying “moonbeam ice cream 😛😛” in her notebook.

you see the corner poking out weeks later. you take her to your favourite cafe. it’s queer-owned and full of pride flags and playlists that jump from mitski to charli xcx in one breath.

you tell her about your online friends and you swear it's almost as if you're talking to a brick wall somtimes. you talk to her about tumblr and how people that still use youtube shorts need to be publicly hung, about people who fake mental illness for attention and girls who write the most angsty, best sapphic fanfiction you will ever read in your life under usernames like namgyuscumstain.

she listens, patiently. she asks questions like “okay, so what’s a ship war?” and “why is everyone's username named after their favourite character and some strange bodily fluid?”

you say, “you’re seriously the only person i know who isn't chronically online.”

she says, “you’re seriously the only person i know who never shuts up.”

you grin. “you like that about me.”

“no comment.”

the first time she kisses you, you’ve just finished watching bottoms.

she pretends not to like it, and she calls it “fucking stupid and unrealistic as fuck.”

but then she says, “fine, i like the way isabel looks at josie.”

you’re curled up on her bed, shoulder to shoulder, still laughing about the movie. you say, “that’s the point, it’s supposed to be unrealistic. we’re all stupid, gay people have the strangest ways of flirting.”

she doesn’t respond, not with words. she kisses you slow. rough at first, like she’s never done it softly before, like she’s had to fight to want things. you make a stupid noise into her mouth, breath catching and she pulls back an inch.

“what?”

you whisper, “i feel like we're in a fanfic right now.”

she sighs. “you’re fucking exhausting.”

but she kisses you again.

you start dating without talking about it, you don't soft launch it, or post it on every single social media account you have. you just post a photo of you and se-mi holding hands on tumblr for your online friends to see. your friends knew it was gonna happen anyways but they still go crazy, and se-mi never sees it.

but she keeps bringing you your favourite snacks and she keeps letting you ramble about ao3, she also defends you when you start crying frustratedly over how people were flaming you on tiktok for shipping byler but yet they were posting ai generated photos of mike and el getting married 💔💔

once, you show her a photo of her that you edited, and she actually laughs. like, a real one:

“oh my god?” you say, stunned. “did you just laugh?”

“yesss,” she says, reaching over to tug your hoodie strings. “you’re so weird. i like it.”

you beam. “se-mi. that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

she kisses your cheek. “then your standards are low.”

soon enough she starts saying 'sybau 💔' whenever you send her stupid photos of herself and she teaches you how to be able to read a book without constantly checking your phone.

you send her this:

and she responds in full sentences, extremely confused of course, but at least she's responding properly whereas before she thought just replying to you with "🤣🤔" was acceptable. you break down queer theories in every movie and show you watch and she listens with the same attentiveness she gives to fire drills and earthquake warnings.

she’s strong around strong people. never flinches, but with you when you cry, when you spiral, when you get too soft to stand up straight, she’s gentle. she rubs your back in slow circles. holds your hand without asking. says “hey, idiot. it's only me”.

you fall in love FAST. and one night, you’re in her apartment, curled up together on the floor because the fan broke and the floor’s cooler than the bed. you’re scrolling through your phone, showing her stuff she doesn’t understand. you look up and she’s just watching you.

you look at her, lost. “what?”

she shrugs. “you always look so... alive when you talk about things you love.”

you laugh. “that’s called being annoying.”

“no,” she says. “it’s called being you.”

you look at her for a long second.

“can i post that?” you whisper.

she groans and shoves a pillow at your face.

you never expected her to like you, but she does. quietly and strong, in her own way without needing anyone else to see. you, on the other hand, post every time she says something or does something for you on tumblr. you love showing her off. you read your posts aloud to her sometimes, she rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling.

and you think: god. i hope the internet never touches her. but i hope she never lets me go.

thank u for reading, angel ♡

never in my life did i think i would reference benson boone in my fanfic help 🪰

♡ tags: @saeshairtie @eunchacha @ilovesawbyeokandjjmaybank @gg0mezz @saphicsaturn @gyuyoungg @lyzem @janegrapefruitttt @reynadeluniverso @bitchesallonmydih @laurenkenss @bleedingwhiteroses222 @maevelovessae @067supremacy

♡ divider creds: @dawniebun

[renjirukia]

[sceletaflores]

LAYING IT ALL ON THE LINE...

꩜ masterlist ꩜ update blog ꩜ inbox ꩜ taglist ꩜ ao3 ꩜

｡꩜°‧➵ PAIR: Joel Miller x fem!reader

｡꩜°‧➵ WC: 4.1k

｡꩜°‧➵ CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, post-outbreak, hurt/comfort, joel's pov, general violence, minor character injury, jackson!joel, when he picks an unnecessary fight with you because that's all he knows, mentioned age gap, joel miller as a sad old man, joel miller experiences feelings, oral sex (f!receiving), p in v, clothed sex, unprotected sex, erectile dysfunction? we don't know what that means in this house because that old man can fuck like he's twenty AND his knees are made of steel (but only sometimes), porn w/o plot, no use of y/n.

｡꩜°‧➵ @retrosabers SAYS: thinking about you almost dying on patrol and joel is FUMING, unable to convey just how worried and anxious it makes him. the only way he can even remotely conceptualize his feelings is through a very PASSIONATE rawdogging ♡

｡꩜°‧➵ NAT'S NOTE: everyone say thank you sid for this absolutely luxurious prompt...i'm waiting. i had so much fun with this! i love love love a good semi-angsty, emotionally constipated man having to come to terms with his buried slash repressed feelings in the gritty wake of a near-death experience, like that's my shit. hope y'all love it!

dividers by @cafekitsune & @saradika-graphics!

joel miller realizes that love isn’t just a four letter word…

"Southeast perimeter’s clear. Heading west by the river bed."

“Wow, you’re finally gonna stop gettin’ us lost out here, sunshine?”

“Lost? Please, you cried when I found that shortcut through the cedar thicket.”

Joel listens to you and Tommy bicker over the radio, a forgotten cup of coffee going cold at his side. That's all he can do when you're out there—patrolling in the snow with a few others. He's not proud of how he just sits by like some anxious house wife, listening to the static between check-ins, but he can't make himself focus on anything other than the way your bright voice filters in and out.

He tries not to hover. Tries not to keep the handheld clutched like it's a goddamn lifeline. But he does, eyes glued to the thing like it might crack open and spill you out if he stares hard enough.

Joel's really not even supposed to be listening in like this. Maria's chewed him out more times than he can count each time she catches him hunched over an old radio that he's never bothered turning in, says it'll do him more harm than good worrying over it.

Besides, these channels aren't meant for civilians sitting on their asses at home. He knows that, because that's exactly what he is now—civilian adjacent. Half-retired.

Tommy jokes about it every once in a while, the way Joel's slowed down, the way his joints complain louder than they used to. A while back, he might've laughed too. Now, every little twinge of pain feels like a reminder of what he used to be.

Joel used to be the one they all looked to out on patrol. He could track better, shoot cleaner, navigate faster than most of the younger guys. That's not the case these days. His patrolling has slowed down over the past few years. He only goes out a few times every couple of months, if even that. 

He tells himself it’s by choice.

It’s not, not at all. He’s tired. His knees ache after long rides. His busted shoulder can’t handle the cold without locking up. Jackson’s got a whole rotation now, young joints, faster reflexes, eyes that don’t blur when the wind hits just right. So he doesn’t go out much anymore. Not unless the group is short. Not unless they really need him.

It makes sense. He knows it makes sense.

That doesn’t make it feel right. You out there, miles away in knee-deep snow with a rifle strapped to your back while he’s stuck here. Not out there. Not beside you.

Joel knows you can handle yourself—hell, you’ve proven that a dozen times over. You’re younger. Strong. Fast. Smart as a whip. You can shoot the cap off a beer bottle and you handle a knife better than most people your age. 

Knowing all that still doesn’t quiet the feeling of unease that eats away at him each time you strap on your gear and kiss him goodbye with a, See you later, Miller. Strolling out the door like it’s casual. Like it’s nothing.

There’s a kind of helpless fury in it. A sick twist in his gut every time he watches you ride out. Like he’s some retired goddamn hunting dog. Trusted to guard the porch, but not sharp enough to run with the pack anymore.

Joel adjusts the volume dial on the radio like it’ll make your voice stay longer.

Tommy’s laugh cuts through the speaker. “Didn’t cry. I got snow in my eye.”

“In July? Sure.”

It comes in grainy and light, full of that same teasing bite you always give Tommy—enough to make Joel’s jaw tighten with a quiet, helpless kind of fondness. He almost smiles, but it doesn’t reach past the tight pull in his chest. You’re still picking your way through territory where any tree line might be hiding something.

Joel shifts in his seat, elbows on the table, jaw clenched tight. He tells himself you’re fine. You always are. You have to be.

The channel goes still for a few beats. Then, a crack of static. Some muffled shuffling. And—

“Wait—something’s moving in the trees. Left side, just past the ridge.”

Your voice. Sharper now. Less teasing and pointedly quiet.

“Copy,” Tommy replies, suddenly serious. “Keep eyes on—”

A burst of noise. A flurry of panicked voices overlapping and shouts. The unmistakable sound of gunfire.

Then nothing.

Dead air.

Joel’s heart drops to his boots. “Tommy?” he barks into the receiver. “Come in. What the hell’s happening out there?”

When there’s no answer, Joel shoots to his feet. The chair scrapes across the floor harshly as he crosses the room in two large strides, fumbling for his jacket. “Tommy? Goddammit, someone answer me!”

Nothing.

Joel’s heart thuds violently against his ribcage as he stares at the little black box in his hand like it’s an omen. He feels it rush in all at once—panic, guilt, helpless rage curling cold and mean in his chest. His ears are ringing so loud he doesn’t hear the slam of the door behind him as he tears out of the house and into the cold air. 

Something happened. The group was compromised. You were compromised.

And he’s not there.

He should’ve been there.

Joel doesn’t remember the sprint to the stables. Doesn’t remember shouting at Maria when she tried to stop him at the gate. Doesn’t remember half the ride out. All he knows is that his hands won’t stop shaking around the reins and the bile in his throat tastes like ash—a sick, gnawing pit growing in his gut.

When he finds the group what feels like hours later, just as the sun starts to rise behind the ridgeline—you’re nowhere to be found. His eyes scan the way everyone’s spread out, some with minor injuries and the others patching them up. 

No sign of you.

Tommy plants himself in front of Joel just as he hauls himself off his horse. He doesn’t even feel the way his knees jolt as his feet hit the ground. 

“Where the hell is she?” he rasps, voice so rough it sounds like it’s been dragged through gravel. “Where, Tommy?”

Tommy’s hands are out in front of him like Joel’s a wild animal about to snap. He’s got blood on his hands, but no signs of stab wounds or bullet holes anywhere on him. It’s not his blood. Joel’s stomach turns viciously at the sight, at the thought of whose it might be.

“She’s fine,” Tommy says, eyes wide and placating. “Took a hit, it grazed her side. She wouldn’t fuckin’ stay down.”

Joel knows he won’t feel any relief until he sees you, alive and breathing with his own eyes. “Where.”

Tommy steps aside just before Joel nearly shoves past him, nodding his head toward a rock outcrop a ways away from everyone else.

You’re sitting closest to the makeshift fire, Jesse crouched beside you to clean the gash along your side. You’re bundled in someone else’s coat, hair mussed and blood soaked through your undershirt and spattered across your cheeks.

Visibly shaken. Color drained. Bloody. Alive.

Joel’s throat locks up when your eyes meet his. You give him the smallest, tired smile—like you're trying to reassure him. That look. That stupid, brave little tilt of your mouth like everything's okay even when you're the one bleeding through Tommy's jacket.

It makes something in his chest crack wide open.

“Joel?”

He doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t know what to say.

Doesn’t trust himself for it to be anything good.

Joel takes three shaky steps towards you before his knees give out. 

He drops hard into the snow. He doesn’t catch himself, doesn’t try. Just falls forward like a penitent man bowing at the altar of a God he doesn’t believe in. His breath comes in short, ragged bursts, eyes locked onto the red seeping through your shirt like it's the only color in the whole damn world.

There’s a beat where nobody moves. Jesse freezes, half-done wrapping gauze, and you’re just sitting there, wide-eyed and shaking like a leaf, lips parted like you’re trying to say something—but Joel’s already reaching for you.

He's on you in the next breath. Not rough, not like usual, not with that greedy, hungry touch he normally has after you come back from patrol. His hands are trembling when they find your face, tilting your chin up gently, his fingers brushing away wet blood and dirt.

Tommy glances away. Jesse too, both men busying themselves with helping the others. It feels too private, even out here in the open.

“Goddammit,” he chokes. “God—baby–”

His voice breaks on the last word. Breaks, something sharp and gutted and boyish, nothing like the hardened man who's grown to guard his emotions like they’re classified. Your hands hover uncertainty over his shoulders, the side of his face. You’re worried. He can see it plain as day, written in the wavering line of your mouth.

“Hey—hey, I’m okay,” you say, voice low and urgent. “I’m fine. Look at me, Joel, I’m fine. It just—it just grazed me, okay? I’m fine.”

You’re not fine.

You’re too pale. You’re stone-cold. Your blood is still tacky on your shirt, drying beneath his body's warmth.

Joel presses his forehead to yours and exhales like he’s been kept underwater, and you were the surface he’d been clawing to.

You whisper his name again, quieter this time, and he shushes you. “Don’t—don’t talk, just—let me—” His fingers press to the pulse point at your wrist like he still needs proof. “Let me feel you.”

You don’t say anything else.

You just hold him.

And Joel doesn’t cry. He can’t. Something won’t let him, but he stays there in the snow for a long time, holding you like a man who thought he’d never get the chance to again.

The ride back to Jackson is quiet.

You fell asleep half-way through, head lolling back against Joel’s shoulder as you both sat in the saddle, your body loose with exhaustion and the emergency pain meds Jesse had in his pack. Tommy rides ahead, checking the trail, but Joel barely looks up. He just holds the reins with one hand and holds you tighter with the other.

You’re taken to the infirmary the second everyone files through the gates. Joel sits by your bedside in stormy silence, hands curled into fists and resting on his knees, the only thing keeping him together.

You talk to the nurse on duty. You even joke with her, cracked voice and tired eyes like it’s all part of the routine. Like getting shot is just another part of the job. And Joel sits there while someone else wraps you in new bandages and checks your vitals.

It makes his blood boil.

All he can think about is the way your voice cut out on the radio. The way he didn’t know if you were dead or bleeding out in some field, alone. And now you’re laughing. Now you’re telling the nurse, “I’m fine really, just sore.” And it makes him want to tear the whole fucking clinic apart.

Joel doesn’t say a word until you're cleared to leave. 

Not on the short walk back to your house. Not when you’re walking through the door, cleaned up. Patched. Your shirt’s gone, replaced by his coat and a thermal blanket around your shoulders.

Not when you nudge his arm gently like you’re testing the waters. Not when you say his name soft, like it might keep him calm before you’re heading towards the bedroom.

It doesn’t.

The moment the door shuts behind him, Joel erupts.

“You got a fuckin’ death wish?”

You freeze in your spot halfway across the room, turning to face him.

Joel doesn’t move. Just stands there, fists clenched at his sides. His voice is low, shaking with barely concealed rage. “You gonna tell me why you thought playin’ saviour was worth bleedin’ out in the snow?”

You don’t say anything for a few beats, eyebrows drawn together in a hard frown as you look at him. “What was I supposed to do, Joel? Jesse was pinned, Tommy would’ve taken the hit. I didn’t have a choice.”

“You always have a choice!” Joel grates, stepping towards you. “You could’ve picked you. You could’ve stayed the fuck down like Tommy told you to.”

“I was trying to keep your brother from getting shot in the head,” you snap, the tension finally striking a flint. “I made a judgment call.”

“You made a stupid call,” he spits, voice loud and blistering. “You don’t get to do that.”

“I didn’t have a choice,” you repeat, your body growing stiff and tense.

“You shoulda fuckin’ stayed down.” Joel growls. He doesn’t even look at you when he says it—just rips his flannel off, tosses it hard at the wall.

You don’t flinch. Don’t even look away from him as his shirt falls and crumples into a heap on the floor. “What?”

“You heard me,” he snaps, turning to look at you again. His eyes are dark, fiery. “Jesus, you—do you even fuckin’ think sometimes? You were hit. You knew you were hit, and you kept goin’. You didn’t stop, didn’t stay down like you were told.”

He steps closer, eyes boring into yours, face twisted with something too furious to be rational. “You fuckin’ chose to be a goddamn hero, huh? Run into gunfire like it ain’t a fuckin’ death sentence? That it?”

He can see the second your expression changes, your own anger rearing its ugly head now, bitter and hot. “Don’t do that. Don’t make this about me being reckless when you know I was just trying to keep people alive. I did what I had to do.”

“No!” he snaps, pointing a finger at you, furious and stricken all at once. “What you had to do was come home. That’s it. That’s all.”

You blink at him, breath caught in your throat.

Joel can’t stop, all the emotions he’s been dealt over the past three hours finally boiling over and spilling through his lips before he can think twice about what he’s saying.

“You could’ve died,” he growls, pacing now, hands dragging through his hair roughly like he’s trying to rip the anger out of himself. “Two fuckin’ inches to the left and that bullet would’ve torn straight through your gut. You think you’d’ve made it to town in time for that? Huh?”

“That’s not fair.”

“No,” he snarls, spinning on you, voice cracking. “It’s not fuckin’ fair. Nothin’ about this is. You go out there, and I sit at home waitin’ to see if today’s the day I lose you. That the last thing I heard is your voice cuttin’ out in the middle of a fuckin’ ambush. That’s what I got to live with now. That’s what I saw every time I closed my eyes on that ride back.”

You stand there, lost for words. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

“I know you didn’t,” Joel says, suddenly quieter, throat thick. He swallows hard, looking down, shaking his head like he’s trying to get a grip. “But I still almost lost you. And I don’t—fuck—I don’t know what the hell I’d do if that ever—”

His voice cuts off, ragged. Then he’s in front of you again, cupping your face with both hands. “You’re not allowed to do that to me again,” he whispers fiercely. “You’re not allowed to scare me like that.”

“Joel…” You lean into him, slow. Cautious.

Joel meets you halfway.

His mouth is on yours in a heartbeat—hot and bruising and pathetically desperate. His big hands frame your face, thumbs dragging down your cheekbones as he licks a wet stripe over the plush seam of your lips.

You gasp into his mouth when he pushes the blanket off your shoulders, when his palms skate down your sides to grip your hips hard. Not too rough, not yet, but he’s holding you because he needs you rooted. Anchored. Here.

Joel kisses you like he’s still furious at you, like he hates how much he needs you, like he’s punishing you for making him feel so afraid. It’s not soft, all teeth and tongue as he devours you, stealing the breath from your lungs.

When he pulls back, his mouth is wet with your spit, lips pink and swollen. “Need to taste you,” he mutters. “Need to feel you.”

Joel sinks to his knees before you can respond, breath huffing harshly against your stomach. His fingers tug your zipper down with frantic urgency, hooking his thumbs in your waistband to peel your pants down your legs in one swift motion.

There’s no teasing. No smugness. Just a heavy, sharp hunger carved into his face like stone as he pulls your panties to the side, exposing you to his greedy eyes. His hands slide under your thighs, lifting one over his shoulder as he brings his mouth to you like a man possessed.

The first drag of his tongue is slow. Reverent. Hot and wet as he parts the slick seam of your cunt with deliberate strokes that make your spine arch. He groans like your taste knocks the wind out of him, and then he latches on like he’s got a point to prove—to himself or you, he’s not sure. All he knows is that worshipping you is the only penance that could soothe the panic still clawing at his insides.

“Joel.” Your hands tangle in his hair, chin falling to your chest as you gaze down at him.

He sucks your clit into his mouth, tongue relentless, nose pressed deep against you. You whimper, twisting his hair in your grip, hips twitching—Joel doesn’t let you go anywhere. He’s got you trapped, your body pinned with his mouth buried between your thighs like he plans to die there.

It’s filthy, obscene—the way he devours you. Lips slick, beard growing damper with each swirl of his tongue, eyes half-lidded but still trained on your own.

Your eyes are glassy, pupils blown wide and black as spilled ink. There’s sweat beaded on your brow, lips parted and swollen as you let out small huffs of air.

Your thighs are trembling. You're soaked, arching against him, whimpering his name with tears welling in your eyes. And still—still—he won’t let up. He needs this. Needs to make you fall apart. Needs to prove to himself you’re alive by the way your body sings under his touch.

Joel can’t stop. Not until your thighs shake and you’re moaning that you’re gonna come, gonna come, Joel, please—

And you do. You fall apart on his tongue with a broken sob, legs clenching tight around his ears, hips grinding down into his mouth in weak twitches and shudders. He growls and holds you still, licking you through every last tremor until your body goes limp and threatens to sink to the floor.

Joel doesn’t let you fall—he lowers you down gently, like you’re made of spun glass, even as his hands skirt over the hem of your shirt. When he pulls it up, revealing the bandages wound tight around your side, he pauses. His gaze lingers on the wound. Jaw clenched. Something soft and wrecked flickers in his eyes.

Your hand comes up to cup the side of his face, your thumb running over the scar across his temple so gently it has his heart throbbing in his chest. “I’m okay,” you whisper. “Still here.”

Joel takes your wrist in his hand, lowering it down enough to press it hard over his heart. “You feel that?” he breaths. “That hasn’t stopped hammerin’ since I heard your voice cut out.”

You nod slowly. Your fingers curl into his shirt. “I’m sorry.”

Joel squeezes your wrist, turning his head to press a soft kiss to your forearm.

He climbs up over you, chest to chest—the jut of his cock where it tents the denim of his jeans grinds over the sensitive span of your cunt as he settles himself between your legs. He’s thick, heavy even through all the layers. 

Joel’s free hand snakes down his body, making quick work of his belt. He rips his zipper down, freeing his cock from the confines of his soaked boxers and letting it slap up against his stomach.

You moan at the sight of it—hard, straining, the tip a dusty red and wet with pre-come. Your legs widen unconsciously, thighs twitching on either side of Joel’s hips.

Joel takes himself in his hand, fist tight over the base of his cock as he runs himself through your puffy cunt, slicking the skin of his cock with your wetness. “Gonna fuck you,” he breathes, lining himself up between your legs. “Gonna feel you around me, baby, need it so damn bad.”

Joel slides in with one long, smooth stroke, your slick making it easy, and the groan he lets out sounds like pain. Like relief. Like he might lose his mind from the heat of you. Your breath hitches at the stretch, head lolling back against the hardwood as your nails dig into his shoulders.

“Mine,” he grits through his teeth, forehead pressed to yours, his hips grinding deeper as you cling to him. “You’re mine, baby. Always—always mine.”

You nod, panting, eyes glassy. “All yours,” you whisper. “Only yours, Joel.”

And then he moves.

Hard.

Desperate.

Unrelenting.

He fucks you like you’re the only thing tethering him to earth, like if he stops, he’ll unravel entirely. One arm hooks under your knee, pushing you open, deeper than before. His hips slap against yours, raw and hopelessly, but it’s not about getting off.

It’s about feeling you.

Every squeeze, every tremble, every gasp that leaves your mouth when he hits that perfect spot. 

Joel’s never felt like this before.

So angry.

So scared.

So in love.

He fucks you like he’s trying to imprint himself inside your body. His thrusts stitch you back to him, sealing you inside his chest so you can never leave. A mess of skin-on-skin and heat and slick as the two of you meet again and again and again.

“Could’ve lost you,” he growls against your throat. “Fuck, honey, I could’ve—Jesus—”

You wrap your arms around him. “You didn’t,” you whisper. “I’m here, Joel—I’m yours—”

He groans, hips stuttering, thrusts turning frantic. He can tell he’s close, that he’s been close since he sank to his knees in front of you.

“Say it again,” he pants, slamming into you with a low, wrecked noise. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you gasp. “Always yours—fuck, Joel—”

You wrap your arms tighter around him, pulling him closer. Your nails dig into his skin through the thin layer of his undershirt, legs locking around his waist to keep him pressed against you like you’re scared he’ll let go.

Joel doesn’t let go. He’d never let go. Not even when you moan his name like a prayer, not even when your nails rake down his back, not even when you gasp out a warning, your voice thin and needy. “Joel, I—gonna—”

“I know, baby. I got you.” His hand snakes down between you, finding your clit and rubbing quick circles over it, desperate to feel you come. “Wanna feel you. Need to—fuck—need to feel you, sweetheart. Please.”

You shatter in his arms with a broken sob, clenching hard around him as your body jerks, overwhelmed and too raw to hide it. Joel feels you pulse around his cock, the tight warmth of your cunt milking him.

It’s too much, and he’s coming with a groan that sounds like it’s been clawed from his chest. He buries himself to the hilt, hips jerking with every pulse, breath catching in your ear. “Fuck, fuck—” he pants, voice hoarse, “—love you, I love you, I thought I lost you, baby, I can’t…”

You’re both trembling when it ends.

Joel holds you there for a long time, forehead resting against yours, still buried deep inside you. He still won’t let you go. Not yet.

Eventually, when he’s calmed, he pulls back just enough to look at you.

You expect that same look from earlier—rage, fear, guilt—but it’s not there. Just love. Just deep, aching relief.

“I can’t lose you,” he says quietly. “I wouldn’t survive it.”

You reach up, trace the curve of his brow, the edge of his jaw. “You won’t have to,” you whisper.

Joel kisses you again. Softer this time. Sweeter. A delicate press of lips against lips. His fingers stroke your cheek, pulling back enough for his eyes to trace along your face. He follows the line of your brows, the shape of your nose, the soft curve of your lips.

He can’t feel anything other than love.

Gentle. Solid. Steady.

It’s only love.

mini nat's note: everyone please send good vibes for my hell sent ch*m final on monday...i literally need all the luck i can get. thank you so much for reading! mwah.

[timmydraker]

Everyone in the Bat Clan has been noticing something over the years, specially about Tim.

Every so often he will go to do something with his hands or even his entire body, such as swaying or shaking his hands, but always stops himself.

There’s almost this look of annoyance on his face that just barely hides discomfort, but he brushes it off quickly.

Bruce noticed and, thinking about Robin more than anything, offered some kind of fidgeting device to help him stay on task, only for Tim to snap at him for the first time. It was his usual snark or commenting on Bruce’s well being, but a real moment of lashing out.

He decided then not to bother Tim about his clear want to move around it play with something even if it’s just his hands, mainly because he was doing his job well.

Yet, as he starts to really try and be a good parent to his kids and realises that Tim is one of the places he messed up most by basically using him to cope with grief, he decides to ask the rest of the family what they think.

Dick says it could be ADHD and he needs movements, with Barbara backing it up with a few websites in agreement.

Damian says he should mediate and Cass so what agrees but says it probably won’t help someone like Tim that much.

Duke and Steph make up a somewhat chaotic plan of coercing him into telling them what he needs, out of love and somewhat aggressive care.

It’s Jason who just scoffs and says, “It’s stimming, you idiots. He has like, super messed up standards cause of his parents, right? They probably didn’t allow it but he’s got that like, autastic thing.”

Only Jason Todd could say something so smart followed by completely idiocy.

But he is right, very much so. It might also explain why sometimes he seemingly couldn’t handle touch but when he panicked he need to be squeezed as tightly as possible.

Naturally, with a family of emotionally repressed vigilantes, they decide to subtly let him know it’s okay.

Dick is the worst with it, speaking far too loudly about how Autism is okay and how he wants to learn to support autistic kids, while Bruce thinks nodding along to this helps.

Damian just stares at Tim for five minutes before bailing and running away.

When a month passes and Tim seem more like he’s even more ashamed than anything my, Cass smashes her hand on the table at dinner and drags him out of the room to talk to him.

Tim is forced to sit and listen to his sister, who may or may not be his favourite sibling, talk about how he’s not damaged or wrong for needing to stim and move his body. She calls him out on how he is being a hypocrite, for accepting people like Bart and Barbara and and her for their disabilities whether ADHD or something physical but not himself.

Tim wouldn’t have been moved by this if it was anyone else, but never in all the time he’s known her has he heard Cass say so many words in one go nor can see her cry so much. She’s loud when she cries, making up for her silence, but it’s only something any of them have seen twice and that was Bruce and Steph.

He doesn’t just magically accept that he’s neurodivergent, nor does he ever want a title as to what is different about him, but the difference is still noticeable.

A week later him and Dick are watching an episode of their show and something Tim adores, a comic series, is referenced. Instead of what he usually does, that being sitting there as still as he can, he bats his hands around a for a few seconds before pausing and waiting for Dicks reaction.

When Dick beams at him brighter than a sun he continues, smacking the couch and even Dicks arm in his excitement.

A few days later he makes a high pitched noice just to get to an itch in his throat and doesn’t realise that Jason is there, yet when the other responds with the same noice, given a bit deeper, Tim smile. Bruce walks in on them making strange noises at each other in a sort of echo.

It’s months later when it’s his birthday and his family has come together to buy him a new, stupidly expensive camera only to reveal they also added a red light room in the manner for him to print them that they really see how much safer he feels.

He flaps his hands aggressively and jumps in place, rumbling out words that don’t all much and thanking them over and over.

He squeals happily but only has a moment where he looks shamed before Bruce holds out a flat palm for him to smack excitedly.

Later, when he gets overwhelmed and crashes a little, Duke lies on top of him to give him pressure only for Steph to sit on him.

[madlori]

On Tommy Kinard

"It's not that I don't like Buck and Tommy, it's just happening so fast, he's underdeveloped!"

*clears throat*

Here is a recap of what we know about Tommy. And this is just off the top of my head, I didn't rewatch anything.

He was closeted at the 118 before and found the atmosphere repressive. He (probably) acted like a dick to fit in. When presented with the chance to make things better, he took it, and developed positive relationships with Hen, Chim and Bobby.

He was in the army and trained there as a pilot.

He knows Muay Thai and has a set up in his house.

He likes to work on cars and has a lift at his house (where TF does he live is my question - he has some nerve being agog at Buck's loft if he has a muay thai gym and a car lift)

He is down for violating departmental policy at the drop of a hat (has done so on at least two occasions) to help a friend and has no problems fucking with the fire chief.

He is a nerd. He likes pub trivia and has incorrect Star Wars opinions, and can keep up with Chim in the movie-quoting department.

His favorite movie is "Love, Actually" and he likes craft beer and monster trucks.

He came out when he transferred to Harbor and felt comfortable enough to stop lying about who he was.

He follows MMA and has friends in Vegas who like him well enough to hook him up to a frankly insane degree.

He'll risk his own life and engage in helicopter skulduggery to save people he doesn't know...I mean, apart from doing that for a living.

He'll take time out of his day to give a tour to the cute boy who called him up and offer to give that boy flying lessons (a significant time investment) which was probably maybe about more one on one time with said boy.

He yearns for the belonging and found family that the 118 became after his departure and probably befriended Eddie hoping to earn a plate at the cookout, aside from just clicking with him.

He likes Eddie and Chris a lot and they like him. Chimney also likes him.

He was attracted to Buck right away and was emotionally aware enough to pick up on Buck's jealous feelings over Eddie and his friendship, even if he was surprised that it was him Buck wanted to get to know.

He respects and values Buck and Eddie's friendship and wanted to make sure Buck knew that.

He's brave enough to shoot his shot by planting one on a dude.

He's a lil bitchy but also generous and ready to throw in with this insane guy who's inviting him to a family wedding after 0.5 dates.

He showed up to a bachelor party when he was on call because Buck asked him to, then showed up in turnouts after fighting a fire for like 12 hours yadda yadda we all know this part.

He has got it BAD for one Evan Buckley, who he only calls "Evan" which according to LFJR is a conscious decision by the writers, which fascinates me.

He was willing to take a chance with a man just discovering his sexuality BUT wasn't willing to put himself through that if the man in question wasn't ready for it. When Buck showed him that he was, he was all in.

He does NOT take his coffee like that.

Oh and

He's a beast.

This is VASTLY more information than we knew about ANY of Buck's previous girlfriends with the possible exception of Abby. Even Taylor did not get this much development over 20 episodes (things we knew about her: she was an ambitious and ethically flexible reporter, did not eat fudge, had a dad in jail, and sometimes jogged for exercise, she was capable of being nice and did love Buck, I believe). And as for it being fast? Sometimes it just be like that? A relationship doesn't have to have year(s) of buildup. Sometimes people do just meet, like each other, and start dating, in fact in the real world that's usually what happens. It's in TV Land that you have to have eighteen seasons of UST before pulling the trigger. Most of the time in reality people just vibe off each other and decide to go out and THEN they learn about each other.

And they've got a great start. You'd think they'd barely spoken by how a few naysayers are talking about it - the loft scene was like a solid five minutes of very open conversation, the Cringe Date seemed to have gone well and again, open and honest (if cringey) conversation before Cockblocker Eddie showed up, and the coffee meetup was again....open and honest conversation. They're not gonna show us long scenes of them exchanging firefighting stories and workout preferences (I mean, I'd watch that, but it's not what the show is about).

In conclusion, anyone saying he's poorly developed or the relationship is "out of nowhere" either is being willfully obtuse or has ridiculously unrealistic expectations for relationships and/or what constitutes character development.

As for whether they have chemistry, that's a matter of subjective opinion. Given that a TON of people watched that harbor tour scene (even when it was posted as a sneak peek) and started going "wait...what's going on here...are they flirting??" might be a clue. People were talking about Bi!Buck maybe happening with Tommy based solely off that clip of the harbor tour and what they were seeing between them. And imho that loft scene was crackling. But we all see things through the lenses of our biases, myself included.

Got that off my chest, whew.

[jungkoode]

FIVE SECONDS TO FREEDOM | 01

˗ˏˋ corporate by day, streets by night ˎˊ˗

"The thing about living a double life is that eventually, the lines blur. And when they do, you realize one of those lives was never really yours to begin with."

next | index

⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 5.2k

rating: mature

content: board room suffocation, underground racing salvation, lollipop theft, overheard family secrets, & the weight of expectations vs. the freedom of speed

jimin’s skyline r34 | y/n’s toyota ae86

✧ author's note ✧

Hi. Hello. Yes. It’s me again. Back on my bullshit. (⌐■_■)

Welcome to the fic where I apparently decided that “you know what would go crazy? If Jimin was Latino, dangerously charming, emotionally layered, and casually obliterated me with a phone call to his baby brother.” So here we are.

Let’s talk about this beast.

This story is set in Tokyo’s underground street racing scene because I have exactly two moods: high-octane chaos and identity crisis. And guess what? This fic is both. We’re following a Y/N who is not the typical “relatable girly with a shit job and a dream.” No. This Y/N has money. Like money money. Corporate-heiress-pressure-cooker-money. Unrelatable? Maybe. But I wanted to explore what it means to be trapped even when you “have it all.” Because sometimes your prison has marble floors and a driver’s license with your dad’s last name on it.

And then there’s Jimin.

Who, yes, is Latino in this one. Because the power. The flavor. The emotional complexity. Because I couldn’t stop thinking about the boy who speaks different languages depending on who’s listening and smokes like it’s the only thing keeping his hands from shaking. And because I desperately wanted to give him a backstory that feels lived in—messy family dynamics, financial trauma, and protectiveness so sharp it’s basically a character flaw. (Also, his pet names are lethal. Just sayin’.)

This fic is about duality. Public image versus private life. Corporate obligation versus personal freedom. The daughter and the driver. The mechanic and the monster you have to be to survive in a world built for people who look like your father.

Jimin and Y/N exist in parallel—each of them double-lifing through their days, hiding parts of themselves behind steering wheels and sarcasm. And I’m obsessed with the way their masks crack in front of each other.

ALSO. Yes, Jimin speaks a lot of Spanish here. And I did include translations in parentheses where it matters to the narrative. For short expressions or filler phrases that don’t really add anything to the dialogue (like “ay, pues” or “nah, hermano”), I either left them be or translated them only if it shifted the tone/context. If you’re wondering “what did he just say,” trust me—if it’s important, it’s already translated. And if it’s not important, it’s flavor, not plot. You’re safe. You don’t need Duolingo. (But like… maybe you want it after this fic. I won’t judge.)

This chapter ended up… long. Because I love suffering and also because I have zero restraint when it comes to character psychology, apparently. So if you’re here for racing scenes and sexual tension and moral ambiguity and emotional repression in leather jackets? Buckle up.

We’re going full throttle from here.

Edit: reminder that chapter 1 takes place 6 months after the prologue!

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

The Hayashi legacy weighs forty-seven million yen per quarter, and tonight it feels like every yen is sitting on your chest.

You walk out of the conference room with that smile still glued to your face—the one you've perfected over more than twenty years of being the perfect daughter, the ideal heiress, the future of Hayashi Motors Corporation. 

Each step brings you closer outdoors. Each step means a flick of your kitten heels against the marble floor of the corporate building. Each step means freedom.

"Excellent points during the quarterly review, Y/N-san," your father had said, pride gleaming in his eyes as the board members filed out. "Your suggestions for the new electric vehicle division show remarkable foresight."

You'd nodded. Smiled. Thanked him for his confidence in your vision.

You hadn’t mentioned that you'd spent the last three hours fantasizing about ramming your pen through the mahogany table when Nakamura-san had questioned your engineering credentials for the fifteenth fucking time. 

Or that when board member Sato had asked if you thought you were ‘ready for such responsibility at your age,��� you'd wanted to remind him that you've been rebuilding engines since you were sixteen and probably know more about automotive dynamics than his entire golf club combined.

But Hayashi daughters don't lose their composure. Hayashi daughters smile politely and prove themselves through results, not outbursts.

Hayashi daughters are perfect.

The elevator ride down is not—because it feels endless. 

Forty-three floors of suffocating corporate air, each ding marking another level between you and the person you actually want to be. 

Your reflection stares back from the polished steel doors—black Armani blazer, pearl earrings, hair pulled back in a sleek chignon that your mother's stylist spent an hour perfecting this morning. 

You look exactly like what you are: the face of Japan's automotive future, groomed and polished to perfection.

But perfection means nothing to you if it doesn’t come in four fucking wheels.

The parking garage is a different world. 

Darker. Quieter. Real.

Your steps quicken as you approach the sleek Mercedes S-Class—the car that screams ‘responsible heiress who makes sound financial decisions.’ The one you drive to corporate events, family dinners, any place where appearances matter more than what's under the hood.

But tonight, appearances can go fuck themselves.

You slide into the driver's seat and immediately feel the weight pressing down on your shoulders, your chest, behind your fucking eyes. 

Three hours of quarterly projections, market analysis, and thinly veiled suggestions that maybe you should consider ‘sharing leadership responsibilities’ with a more experienced male colleague. 

Three hours of nodding along while grown men who've never held a wrench explained automotive engineering concepts you learned before you could legally drive.

Your hands shake as you grip the steering wheel.

It all cracks.

Your forehead drops forward, hitting the leather with a soft thud, and your fingers tangle in your hair—fuck that stupid chignon anyways.  

A shaky exhale escapes your lips, then another, and for just a moment in the darkness of underground parking level B3, you let yourself feel the exhaustion that's been building for months.

The quarterly reviews are getting more intense. The board meetings more demanding. The expectations heavier.

Sometimes you wonder what would happen if you just... stopped. Stopped smiling through the condescension. Stopped proving yourself to men who measure your worth in profit margins rather than skill. Stopped pretending that sitting in conference rooms talking about market demographics is what gets your blood pumping.

But that's not an option. 

The Hayashi name doesn't get to quit.

You take three deep breaths—in through your nose, out through your mouth, the way you know how to control adrenaline spikes. 

Center yourself. Focus on what matters.

Tonight, what matters is speed.

You reach into the back seat for the gym bag you strategically placed there this morning. 

Inside: worn jeans, a black tank top, your racing jacket with the faded sponsor patches, and the fingerless gloves that have seen more action than your corporate wardrobe ever will.

And really, changing clothes in a car? Not ideal.

Luckily for you, it requires a specific kind of coordination you've perfected over the years. 

Blazer off, carefully hung to avoid wrinkles—because if your mother sees it tomorrow morning looking anything less than pristine, there will be questions. 

Pearl earrings removed and tucked into the center console. 

Hair tie pulled free, letting your hair fall to your shoulders in a way that feels like salvation.

Of course, the transformation is more than cosmetic. 

As you pull on the jeans, you can feel your breathing slow. Tank top over your head, and your shoulders relax for the first time in hours. The racing jacket slides on immediately, and when you zip it up, you're not a Hayashi, no automotive heiress, no board meeting survivor.

You’re just… you.

And that you knows where she’s going tonight. 

The underground parking garage has a service exit that most people don't know about. You discovered it during your rebellious teenage years, when you first started sneaking out to watch street races from highway overpasses. 

Now it's your escape route—a way to slip from one world into another without anyone noticing the transition.

Your real car is waiting three blocks away in a rented garage space that doesn't appear on any family financial records. 

Your beautiful, sweet AE86.

Black and white paint scheme that earned you some stupid ‘panda’ nickname.

But it doesn’t matter, because tonight—as many others—this is your ticket to freedom.

You start the Mercedes.

No soul, no personality, just reliable transportation from point A to point B. 

Everything your family expects from both their vehicles and their daughter.

But as you navigate through Tokyo's late-night traffic toward the garage where your real car waits, you can feel your pulse quickening. 

Because earlier, Maya texted that there's a gathering at the docks. Nothing official, just people showing off their builds, talking shit, maybe some impromptu runs if the mood strikes. The kind of casual meet where you can breathe, where your worth is measured in tenth-of-a-second reaction times rather than quarterly profit projections.

And you need this. 

Need the smell of gasoline and burnt rubber. Need the sound of engines being pushed to their limits. Need to remember who you are when you're not performing the role of perfect daughter.

You need to move toward the place where the Hayashi name doesn't matter and the only thing that counts is how fast you can make eight-six liters of pure joy scream down a stretch of asphalt.

Your phone buzzes.

𝐌𝐚𝐲𝐚🐝 : 𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚞??? 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚑 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝙰𝙴𝟾𝟼 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚗 

You don't reply. Don't need to.

The thing about earning your place at the top of Tokyo's food chain is that punctuality becomes optional.

You pull into the lot twenty minutes after Maya's text, because showing up on time is for rookies still trying to prove they belong. The ones who circle the block three times before working up the courage to park. The ones who check their mirrors obsessively, making sure their cars look perfect from every angle.

You? You just fucking drive.

The familiar crunch of gravel under your tires signals home in a way that marble corporate floors never will. 

Engine off, and immediately you can hear it—the symphony that makes your pulse quicken. Revving engines, bass lines thumping from custom sound systems, the occasional screech of someone showing off with a burnout. 

This is your world. The one where board meetings and quarterly projections don't exist.

Your AE86 settles and you can already feel eyes tracking your movement. 

You've earned every glance, every nod of respect, every whispered comment about how the panda-colored Toyota shouldn't be able to keep up with cars worth ten times as much—but somehow always does.

You scan the lot for Maya's ridiculous purple Silvia, but before you can locate her in the maze of modified metal, a familiar arm snakes around your neck from behind.

"My giiiiirl," Maya drawls, and there's that tilted accent she gets when she's been drinking or fighting or both. 

Probably both, knowing Maya.

You chuckle and drive your elbow back into her ribs, just hard enough to make her grunt. 

"Dramatic much?"

"Always," she grins, but doesn't let go of your neck. Maya's version of affection usually involves some form of minor violence, which explains why she gets along so well with the racing scene. "You missed the opening act."

"So where's the twins, huh?" You ask, sliding your keys into your jacket pocket. 

Maya's grin turns sharp. "Twins have been dealt with."

You frown. "Huh?"

Instead of answering, Maya just tilts her head toward the far end of the lot, and your stomach does something complicated when you follow her gaze. 

A midnight purple R34 Skyline GT-R.

Him.

Jaque fucking stands near his car like he owns not just the vehicle but the entire lot it's parked in.

The bastard who handed you the only loss of your racing career. 

The one who earned his place here by beating you, which means he gets to be in this lot, in your crew, in this weird little bubble where surnames don't matter at all; but rather how fast you can make your car scream.

One loss. 

O n e.

But apparently that's all it takes to earn yourself a permanent pain in the ass who shows up to every meet like he's got some kind of standing invitation to make your life complicated.

Maya snorts behind you as you start walking toward the Skyline, but she follows anyway, because Maya never misses a good show. 

And this? This is definitely going to be a show.

Your boots crunch against loose gravel and cigarette butts as you cross the lot. A few conversations pause as you pass—the usual mix of admiration and speculation that follows you wherever you go in this scene. 

But tonight something is making your spine straighten and your hands curl into loose fists at your sides.

Because Jaque isn't just here. 

He's here and apparently he's been ‘dealing with’ the Tanaka twins, which could mean anything from out-racing them to putting them in the hospital. 

And knowing the twins' habit of running their mouths about your car, your driving, your right to be here in the first place, you're not entirely sure which outcome you'd prefer.

His car still feels warm, oozing off expensive modifications from here—high-octane fuel, performance oil, the metallic scent of carbon fiber still warm from whatever run he just finished. 

Everything about the car screams money and precision, the kind of build that most people spend years saving for.

But you know better than most that the car is only as good as the driver behind the wheel.

And Jaque? 

Jaque is very, very good.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

"Jaque."

The name comes out flat. Matter-of-fact. Like you're reading from a grocery list instead of addressing the one person who managed to crack your perfect record.

He looks over his shoulder, and that glance transforms into something that makes your stomach do things you refuse to acknowledge. 

Full-blown smirk, eyes included. 

It spreads across his face like spilled oil, slow and inevitable.

He lowers his sunglasses—the ones he always wears even at nighttime because apparently being cocky as hell isn't enough, he also has to be stupid—and raises his eyebrows in mock surprise.

"Hello to you too, princesa." 

The pet name hits exactly like it's supposed to—annoying and warm in equal measure. 

You ignore the warm part, though. 

He turns fully now, back against the Skyline's midnight midnight purple paint job, arms crossing over his chest like he's settling in for a show. The position makes his shoulders look broader, his stance more relaxed, like your presence here is the most entertaining thing that's happened to him all night.

Which, knowing Jaque, it probably is.

"Cut the bullshit, lover boy." You stop just close enough that you have to tilt your head slightly to meet his gaze. "The twins."

His grin widens. "What twins?"

The innocent act might work on other people. 

The way his head tilts just so, like he's genuinely confused by your question. 

Like Shinji and Akira Tanaka haven't been running their mouths about your AE86 for the past three months.

It doesn’t fool you though. Never does. 

You sigh, loud enough that Maya chuckles. Your tongue presses against the inside of your lower lip—a habit you've never been able to break when dealing with particularly dense specimens of humanity.

Or Jaque, to put it simply.

"Don't play stupid," you say. "It's too easy."

That gets a chuckle out of him. Low and rough, like gravel under tires.

"Siempre tan bocona, tú." (Always so mouthy, you). 

The Spanish rolls off his tongue like he's commenting on the weather, not insulting you in two languages at once. His smile never wavers. 

"Twins are not here."

You want to throttle him.

"I could see that much, thanks for pointing out the obvious."

"Ay, pues." He shrugs, and the movement is liquid smooth. "You don't want stupid answers, don't ask stupid questions."

Maya snorts behind you. Traitor.

Your jaw ticks. Just once. Just enough that you know he notices because his eyes flick down to catch it, that smirk getting smugger by the second.

"Shinji," you say, because playing his word games is getting old fast. "Akira. The Tanaka twins. Where are they?"

"Ah." Like understanding has just dawned. Like he hasn't been deliberately obtuse for the past thirty seconds. "Those twins."

"Yes, Jaque. Those twins."

He straightens slightly, the lazy posture shifting into something more intentional. Not threatening—never threatening with you—but focused. Like you've finally said something worth his full attention.

"¿Por qué?" (Why?) The question comes out slow, curious. "Miss them?"

"Because they were here twenty minutes ago talking shit about my car, and now they're not." You cross your arms, mirroring his stance. "And you're here looking entirely too pleased with yourself."

"I always look pleased with myself, gatita." Another pet name. Another small flame of irritation. “Es mi cara natural." (It’s my natural expression.)

"Answer the fucking question."

He laughs again, and this time it's genuine. Surprised. Like you've done something delightful instead of threatening to wrap your hands around his throat.

"Calma, chiquita." One hand comes up in a placating gesture that somehow manages to be condescending and charming at the same time. "No need to get all worked up."

"I'm not worked up."

"No?" His eyebrows climb higher. "Think you are."

Your eyebrow twitches. He smiles. 

"They're not here," he says finally, voice losing some of its playful edge. "Took a little drive. Might not be back for a while."

"What kind of drive?"

"The educational kind." He pushes the sunglasses back up his nose, hiding his eyes again. "Someone had to explain proper parking lot etiquette to them."

Your hands ball into fists at your sides.

"I don't need—"

"Hey, tranquila." He holds up both hands now, but he's still smiling. Still enjoying this way too much. "This is your territory, ¿no? They talked shit about the boss lady. Someone had to warn them."

Boss lady. 

Like you're some fucking mafia princess instead of a racer who's earned every ounce of respect through skill and stubbornness.

"That's how we do it in my country," he adds, like that explains everything.

"This is Japan."

His smile turns sharp. Dangerous.

"And I'm latino."

You scoff, looking sideways because seriously—he's unbelievable. 

Like being Latino is some kind of universal excuse for whatever bullshit he decides to pull. 

Like slapping his ethnicity on the table explains away every reckless move, every stupid decision, every time he decides to play knight in shining armor when nobody fucking asked.

Like he’s not basically insulting his whole ethnicity when he does that: 

Your hand dips into your jacket pocket, fingers finding the familiar crinkle of cellophane.

"Right," you say, unwrapping the cherry lollipop with sharp, efficient movements. "Because your passport gives you a free pass to stick your nose in everyone else's business."

The wrapper finds its way back to your pocket.

"No es eso, princesa." (It's not that, princess.) His voice carries that lazy drawl that means he's having way too much fun. "But where I come from, you don't let randos disrespect the people you—"

You pop the lollipop into your mouth, cutting him off mid-sentence.

The words die on his tongue.

His eyebrows lift, and he makes this low snorting sound that has absolutely no business being as distracting as it is. Like he's just witnessed something worth stopping traffic for.

You turn back to look at him, lollipop stick jutting from between your lips.

 "What?"

The smirk that spreads across his face is slow and dangerous. 

"Nada, nada." (Nothing, nothing.) But his eyes haven't moved from your mouth. "Keep going."

Before you can ask what the hell that's supposed to mean, an arm locks around Jimin's shoulders from behind. 

It’s Taeyang, appearing like he materialized from the fucking parking lot shadows or something.

"J is off his game tonight."

Jimin doesn't even try to shrug out of the hold. Just keeps staring at you with that insufferable expression.

"Nah," he says, voice dropping lower. "Just distracted."

He gestures lazily with his chin, eyes still locked on yours.

"Can't focus when you keep putting things in your mouth like that."

The lollipop nearly falls out of your mouth.

What the actual—

Your hand moves before your brain catches up, grabbing the stick and yanking the candy free. The cherry flavor lingers on your tongue, sweet and artificial and suddenly too much.

“Ay, dale, beba. Don’t stop on my account. Looks tasty.”

"You want it that bad?" You hold the lollipop out toward him, voice dripping with mock sweetness. "Here. Choke on it."

The parking lot goes quiet.

Not completely—engines still rumble in the distance, someone's still blasting music from their stereo. But the space between the four of you turns into this weird vacuum where even Taeyang stops breathing.

Jimin straightens.

Slowly.

Like a cat uncoiling before it pounces.

Taeyang's arm slides off his shoulders as he takes a step toward you. 

Then another. 

Until he's close enough that you can see the exact moment his pupils dilate, can smell that mix of cologne and gasoline that shouldn't work but does.

He reaches out.

Plucks the lollipop from your fingers as if this is just something he does every day.

And pops it into his mouth.

The cherry-stained stick disappears between his lips, and he just stares into your eyes like he’s hoping for a reaction. 

"What's wrong, princesa?" The words come out muffled but still carry that infuriating drawl. "Didn't think I'd take it?"

Your pulse hammers against your throat. Hard. Visible.

Fuck.

Your mouth opens—ready with some cutting remark, some dismissive comeback that'll put him back in his place—

Nothing.

Not a single goddamn word.

Jimin's grin spreads. 

"Naaaah, wait." He lets the word stretch, savoring it like the candy between his teeth. "You actually—" 

A soft, amused chuckle escapes him. His tongue flicks against the lollipop, deliberate. Testing.

"—speechless?"

Heat crawls up your neck like flames licking gasoline. .

"Shut up." The words snap out before you can stop them, but your voice wavers. 

Just enough. Just fucking enough for him to catch it.

Jimin hums, a low sound of pure entertainment. He steps back—not far, just enough to keep you teetering on the edge of whatever this is.

"I should steal your shit more often," he says, amused. 

The comment jolts you back to yourself. Back to solid ground.

"Give it back."

He rolls the candy between his teeth, considering. Like he's weighing the entertainment value of compliance versus continued torment.

Then he grins.

Shifts the lollipop to one side of his mouth, head tilting as he watches you with that same lazy, predatory amusement that makes your skin feel too tight.

"You really want me to give it back, mami?" 

That accent. The way he wraps around the word like silk, all rolling consonants and heat. 

Something flickers up your spine. Quick. Electric.

You don't react. Won't give him that satisfaction. Instead, you let your mouth curve into something unimpressed, arms folding across your chest as you pretend to consider.

"Up to you," you say, voice carefully casual. "But it's mango."

The reaction is instant.

Violent.

Jimin spits the lollipop out so hard you hear it hit the asphalt with a wet thwack. His whole body jerks backward, hand swiping across his mouth like he's trying to scrub away poison.

The grimace that twists his features is beautiful. Pure disgust mixed with betrayal.

Maya fucking wheezes beside you, the sound high and breathless.

You press your lips together, feigning concern. Let your eyebrows lift in mock surprise.

"Oh, wait—" You blink, tilting your head like you're just remembering something important. "Actually... it was cherry."

His entire body goes statue-still.

Slowly—so slowly you can count the seconds—his hand drops from his mouth. His jaw locks. His tongue darts out, running over his teeth like he's confirming what his taste buds already know.

The lingering sweetness. 

Cherry. Not mango.

"You—" Jimin's voice comes out sharp, exhaling like he's been sucker-punched. His eyes snap back to yours, flat and accusing. "Are you fucking serious?"

You lift one shoulder in a casual shrug.

"I mean..." Your head tilts, innocent. "Can't you taste the difference?"

Jimin stares at you. Then at the discarded lollipop on the oil-stained asphalt, sticky and abandoned. Then back at you.

The silence stretches.

"Do you think at the mention of mango I was taking a damn moment to assess—"

"You should've," you interrupt him, voice honey-sweet and absolutely ruthless.

Before Jimin can fire back, someone from his crew—Daniel, probably, the loudmouth who never knows when to shut up—pipes up from behind him.

"Yo, you allergic or something?"

The words hang.

Maya's grin freezes mid-wheeze. The rest of Jimin's crew shifts, glancing between him and the spat-out lollipops

Your stomach drops.

Cold. Fast.

Jimin doesn't look at them. Doesn't acknowledge the question floating in the air like clouds, just stays flat, unreadable, but his jaw ticks—just slightly, just enough for you to catch it.

And suddenly, you realize—

They don't know.

None of them know.

It's such a small thing. Insignificant. A stupid fruit allergy that probably means nothing in the grand scheme of underground racing and territorial bullshit. But still—

You're the only one who noticed.

The only one who clocked it months ago when he shoved aside a drink without explanation. The only one who saw him swipe a fruit skewer off someone's plate but carefully, absentmindedly, avoid the mango piece in the middle.

No one else ever caught on.

Your chest tightens with something that feels dangerously close to... understanding.

Jimin exhales sharply through his nose. Reaches into his pocket with movements that are just a fraction too controlled to be casual. Pulls out a pack of gum.

"No," he says, popping a piece into his mouth. His tone is clipped, dismissive. Final. "I just don't like surprises."

He chews once. Twice. Like that explains everything.

Like it's enough.

His crew buys it.

They snicker, shake their heads, make some comment about how dramatic he always is. Daniel laughs too loud at his own joke about Latino attitude. The conversation shifts, interest dissipating like vapor in hot air.

Just like that, the moment passes.

But not for him.

And not for you.

Because Jimin's gaze flickers back to yours—sharp, searching, like he's trying to read something written in a language he doesn't quite understand.

You hold it.

The stare. The challenge. The unspoken question floating between you.

His jaw tenses. His tongue presses against the inside of his cheek, working the gum like he's trying to scrub away more than just the lingering taste.

Then he huffs. Quiet. Humorless.

Looks away.

"You're so annoying," he mutters, shoving his hands deep into his pockets.

The words should sting. Should make you defensive, ready to snap back with something twice as cutting.

Instead, your mouth curves.

"Feeling’s mutual," you say, voice soft enough that only he can hear it. 

Jimin doesn't answer. Just shakes his head once—like he's trying to clear it of something he doesn't want there—and turns toward his car.

But you catch it. The way his shoulders set. His somewhat robotic movements now.

The realization that someone saw through his bullshit.

That someone noticed.

The sound of his voice speaking Spanish hits different when he thinks no one's listening.

You're half-listening to Maya complain about her clutch slipping when movement in your peripheral vision catches your attention. Jimin peeling away from his crew, phone pressed to his ear, heading toward the far corner of the lot where the lighting gets spotty and conversations turn private.

Something about the way he moves—purposeful, almost urgent—makes you tune out Maya's mechanical rants entirely.

"—and then the fucking thing just started grinding, you know? Like metal on metal, which obviously means—"

"Mm-hmm." You nod absently, watching Jimin settle against a concrete pillar about thirty feet away. Far enough that his crew can't hear him, close enough that if you strain just a little...

"Are you even listening to me?"

"Clutch. Grinding. Very tragic." Your eyes don't leave Jimin's silhouette. "Keep going."

And Maya does. 

But you're already tuning her out again because Jimin's voice carries just enough on the night air, and the shift in his tone is immediate. 

No trace of the lazy, teasing drawl he uses with everyone here. 

"¿Martín? ¿Qué pasó, hermano?" (Martin? What happened, brother?)

"No, no, tranquilo. Decime qué pasó." (No, no, calm down. Tell me what happened.)

There's a pause, and you can see him run his free hand through his hair. His shoulders tense.

"¿Cómo que se pelearon? ¿Por qué?" (What do you mean they fought? Why?)

Another pause. Longer this time. His jaw ticks.

"Ay, Martín... ¿y le dijiste qué?" (Oh, Martin... and you told her what?)

You edge closer, using Maya's continued clutch commentary as cover. 

"No, está bien, está bien. No es tu culpa, cabrón." (No, it's okay, it's okay. It's not your fault, dude.) His voice drops, gentler. "¿Pero por qué le dijiste que andaba en los clubs? Sabes que se pone loca cuando piensa que ando de joda." (But why did you tell her I was at clubs? You know she goes crazy when she thinks I'm partying.)

He reaches into his jacket pocket, pulls out a pack of cigarettes. The lighter flicks once, twice, before catching.

The first drag makes his voice rougher when he speaks again.

"Sí, ya sé que no sabías qué decir. Pero la próxima vez decile que estoy trabajando, ¿dale?" (Yeah, I know you didn't know what to say. But next time tell her I'm working, okay?)

You watch him take another drag, the cherry glowing orange in the dim light. 

The way he holds the cigarette—practiced, automatic—suggests this isn't a recent habit.

"¿Qué más te dijo?" (What else did she tell you?)

The pause that follows is different. Heavier. You see his free hand clench into a fist at his side.

"¿Cómo que no va a aceptar más plata?" (What do you mean she won't accept more money?) His voice sharpens. "Martín, ¿qué carajo le dijiste exactamente?" (Martin, what the hell did you tell her exactly?)

Another drag. Deeper this time.

"No, no, no. Escuchame bien, cabrón." (No, no, no. Listen to me carefully, dude.) His tone shifts, becoming more authoritative. "Vos no te vas a poner a trabajar. Tenés trece años, boludo. Tu trabajo es estudiar." (You're not going to start working. You're thirteen years old, idiot. Your job is to study.)

You can hear the frustration building in his voice, see it in the way he paces within the small circle of light.

"¿Necesitás libros para la escuela? Yo te los compro. ¿Necesitás zapatillas? Yo te las compro. No digas huevadas, Martín." (Do you need books for school? I'll buy them for you. Do you need shoes? I'll buy them for you. Don't talk nonsense, Martin.)

The cigarette moves to his lips again, and apparently the sound carries through the phone because his brother says something that makes Jimin pause mid-drag.

"¿Qué?" (What?)

A beat.

"Naaaah, no estoy fumando." (Naaaah, I'm not smoking.)

You don’t even speak Spanish like that but you know that’s a fat lie coming off his lips. Pretty clear he’s talking about smoking by the way his eyes flicker to the cig.

You almost snort.  

His brother clearly doesn't buy it, because Jimin's response is immediate and defensive.

"¿No me creés? Pues decile a la mamá que vos también fumás, a ver qué dice." (You don't believe me? Well tell mom that you smoke too, let's see what she says.)

There's a pause, and then Jimin's voice turns sharp with realization.

"Ah, ¿no, cabrón? ¿Ya sabía, ya sabía...?" (Oh, no, dude? I already knew, I already knew...?) He takes another drag, and his chuckle is dark. "¿Qué te creés, que no vi los cigarros que guardás en el cajón?" (What do you think, that I didn't see the cigarettes you keep in the drawer?)

The next words need no translation. It’s a threat. A big brother threat. 

"Cuando vuelva a la casa te voy a agarrar a palos, Martín. Dejá de fumar." (When I get home I'm going to beat your ass, Martin. Stop smoking.)

But there's affection underneath the threat. Worry. The kind of protective anger that comes from caring too much.

"No, no me importa si todos tus amigos fuman. Vos no." (No, I don't care if all your friends smoke. You don't.)

Another pause, and his voice softens slightly.

"Mirá, hermano, yo sé que está jodida la situación con mamá, pero..." (Look, brother, I know the situation with mom is fucked up, but...)

He trails off, takes another drag. The silence stretches long enough that you wonder if the call dropped.

"¿Martín? ¿Seguís ahí?" (Martin? Are you still there?)

Whatever his brother says next makes Jimin's shoulders slump. The fight goes out of his posture all at once.

"Sí, ya sé que está preocupada. Pero no puede rechazar la plata y después quejarse de que no alcanza para nada." (Yeah, I know she's worried. But she can't reject the money and then complain that there's not enough for anything.)

His voice drops lower, more intimate. Like he's sharing a secret.

"Escuchame, si ella no la quiere aceptar, me re vale verga. Le voy a hacer el ingreso igual." (Listen to me, if she doesn't want to accept it, I don't give a shit. I'm going to deposit it anyway.)

Your eyes absentmindedly flick to him as he considers his next words. Or maybe he’s listening in.

"Nah, nah, escuchame." (Nah, nah, listen to me.) His voice softens again. "No le digas nada a mamá de esto, ¿sí? Si pregunta dónde ando, decile que… no sé, que ando con amigos. Que ando estudiando. Lo que sea." (Don’t tell mom anything about this, okay? If she asks where I am, tell her that… I don’t know, that I’m with friends. That I’m studying. Whatever.)

A pause.

The phone is still pressed to his ear when his expression changes.

Goes cold. Hard.

"¿Qué dijiste?" (What did you say?)

His voice drops to something lethal.

"¿Que la mamá prefiere agarrar dinero del papá?" (That mom prefers to take money from dad?)

The cigarette trembles between his fingers.

"Martín, decile a la mamá que como se atreva a agarrar dinero de ese pendejo—" (Martin, tell mom that if she dares to take money from that asshole—)

He cuts himself off. Takes a sharp drag. Exhales through clenched teeth.

"No, no, hermano. Escuchame." (No, no, brother. Listen to me.) His free hand scrubs over his face. "Ese cabrón no va a mandar ni un peso. ¿Sabés cuánto le va a costar mandar dinero desde México? ¿Las transferencias internacionales? ¿Los fees del banco?" (That asshole isn’t going to send a single peso. Do you know how much it’s going to cost him to send money from Mexico? International transfers? Bank fees?)

A bitter laugh escapes him.

"Y aunque mandara algo, no va a ser suficiente. Nunca es suficiente con él." (And even if he sent something, it’s not going to be enough. It’s never enough with him.)

The words come out sharp. Angry.

"No, no hay pero que valga, cabrón." (No, there’s no ‘but’ about it, dude.) He takes a sharp drag, the cherry flaring angry orange. "Ese hijo de puta nos abandonó. Nos dejó sin nada. Y ahora que nosotros estamos bien, ¿quiere jugar al papá responsable?" (That son of a bitch abandoned us. Left us with nothing. And now that we’re doing well, he wants to play responsible dad?)

You can hear the pain underneath the anger. Raw. Bleeding.

"¿Sabés cuánto pinche dinero perdimos en las transferencias cuando nos fuimos de Argentina? ¿Cuánto nos costó empezar de cero acá?" (Do you know how much fucking money we lost in transfers when we left Argentina? How much it cost us to start from zero here?)

Silence stretches. You can see him listening, jaw working around the cigarette.

"Sí, hermano, entiendo que está enojada conmigo. Pero prefiero que esté enojada y segura a que esté contenta y en peligro." (Yeah dude, I understand she’s angry with me. But I’d rather have her angry and safe than happy and in danger.)

He flicks ash onto the pavement with sharp, agitated movements.

"Nah, hermano. Nah. Ese dinero está sucio. Todo lo que toca ese hombre se vuelve una mierda." (Nah, bro. Nah. That money is dirty. Everything that man touches turns to shit.)

Another pause.

"¿Y sabés qué más? Aunque tenga que meterle el dinero a la cuenta sin que sepa, lo voy a hacer. Porque ustedes son mi responsabilidad. No la de él." (And you know what else? Even if I have to put the money in the account without her knowing, I’m going to do it. Because you guys are my responsibility. Not his.)

The cigarette burns down to the filter between his fingers.

He flicks it away.

"Decile que si necesita dinero, que me hable a mí. Que yo siempre he estado acá. Yo nunca la dejé. Yo nunca—" (Tell her if she needs money, to call me. That I’ve always been here. I never left her. I never—)

He stops himself. Takes another drag.

"Martín, ¿me estás escuchando?" (Martin, are you listening to me?)

A reply. Confirmation, you guess by his expression.

"Ese dinero de papá… no lo agarren. Por favor. Yo sé que parece fácil, pero nada de lo que viene de él es fácil. Siempre hay un precio." (That money from dad… don’t take it. Please. I know it seems easy, but nothing that comes from him is easy. There’s always a price.)

He sighs now, listening in before he leans his head back against the wall. 

"Decile que no me espere despierta hoy. Que llego tarde. No quiero pelear con ella. No hoy." (Tell her not to wait up tonight. I’m coming home late. I don’t want to fight with her. Not today.)

His eyes flicker to the sky above him. Perhaps pondering; perhaps buying himself more time. Then:

"Tengo que colgar, hermano. Cuida a mamá. Y si ese pendejo trata de contactarla, me avisas inmediatamente, ¿me escuchaste?" (I have to hang up, brother. Take care of mom. And if that asshole tries to contact her, you let me know immediately, you hear me?)

His voice goes soft again. Protective.

"Te quiero, Martín. Todo va a estar bien." (I love you, Martín. Everything’s going to be okay.)

He ends the call.

Takes another cigarette from the pack.

And when your eyes flicker to his movements—you notice he lights it with hands that aren’t quite steady.

goal: 300 notes

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[outromoonyy]

Imagine Wolfstar both getting the flu at the same time and accidentally confessing their feelings for each other over fever, meds, and soup.

They’re stuck in the infirmary together, which is already dangerous because people do stupid things when they’re sick and delusional and fifteen and in love with their best friend.

Poppy gives them each their own bed but not even ten minutes after she leaves them alone Sirius is crawling into Remus’s bed because, “Shut up, Moony, I have fever chills and you’re warm.” And Remus lets him, because he always does.

So now they’re two feverish, emotionally repressed idiots, stuck in bed, sharing a blanket, high on Pepper-Up Potion and poorly made soup.

At first, it’s just grumbling and sneezing and fighting over blankets. Sirius complains like he’s dying. Remus actually is dying but refuses to admit it.

And at some point, Sirius half-whispers, voice hoarse, “Do you ever think about kissing me or is that just a me thing?”

Remus doesn’t even blink. Just goes, “Only every single day of my life, thanks.”

They both freeze.

Then Sirius, congested and blinking slowly, mumbles, “Oh. Cool.”

And Remus nods, dead serious: “Very cool.”

They fall asleep like that.

Remus spends the next day silently spiraling because Sirius said, “I’ve been in love with you since third year, I think, but don’t worry about it.”

And Sirius is busy panicking because Remus said, “Don’t tell anyone I kissed you, I want it to be just ours,” but Sirius hadn't even known if that kiss had been real or just part of the fever hallucinations.

A week later, they’re back in the common room, fully recovered, sitting ten inches apart like absolutely nothing happened.

Except it did.

And every time their hands brush, every time one of them coughs, they both remember the soup and the fever and the quiet, sleepy I love yous they’re pretending never happened.

But they both know.

[hyper-fics-sationn]

I humbly submit a request for: heavy breeding kink Severus.

Cursed into Temptation is so well written, and the way you captured him as desperate and repressed with a need for dramatic release would just fit so well.

I hope this inspires you, but if you aren't comfortable writing it then that's all good too. ^-^

I hope you are having a nice day/evening :)

Claiming What’s Yours

Severus Snape x original female character

7.1k words+

18+ smutty Snape of the breed-kink kind 🤭

Thank you to whoever requested this! I hope I’ve done it some justice and I’m especially nervous since this is the first breed-kink fic I have ever written in my life 🫣🤣🫶

For the longest time, Severus Snape didn't believe he should allow himself to feel the amount of pleasure he had experienced over the last few weeks. Falling for the new professor only a few months back was something he never expected, but the way they had gotten to know each other over most recent weeks was something he expected even less. He would be the first person to admit how nervous he felt at the beginning, how hesitant he was to give himself over to the way she made him feel, but in this short amount of time he also couldn't deny she had brought the side out in him that he had repressed for all these years. He had gone from feeling nothing for anyone to absolute infatuated obsession for her, and she was more than happy to oblige; emotionally, physically, sexually.

Desire was not a feeling Severus was particularly familiar with prior to meeting her, though he would be lying if he said it wasn't 99% of what he felt now. The constant urge and need to be near her, touch her, claim her as his own literally any chance he could get. She helped him discover more about himself than he knew before he met her. There was a time when he couldn't even entertain the idea of being alone with a woman in that regard, but now he was having a hard time thinking of anything but. He wanted her, needed her, so much so that he now found himself constantly consumed by the idea of forever being inside her. She audibly loved the way he throbbed each time his entire length slid all the way inside her with absolute ease, and he loved the feeling of her squeezing around him when she just couldn't take the pounding of his hips anymore.

It wasn't that he hadn't enjoyed the intimacy at the beginning, but the last few weeks had been unlike anything he could have imagined. It all started when they had got so lost in one another one night that they hadn't even thought about using any protection. They had attended a Hogwarts ball and been kept apart for the majority of the night, occupied by different people wanting their separate attention, but they couldn't help devouring each other with their eyes each time their gaze met across the room. The door to his chamber was barely even shut after them stumbling through it before they were desperately tearing clothes off one another’s backs. Grunts and heavy breathing radiated off the walls, hands flying all over each other, and they didn't even make it to the bedroom. The kitchen table, the counter top, and the wall were just a handful of surfaces they found themselves pressed against or bent over, held to each one by the pinning of desperate hips. Fingers frantically skimmed over skin whilst teeth clattered together from the urgency of their kisses; the desire in their bellies aflame like never before. In all the excitement and whirlwind of their craved release, it had completely slipped their minds to use any form of contraception. Before they even had time to think, Severus was plummeting his hips directly into hers completely, without any barrier of protection, without even a safety-netting spell put in place, without a care in the world for the consequence. The fire that ripped through him as he reached his climax was unlike anything he had ever felt before. It was clear that she reciprocated the feeling, but it was only after the panting between them both had calmed down that they had realised why; there hadn't been a single barrier between them, not a single thing put in place to prevent a pregnancy.

It was the constant chase of that pure release that started it first; the knowing that they could only feel like that if they were to risk conceiving again. Then it was that; the risk. They both knew and had admitted previously that they did not wish to have a child, but the danger of this drove their passions even more wild. However, it wasn't long after that, that Severus’ appetite for lust changed; the knowing that she was allowing, even begging at times, for him to release his sticky climax inside her in full knowing of the consequences both good and bad — good being that they could feel every pulse and clench of pleasure they caused one another, and even the once bad being that they may end up with child was now growing less and less of a burden — was driving him insane. To know she trusted him enough to have her this way made him feral. To have at one another like two animals in heat made him feel god-like, and to be this close to her with no barriers between them was becoming even more of a want, even more than a need, it was becoming an obsession. Every time he saw her, his mind was immediately riddled with how they could sneak away to their closest option; a classroom, a potions closet, anywhere to just have their way with one another, and as the days went by, they acted upon these urges like they were ticking off some sort of sex location check list — each place more obscene than the last. Their eyes would meet across a corridor, a hall, or a classroom, and they would both know exactly what the other was thinking; when and where could they do it again?

Today was no different; his need for her was so strong that last night’s rough tumble in the sheets were almost a distant memory. They had crossed paths in the corridor earlier, Severus reached out his arm and purposefully brushed their fingers together, earning a faint smirk as she looked over her shoulder at him. His eyes fell upon a closed potions cupboard door and allowed his mind to drift to what they once got up to in there before and how he would do anything to have that right now. Even brief moments shared like these, especially when not knowing he would be seeing her again, sometimes left him wondering whether he should just lock himself away in his chamber, a potions closet, or even a staff toilet cubicle and get himself off so he could go about his day without the constant craving for release on his mind. However, nine times out of ten he would be won over by the knowing that to save it all for her would satisfy his desires much more; he went with the theory that he more he pumped into her, the more likely she would be to have his child, and to create something now as a result of their burning passion and want for one another would fulfil him more than he could ever begin to explain.

Severus spotted his chance for a brief few moments in between classes and immediately took the opportunity of approaching one of the older students, “Go and tell Professor Lillywhite that Professor Snape wishes to see her.”

The student obliged, as many would, afraid of the snide remarks they would get if they did otherwise, unless they were one of his beloved Slytherin students, of course. Severus walked back into his Potions Classroom and closed the door behind him, exhaling quietly as he began to put away the items that had been left out from the lesson before and muttering to himself about how lazy some of the students were at tidying up after themselves.

“You wanted to see me, Professor?” A spine-tinglingly familiar voice broke the silence as his door opened.

“Will you ever stop addressing me like so?” Severus turned around with a brow arched.

“I thought you said that whilst we were at work, we should address each other as—” She felt herself blushing as Severus came closer, wrapping his arms around her from behind.

“Ah, but there is a momentary pause between classes at present,” He dipped his head to whisper into her ear and kissed it lightly, “Is there not?”

“Fifteen minutes?” She half giggled, placing her hands now over his large ones that were settled upon her stomach.

“Do you doubt me, Miss Eleanor?” He spoke against her neck this time and tauntingly dragged his lips down the side of it, and she could feel the unshaven scruff that was beginning to grow upon his face; they both were far too fond of fooling around in the bathroom in most recent days that he was scarcely remembering to even shave.

“N…Not at all, Severus…” She spoke in a slightly uneasy tone as a result of his lips now latched upon her neck.

“Do not doubt yourself to put me in a state where I am always ready to have my way with you, regardless of the place or timing,” He gently suckled on the crook of her neck for a few moments, one of Eleanor’s hands reaching up to tangle in his hair with a soft gasp before he spoke again, “And, most importantly, do not doubt my ability of planting my child, ourchild inside you even within those mere fifteen minutes.” His hands absentmindedly rubbed back and forth over her stomach.

“Mmm… fifteen minutes, you say?” She smirked, tilting her head up to catch his eye as she played with his hair, “I would say that its more now like… twelve.”

The fire within Severus’ eyes lit immediately from her words, already feeling the arousing challenge in the pit of his stomach. Eleanor watched as the desire flickered in his eyes, instinctively turning herself around and wrapping her arms around his neck as he leaned down to urgently press their lips together. Severus’ hands moved immediately to her dress and began to rise it above her hips as he backed her into the utility cupboard of his classroom, their kisses becoming rougher with each step they took. Eleanor’s hands slipped from his neck to his chest and then the front of his pants, smirking as her fingertips found the bump in the material. Severus instinctively pushed his hips forward and whimpered against her lips, reaching down for one of her thighs and raising it so she could hook her leg around his waist.

“Mmm… already?” She grinned when her hand cupped his clothed erection, gently squeezing him.

“Will you ever lose the tone of surprise?” He responded, pinning her against the wall by his hips and trapping her hand between them in the process and letting out a soft groan from the added pressure of her hand against his crotch.

Eleanor smirked against his lips and made quick work of unfastening his pants, pulling the crotch open and continuing to kiss him as their breathing became more and more heavy. Every move was made with pure desperation and urgency; him hitching her dress up, her popping open every button on his trousers, him lifting her leg a little further up, her fumbling with his underwear whilst he attempted to reach for hers.

“No underwear?” He asked as his fingertips slid past the hem of her dress, “Good girl.”

“I know how you like it…” Her arms snaked around his neck, “—Sir.”

Severus inhaled shakily from the tone of her voice and he reached between them, guiding himself with one hand and claiming her lips desperately as he thrust himself inside her. Eleanor squealed but knew she must be quieter than if they were in his chamber. Her leg squeezed around him and one arm raised above her head and against the shelf above as Severus wasted no time in pounding's hips upward, grunting heavily with each movement but continuing to kiss her feverishly.

“I should stand at the door as each person enters the castle and cast the muffliato charm upon them so we can have our way with one another at full volume.” He smirked against her lips, moaning in between breaths.

Eleanor could barely respond with words, so just let out a flirtatious giggle instead. She grasped onto one of the shelves overhead to try and keep herself upright whilst taking the urgency of Severus’ hips. The kiss broke briefly as she tilted her head back against the wall, but it didn't take long for Severus’ lips to find her collarbone, then her neck, kissing all the way up to her jaw before hungrily kissing her lips again with a merciless thrust that lifted her even further up the wall.

“You kiss me as if you didn't just have me for your breakfast,” Eleanor whispered against his lips with a grin, her arms now back around his neck again.

“You know that was just a taste…” He whispered back, gently tugging at her bottom lip between her teeth.

“Of…?” Eleanor taunted him, tangling her fingers in his hair.

“What’s to come,” Severus inhaled sharply, readjusting himself so he could move his hips with more ease whilst breathing against her lips and emphasising each word with a powerful thrust, “And, fuck, do I need- to- cum!”

Eleanor moaned softly and squeezed her leg around him, lightly pulling at his hair as his hips relentlessly pounded upwards. Severus’ hand trembled against her thigh as he continued to hold it lifted at his hip, his lips now moving to her neck and harshly sucking at the skin to try and muffle the sounds attempting to escape his mouth. Their bodies shook against one another with desperate want for him to explode inside her and one of Eleanor’s hands even slipped to his bottom to urge him not to stop. Her other hand reached back up to grasp onto one of the shelves above them, knocking a few glasses into each other as her fingertips turned white from how hard her grip was.

“Professor Snape?” A voice called after a few knocks at the classroom door, “Professor Snape, Sir?!” The voice grew louder.

“H—Huh?” Severus forced his eyes open, his hips still moving.

“I have those papers you asked for!” The voice said through the door, “The ones you requested to be placed on your desk before your next class!?”

“Severus!?” Eleanor’s eyes widened, hanging onto him with her arms around his neck again.

“Oh, for fu—” Severus grunted; he had hoped for the person to have given up, however, panic struck both of them when he heard his classroom door open, “Shit- fuck- ugh!” He grumbled in frustration, unsure of if his heart or his cock was throbbing harder.

He placed her foot back on the floor and exhaled deeply, trying to tuck himself away and disguise his pulsing problem the best he could as he fastened his trousers back up. His breathing remained heavy as he watched Eleanor try and push her skirt back down so it covered her properly.

“Stay. Here.” He spoke quietly but firmly, looking her up and down before turning to walk out of his potions closet.

“Ah, Professor Sna—” The young, training Professor tried to speak before Severus cut him off completely;

“My classroom, I speak first,” He snapped, trying to cover up his flustered expression, “I, for one, cannot believe that you think you have the right to burst into my classroom without awaiting my invitation.” He pointed his index finger at him.

“But, Professor, you told me- asked me, even, to come to your classroom with the papers-!” The young Professor tried to explain himself, but Snape had passed the point of any explanation.

“Perhaps I did ask for you to return those papers to me before the start of my lesson, but what I do not recall is inviting you into my classroom without my permission!” Severus’ voice raised.

“But, Professor, I knock—”

“’But Professor’ nothing!” Severus was practically shouting at this point, his cock aching as it was forced to soften in his trousers, “You barge into my room, you disrupt me, and now you throw excuses at me?”

“I—I am sorry,” The young Professor spoke in a shy tone.

“Get out.” Severus turned away from him, exhaling deeply.

“Professor?” The young man blinked hard.

“Out!” Severus spun around on his heels, pointing at the door.

Without another word, the young Professor turned and walked out of his classroom, shutting the door behind him. Severus exhaled deeply and gritted his teeth in annoyance, pinching the bridge of his nose between his index finger and thumb and brushing his palm over the front of his pants as he glanced down to ensure the obvious bump was gone.

“You can come out now.” He cleared his throat, standing with his hands on his hips as he glanced around the room.

“That was a bit ruthless, Severus…” Eleanor spoke almost shyly as she walked out of the potions cupboard, still adjusting her dress.

“You know I don't like being interrupted.” Severus spoke flatly, turning to face her.

“I know,” She glanced at the door before leaning up to peck his lips, “It was hot.”

“Don’t…” He whispered against her lips, feeling her kiss go straight to his cock.

“Not enough time now?” She teased, looking up at him as she pulled back.

“As much as I think you are more than capable of making me cum within seconds, I think—” He began until Eleanor placed her index finger over his lips.

“Usual place after hours?” She spoke in a seductively suggestive tone, raising her eyebrows.

“Fuck, yes, please.” Severus spoke against her finger, nodding quickly, “If I can last that long.”

“Oh, you better,” She gave him more of a stern look, though a smirk crept upon her face as she walked to the door and she turned around to flash it to him, “I will know, Severus.”

Severus took a shaky breath and walked back behind his desk, gripping onto it tightly as he leaned against it, wanting nothing more than to have Eleanor upon it; legs parted and him between them, pounding away to his hearts content as she begged him to fill her up with his warm, sticky release.

‘No,’ He told himself, shaking his head as he knew the students would be arriving any second, ‘No time for thoughts like that. Just a few more hours and there will finally be no interruption. You can do this.’

The following hours felt like days and Severus was having to try his hardest to not make any mistakes throughout the lessons that filled them. How close he was to exploding inside her just moments before they were interrupted was painful, and it only made him long to be that close to her even more than usual. He wasted no time in heading in the agreed direction once the usual time was upon him, praying for the emptiness of the usual place.

He could feel his skin prickling with heat from the want of her, the need to fill her, as he walked briskly down the torch-lit corridors and then hurried up the steps in the way one would if they were being chased by a boggart. The Astronomy Tower after hours was one of their favoured locations, providing complete undercover silence until the area was filled with echoes of their own pleasure as Eleanor pleaded with him not to stop and Severus panted with desperation of reaching his climax inside her. The view of the stars from the top of the tower were a beauty to behold in their own right, but the stars they saw when their eyes squeezed shut and came apart as a result of their pounding hips were even more impressive. The sheer height of the tower made them feel like they ruled over the whole grounds when stood in their own heat after their desires had been met, like no one else mattered and no one could touch them; like no one in this world or any other had ever shared the closeness that they have when intimate with one another like this; no barriers, no preventions, just the two of them and the possibility of what could be created because of it.

He made his way to the top of The Astronomy Tower, and then he saw her. The whole beauty of the night sky encapsulated within her silhouette. As he approached closer, his eyes feasted upon the dress she was wearing — certainly not the same as earlier in the day. It emphasised everything he loved about her body.

“You must stop forcing me to make such horrible decisions, my pet…” He whispered huskily into her ear from behind.

“I’m sorry?” Eleanor grinned, enjoying the feeling of his arms now snaking around her from behind as her hands remained held onto the railings in front of her.

“Wearing things like this…” He pressed a singular kiss behind her ear, making her shiver, “I can’t decide if I want to fuck you with it on or just completely tear it off.”

“Mmm…” She bit her lip, tilting her head to the side to allow his pathway of kisses down her neck, “My apologies, sir.”

“Keep addressing me like that and this could all be over in a flash.” Severus half joked against the crook of her neck, kissing the skin delicately.

Eleanor giggled and turned her head, pressing her lips to his immediately. Severus’ arms tightened around her as he kissed her back and their eyes fell shut, each of them sighing softly against one another’s lips. Eleanor reached one arm behind her and into his hair, deepening the kiss as she tangled it between her fingers.

“I’ve been craving this…” Severus spoke against her lips, pinning her to the railings with his hips, “Goddamn the power you hold over me, Eleanor,” He inhaled sharply, “To fill you with my baby.”

“Our baby.” Eleanor squeezed her free hand over his against her stomach.

“I must have you,” He breathed heavily in between kisses, stressing his need by brushing his hardened, clothed cock against her bottom, “Now.”

Eleanor’s hand trembled over his slightly, kissing him hungrily, “Take what is yours, Severus.”

“Are you ready for me?” His voice was low, one of his hands now making its way up her inner thigh.

“I—I’m never not ready for you, sir…” She breathed against his lips, feeling her thighs tingle slightly as his hand reached the very top.

The kiss broke with a soft gasp from Eleanor once Severus’ hand made it between her legs. Quickly finding that she was still wearing no underwear, his fingers wasted no time in starting to explore. Eleanor’s mouth fell open with a breathy moan and she hung her head forward, one hand against the railing and another in his hair, each grip growing tighter every time he taunted a finger inside her.

“Mm… so good for me.” Severus growled lowly, using his free hand to reach between them and unfasten his trousers desperately, “Bend over the railing for me, sweetheart.”

Eleanor did exactly as she was told without even a moment of hesitation, both hands now holding onto the railings in aroused anticipation. Severus removed his hand from between her legs and used it to hoist her dress up a little more so he could line himself up with her properly. Within seconds he had thrust himself inside her just like the many times before with such ease. Both of their mouths fell open to let out a breathy moan simultaneously, the closeness of how they had almost lost themselves in Severus’ potion’s closet still in the forefront of their minds.

“Mm, don't hold back, baby…” Eleanor exhaled, pushing back against him.

Severus sucked on each of his coated fingers but remained silent as he leaned over her a little more, pressing his lips to her ear and murmuring into it, “I wasn't planning on it.”

Before Eleanor had a chance to even think about a response, moans were leaving her lips instead from the heavy thuds of Severus’ hips slamming up into hers, his breath still hot against the back of her neck from his grunts. He moved his hands to place them over hers on the railings and squeezed them gently, his teeth now grazing against the skin on the side of her neck. Eleanor whimpered softly as her eyes rolled back in pleasure, feeling her body trembling beneath him already.

“I must apologise,” He panted against her neck, kissing her with each harsh thrust.

“A—Apologise?” Eleanor’s voice shook, feeling the familiar warmth from before in the pit of her stomach as he angled his movements just right.

“This may all be over faster than—” He inhaled sharply through clenched teeth, “N-Normal…” His cock gave an almighty throb, “And for that, I am sorry.”

It was true, the teasing beforehand, the situation they found themselves in, in the potions closet, the way they had to stop just before they got to the most crucial part, all this pent up release was making Severus’ trained self-control a distant memory.

“That…” Eleanor turned around, kissing him hard on the lips, “Is absolutely fine.” She grinned, moaning into the kiss as his relentless hips continued.

“You must feel it with me,” He spoke shakily against her lips, removing one of his hands from hers and instead placing it back between her legs, massaging his fingers against her exactly how he knew she liked it, “Cum for me, my sweet,” He swallowed hard, squeezing his eyes shut as his body began to tense up in pleasure, “Cum with me.”

“Mmhh-mm, Severus!” She gasped against his lips as he moved his fingers with more pressure and bucked his hips against her, his hair growing sweaty as he also tried to maintain the kiss.

“Fuck, I need to cum,” He panted desperately against her lips.

“Put your baby inside me Severus,” She moaned, kissing him again, “Please.”

“A-Agh, El—” Were the only words he managed to strangle out of his tight throat, now burying his face in the crook of her neck as his release began to shoot inside her in desperate, sticky strings of bliss.

“Y—Yes, Sev!” Eleanor whimpered in delight, the mixture of his hips, fingers, and warmth filling her also brought her to her simultaneous climax.

Severus continued to drive his hips forward like some desperate animal and made sure his fingers continued to move in rhythm for Eleanor’s pleasure, too. Both of them drew heavy breaths in between moans and Eleanor’s hands trembled against the railing, biting her lip when she felt Severus’ lips tickle up the side of her neck.

After a few long moments, Severus took a brief step back and fastened his pants back up, meeting Eleanor’s eyes with a slightly red face once he looked back up.

“That was nothing to be sorry for.” She giggled, pushing her dress back down over her hips.

“Blame how you look in that dress.” Severus’ lips curled up into a half smile, half smirk.

“How so?” She tilted her head playfully.

“I didn't even want to get it off you before you made me..” He cleared his throat to try and insinuate what he meant.

“What I would like to know, Severus,” She stepped forward and leaned up onto her tiptoes, wrapping her arms around his neck, “Is how you can try to fuck me in your potions closet, actually fuck me over the railings on the Astronomy Tower, but can't bring yourself to say, what, ‘hard’? ‘Cum’?” She giggled, pecking his lips, “Before I made you… what?”

“Enough,” Severus spoke against her lips, trying not to rise to her playful taunting, “Come to bed.”

Eleanor didn't take any convincing at all, but continued to tease him on the journey to his chamber. The backs of their hands brushed against one another and their fingers briefly intertwined absentmindedly, their beating hearts still not at complete rest from their previous activity. The door closed behind them and Severus turned to kiss her lips as he locked it, sighing softly.

“Hi…” Eleanor kissed him back, placing her hands against his chest, “Have you thought about that word yet?”

“You should know better than to tease me.” Severus squinted his eyes playfully, stepping further into the room.

“Or…” She walked two fingers up his chest, “What?”

Severus raised one of his hands and took hold of her wrist, pulling her hand away from him and playfully rolling his eyes, “You don't want to know.”

“What if I do?” Eleanor narrowed her eyes playfully, shaking her arm away from his gentle grip and watching as he walked into the kitchen to make himself a drink.

“Mother of my child, must you taunt me so?” He mumbled and shook his head with his back turned to her, “Would you like a drink?” He looked over his shoulder.

“What did you just say?” Eleanor’s lips parted slightly.

“I asked if you would like a drink.” Severus shrugged, warming his hands around his own cup as he turned around to face her.

“No, you know that's not what I meant,” Eleanor tilted her head.

Severus arched a brow, trying to play dumb.

“Before that.” She raised her eyebrows.

“Mother of my child?” Severus said nonchalantly, sipping at his cup, “Do you not like me addressing you like so?”

“Oh, no, I do,” Eleanor felt a little flutter in her chest, “But I'm yet to see a baby.”

“No…?” Severus looked at her inquisitively.

Eleanor pressed her lips together and brushed her hands back and forth over the flatness of her stomach.

“I hope you aren't suggesting I am not capable…” Severus’ tone lowered, a scowl threatening on his face.

“All I am saying is that nothing has happened… yet.” She shrugged.

“I do not think it would be wise to continue this conversation.” Severus placed the cup down on the kitchen counter and walked closer to her.

“Why, are you suggesting that you are capable, Professor?” Eleanor bit her lip, her eyes tracing up his body until they met his.

“That and more, Miss Eleanor,” He dipped his head so their lips were only millimetres apart and she could feel his warm breath against them as he repeated, “That and more.”

“Prove it.” She spoke equally close to his lips, “Why do you think I wear this tight dress you like so much? Imagine it all stretched out because of what you did to me…”

Severus parted his lips to speak but all that came out was a soft whimper, growing increasingly turned on by her words. He didn't care if he was about to be the first one who caved, he leaned in and urgently pressed his lips to hers, nudging his whole body against her from the force of it.

“This dress, hm?” She kissed him back forcefully.

“It’s not the dress,” Severus panted against her lips, “Its the person wearing it.”

Eleanor let out a breathy giggle when she felt his arousal prodding against her stomach, snaking her arms around his neck, “Mm, already?”

“This baby isn't going to make itself.” Severus snarled against her lips and tugged at her dress, their lips smacking back together even harder this time.

“Take me to bed.” She whispered lowly against his lips, gently pushing him in the direction of his bedroom.

“With,” He swiftly lifted her up into his arms bridal style, “Pleasure.”

Thankfully he didn't trip on his way since neither of them let up on the kisses, her eyes closed completely and his only briefly open. The smell alone from his bedroom always brought back hundreds of memories for her; their first time, their last time, all the times in between, whether it was soft and gentle for hours on end or desperate and rough, this was the place above all others that they preferred.

His large four post bed was covered in silky black sheets and two pillows for each of them — she loved how he always personalised her comfort. Even to the way he delicately laid her down upon the sheets as if she were made of glass. Eleanor’s arms remained around his neck and she pulled him down with her, her hands now tangling in his hair. Severus placed both his hands at either sides of his head and lowered himself over her, their tongues now touching with each urgent kiss.

“Off,” He grunted, now pulling at her dress again, “I’ve had you in this dress, now I must have you out of this dress.”

“Be my guest.” Eleanor grinned and pushed him off her gently so she could stand again and guided his hands to the zip on her dress.

She could feel his hands trembling in anticipation as he found the zip but gasped when she felt how urgently he pulled it down, peeling it off her skin. Eleanor made quick work of the buttons of his own clothing and each of them discarded their clothing on the floor until they were stood completely in the nude. She could already feel the warmth of his arousal radiating against her, curious fingers exploring each other’s bare bodies as they made their way under his bed sheets despite caressing each other god-knows how many times before.

“On your back, darling,” He whispered against her lips, kissing them lightly now as they laid on their sides to face each other, “I want to look at you while I am breeding you.”

“Yes, Professor.” Eleanor obeyed, rolling onto her back and gazing up at him.

“What are you… to me?” He asked, looking down at her as he leaned over her.

“Your lover?” She asked after a kiss.

He then kissed her again and then spoke, “And?”

“Your mistress?”

“And?”

“The mother of your child?”

His kiss was harder this time, his body now completely on top of hers, “And?”

“Yours?” She rested her hands against his lower back, “All yours.”

“Yes,” He inhaled sharply as he pushed himself inside her, kissing her again, “Good girl.”

Eleanor lifted her legs to hook around him and allow him to slot himself between her with even more ease, moaning against his lips at the feeling of him filling her up again. Severus’ eyes immediately closed and he wasted no time in starting to move his hips, though kissing her with more meaning than desperation this time. Eleanor helped guide his hips as her hands remained at the bottom of his back, tilting her head to the side to allow his lips to latch onto her neck.

Barely even minutes in, and she could already feel his cock pulsing each time he thrust in and out of her, making her whimper out his name as her eyes rolled back in pleasure. His lips latched onto her neck and he sucked on her skin as if a vampire to his prey. Eleanor dug her nails into his skin and arched her back as his thrusts picked up a merciless pace, breathing heavily against her neck as she moaned out his name several times. The chanting of his name only made him strive to be even more rough with her, the headboard now sounding around the room as it slammed against the wall.

“Fuck, Severus…” She gasped in pleasure, spreading one of her legs out completely to help ease the ever-growing pounding of his hips, “D-Don’t you dare stop…”

“To stop would not be to breed you, my pet…” Severus spoke huskily into the crook of her neck and flicked his tongue against her sensitive skin before raising his head to look down at her beneath him.

Eleanor lost her breath as she gazed up at his animal-like form through her heavy eyes. She loved for him to claim her like this; make her his in his bed. Sure, sneaking around in potions closets and empty classrooms had a certain thrill to it, but nothing compared to how he had his way with her behind definite closed doors. His caresses would be so possessive, yet so gentle. Their kisses would grow more passionate than ever, barely even coming up for breath until they were blue in the face. He would always want to be above her — to assert his dominance and intimate protection whilst looking in her eyes.

“H—Harder…” Her words were barely audible, the air in her lungs being pumped out by his hips.

“Sweetheart, I plan on making you forget your own fucking name,” He leaned down to press a harsh kiss to her lips, almost as if in punishment for even questioning his performance, “When you can no longer walk,” He paused from speaking briefly as his hips bucked up against hers, “And only then,” She swore she felt his cock break through into her stomach, “Will I be satisfied that I have fucked you hard enough.”

“Fu…” Her attempt of words trailed off into silence as she felt Severus’ hands move down to her thighs and part them as far as they would go.

“Would that be okay, princess?” He spoke lowly, gazing down at her with her thighs spread wide in his grip.

“I— I beg you not to stop, Severus!” She whimpered, “Please!”

“What do you want me to do instead?” He narrowed his eyes, his expression screaming how aware he was of the power he held over her — power she willingly allowed him to have.

“Claim me, make me yours,” She rambled, throbbing with want from his now still hips, “Fill me,” She inhaled sharply and quickly, watching as the fire in his eyes grew even more, “Use me as a place to release it all, Severus…” Her hands trembled, leaning up on her elbows, “The one way you know you can me me truly yours.”

“And how might that be, hm?” He tilted his head, unsure how much longer he could hold himself back now.

Eleanor reached up and brought him down into a rough kiss, growling against his lips, “Breed. Me.”

Severus felt as if he could lose himself from that command alone, and, quite frankly, struggled not to. Instead, he kissed her back, but only once, before raising himself up a little further again with her thighs still in his grip and starting to plunge his hips up into hers as hard as he possibly could without breaking through the wall to next door. Eleanor threw her head back in pleasure, her mouth wide open in order to allow countless moans flow out. Severus hung his head forward, his now sweaty hair falling over his face and swishing back and forth in time with his thrusts. He grunted each time his length shoved all the way inside her, his hands growing clammy against her thighs as they remained in his grip. The pleasure surging through him made him feel god-like, knowing how Eleanor gave herself over to him like this with no barriers between them, the utmost wordless way of giving herself to him by begging him to put a child inside her and ultimately binding them together forevermore.

“Oh, fuck, Eleanor,” He pressed his lips together firmly, feeling his hands beginning to slip, “You are going to be the fucking death of me.”

“Not before you become the father of my child.” Eleanor replied breathily with her head still hung back in pleasure.

“You want that?” Severus panted, never tiring from hearing him tell her.

“What gave it away?” Eleanor spoke as she raised her head again, catching his eye line.

Severus felt the heat in his stomach begin to rise and he suddenly dipped his head again, their teeth clattering as their lips crashed back together. His hands fell back to her sides again and her legs naturally wrapped themselves back around his body, keeping him as close as possible but still allowing the full thrust of his hips.

“Severus, I have one question…” Eleanor spoke against his lips, pulling his bottom lip out slightly.

“W—What, now!?” Severus narrowed his eyebrows, unable to stop the slamming of his hips as if they were now moving of their own accord.

“Why is it that you insist on black bedding when you know you’re going to cum so much that it's going to spill out of me and onto them?” She spoke seductively, smirking against his lips as one hand slid into his hair and the other slid down the back with her nails.

“Mmmh… Jesus fucking Christ…” Severus whimpered, feeling the pleasure starting to overcome him as a result of her words, “I’ll just have to make sure I fuck you deep enough so that it all remains inside you.”

With that, he pushed himself even harder than he thought he could go, and within seconds he knew he was about to explode. He continued to drive his hips forward in rhythm with Eleanor’s moans, his own growing more and more high pitched and breathless as his orgasm continued to climb up his body like wildfire.

“Sev—!”

“E—Eleanor!”

The feeling of Severus’ climax shooting inside her with each deep thrust was more than enough to tip Eleanor over the edge. Their kisses were completely clumsy, their tongues touching sloppily as their hips continued to move agains each other to desperately ride out their joint pleasure. Severus felt like fireworks were exploding throughout his body as strings of release continued to pour inside her, Eleanor now squeezing her legs around him even tighter to keep him as close to her as possible.

“Severus, baby, mm!” Eleanor whimpered, her hand shaking in his clammy hair as she did her best to keep their faces in line with one another.

“O—Oh, fuck, that feels so good…” Severus panted hard against her lips, still feeling the need to keep his hips moving despite practically emptying what felt like his entire bodyweight inside her, “So good…”

“That’s it,” She grinned, kissing him again as both of her arms wrapped themselves around him.

Severus’ hips very gradually came to a stop and he let out a shaky breath against her lips, smiling softly as the kiss broke. Their eyes met and the once lit animal-like desire in his were now replaced with genuine admiration and love.

“That was unlike anything I have ever experienced,” Severus exhaled slowly, the both of them still struggling to catch their breath, “You are everything.”

“You do such a good job of claiming what’s yours, Severus.” Eleanor spoke as he leaned down to kiss her.

“Mine,” He spoke against her lips, “Mine,” He spoke against her neck, “Mine,” He spoke against her collarbone, “Mine, mine” He spoke against each of her breasts, lowering himself, “Mine,” He kissed each of her thighs as his head disappeared under the sheets, and Eleanor lifted them up slightly so she could watch him this time as his lips brushed against her stomach, gazing up into her eyes, “Mine.”

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[formulafanfics13]

The reader is Schumacher's daughter, Max's friend since childhood, and she is in love with him. Verstappen has no idea about this, but he is also in love with her. Since he thinks she doesn't feel the same way, he gets involved with someone else (nothing serious, but it's still an involvement). After that, the reader starts avoiding him in every way and he goes crazy without her. She wants him to see that she is living very well and kisses boys and girls to provoke him, but she continues to avoid Max. He confronts her and she tells him to leave, but he doesn't go and they argue, then he confesses and they make up. She does whatever she wants with him, as punishment (🔥)

You Should’ve Known - MV1 🔥

masterlist

Summary You’ve known Max Verstappen your whole life, but when he turns up at a Monaco afterparty with a new girl, it breaks something in you. You vanish from the paddock, punishing him with silence and strategic chaos — until Spa, where he finally corners you, furious and desperate, only to admit he’s loved you since you were kids. The reunion is explosive, emotional, filthy — you punish him with sex and he lets you, whispering that he’s yours. Because he always was.

Warnings explicit smut, emotionally charged sex, dominance and submission, degradation and praise, possession, angst, mutual pining, jealousy, legacy pressure, rough sex, unprotected sex, manipulative undertones, intensity between childhood friends turned lovers, revenge elements, male crying, references to mental exhaustion and emotional repression.

You’d known Max Verstappen since before either of you knew how to drive. Before he was World Champion. Before he was feral and famous and lion-hearted. Before all the noise. When he was just a boy with too many expectations and not enough softness. When your last name still made people flinch.

You were nine and he was ten when your fathers introduced you. Somewhere quiet and snowy in Switzerland. You wore a ski helmet that was too big and he had a tooth missing. You shared gummy bears and didn’t say much, just sat beside each other in the snow like you'd been doing it for years.

He was your first friend. The only one who understood what it meant to live in someone else’s shadow. To exist in a legacy. To be born and already expected to win.

You never fell in love with him. You just were. You existed beside him. Until one day you weren’t sure where your body ended and his began.

But Max? He had no idea.

Which is why when he rocked up to the post-race afterparty in Monaco with that generic blonde thing on his arm, some influencer who wore Mugler like it was her personality and laughed like she’d swallowed a whole TikTok, you’d felt the blood drain from your fucking face.

The whole grid saw it. Charles had done a double-take. George had whispered, “Oh fuck.” Carlos didn’t even pretend to hide the look of pity he threw your way.

You were Michael Schumacher’s daughter, a famous fixture in the paddock, and for the first time in your life, you wished you weren’t. Because being seen meant being known. And everyone knew you loved him.

So you vanished.

You didn’t answer his texts. Didn’t show up to dinner in Barcelona. Skipped out on Silverstone. Declined the invite to Austria. Every race, you were somewhere else — Ibiza, Milan, Paris, your best friend’s villa in Lake Como. Every post you made was calculated: sunglasses and heels, legs in the sun, drink in your hand, arm around someone hot and new.

Men. Women. Didn’t matter. You let them kiss you in frame. Let them touch your waist. Let the world think you were over Max Verstappen and having the time of your life.

Except every kiss made your skin crawl. Every drink left a sour aftertaste. Every DM from Max, growing shorter, sharper, more desperate, made your chest twist and ache like a fracture that wouldn't heal.

Until you returned to Spa.

Because you were your father's daughter. Because legacy mattered. Because it was raining, and your hands were shaking, and you needed to see it again, the track, the ghosts, the place where it all began.

And he found you.

You were standing in the motorhome hallway, damp hair pulled into a braid, fingers trembling from cold and memory. And Max, furious and wild-eyed, cornered you like you were a threat. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

You blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me," he growled, stepping closer. "You disappear for weeks. You ignore every message. You flirt with half of Europe. You kiss that random guy in Rome and let that girl grope you in Saint-Tropez and you think I wouldn’t fucking see it?"

"I didn’t do it for you, Max."

"Bullshit," he snapped. "You’re punishing me. I know you are."

You shoved past him, storming into your room. He followed. "Get out."

"No."

"Get the fuck out."

"You don’t get to ghost me and then kick me out like I’m nothing-"

"I told you to leave!" you screamed, voice breaking, chest heaving with fury and heartbreak and months of swallowed agony.

But he didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just stared at you like he was looking through time. "You love me," he said.

You froze.

"You fucking love me. And you didn’t tell me."

You laughed, broken and bitter. "You were too busy with your new girl to notice."

He swallowed. "I didn’t sleep with her."

"Congratulations."

"I couldn’t," he said. “She wasn’t you.”

And suddenly your hands were on his chest, shoving him hard against the wall. He caught your wrists but didn’t stop you. He looked like he was waiting for your wrath.

"You don’t get to want me now," you spat, eyes wild. "You don’t get to come here like a fucking victim after ignoring everything I’ve felt for the last ten fucking years-"

"I’ve loved you since we were kids," he whispered.

You stopped.

"I thought you didn’t feel the same. I thought... I was scared if I tried and it went wrong, I'd lose you."

You stared at him. And then, slowly, deliberately, you shoved your thigh between his legs and pressed him against the door. "You don’t get to be scared anymore," you said, voice low. "You’re mine now."

He nodded, breath shaky. "Yours."

"Say it again."

"I'm yours."

You tugged his shirt off. Scraped your nails down his chest. Bit his lip and shoved him onto the bed like he weighed nothing. Climbed on top of him, knees planted, eyes sharp.

"You're going to let me do whatever I want to you, Max. Because I get to punish you now. And you're going to thank me for it."

His head dropped back. “Yes. Yes, please.”

You kissed down his stomach. Took your time. Let him whine, let him buck up into your hand and beg. You didn’t give him what he wanted, not until he was wrecked and desperate and dripping sweat onto the sheets.

And even then, it wasn’t a gift. It was a lesson.

Every moan he let out was for you. Every twitch, every curse, every tear slipping down the side of his flushed cheek, it was all yours.

He came harder than you’d ever seen. Gripping your hand like he was scared you'd disappear again.

You kissed his cheek after. Tucked yourself into his side. And whispered: "You should’ve known. You were always mine."

And Max, broken and blissed out, smiled through the wreckage.

"I know that now."

[ovaryacted]

Nic hi howdy im so sorry for just jumping into your inbox but okay… your post abour husband Dr Abbott made me thinking of how he wrote that sweet note for his patient’s family & how sincere and heartfelt he is - he probably is a husband that openly leaves you sweet simple messages on sticky notes or playful reminders of dates on your calender

OMG NEVER BE SORRY FOR JUMPING INTO MY INBOX PLEASEEE! That's why it's here, and I LOVE how you came into my inbox talking about husband! Jack Abbot cause ughhh, I just know he would be a good partner genuinely. Forgive me if I yap for a little bit.

The thought of him writing notes here and there is something that I consider canon in my mind (duh), not just because it's a cute little thought but cause it's a fundamental aspect to Jack's character. He gives me the sort of vibe that he's a guy with heavy emotions, or he feels deeply even if at times he may not always say certain things when it pertains to him being vulnerable. Yes he's emotionally repressed to a degree, but the combination of him going to therapy and having this deep respect for other people in general are all parts of him that translate across the screen in such an intimate way.

I think he cares about people, he cares about humans. And when he wrote that letter for the veteran that passes in the first episode after we're introduced to him, it gives me the impression that Jack probably used to do that too when he was still in the military. He'd pass on notes to the family members of his closest comrades if they don't make it, he's the one that gives family members condolences because he knows what it's like to be out there in no man's land, not knowing if you'll make it back in one piece or alive at all. He does that as a way to pay respect to people, and to acknowledge their existence in a reality where life seems so fleeting, and that's true for both out in the field and now in the ER.

I also think in general, Jack journals, probably keeps two separate kinds of journals. He has several medical journals he writes in and reads spanning over the years of his medical expertise and knowledge, and you read through them on occassion as his wife to jog your own memory and learn certain things. But there are several other journals that are strictly for him, where he's able to talk about his biggest fears, the nightmares that plague him, the worst things that play on loop in his mind have a safe space on the page and you wouldn't dare to snoop through that. He also doesn't let you, not because he doesn't trust you, but because he wouldn't want to traumatize you with his own thoughts, and you grant him that privacy no questions asked. As sarcastic as Jack may seem, he's a sentimental guy who has big feelings, and has a thing for giving the people close to him words of reassurance, praise, or acknowledgement. He knows what to say, how to grab your attention, and carries himself well to drive the point home. That's just who he is.

So with all of this, yes he does leave you little notes here and there at random for you to find. Some will be in the mirror for you to find first thing you wake up when he's already at the Pitt, a cheesy one-liner he knows will make you laugh under your breath and roll your eyes. Others will be scattered in different places: one on your thermos reminding you to grab coffee, the intense blend he brewed just for you. He'll put one in your car somewhere, another in your damn locker (yes he knows the code), one on the fridge, a remaining one in your snack pack of sorts, where he prepped several calorie & protein dense bars and the like to keep you going throughout the day.

You keep all of them, each little note varying from calling you pretty, to asking you out on a date, reminders for appointments or anything important, or letting you know what he's making for dinner. He'll even give you a corny joke or two, and at least once a week, you'll get a sticky note with a medical question that he expects answered by the time your paths collide at work, something to keep your mind active and going, and he'll reward you with a kiss after you get it right.

Though, despite collecting all of these notes over time, probably on your second jar now with no sign of stopping anytime soon; nothing is better than hearing him tell you these things directly in that signature rasp of his that sends your heart swooning. Jack Abbot wouldn't necessarily consider himself a sap, but he can be a softy when warranted, just to you though.

[daddydindjarin]

Chapter 4: The Space Between

Pairing: Michael "Robby" Robinavitch  x F!Reader  Rating: 18+ Mature Wordcount: 6288 Summary: A good shift doesn’t always mean an easy one. After a long trauma, Robby stays for a double, slipping into the quiet rhythm he and Scout have built over eight years — steady glances, careful silences, and all the things they don’t say. The space between them has never felt closer. Or further. Warnings: Pining, Medical Trauma, PTSD mention, grief mention, general ER Content, child death A/N: As always, please forgive me if I get something medical wrong — hours of Googling and watching Grey’s Anatomy do not replace a medical degree. This is all written with love, too much research, and two emotionally repressed idiots who refuse to communicate. The dividers are by @firefly-graphics!

The door swings shut behind him, and Robby doesn’t move. He just watches it click back into place, listens to the hum of the breakroom lights and the distant thrum of the ER pulsing like a second heartbeat. He takes another sip of his lukewarm, stale coffee. It tastes like burnt grounds and sleepless nights, but it's better than nothing. 

He’d asked her to dinner. He doesn’t know why he phrased it like that- like it was a question. They’ve eaten together a hundred times before. Takeout, game nights, late shifts that bled into early mornings. It’s always been easy, always been comfortable. 

But this time, the way he asked…it wasn’t routine. It was something else, and she felt it.  

Robby sets his coffee down, the sound of the cup against the counter louder than it should be. He scrubs a hand over his face, feels the rough scratch of his beard against his palm. “Stupid…” he mutters under his breath. He hadn’t meant to make it sound like…like something.

He shouldn’t have asked. She’s always been good at brushing him off gently- soft hands, soft voice, her eyes flicking away like she can’t quite meet his gaze. He knows the steps of her retreat like second nature, the way she ducks and weaves. But this felt different, like maybe he’d reached past something he wasn’t supposed to touch. 

Robby breathes out, leans back against the counter, and stares up at the ceiling. The fluorescent lights blink back at him, steady and unflinching. He wonders if she knows he took three of her muffins yesterday. Slipped them into one of her old Tupperware containers and shoved them into the fridge at home like a goddamn thief. He’d even brought the container back, wiped it clean, but left it on the break room counter instead of handing it to her directly. 

He’s been good at hiding it for eight years. Through the transition from intern to resident, and resident to the fellow she is now, he watched her move through each stage with that steady grace that always made him feel both proud and terrified, as if he said the wrong thing, she’d just fold back into herself and disappear. 

He’s dated other people, and he’s gotten close a few times to people he can’t imagine life without, like Janey and Jake. But somehow, it’s always her. Even when he’s with someone else, there’s this lingering thread, this sense that no one quite fits the way she does. 

He’s watched her date, too, brief flings, short-lived relationships with guys who, in his opinion, never deserved her. He never said it out loud, of course, just watched from the periphery, hands clenched in his coat pockets, biting back the urge to say something he shouldn’t. Always been good at pretending. 

And somehow, despite it all, they both always end up here: single, orbiting each other in the kind of rhythm that feels too deliberate to be accidental.  He wonders if she knows that he keeps one of her sticky notes in his wallet, right behind his license. The one that says You’re my favorite, don’t tell anyone, with a crooked little heart next to it. 

He still remembers that first sticky note, the one she left on a trauma chart during her intern year. Scrawled in her handwriting that still slants slightly to the left, paired with a doodle of a cat. She’d slipped it onto the counter at the nurse’s station like it might catch fire if she held it too long. 

He hadn’t meant to keep it, not really, but he found himself tucking it into his coat pocket after rounds, his fingers brushing over the ink and feeling…lighter. Like maybe all the jagged edges of this place had been smoothed over, just a little. 

He’d responded with his doodle, another cat, but with a stethoscope this time, and a short, blocky answer to her question. He still remembers the look on her face when she saw it: surprised, then soft, then something else. Something he didn’t let himself name. 

She never stopped leaving them. He never stopped responding. 

The door creaks open behind him, and Robby turns just in time to catch Langdon’s head poking through. “Hey, you alive in here?”

Robby yawns, shakes off the haze. “For now.” 

Langdon steps in fully, letting the door swing shut behind him. He leans against the counter, hands shoved into his scrub pockets. “You’re staring at the ceiling like you’re waiting for God to answer back.”

Robby snorts, rubbing his eyes. “I think I’d settle for a nap.” 

“Yeah, well. Don’t we all.” Langdon straightens up, glancing at him sideways. “You alright, man?”

“Yeah.” The answer’s too fast, and Robby feels it catch in his throat, sharp and reflexive. He sees it land on Langdon’s face, the hesitation, a flicker of guilt, maybe. Robby doesn’t blame him for it anymore. Not after everything. 

He can still see them standing in the ambulance bay after the chaos of that night, blood drying on their shoes, adrenaline still burning out through their bones. Langdon, back without permission, asking for another chance like he hadn’t stolen drugs out of the supply cabinets under everyone’s noses. Like he hadn’t thrown his entire career-his entire life-off a cliff and dragged Robby down with him in the fallout. 

Robby had offered him a second chance, but not without conditions- inpatient treatment, randomized drug tests, and NA meetings for years. A roadmap to redemption with no shortcuts. Langdon had pushed back, had thrown the worst parts of Robby’s grief in his face. The breakdown after losing Leah, and the trauma of Adamson’s death, only compounded things as he collapsed on the floor in Peds, too hollowed out to move. 

Robby still feels the heat of it sometimes. The shame. The rage. But Langdon had taken the deal quietly and completely. He did the work, is still doing the work. So, Robby shakes his head and forces a grin. “Just tired. Nothing new.” 

Langdon nods slowly, like he’s not sure he believes him, but he’s not going to call him on it, not now. 

 Robby exhales, letting his gaze drift past the break room door. The noise outside is muted, but all he can hear is that night again. PittFest. The blood. The chaos. The grief that hit too close to home. 

Jake's voice in the hallway, and the look on his face when Robby said Leah’s name. He’d never met the girl before that night. But Jake…Jake loved her. He talked about her like she hung the stars. And Robby had promised he’d look out for him, that he’d always show up for him. But they couldn’t save her. 

She was DOA in everything but name. He tried. He and Scout did everything they could: chest tubes, blood transfusions, compressions. Robby called every shot himself, wouldn’t hand it off to anyone else, and Scout was right there, eyes locked on his, her hands steady, heartbreak in her voice when she whispered, “She’s not coming back, Michael.” 

Telling Jake was the worst thing he’s ever done. Standing there in Peds watching a seventeen-year-old crumple, wailing over a girl he thought he’d marry. And Robby cracked. He shoved Jake out of the room before he saw too much and fell apart on the linoleum after. 

He breathes out through his nose, pinches the bridge of it like he can press the memory out. He hasn’t talked about it, not really. But he thinks about it every day. And when he thinks about who held him together afterward, who sat with him when everything else was shattered? 

It’s always her. 

After that night, Scout stayed close enough to feel it without trying to fix it. She didn’t ask questions, didn’t press. She stayed behind after everything- after the paperwork, the press, the politics, and made sure he ate something. Sat beside him in silence, took over his charts when he couldn’t remember how to spell. Checked in on Jake when Robby couldn’t bear to. 

 She made him dinner without asking what he wanted. Brought over muffins and cookies, and something green he never touched. She sat beside him on his couch and didn’t talk unless he did, letting the silence breathe without letting it drown him. She checked on everyone- nurses, techs, med students- and never mentioned that she’d nearly broken herself in the process. She swallowed her own trauma so he wouldn’t have to carry her’s too. 

Langdon clears his throat, breaking the silence and pulling Robby from his thoughts. “Well, we just got a call. MVC, four-car pile-up on Forbes. They’re routing us three with one critical.” 

Robby straightens, the fatigue slipping away. “What’s the plan so far?”

Langdon lifts a shoulder, watching him. “Princess is setting up in Central, McKay's already handling triage. Scout’s been prepping since the call came in. Figured you’d take the lead.”

Robby nods, already moving for the door. “Yeah. I’ve got it.” It’s instinct, years of it. The kind of rhythm that hums in his bones, the calm before the impact. But Langdon’s voice stops him short. 

“Hey, Robby?”

He turns back, one hand still on the door. “Yeah?”

Langdon’s eyes flicker, something careful in his gaze. “You sure you’re good?”

Robby’s mouth tilts into a smile. “Yeah. I’m good.”

Langdon doesn’t look convinced, but he nods anyway. “Alright. See you out there.” 

The door swings shut behind him again, and he straightens, pushing his shoulders back. There’s no time to get bogged down in his feelings. He moves like he always does, efficient and controlled. The call is live, and the pace is picking up, but he still tracks his surroundings. 

Perlah is already at triage, her voice rising above the hallway noise as she checks in the incoming vitals, and Dana’s got eyes on the monitors near Central. He spots McKay in the hallway, arms crossed, already reading a chart with Mel, and Mohan is ducking into a supply room with gloves half on. Langdon’s peeling off toward South, probably covering the laceration from earlier.

And then he sees her. 

Scout, halfway into her gown, gloving up at the head of the bed in Central 3, jaw set, hair pulled back in a way that always means business. She’s focused, steady. Already in it. 

And the ache hits him square in the chest again. 

Not because of anything she says, she doesn’t even see him yet. 

It’s just the way she moves. The way she knows where to be, and how she always seems to find the heartbeat in the chaos before anyone else can. And somehow, all he can think about again is the way she froze yesterday, for a second, when he asked her to dinner. He can still see her smiling too fast, backing away like the air had shifted and she didn’t know to stand in it anymore, and it knocked the breath out of him more than he wants to admit. 

It shouldn’t bother him. He’s her attending. She’s still a fellow. That’s the boundary; that’s the rule. 

But it doesn’t feel like enough anymore. 

He breathes out and starts walking towards Central 3 again and pushes the thought down where it belongs. They've got incoming. 

The trauma doors burst open, slamming back on their hinges with the familiar sound of chaos arriving too fast. A stretcher barrels through, surrounded by paramedics moving with the hind of urgency that means they’ve already done everything they can. One of them is shouting over the noise- “Male, early thirties, restrained driver, GCS eight on scene, BP dropping en route!”- but Robby’s already halfway to the gurney, pulling on a pair of gloves, eyes scanning for blood, bruising, broken lines under the skin.

“Blunt chest trauma,” the paramedic continues, out of breath but still moving. “Left leg deformity, pelvis unstable. Lost consciousness twice in the rig, pressure was 104 over 62 but dropping.” 

Robby’s voice cuts through it. “Scout, take airway. Dana, I need that trauma panel in now. McKay, binder, and chest x-ray. Perlah- two 16s, fast. Let’s go.” 

The words come automatically, the way they always do, but even as he speaks, his attention sharpens, tightens around Scout, already stepping in, adjusting her gloves with the same measured precision he’s seen a hundred times before. She doesn’t ask questions, her jaw is set, and she’s already sliding the oxygen mask down to check the airway before he can finish barking orders. 

There’s blood under the man’s shirt, a spreading bruise across his lower ribs, and a shallow rise and fall of his chest that tells Robby exactly what he’s dealing with even before he lifts his stethoscope. 

“Decreased breath sounds on the left,” Scout says, not even glancing up. She’s bagging already, smooth and steady, her voice calm in a room that’s starting to crowd with noise.

“Prep for needle decompression,” Robby says, pulling back the man’s shirt. “Central line after chest, binder’s priority. Get X-ray in here now.” 

He feels it, that familiar shift as the room begins to move like a single organism: nurses peeling clothing back, someone pushing a tray of instruments into his orbit, techs sliding pads under the patient’s body while McKay fastens the pelvic binder with firm, practiced hands—the rhythm locks in, controlled chaos, predictable in its unpredictability. 

Scout doesn’t waver. She calls for cricoid pressure with a tilt of her chin, her count steady, every number clear and crisp. When she intubates, it’s smooth and practiced, the blade slipping into place like it belongs there. Her hands don’t shake, and her focus doesn’t drift. She checks the monitor even before the tube is fully secured, nods once, and confirms placement aloud without waiting for anyone else to do it. 

And Robby sees it, the flicker of her eyes in his direction. It’s just a glance, barely a second, but it’s there, that quiet check-in she always gives when it matters. It’s not because she needs his approval- she’s well past that in her career. She told him once it’s because she wants him steady with her, wants to know she’s not alone. It settles in his chest- not loud or obvious, but pressing in a way that only she can make him feel. Like trust. Like history. Like something that hurts and helps in equal measure. 

He leans into the pressure at the chest wall, fingers firm as he guides the needle in. A hiss of air and tension escapes, and the patient jerks slightly, sats up by five, but it’s not enough to call him stable. 

“Vitals holding, Dana calls. “BP’s ninety and climbing, good response.” 

“Good,” Robby says, more to himself than anyone else. “Let’s get trauma labs running and prep for CT.” 

Scout’s hands are already on the tube, steadying it as she hands it off to respiratory. Her gloves are streaked with blood, and he knows she’s been here since 7 am- maybe longer- running on caffeine and a stubborn streak that doesn’t let her leave until he’s rung herself dry. 

She doesn’t look tired. She looks alive. God help him, she looks like she was built for this storm. The memory of her freezing yesterday slams back into him. He doesn’t let it show, doesn’t let it touch his hands, but it’s still there. 

The vitals stabilize, but just barely. Numbers inch upwards like they’re negotiating, and he doesn’t like the deep bruising curling over the patient's lower abdomen, thinking it’s too dark, too fast. McKay mutters something about guarding and a rigid belly, and Robby doesn’t wait. 

“Get CT ready, we’re not waiting on labs. Trauma alert them we’re on the way.” 

Perlah peels off, already on the call, while Dana adjusts the line and McKay shifts for transport. Scout is still at his side, standing just behind his shoulder now, hands steady and breath even. He doesn’t have to look; he knows her rhythm like he knows his own. 

“You good?” he asks, low and just for her to hear.

She nods once, barely turning. “Yeah. You?”

“Getting there.” 

She doesn’t ask for more, and he knows that she won’t, not here. She hasn’t noticed, but there’s blood drying on her forearm, a smear across her scrub collar where she brushed her sleeve too fast. He wants to reach out and wipe it away, and the thought of that, of touching her when he doesn’t have to, hits him harder than it should. 

The stretcher rattles as the wheel the patient out, and it feels like they can exhale for a moment. The tech calls vitals again, and they’re better now. Not great, but better. Robby gives Scout one last glance before they roll the patient out, just enough to register the way she squares her shoulders, the way she follows just far enough to make sure they’ve got it handled. The way she always, always stays. 

She turns to him once it’s done, hands at her hips, gloves peeled halfway off, and he knows the words are on her tongue, because they’re on his too. Something about dinner, about last night, about how she looked at him like she didn’t know how to answer.

But she doesn’t say it, and neither does he. 

Because now’s not the time. Because they’re still in scrubs and bleeding adrenaline out through their pores. Because that line- she’s still a fellow, still 19 years younger- wraps around his throat every time he thinks about crossing it. 

Instead, he nods towards the sinks. “Go clean up. I’ll write it up.” 

She gives him a look that says she doesn’t need a break, but she’ll take one if only because he asked. “Thanks,” she says, and her voice is quieter than usual, like she’s holding onto something unfinished. And then she’s gone. 

Robby watches the spot where she stood for just a second longer than he should. Then he turns back into the ER, towards where Mohan and Santos are working on other people from the crash, breathing through the tightness still curling under his ribs. 

The shift doesn’t stop, not for trauma, not for blood, not for a breath. He moves through the department with the quiet precision that’s become second nature, less a man than a pressure system, keeping everything just below boiling point.  This is how he always is- shoulders squared, sleeves pushed up, gloves snapped on tight enough to bite at his wrists. From trauma to triage, back to trauma, every hallway echo and vitals call routes through him. 

He checks on McKay in South 7, glancing over the older woman’s shoulder as she jots down notes with her usual clipped efficiency, then swings through North 4, where Mohan’s trying to calm down a tearful mother whose toddler spiked a fever and a febrile seizure on daycare pickup. Robby crouches next to the kid, murmurs something warm and slow, and lets his steadiness do the talking. On paper, he’s not the one treating the child. In practice, he always is. 

He loops past Langdon, who’s working Central 2 with more focus than Robby’s seen in a while, and just raises an eyebrow in silent approval. Langdon nods back, almost sheepish, and turns back to show Javadi a new technique that she’s watching with wide eyes. There’s trust rebuilding there, brick by careful brick. 

And Scout is somewhere in his periphery. 

He doesn’t have to look for her; he just knows. In the same way you know your own pulse. That instinctive tug of attention when she walks by with her tablet tucked under one arm and a banana from the nurses’ station half-eaten in her hand. The way she smiles at patients, passes out stickers to kids, like that’s her sole purpose in life. The way she melts into corners when she’s not actively needed, but lights up like floodlights the second someone calls her name. 

He sees her now, through the glass of North 6, kneeling to comfort a little boy with a dislocated shoulder. She’s got the kind of voice for this- low and calm and textured like soft flannel. The boy’s crying eases while she talks. She’s explaining the sedation meds to his dad without condescension, letting him hold his son’s other hand the whole time. It’s grace in motion. It’s competence so innate that she doesn’t even know she’s commanding the room. Robby watches, his heart tight. Of course, she doesn’t know. Of course, she wouldn’t believe it if he told her.

He keeps walking, but slower now. 

Dana finds him eventually- she usually does. Leans on the edge of the nurse’s station like she’s just resting, like her eagle-eyed scan of the floor isn’t strategic, like she hasn’t been watching him watch Scout for ten goddamn minutes. 

“You know what’s going on with her?” she asks, low enough not to carry. 

Robby lifts a brow. “Scout?”

“Who else?” Dana’s voice isn’t sharp. It’s something much gentler, a mother’s tone. A woman who’s been working this job since beepers were cutting-edge technology. “She’s been on doubles for two weeks straight. I asked her why. Said she was fine. You buying that?”

Robby’s jaw shifts. “She said she was okay.” 

Dana tilts her head, eyes narrowing. “You know she still sends money to that sister of hers, right? Lily. Pretty sure that’s what all these extra shifts are about.” 

That lands heavy and familiar. 

He sighs. “Yeah, I know.” 

"She’s not gonna say it,” Dana continues, watching Whitaker fumble with a supply cart. “But it’s wearing on her. She’s tired, Robby. Not just from the hours. From…carrying everything. Everyone. I just thought maybe you-” 

Robby cuts her off with a shake of his head. Not like a no, but like a not yet.

“I’ll check in.”

Dana snorts. “You mean you’ll just stare at her across the ER until she catches you and then lie about how you were just passing by?” 

He huffs something like a laugh. “Maybe.” 

“Sad boy,” Dana mutters, already walking away.

He doesn’t argue, because she’s not wrong. Not about Scout. And not about him either. 

He moves again, rounding the corner, but his rhythm’s off now. His heart is tripping over the fact that Dana noticed. That other people are noticing. That this thing inside him isn’t as invisible as he thought. And worse, maybe Scout noticed it too. That maybe it’s the reason she ducked his dinner question like it had expectations. 

He breathes out slow, schooling his features back into neutral, and dives into the next hallway, already scanning the boards for incoming updates. The shift isn’t over yet. He can still find her before it ends, even if he doesn’t say what he wants to. Even if all he can do is be there, just close enough to catch her if she stumbles, but just far enough not to make her run. 

The breakroom hums with the low mechanical whir of the refrigerator as Robby steps in to escape for just a second. The lights in here are always a touch too bright, buzzing faintly overhead like they’re as overtired as the rest of them. He flips the switch on the coffee machine and lets the hiss and drip fill the silence, reaching blindly for a paper cup. His fingers drum against the counter, restless, and the moment the coffee starts to pour, so does the memory. 

She was an intern, barely a week into her rotation, and it was chaos- blood and glass and a small boy who came in blue and never came back. She didn’t speak the entire code, just followed orders, eyes wide, face pale, hands moving on instinct. He remembers thinking she wasn’t going to last. But after they called it, after the room emptied and the mother collapsed screaming into Dana’s arms- Scout didn’t leave. 

He found her in Trauma 2, sleeves rolled up, hair falling out of her bun, gently cleaning the boy’s body. She didn’t cry, didn’t shake, she just moved with the slow, reverent precision of someone who hadn’t figured out how to grieve out loud. She was scrubbing the child’s hands when Robby stepped in, her own hands raw beneath the gloves, her breath catching in the back of her throat. 

She wouldn’t meet his eyes, even when he said her name. So, he didn’t ask her to. He just walked to the sink beside her, grabbed another pair of gloves, and started cleaning alongside her. Afterward, she stayed. Folded a blanket over the child’s chest, brushed the hair back from his face. When she turned to leave, he followed her to the staff sink where she scrubbed her hands over and over and over. Water too hot, soap too harsh, skin turning pink and then red. 

“You stayed,” he said, quietly, just above the sound of water and grief. “That matters.” 

She didn’t answer, not right away. But she nodded once, and that was enough. 

Robby swallows against the lump in his throat as the coffee finishes dripping. He presses the cup to his lips, burns his tongue, and breathes out through his nose. 

It was the first time he really saw her, not just another intern in a black scrub top, not just a name on the board. But someone who would carry a grief that wasn’t hers just to make it a little easier on someone else. Someone who hurt quietly, who held everything inside until it bled through her fingers in kindness. Since then, she’s been the one he looks for in the chaos. The one who sees what he doesn’t say. Who shows up, not loudly, but completely. 

And he thinks about that night every time he catches her hands shaking after a hard case. Every time she tucks a sticky note into his locker with a doodle or a quiet joke, like she’s still trying to make sure he stays. Like they’ve been holding each other up ever since and never said it out loud. 

He stares into his coffee now, letting the bitterness settle. Wonders, not for the first time, if she knows he’s still holding that moment. If she realizes how often he thinks about it. If she remembers the way he stood behind her, aching to reach out, but didn’t, because even back then, she was his intern. Because even now, she’s still his fellow. 

Because even after eight years, he still hasn’t figured out how to tell her that she’s not just someone he looks out for. She’s the reason he still looks- for steadiness in the chaos, for the heartbeat in the noise, for a reason to stay grounded when everything else is slipping. She’s the thing he’s always searching for in the static. 

He tosses the rest of his coffee and pulls open the door. The pit floods back in, sharper, louder, alive. Somewhere out here, Scout is already moving through it, steady and brave and pretending she’s fine. He knows better. And maybe tonight, maybe after the next call, maybe after everything settles…maybe he’ll stay a little longer. Just to be sure she knows she’s not alone either. 

The afternoon bleeds into evening without the usual screech of chaos, and Robby’s not sure whether to be grateful or suspicious. They’ve all been waiting for the other shoe to drop since the last trauma came in, but the board’s finally cleared, the department isn’t on fire, and the buzz in the pit is low, content. Like a held breath finally let go. 

He should have signed out. Should’ve handed the board to Jack, walked out into the Pittsburgh night, and let someone else take it for a while. But Scout’s name was still sitting under active, scheduled for a double, and somewhere between the trauma bay and the nurses’ station, Robby made the decision without fully acknowledging it: he wasn’t leaving. 

He doesn’t announce that he’s staying; he just doesn’t clock out. Technically, he doesn’t need a reason. He’s the Senior Attending, the lead, the final stop before anything burns too long. But tonight, he watches the board blink from day to night shift, watches Jack’s name hover in gray beside his own, and doesn’t sign off. 

He taps into the group message Dana insists on maintaining for “night shift morale” and fires off a simple text: 

Ordering food. Usual?

Ten seconds later, Dana replies: 

Pizza. And Breadsticks. Don’t cheap out on us.

So, he orders enough pizza to feed everyone twice over. He tells himself it's for morale- he’s done it before, after long shifts, holidays, brutal codes- but this time, it’s also about her. She hadn’t said yes to dinner, hadn’t said no, either, but he knows her silences well. So, he ordered for everyone. No pressure. No spotlight. Just space. A way to sit across from her for a few minutes, maybe hear her laugh. 

He makes his rounds first. Checks on Shen and Parker as they arrive, handing off a few lingering patients. Parker’s got her usual no-nonsense stride, which is completely overwrought by her easy smile as she has Santos fill her in on a patient’s plan of care. Shen jokes with Jesse at the nurses’ station, sipping from a giant thermos that smells like melted licorice and regret. 

Jack’s already in Central when Robby finds him, flipping through a chart with his brow furrowed like it owes him money. He looks up, registers Robby with a tired smirk. 

“You bringing peace offerings or checking my homework?”

“Both,” Robby says, tossing a wrapped breadstick his way. “Don’t say I never give you anything.”

Jack snorts but catches it one-handed. “You trying to bribe me before Gloria finds you?”

“Gloria can find me in hell,” Robby mutters, and Jack hums his agreement as they share a look, the kind of wordless exchange built on years of shared shifts, rough cases, and the kind of quiet loyalty neither of them ever names. 

From there, the pattern clicks in. He checks in on Mel, who’s finishing up a difficult IV on a combative toddler with Whitaker hovering nearby, worried and awkward and trying not to knock anything over. Mateo is managing triage, and Donnie is reorganizing the incoming labs like he’s running air traffic control. Dana’s floating like a ghost, somehow present in every corner without ever standing still, and he makes a point to tell her to go home, to which she smirks, saying, “You first.” 

He finally finds Scout again leaning against the nurses’ station, balancing a plate with two slices of Hawaiian pizza and a breadstick hanging precariously off the side. Her hair is slipping loose from where she tied it back too fast between calls. There’s a smudge of pen ink on her knuckle. She’s laughing at something Parker says, head tilted, eyes warm. 

He smiles to himself, watching her laugh, watching her let go of some of the tension he knows is still burning just under the surface. She doesn’t let it drop often, not fully. But tonight, for now, she does. 

And suddenly, it’s a good shift. 

The lull holds longer than it should. The pit hums around them, monitors beeping soft and steady, the occasional page overhead, but nothing urgent or life-threatening. Just bodies moving through a department that, for once, doesn’t feel like it’s seconds from cracking open. 

Scout is at the far corner of the breakroom, back half-curled into her chair beneath the buzzing fluorescent lights, her tablet propped against a half-empty plate of cold pizza. She’s scrolling through charts, fingers tapping the screen in practiced ease. He watches for a second before easing down across from her, dropping his own tablet onto the table with a quiet thud. 

“You’re supposed to pretend you’re caught up when the board’s this clean,” he says, reaching automatically for her abandoned breadstick.

She glances up, narrowing her eyes as he takes a bite like it was always his. “That was mine.” 

“You snooze, you lose.” 

“I was reviewing labs.” 

“Semantics.” 

Her mouth tilts up, just barely, but it’s enough. That small, effortless tug of her lips that always feels like it lands heavier than she means it to. 

“Whitaker got his first central line in tonight solo,” she offers, leaning back against her chair. “Didn’t throw up. Almost passed out, but not quite.” 

“Progress.” Robby grins, chewing. “And Santos?”

“Still believes she knows more than God. But at least she’s not saying it out loud as much.” 

He snorts, shaking his head. “Small victories.” 

He watches her carefully, the way she speaks about the residents, interns, and medical students- the ones he’s heard her call ‘baby birds’- like pieces of a machine she was always adjusting, protecting, fine-tuning. 

An errant thought crosses his mind. Adamson saw it in her even back when she was new blood under the bright lights of the ER. The way she shouldered things that she never needed to, the way she looked after everyone but herself. He had told Robby to keep an eye on her, and Robby feels his throat tighten just a bit at the thought that even now, even after everything, Adamson is still finding ways to be right. 

They settle into the kind of quiet that only comes after enough years of standing shoulder to shoulder in every version of hell this department has to offer. It’s easy with her like this, when the adrenaline is gone, when the air isn’t electric, when they can just sit here and pretend for a few minutes that they aren’t walking a line neither one of them knows how to cross. 

Scout shifts slightly, tucking a leg underneath her, curling into herself. Exhaustion creeps into her face, but she’s still sharp. She’s run herself into the ground before letting it show fully. 

“You could’ve gone home, you know,” she says after a moment. It’s quiet, not accusing or demanding of an explanation. Just…there. 

“Could’ve,” he agrees, watching her. He didn’t have anyone waiting at home tonight anyway. He rarely did. Nights like this- the ER, the noise, the people- these were the closest thing to company he kept, unless Scout was on his couch, but even then, she never stayed long enough to pretend it was anything but takeout and hockey. 

“You didn’t have to stay.” 

He smiles, something small and automatic. “Didn’t feel like leaving.” 

She doesn’t answer that, just lowers her gaze back to the tablet, but he sees it. The faint flush at her cheeks, the way her throat works as she swallows whatever instinct tells her to respond. 

“Dana left you in charge of me again?” she tries, her voice light and teasing. 

“I gotta do some work around here.” 

Her eyes flick up again, a spark of challenge behind them. “I’m not that bad.”

“You’re worse than Abbott some nights.”

“That’s slander.” 

He chuckles under his breath and lets his head tip back against the wall for a moment, breathing into the rare quiet. She mirrors him without thinking, both of them sitting there for a beat longer than necessary, like neither of them really wants to break the spell. 

“I’m glad you stayed,” she says softly, barely audible. 

He doesn’t answer right away, afraid that if he does, it’ll come out wrong, or worse, come out honest. Instead, he just meets her eyes and nods.

“You know I always do.” 

There’s a moment of quiet that should feel heavy, but it doesn’t. Not with her. He lets his gaze drift down to her tablet, scanning the labs she’s reviewing even though he doesn’t need to. “You’ve been picking up a lot of doubles lately.”

Scout’s hands pause for half a second over the screen, then keep scrolling nonchalantly. “Just covering the gaps.”

“Scout.” 

Her eyes lift, a soft warning in them- don’t push.

He softens his voice. “Are you taking care of yourself at all?”

“I’m fine,” she says gently, almost sounding rehearsed. “You know me.” 

He does, which is why he doesn’t believe her. But he also knows the limits of the conversation she’s willing to have right now. He crosses his arms over his chest, watching her for a long moment. “Lily’s okay?” he asks lightly, like it’s casual, like it doesn’t mean anything deeper.

Her smile twitches at the corner, something too tight to be real. “Yeah. She’s…you know. Figuring things out. Always dramatic, never dull.” 

It’s the kind of line she tosses out when she doesn’t want to go deeper. He knows the shape of it by now, the quick humor, the misdirection. She glances down at her tablet like it’s something pressing. 

“She still behind on rent?” he asks gently, not pushing, just asking.

She doesn’t look up. “I sent some money. She didn’t ask, but…she never really has to.”

And that’s all she says. That’s all she’ll say. He doesn’t press, just nods and reaches for her crust, stealing the last bite. 

“Again, that was mine,” she says, but there’s no heat behind it. 

“Hazard pay.” 

She huffs softly, head tilting in mock annoyance. “You always do that.” 

He grins, lets the easy feeling settle between them again. Whatever that moment was, when she let everything she carries slip just long enough for him to glimpse it- the exhaustion, the pressure, the way she keeps trying to hold everyone else together while never asking for help herself- it’s gone now. Folded away like it always is. 

She buried it fast, but not before he felt the weight of it. And even if she won’t ask for help, he’ll keep staying right where she can find him, because she’s always been worth staying for.

<- Previous | Next ->

[milenapilled]

my thoughts on caldre & calchel

cal and andre are interested in each other romantically. ben coccio has stated this and cal does not have the possibility of getting into a relationship with rachel, and if he ever did, it would not be functional.

cal gabriel is suicidal as seen all throughout the movie. the first appearance of rachel with him is in the cemetery scene & they are pretty upbeat while talking, but that is also seen with andre… just boyish. so saying that cal and rachel are more affectionate than cal and andre is not comparable if the depth of cals conversations are deeper with andre & they also crack jokes and talk to eachother in a bubbly sense occasionally. in the zero day commentary, ben says something along the likes of “cal just loves playing with her. he knows about his and andres plan and she doesnt.”, meaning he was purposefully taunting her in the cemetery. rachel even acknowledges cal and andres relationship and is uncomfortable with it. she makes fun of their relationship coming off as a little homosexual, which cal defends and tries to sidetrack from, which could be stemming from his “repressed homosexuality” as ben phrased. along a great amount of cemetery scene, they are talking about andre, and rachels dislike for him. cal defends andre multiple times.

cal and andre are seen from the first scene until all the way to the end of the movie. their relationship is complex and intense— they are planning a shooting together, killing people they hate together. they both are completely transparent with each other and their ideologies. as i see it, the twos world revolves around them. they are literally “the army of two”— cal is suicidal and does not care for his town, which can be supported by the statement “So, I’m -- I’m ready. You ready?” in the scene outside of his house, talking about his readiness for his and andres attack. this gives me enough reason to think that he has emotionally detached from his family and other friends. he could be emotionally detached from andre, but i do not believe that, due to the quote from ben, “I think there are few films that strive to describe intimacy between two characters without showing physical intimacy.” which is (clearly) implying that cal and andre felt “intimate” emotions for one another. I think that cal would not be able to be in a relationship with someone who is not as ill as him, such as rachel. rachel does not know the violent side of cal that andre does, which makes their relationship a bit tricky. well, his relationship with anyone a bit tricky. he is literally planning murder with andre, he would’ve simply killed himself if he truly cared for what rachel felt.

comparing the two, rachel and cal are not as transparent towards eachother, and knowing cal is suicidal and detached from reality, it is hard to convince me that cal would’ve felt affection for rachel the way he did for andre. Another instance where cal is with rachel is in the scenes before and after prom. he does not pay much attention to rachel either— they sit apart multiple times, rachel is the only one grabbing his hand while he quickly took his hand apart from her to exit the limo, and he humiliated her in front of the group of friends in the limo by ditching her to go with andre. rachel also seems unsatisfied after prom, which makes me think it didn’t go as she would expect it to. in the commentary, ben also describes the limo scene as “uncomfortable”. i do not know if he was referencing the friend group or the scene in general, but there was not much regards to cal and rachels relationship in that scene with the commentary. when cal arrives at andres house, there is a deleted scene where he “rips off his shirt” to display his mission outfit underneath his prom attire. i do think this is. um. idk. this sounds kind of fucking gay— its april & he is deciding to let himself sweat and wear layers just for the purpose of pleasing andre.

i will also be adding a picture of my thoughts on the burning of possessions here as well as a part of the cemetery scene written out . this is a casual rambling but its kinda JUST KINDA formatted as an essay or whatever. im just using paragraphs, its 2 am rn and im tired as fuck if i said something wrong dont punch me 💝 also if this comes off as rude or too forwards my bad

additional: i think cal scheduled the cemetery hangout to report back to andre if rachel suspected their violence.

[kefiteria]

hi! i very much returned and i come with a request. i. i would looove to see! a rivals to lovers sebek x reader thing from you!! one where they start off on the wrong foot, clash often, maybe even spar/swordfight (and maybe maybe, even other people teasing them about liking each other when they *clearly don't!*) and then oopsies, one of them starts to fall for the other... whether that's one-sided pining or mutual like with denial is up to you! idk i just. i love that trope. and i would love to see your take on something like this since you haven't written something like this before i think! maybe!

thank you in advance! :D

pairing: Sebek Zigvolt x Reader

tags : rivals to lover, mutual pining - denial, slow burn like glacial, emotional repression olympics, lyrical writing

a/n🍨: hallooo~ thank you so much for requesting🩷 i too love this trope! this one took me a while because im practicing my english and prose here by using classic literature as always for my writing style 🍎 was planning to make it into headcanon style but nah we need more Sebek written in this pov~ I hope you enjoyed this and thank you so much for reading my writing 🩵

To say that you and Sebek Zigvolt met under civil circumstances would be a falsehood so severe it could rupture the very stonework of Diasomnia’s northern battlements. No, you met in the manner of colliding storm fronts—loud, electric, and with an immediate declaration of war.

He had the gall—the bold, sun-blessed gall—to correct your grip before the match began, his voice a staccato of knightly contempt. “Your wrist lacks tension.” he had intoned, as though offering divine edict rather than unsolicited critique.

You responded the only way one should when their pride is called into question by a man whose hair defies gravity and whose decibel level could awaken the dead: With a smile sharp as a letter opener and the promise of utter ruin.

The duel was close. Too close. You won (technically). Emotionally, he declared victory by virtue of ‘allowing you an opening out of charitable disdain.’ You haven’t stopped reminding him since.

Though there was something in that first clash. The spark of metal? Yes. But something else too—an irritant that settled in the bloodstream and curdled into fascination.

You spar with Sebek far too often—egregiously, obscenely often. To the point that even Silver, slumped against a tree like a man who’s seen too much, once muttered through the velvety fog of exhaustion, “Do they think swordplay is foreplay?”

You both ignored him, of course paired with the practiced dignity of people who absolutely did not hear that. Both flushed with the kind of synchronized, thermonuclear embarrassment that would’ve triggered an evacuation drill at NRC, had anyone been paying attention. So you turned away like you were being pulled by magnetic shame. Sebek blushed in reverse—spine straighter, jaw tighter, voice louder, as if yelling could exorcise feelings.

He treats every duel like a divine inquisition—each swing of his blade a holy rebuke against your entire existence.

You, on the other hand, approach it like it’s the world’s most dramatic coping mechanism—why go to therapy when you can just emotionally bleed on a training field with swords and unresolved tension?

When your weapons clash in melodies only the repressed could compose. His hands, traitorous things, are always too gentle when shoving you back, like he’s afraid of bruising your pride more than your ribs. Yours, equally disloyal, linger a beat too long when helping him up, fingers brushing like they have their own subplot.

You fall? He catches you—with far too much concern for a man who calls you “insufferable wretch” between bouts.

He trips? You grab his arm and haul him upright with an intimacy that suggests a montage is about to start.

No one says anything about these moments.

Except everyone.

Constantly.

Lilia has popcorn. Silver has resigned himself to the background commentary role. Malleus has offered, twice now, to officiate “the inevitable marriage.” You’re not sure if he’s joking. You’re also not sure if you are.

Sebek’s inner monologue reads like a knight’s diary slowly succumbing to madness:

“They are reckless, chaotic, dazzlingly unorthodox. I loathe their insolence. I disdain their grin. Their hair is always in their eyes—do they not own a comb? Their footwork is distractingly elegant. I wish to see them humbled. I wish to see them succeed. I wish—no. I do not wish. I strategize.”

He often storms away from sparring matches and then broods by a window, narrating his internal agony in Elizabethan sonnet form.

You, on the other hand, are no better:

He’s the worst. He’s insufferable. He talks like he swallowed a thesaurus on fire. But when he blocks a strike meant for me, I feel—warm? No. That’s just combat fever. Not affection. Definitely not affection. He looked at me yesterday. For too long. I should punch a wall. Maybe two.

You wake up thinking of him—grumpy, green, and gallant, like your subconscious is hosting a crush-themed renaissance fair.

He trains harder because of you. He says it’s “to surpass a worthy rival,” but everyone knows that’s code for “I can’t stop thinking about their stupid face and I hate it here.”

Both of you pretend you don’t care.

Both of you care enough to write tragic ballads in the corners of your notebooks and then aggressively deny their existence when caught. His rhyme scheme is suspiciously good. Yours ends with “sword” forced to rhyme with “feelings I’ve ignored.”

Denial has never been this poetic.

The mission goes sideways, as missions often do when fate decides your emotional development needs a nudge. Blades clash. Smoke billows. Someone yells something unhelpful.

Sebek takes the hit.

A clean, heroic slash across his arm—not fatal, but dramatic enough to cue a slow-motion gasp. Blood blooms. So does your panic.

You sprint to him like a protagonist in a poorly-budgeted romance drama. “Sebek!” you shout, voice wobbling, heart lurching. “Why didn’t you dodge, you idiot?!”

You slapped a bandage on him like it's an insult and pressing too hard. Plus, also shaking and typical pretending it’s from battle adrenaline and not the mind-numbing fear that your favorite loudmouth knight might actually perish before you resolve whatever this... thing is between you.

Sebek (bless him), looks up at you with the hazy, noble daze of a man who thinks he’s about to be sainted.

“Because you were behind me...” he says, with the unwavering sincerity of someone who would die proudly and dramatically on your behalf and then lecture you about safety as a ghost.

The silence that follows is biblical. Not holy. Just really, really awkward.

You stare at him.

He stares back.

Somewhere in the background, Silver audibly sighs.

There is, undeniably, the atmosphere of a kiss. The entire battlefield feels it. Even the enemy pauses like, “Are they gonna—?”

But no.

Instead, Sebek winces like a main protagonist suppressing emotion and grunts, “Tactical body shielding is part of knightly protocol.” like that explains anything.

“I swear to the Seven if you say ‘duty’ one more time—” you nearly lose your mind on the spot.

He tries. He tries to say it again.

You hit him with the bandage roll again.

You both survive, tragically, still not dating.

Lilia has a blackboard with your name and Sebek’s written on it. Every day, he adds a new tally mark under “Still Not Kissing.” There are currently fifty-seven.

Silver has stopped trying to intervene. He just carries around tea for people who’ve witnessed your latest emotionally-loaded sparring match.

Malleus, who knows everything and nothing, once mused aloud: “Isn’t it remarkable how well they complement each other’s temperament? Like thunder and wildfire.”

You and Sebek: “WE’RE NOT COMPLEMENTING ANYTHING.”

It happens, as all catastrophes of the heart must, in the training yard—where moonlight bleeds like silver wine across the flagstones, and your breath comes short not from fatigue, but from something far more ruinous: possibility.

Sebek gleams—glows, really—with the sheen of noble exertion and catastrophic restraint, the kind that only men who scream about “honor” at 6 a.m. can manage. His hair is a mess. His tunic clings in ways your brain, traitorous organ that it is, files under archival memory: do not delete.

A misstep—perhaps yours, perhaps the gods’—and suddenly gravity conspires to write fanfiction.

Your faces are intolerably close—shared air close, bad decisions are whispering close. His breath ghosts across your cheek like an unfinished line of poetry. Both are no longer sparring. Both are performing the prelude to a scandal.

His hand finds your waist, firm and immediate, like he was born to catch you.

Your fingers, in a poetic act of betrayal, fist in the collar of his tunic as though you’re anchoring yourself to the last shred of common sense you possess. (Spoiler: you are not.)

Your lips part.

He says—blessedly hoarse, devastatingly sincere— “You’ve improved.”

“So have you.” you replied while blinking like someone who just got emotionally stabbed.

It is not flirting. It is courtship by blade. It is foreplay by tragedy. Your noses nearly touch. Your eyelashes brush.

This is it.

You are going to kiss him.

You are going to ruin everything gloriously.

And then—snap.

A branch. A singular, petty piece of wood.

Both your heads whip around.

Lilia hangs upside down from a tree like a particularly smug gargoyle, idly eating a pear with all the nonchalance of someone watching a telenovela.

“Fascinating,” he murmurs around a bite. “I was wondering which of you would cave first.”

Both of you did not scream.

Did not kiss.

Swiftly, you launch backward like startled cats, scramble away from each other as though struck by lightning and shame in equal measure. Fleeing the scene in opposite directions with the velocity of people running from emotional growth.

You do not speak for two days.

Not out of anger—oh no. Out of terror. The what if of it all haunts you both like a melodramatic ghost with excellent timing.

Sebek trains louder.

You train longer.

Silver watches it unfold like a war documentary. Lilia starts sending fruit daily, each pear labeled with unhelpful advice like “Try again, cowards.”

You remain professionally repressed.

But your eyelashes remember.

You are still not together.

You are still sparring, still arguing with the vehemence of two people who have never touched but think about it constantly. You parry his blows like you're trying to teach him tenderness through violence. He retorts with all the intensity of someone who knows if he loves you, he will ruin it by saying it aloud.

The space between your hands is shorter now.

Tragic, really—how your knuckles brush when you pass swords. How his breath hits your neck when he corrects your stance and you pretend not to shiver like some Victorian ghost-wife locked in a duel with decorum.

The insults have changed. Softer.

"You're reckless." he says, voice like a prayer that fears being answered.

"And you're insufferable." you whisper, like it's the most beautiful thing you've ever meant.

Sebek dreams of your grin and wakes up shouting into the forest, as if the trees might scrub it from his memory. They don’t. They never do.

You draw his face in the margins of your notes—again, and again, and again. "It’s anatomical," you claim. As if your hand hasn't memorized the shape of his jaw better than your own name.

The dorm holds its breath every time you're in the same room. It's become a sport. They're all tired. Someone bought confetti. It's in a drawer. Waiting.

And still—no kiss.

But the wind knows.

The swords know.

The gods know.

Your bones know.

It will not be planned, nor even permitted by either of your better natures—those poor, trembling things that have, until now, kept the floodgates intact with little more than denial and discipline. No. It will unfold with the slow horror of prophecy fulfilled, of stars finally drawing their long-promised alignment.

A duel, yes. Like so many before it. Steel ringing against steel, breath stolen from lungs already too full of unsaid things. The tension between you drawn tighter than a bowstring, vibrating with something ancient—something not born of rivalry, but of recognition.

So the blades lock and breath tangles, as the sky seems to hold itself mid-inhale— there will be a falter.

A slip, a stumble, some divine error in footwork, but it is not a mistake—it is the hand of the inevitable pressed gently to the small of your back. Thus when collision comes, it does not arrive as chaos, but as revelation.

Lips meet.

Not in hunger, nor haste, but in that stunned hush reserved for relics.

As if the moment itself had been sculpted, chiseled from marble and myth, ordained by hands that do not tremble. There is no hesitation, no softening of impact—only the terrible, tender exactness of contact that has been fated since first clash, since first glance, since the first cruelly barbed exchange beneath the training yard’s bruised light.

It is a kiss that unmakes. A kiss that knows.

But when it ends—when the breath returns and the sky resumes its spinning—you will part as though something sacred has been shattered between you. Not broken. No. Merely… too magnificent to remain in mortal hands.

Hands still clutch at tunics as if to steady the world.

When denial arrives with all the conviction of habit, but none of its former strength. Words fall between you like dulled blades, unable to wound now that truth has been glimpsed and briefly held.

Whatever existed before—the brittle pride, the righteous fury—no longer fits the shape of this new silence. Something has shifted. Not loudly, not visibly. Just enough to tip the axis of the world.

Sebek does not meet your gaze. Not out of shame, but reverence, like one who fears the sun might vanish if stared at too long. The moment lingers, impossible to dismiss. Beneath the scent of metal and sweat, something gentler has begun to bloom.

Not surrender—something far rarer. Recognition. And though the duel may resume, though steel may rise again, the air around you no longer belongs to war. It belongs to what comes after.

[ariays]

The Significance of Kitty & Minho Bookending Both Season 1 and Season 2 in XO Kitty

Yes, I'm here again with another analysis because why not?

So previously, I mentioned the term bookending. & I just thought that it would be nice to elaborate on that.

So firstly, what is bookending?

It is a storytelling technique where a narrative begins and ends with the same event, character interaction, setting, or theme. It is a method that is often used to create symmetry, reinforce themes, highlight character growth, or foreshadow key relationships.

Storytelling is rarely accidental—especially in romance-driven narratives like XO Kitty. One of the most deliberate yet overlooked narrative choices in both Season 1 and Season 2 is how Kitty and Minho’s relationship is bookended—they are the first and last people she interacts with in both seasons. This framing technique is often used to subtly highlight a relationship’s significance, and in this case, it strongly suggests that Kitty and Minho’s story was always meant to be a slow-burn romance.

When two characters are both the first and last interaction in a season, it’s rarely coincidental. It is to:

Signify that the relationship is central to the protagonist’s journey.

Showcase how much their dynamic has evolved over time.

Foreshadow their long-term importance to each other.

For Kitty and Minho, the fact that this happens in both seasons is a strong indication that their connection is not just a subplot—it’s one of the core emotional arc of the story.

So let us break it down:

Season 1: The Beginning & End with Minho

First Interaction: The first person Kitty physically bumps into at the airport on her way to Korea (signifying the beginning of her journey) is Minho. This is their very first meeting, setting the tone for their playful, sometimes antagonistic, but always high-energy dynamic.

Last Interaction: The season ends with Minho’s confession—a moment that completely shifts their relationship. And instead of rejecting him outright, Kitty smiles. It’s a small but telling reaction—if she truly felt nothing, there would be no hesitation.

& before people come up to say that the smile was only shown in Season 2 when they re-shot the scene...

This is a screenshot from Season 1 where you can see her slight contemplating smile (with About Love by MARINA playing in the background, mind you).

Why It Matters: The fact that Kitty’s first and last interactions in Season 1 are with Minho shows that he was always meant to be a significant part of her story. The show could have ended the season with anyone—Dae, Yuri, or even a solo moment of self-reflection. But instead, they chose to end with Minho’s confession. That’s not an accident—it’s intentional storytelling, subtly planting the seeds for future development.

Season 2: The Pattern Repeats—Minho Comes First & Last Again

First Love Interest She Sees: In Season 2, the first love interest Kitty locks eyes with is Minho. While Dae is technically present (standing right beside Minho), the camera deliberately focuses on Kitty looking at Minho. This is a classic storytelling technique used to subtly emphasize a character’s importance to the protagonist.

Last Interaction: Once again, the season ends with Minho and Kitty. But this time, things are even more emotionally complicated.

Kitty realizes her feelings for Minho, but she’s too scared to confess. She convinces herself that he has moved on, and the fear of rejection holds her back. Meanwhile, Minho is actively repressing his feelings. After his failed relationship with Stella and seeing Kitty’s complicated emotions regarding Yuri, he convinces himself that moving on is the only option. He even goes so far as to swear off relationships entirely.

Why It Matters: The fact that, once again, the season ends with Minho and Kitty means their story is still unfinished. No matter what happens in the middle, the narrative keeps circling back to them.

The Parallel to K-Drama Romance Structure

In K-dramas, the first person the protagonist meets in a new place often represents fate or destiny—and Kitty’s first physical interaction in Korea was with Minho at the airport.

The “first and last” interaction trope is often used to signal who the true endgame is—the person the protagonist starts and ends their journey with is usually their true match.

By structuring both seasons the same way, the show is subtly preparing the audience for their eventual romance.

The Parallels Between Season 1 & Season 2 (Between Minho & Kitty)

While XO Kitty explores multiple love interests, Minho and Kitty have scenes that directly parallel each other from Season 1 to Season 2. These mirroring moments serve as a way to track their emotional development and reinforce their importance to the story.

Season 1: Minho watches Kitty and Dae at the party → Season 2: Kitty watches Minho and Stella dancing at the ball.

In Season 1, Minho was unknowingly affected by seeing Kitty with Dae. In Season 2, Kitty experiences the exact same thing—showing that now she’s the one realizing her feelings.

Season 1: Minho sees Kitty in slow motion, feels attracted to her, then panics when he realizes it's Kitty and screams "NO!" in denial. → Season 2: Kitty sees Minho in slow motion—not once, but twice.

Minho’s slow-motion moment in Season 1 was a comedic way to show his growing attraction, but in Season 2, Kitty has two slow-mo moments of her own—this time, with much more emotional weight, showing her realization.

Season 1: Minho saves Kitty from the fire on her skirt. → Season 2: Kitty saves Minho from his family's reputation being tarnished by Stella's plans.

In Season 1, Minho literally puts out a fire for Kitty, protecting her. In Season 2, Kitty does the same thing metaphorically—protecting Minho from a social firestorm that could have hurt his family. Can I also add that both scenarios happened in similar settings? One is on stage while the other is back stage.

Season 1: Minho confesses, "I think I fell in love with you… a little bit… or a lot." → Season 2: Kitty has an inner monologue, "I have fallen for Minho… a little bit… or a lot."

This is the most important parallel. Minho was the first to confess his feelings in Season 1, but by Season 2, Kitty finally acknowledges her own feelings—mirroring his words exactly. The fact that her confession was internal rather than spoken aloud adds tension for the upcoming Season 3, setting up a major moment where she will have to verbalize it.

The Emotional Progression Between Bookends

Season 1 starts with Minho being dismissive of Kitty → Ends with him realizing his feelings and confessing.

Season 2 starts with Kitty locking eyes with Minho first → Ends with her realizing her own feelings, but being too scared to confess.

Each season follows a clear pattern, showing that their relationship is evolving step by step. The reason it hasn’t happened yet is because both of them have been in denial, not because the connection isn’t there.

Foreshadowing for Season 3

If Season 1 was about Minho realizing his feelings, and Season 2 was about Kitty realizing hers, then Season 3 will likely be about them finally acknowledging their love for each other and acting on it. Their bookended interactions and season-long parallels have been leading toward something bigger, and Season 3 will be the moment they finally break past their fears and come together. I think we can expect a major confession scene from Kitty—one where she has to face her feelings out loud, just like Minho did in Season 1.

In Conclusion

The bookending of their interactions in both seasons, paired with their direct scene parallels, is not a coincidence—it’s a deliberate narrative choice that:

Establishes Minho as a consistent presence in Kitty’s life.

Marks their relationship as a key focus of the series.

Shows their emotional and relational growth.

Foreshadows their eventual romance.

By structuring both seasons the same way—starting and ending with Kitty and Minho—and including multiple mirrored moments between them, the show is subtly telling us that their story isn’t just important, it’s inevitable.

This isn’t a random ship gaining popularity—it was always part of the plan.

[jellybuttons]

Crowley's "oh" moment wasn't him realizing that he's in love

Okay so we've all talked about the scene where Nina asks Crowley if Aziraphale is his "bit on the side" or whatever and Crowley has that visable fanfiction "oh" moment on his face afterwards. And I know a lot of people think it must have been Crowley realizing that he was in love with Aziraphale, but that's never sat right with me. Crowley is emotionally repressed and oblivious, sure, but he's been down bad for that angel since the beginning. I just can't believe he didn't know it the whole time. That can't have been what he was reacting to. Hell, just the nervous swallow he does at the beginning of that conversation implies that he knows exactly what Nina is about to ask him, meaning he at least already has that idea in his head.

I think what he was reacting to was Nina's last comment, "other people's love lives always seem so much more straightforward than our own" (I'm quoting from memory but I got the gist of it).

Crowley has been in love for a long time by this point. He's also, for that entire time, understood that nothing can be done about it. Up until Armageddon failed, there was no universe where Crowley and Aziraphale could safely be together, and Crowley cares too much about Aziraphale to truly risk his safety (although he does have his selfish moments--that need to know that Aziraphale cares for him too, that he's not completely alone in this partnership). Nothing could change, so there was no point in doing anything about it.

In the few years post Armageddon, though, it seems like QUITE a bit has changed for the two of them. Remember, these are two immortal beings...a few years is milliseconds to them. But in those milliseconds, it seems like Crowley has become a regular establishment in the bookshop, glasses off and all. Aziraphale felt comfortable enough with him to ask to borrow the Bentley, Crowley's prized possession and his literal home. They've gotten COMFY in a very short amount of time, objectively, and I'm sure it felt like big change to Crowley, who knows better than to ask for things he doesn't think he can have.

But Nina's comment. "Other people's love lives always seem so much more straightforward than our own". A direct parallel to exactly how Crowley has been thinking about her and Maggie this whole time--two people who just need a push (romantic awning, anyone?) and everything else would fall into place. Easy. Uncomplicated.

Crowley's "oh" moment isn't that he's in love with Aziraphale. It's that maybe being in love with Aziraphale doesn't have to be complicated.

Other people's love lives DO seem more straightforward than Crowley's own. But if Nina feels that way about him, as sure as he is about her and Maggie...could it be that easy? Could he have that with his angel? I don't think at this point that Crowley has any doubt about whether or not Aziraphale feels something for him (whatever that something may be in Crowley's mind), but after all...Aziraphale asked him to slow down. So he's been taking it slow. Hanging around more. Leaning into his space. Soaking up every second of Az's smiles like a dying man, content with whatever he's given.

But Nina. She thinks they're together already. No doubt in her mind. She thinks it's so straightforward, that of COURSE they're together, two people who look at each other with that much love in their eyes must be, right? And I think that "oh" is Crowley's realization that maybe it IS straightforward. After all, they're them, right? No more Heaven, no more Hell, no actual reason they couldn't just...be together. In that moment, Crowley isn't realizing that he's in love with Aziraphale. He's known he's in love for a very long time. No, that moment was him realizing that, maybe, he can stop pretending not to be, that maybe all they have to do is stop pretending they aren't everything to each other. Does he need to slow down if there's no danger to avoid?

When Nina and Maggie confront him at the end, encourage him to confess...objectively, I don't think Crowley as a character would agree to anything nearly that vulnerable without a LOT more convincing. But he does agree. And you could argue that it's because of Gabe and Beez, sure, but when has Crowley ever used other angels and demons as reasoning behind his choices? No, consistently, Crowley has followed humans every time. Gabe and Beez are nothing but conveniently timed examples. I think that even without G and B running off together, Nina and Maggie could've convinced him after nothing but this "oh" conversation with Nina.

When Crowley is choking out his confession in the final 15 of episode 6, so desperate to make Aziraphale understand...he says "we're a pair, a group, a group of the two of us, and we've spent our existence pretending that we aren't". That's the point he's trying to get across. They can stop pretending, they can stop pretending, please, god, stay here Aziraphale and don't make him keep pretending.

Please, Aziraphale, he's saying. Don't go back. I only just realized that it doesn't have to be complicated. He realized that, maybe, finally, he was allowed.

Oh, he thought, out there on the sidewalk with Nina, there's nothing left but me stopping me from being happy.

Oh, he thought, while Nina and Maggie urged him to communicate, the couple that so perfectly mirrored his own wants, I could tell him how I feel.

Oh, he thought, as Aziraphale looked at him with excited eyes and explained that he wanted them both to go back to Heaven, that Crowley could become an angel again, that they could go right back to working for the very thing that had been keeping them apart for thousands of years. Oh, oh god. I thought it was over. I thought we were free. I thought that, finally, maybe, it could be easy. Maybe we can stop pretending.

And he kissed him. Because fuck, just like with Nina and Maggie, he thought it could finally be easy, but then communicating didn't work and nothing was easy and all he had left was one fabulous kiss and vavoom and he was desperate and off script and so, so scared and then he was alone in the Bentley, driving away from the bookshop, completely alone.

Maybe Crowley should've kept pretending. It would've hurt less.

[neoplatinum]

hello my dear readers, not sure if anyone cares but here's some fun author's commentary for the sophia x cowgirl!reader 2 parter

spoilers are below if anyone hasn't read the story yet...

originally, i was planning this to be a dani x reader fic so funnily enough when an anon mentioned farmhand!dani i laughed bc well in an alternate universe it wouldve kinda turn out that way

i got really inspired to write this fic after rewatching ateez' bouncy mv.. i was like what if i did a fic set in that aesthetic

here are some of my thoughts on pt 1 of the sophia fic:

it was ALWAYS going to be endgame with sophia, i decided that halfway through writing pt1. so i'm sorry to those who were excited about actress!manon or whoever else. 😭

i did the poll because i wanted to see how people would react to sophia...like a test to see if a sophia endgame would be a good idea

i had left tidbits about sophia's mysterious life in hollywood for a reason. she originally planned on never returning, if not for thomas wanting a marriage/the blackmail he had on her.

she felt that this was the best way to preserve reader's feelings as well as not hurt her further. but ofc how does hanging out with your ex go...

this ensues the internal battle inside sophia where she realizes she's still very much in love with reader.

then they sleep with each other 🫢 this ensues the kind of baby trapping esque smut. its essentially them both wanting the same thing deep down. but for different reasons.

reader's dreams are going to be shattered: she wanted a big family with sophia above all else. and she gets caught up in her deepest desires when sophia asks her to um you know BLEEP inside.

sophia's also very caught up in her feelings. deep down even though she tried so hard to repress it, she still loves reader, and wants to keep a part of reader with her forever. so she baby traps reader 😭

the smut was intentionally very emotionally charged, i mean this is years of being separated and finally reuniting with sexual intimacy and weeks of tension with being around each other.

here are some of my thoughts on pt2 of the sophia fic:

i knew i wanted it to be dramatic, i'm talking telenovela kinda dramatic, the kind where you keep gasping 🫢 after each scene, it was intentionally tense throughout the whole story

the angst had to keep going before the story got to the fluffier parts of the story ;))

auntie lara who cheered guys!!???!

i figured i would sprinkle in manon into the fic bc people wanted actress!manon vs actress!sophia which would be funny asf to write but i tried to keep the humor to a minimum in this fic

for part 2 i wanted a complete flip of scenery from part 1. in part 2 it's reader going into sophia's world. i wanted it to show how despite the "divorce" and how it hurts them both, they still seek each other out. it's like a parallel of 2 years ago, but they're experiencing each other's worlds. and they still chose each other.

the smut was um unexpected i didn't plan on writing it but someone wrote in jealous!sophia and that had my head spinning on how i could use that...which is how that scene got written ahaha

also, if anyone's curious...this is how i imagined charlie to look like! (a blue heeler)