#when they fought a carpet................. a CaRpeT

[hamilton-here]

Heya, just another idea I want to drop in your inbox so I don’t forget about it. Lewis taking his famous girlfriend to the f1 premiere and the relationship has been secret before so eveyone is like wooooah they are dating???????! And he‘s supe protective of her (maybe also possessive when there’s men getting closer?) something like this, thank you

𝐿𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉𝓈, 𝒞𝒶𝓂𝑒𝓇𝒶𝓈, 𝒰𝓈

Authors Note: Hi lovelies! I have around 17 requests to complete😫. Y'all were keen for me to open my requests oh my lordy. Requests are definitely gonna be closed for a while. I can't wait to watch the F1 movie this Sat. Anyway enjoy! Apologises if this is somewhat short 😞Lots of love xx

Summary: At a high profile premiere, Lewis Hamilton and his partner navigate the chaos of fame, finding strength in their private bond amidst the public spotlight.

Warnings: none

Taglist: @piston-cup @hannibeeblog @nebulastarr @cosmichughes

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

It was one of those mornings where the world felt slightly off-kilter with a strange, humming energy hung in the air, buzzing quietly just beneath the surface, like New York itself knew that today would be anything but ordinary. Even from the safety of the hotel’s lavish suite you could feel it, the weight of what was coming, the undercurrent of anticipation threading through your every breath.

The floor-to-ceiling windows let in the soft morning sunlight, its pale glow stretching lazily across the minimalist décor - cream walls, cool marble counters and dark wooden accents. It should’ve felt calming. It should’ve made you feel like you had time. But the walls seemed to close in, your thoughts ricocheting off them as the clock’s relentless ticking filled the silence.

You were standing in front of the mirror, unmoving, almost like if you stayed still long enough, you could delay the inevitable.

Today’s the day.

Your eyes flicked to the dress draped neatly on the back of the bathroom door, which was a delicate, fluid masterpiece in soft gold, threaded with a whisper of shimmer so faint that it only caught the light when you moved. It was simple, intentionally understated, but the thought of wearing it made your chest tighten. The fabric was like your emotions of serene on the outside, but inside you were vibrating with nerves, spinning with every anxious what-if.

What if you stumbled in front of the cameras? What if people didn’t like you? What if, stepping into the spotlight next to him, made you more than just his partner - what if it made you a target?

From the other room came the gentle rustling of fabric, the soft thump of shoes against carpet as Lewis moved around. His presence, even unseen, always brought you comfort. Normally, he was the calm in your storm. But today? Today was different. This wasn’t just another gala, another appearance where the world expected him to show up alone. This wasn’t even about racing. This was his movie.

The F1 movie. The one Brad Pitt had starred in; the one Lewis had poured years into as a producer. The project that blended Hollywood with the fierce, unrelenting world of motorsport. Lewis had worked for this and fought to shape it, to tell the story right.

And today wasn’t just the culmination of that journey. It was the day your quiet, sacred relationship was about to be placed in the centre of the world’s stage.

You’d both kept it hidden for so long. It was easy, in private. In hotel rooms, late-night phone calls, tucked-away vacations where no one could reach you. But now would change everything. You would walk out of that car, and the world would see you.

Your fingers fiddled nervously with the hem of your robe. Was this really happening? Were you ready to stop being invisible?

The sound of footsteps nearing the bedroom pulled you from your spiral. You looked up just as Lewis appeared in the doorway, framed by the soft morning light, and for a second, it stole your breath.

He wore his pale pink jacket, the one with the diamond-studded goat symbol glinting just below his shoulder blade. He hadn’t needed to say it out loud, but you knew exactly why he’d chosen that jacket. He was stepping into the premiere knowing exactly who he was. He wasn’t shying away from being seen.

Paired with sharp black pants and his signature sleek boots, he looked as effortlessly commanding as always, but you didn’t see Lewis Hamilton, the seven-time world champion.

You saw your Lewis the one who remembered how you liked your coffee, who rubbed your back when you couldn’t sleep, who pressed quiet kisses to your temple when the weight of the world felt too heavy.

“How are we doing, love?” His voice was soft, but you could hear the edge of concern, the subtle way he was reading you like you were a puzzle he’d long since figured out but still studied, just to make sure.

You offered him a weak smile, brushing your palms down the sides of your thighs to ground yourself. “Just trying to get it together.” You glanced at the dress again, as if it might help settle your racing thoughts. “It just feels like something’s shifting, you know?”

Lewis’s lips quirked into a faint smile, and he crossed the room in a few strides, his hands coming to rest on your shoulders, his touch warm, steadying.

“You’re going to be amazing,” he said, leaning down to press a tender kiss to your cheek, lingering there just a moment longer than usual. “They’re gonna see you the way I see you.”

You let out a breathy laugh, the nerves still clinging to your chest. “I just don’t want to mess this up. I don’t know how to be someone people talk about. Someone they pick apart.”

Lewis gently lifted your chin with two fingers, his thumb brushing softly against your jaw. His gaze, deep and unflinching, held yours like an anchor.

“They’re gonna talk, no matter what,” he said, his voice velvet smooth but laced with quiet certainty. “But I’m not letting them near you unless you want them there. You don’t owe anyone anything. We’re in this together, yeah? You’ve got me.”

The sincerity in his tone loosened something in your chest. You nodded, feeling the edges of your fear begin to soften under his steady gaze.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “Together.”

Lewis’s grin widened, and he dropped his hand to your waist, giving you a little squeeze. “Damn right.”

The simplicity of the moment, his unwavering calm, reminded you of who you were doing this with. If Lewis was willing to walk through the fire with you, you could handle the heat.

By the time you both left the hotel room, hand in hand, the hum of New York City had sharpened into a tangible pulse that seemed to vibrate through the streets.

It was no longer just background noise, but it was alive, a persistent rhythm that reminded you of the weight of the moment you were walking toward.

The sleek red car waiting at the curb shimmered in the late morning sun, its glossy surface polished to the point where it mirrored the skyline. Even from a distance, you could hear the faint pop of camera shutters and the sharp, echoing shouts of paparazzi, though they were still just spectres at this point not close enough to suffocate you yet, but looming, hovering on the horizon.

Lewis guided you toward the car with quiet ease, his thumb brushing across your knuckles as though it was second nature because it was. You’d walked together like this countless times before. Grocery runs. Lazy afternoons. Late dinners when no one was looking.

But never like this.

Never where the entire world was waiting to see you.

He reached for the car door first, opening it smoothly and gesturing for you to slide in. You caught the softness in his expression, the way his eyes flicked over you like he was mentally checking every detail, not of your outfit but of you.

Are you okay? Are you ready?

You didn’t have to speak for him to know you were on the edge of unraveling. You settled into the car’s cool leather seats, the door shutting behind you with a soft, final click that somehow felt heavier than it should have.

Lewis circled the car, taking his time as though he was deliberately drawing out these last few seconds of peace. When he slipped into the seat beside you, the space immediately felt smaller in a good way. Like you could breathe again, but only because he was there.

The driver merged seamlessly into the pulsing afternoon traffic, the streets of New York sprawling past the windows in a blur of yellow taxis, glinting skyscrapers, and pedestrians that didn’t know, or didn’t care, what was about to unfold a few blocks away.

Lewis’s hand found yours again, his fingers slotting between yours with the familiarity of someone who had done it in the dark, in elevators, in back seats always with that same quiet certainty. But this time, you couldn’t stop the trembling in your palm.

He noticed immediately, his thumb starting to stroke gentle, reassuring circles over your skin without missing a beat.

And then, without hesitation, he brought your hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to the back of it. He lingered there. Not a quick, passing touch, but a moment, as if he could anchor you and absorb the nervous electricity humming beneath your skin.

“You don’t have to be nervous, you know,” he murmured, his voice low, steady, that slight rasp curling around the edges like smoke. The kind of voice that always made your chest tighten, though it carried something more. Something protective. Something that felt like a promise.

Your throat tightened. You tried to smile, but you knew he could see straight through it.

“It’s just this is the first time. I’ve never had to -” you gestured loosely, as if the words themselves were too big to properly shape, “be seen like this. With you.” Lewis’s brow softened, his thumb pausing momentarily as he studied you, really looked at you.

“You’ve got nothing to prove to them,” he said, his tone quietly resolute, each word measured like he wanted them to sink into your bones. “Not today. Not ever. They don’t get to define you. You’re mine now. Let them write whatever headlines they want. What matters is what’s real. Us.”

The words weren’t suffocating or possessive in the wrong way they were protective, wrapping around you like armour. Like he wanted to build a wall between you and the sharp teeth of the outside world. You exhaled slowly, the knot in your chest loosening just a little. “You really think I can handle this?”

His lips curved into a soft smile, the kind that brought out the faintest dimple on his cheek the one you always loved catching when his guard was down. He leaned in, brushing another kiss to your temple, lingering there longer than necessary, his breath warm against your skin.

“I know you can. And you’re not doing it alone. We walk through that carpet together. Always.” It wasn’t just a line. It was a vow. One you felt settle deep inside you.

The rest of the ride passed in a pocket of silence - comfortable, grounding. Every few blocks, Lewis would squeeze your hand like a pulse check, a quiet I’m still here. I’m not going anywhere. But the closer you got, the louder the energy became.

The muted hum of the city sharpened into the distinct roar of a waiting crowd. Even through the double-insulated car, you could hear the rising commotion followed by the blend of engine rumble, the faint blare of speakers, the excited calls from fans who had been camped out for hours just to catch a glimpse of the stars arriving.

Your heartbeat jumped as you caught your reflection in the tinted window. The way your makeup had been carefully perfected, the delicate shimmer of your dress catching in the sunlight, the slight tension still lingering in your jaw.

It hit you, suddenly, like cold water.

You were about to step out next to Lewis Hamilton. Not as a friend. Not as a PR plant. As his. Officially. Unmistakably.

When the car finally pulled up to the curb, your heart felt like it was lodged somewhere between your ribs and your throat. Through the safety of the dark glass, you could see them. Hundreds of people. Dozens of cameras. The flashes had already begun, stuttering white sparks popping like fireworks as they homed in on the unmistakable car.

You gripped Lewis’s hand tighter, your pulse hammering in your wrists. He turned to you, his thumb brushing firm, grounding strokes over your skin. His eyes softened, but his jaw was set with a quiet line of resolve.

“Hey,” he murmured, tilting your chin gently so you couldn’t hide from him. “I’ve got you. You ready?” Your breath trembled on the inhale, but you nodded. “Yeah.” His lips tugged into a slow, knowing grin. “Let’s give ‘em something to talk about.”

The car door swung open, and Lewis stepped out first, unfolding to his full height in a smooth, commanding motion that instantly drew every pair of eyes in his direction. The collective hum of the crowd exploded into cheers, gasps, the frantic whirl of camera shutters cranking into overdrive.

He moved like he owned the moment as it was unhurried, deliberate and as if the carpet had been rolled out just for him. Even the late morning sun seemed to bow to him, its bright rays catching on the pale pink jacket he’d chosen for the day, the fabric shifting in soft glimmers as he moved.

The diamond-encrusted goat symbol shimmered like a crown on his back. It wasn’t loud, more intentional. The greatest. And he knew it.

The outfit alone would’ve set social media ablaze but paired with his effortless charisma—it was like gravity itself bent toward him.

And then he turned back to the open car door. To you. His hand reached out, palm up, fingers open waiting for yours. There was no rush. No spectacle. Just an invitation. Step into this with me.

His hand wasn’t just a gesture it was a lifeline, a quiet anchor against the roar of the crowd. It was Lewis, saying without words, you don’t have to face this alone.

Your heartbeat so hard you could feel it in your teeth. But your hand moved to his like it always had like it belonged there. The moment your skin touched his, the world seemed to shift. The gasps from the crowd sliced through the noise in sharp, staggering waves.

“Wait is that -?”

“Who’s she?”

“Lewis brought someone?”

“Are they…are they together?!”

The murmurs surged, building into something uncontrollable, like the spark of a match dropped into dry grass. The media scrambled reporters elbowing for position, photographers tripping over each other to capture the shot that would headline a thousand news feeds.

You stepped out carefully, your heel meeting the carpet with delicate precision, but you felt weightless, unsteady under the sheer force of the moment. The noise blurred with shouting, cheering, cameras flashing so rapidly it felt like lightning was fracturing the air around you. For a heartbeat, you wanted to retreat, to fold back into the shadow of the car.

But then Lewis’s hand. His grip, warm and solid, his thumb tracing slow, grounding circles against your knuckles. You looked up, your breath caught in your throat. And he was already looking at you. His expression wasn’t tense. It wasn’t forced. He looked proud. Unapologetically proud to be here, to be standing with you. There was no hesitation. No doubt. He wanted this. He wanted you with him. Seen with him.

His hand slid to the small of your back, his touch protective but gentle, guiding you forward onto the iconic red carpet, step by step, as if the rhythm of his body would keep you steady.

And it did.

The cameras clicked, reporters fired off questions that tumbled over each other in desperate waves.

“Lewis! Who’s your date for this event?”

“Is this your girlfriend?”

“How long have you two been together?”

“Lewis, can we get a quote? Is this serious?”

You could feel the weight of the world pressing against your skin, their curiosity a heavy, sharp thing. But Lewis never faltered. His hand on your lower back was warming, his voice calm, smooth, but with a quiet finality that settled over the crowd like a closing door. “A while now,” he said simply, his gaze flicking back to you with a softness that felt like home. “We’re happy.”

And somehow, those two words made everything else fade. The noise. The flashes. The rush of adrenaline.

You were here. Together.

And in that moment, you realised it didn’t crush you like you thought it would. You didn’t crumble under the pressure. You felt steady and protefted. Seen but not exposed.

Because Lewis was right. They could write whatever they wanted thought what mattered was what was real.

You leaned in just a fraction closer to him as you both posed for the cameras, the rhythmic flashes sharp and unrelenting almost starting to blur into the background, like a metronome you could finally find comfort in. The noise, once deafening, began to soften at the edges as you found your rhythm by his side.

Your arm slid into his, a natural tether and Lewis subtly adjusted his stance, shifting his weight just enough to tuck you closer against his side. It wasn’t theatrical. It wasn’t for the cameras. It was instinct, Lewis’s silent way of making sure you knew you were his and that he wasn’t about to let you drift, not even an inch.

The photographers barked instructions with increasing urgency, their voices stacking over each other in a chaotic medley.

“Lewis! Look here!”

“Over the shoulder, please!”

“Give us that smile, champ!”

“Just one more this way!”

Lewis accommodated them, turning when they asked, angling his body toward each flash in controlled movements. But you noticed something else, he kept glancing back at you. His attention never fully left.

Even when he posed, even when he smiled for the lenses, his body was never squared away from you. He was always slightly turned toward you, his hand tightening around your waist, his thumb sweeping soft, deliberate patterns against your dress. Like a quiet promise, like a claim.

The longer you stood there, the more you felt the initial hurricane of media attention settle into something more manageable, almost rhythmic. The sharp staccato of the camera shutters became predictable. The crowd’s gasps softened into murmurs. The disbelief settled into fascination.

You’d survived the peak. The rest, you could handle.

As the red carpet stretched onward beneath your feet, the moment began to shift. More arrivals. More distractions for the crowd. The cameras still followed your every move, but the focus, the suffocating intensity, began to fracture as other stars and drivers made their own entrances.

Familiar faces from the paddock appeared of drivers Lewis had competed against, traveled with and known through seasons of brutal races, podiums and near-misses. They came with easy handshakes, claps on the back, brief but genuine embraces. You could see the years between them, etched in their shared smiles, in the casual way they joked about the season, the film, their own cameo scenes.

You recognised some of them instantly, men whose names had been etched into the sport alongside Lewis’s, their histories tangled with his through championship fights, victories, and heartbreaks. Some were younger, just beginning their legacy, still wide-eyed on carpets like these. Some were the old guard, battle-worn but still magnetic.

As the press scattered between the stars, the Hollywood elites, and the racing royalty, the energy on the carpet shifted from tense spotlight to curated chaos. Lewis’s world now your world started to fill around you.

And still, through all of it, his hand remained anchored at your back. Firm, steady, a quiet signal that even amid the waves of familiarity, the interviews, the handshakes, you were his fixed point. His centre.

You watched the ease with which he navigated the room graceful but unyielding, the kind of practiced charisma that came with years in the spotlight.

Yet, despite his seamless flow through conversations and greetings, his focus circled back to you in loops. He would smile, laugh, speak in that rich, grounded voice the cameras loved but his hand never drifted from your lower back, his thumb still brushing those slow, grounding circles against the fabric of your dress.

And then just as you were beginning to relax you felt it.

Lewis dipped his head slightly, his breath grazing the delicate curve of your ear, his lips barely brushing your skin as he murmured, low enough that only you could hear, “Stay close, yeah?”

The softness in his voice didn’t hide the edge beneath it a quiet possessiveness threaded through the words like silk over steel. It wasn’t a plea. It wasn’t a question.

It was a promise.

A directive.

An unspoken tether.

You nodded, a subtle but certain movement, your breath catching as a shiver ghosted down your spine from the intimate brush of his lips against your ear. “I will,” you whispered back, the words slipping out on instinct. It didn’t matter where he went. Interviews, photos, greetings you would follow.

For a while, the two of you moved in seamless tandem.

Lewis eased through interviews with practiced charm, answering questions about the film, about his producer role, about the legacy of Formula 1 and the authenticity the movie promised to deliver. His voice dipped into passion when he spoke about motorsport how much he cared about telling the story right, about honouring the sport’s culture.

You trailed just a step behind him, your hand never far from his, your presence wrapped safely within the invisible border Lewis’s body seemed to create around you.

Drivers passed by some offering friendly nods, some casting knowing glances toward Lewis with subtle smirks that said so this is the secret girlfriend, huh? - but none dared to push too far.

Most of them knew better.

Until he arrived.

The man appeared almost out of nowhere sliding easily into the edge of your space, wearing a polished smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. His event badge was flipped backward, his credentials unreadable, and his approach lacked the caution you’d grown used to seeing from others around Lewis.

He wasn’t familiar. He wasn’t part of the F1 world. But he was curious. Too curious.

“So,” he started, his voice laced with that smooth, false charm that made your stomach twist, “must’ve been hard, huh? Keeping him all to yourself all this time?”

You blinked, caught off guard by his directness. You opened your mouth, unsure whether to offer a polite deflection or to retreat entirely.

But he didn’t give you the chance. “A man like Lewis?” His gaze raked over you in a way that made your skin prickle. “I’m surprised the secret lasted this long.” His tone wasn’t overtly inappropriate but there was something in his delivery, something too casual, too invasive, that made your pulse spike.

You instinctively leaned away, shifting your weight to subtly create space, searching for Lewis with your peripheral vision. You didn’t have to search long.

Suddenly Lewis was there.

His presence enveloped you in an instant, a wall of calm, immovable certainty. His arm curled around your waist in one smooth, possessive sweep, pulling you tightly against his side as his other hand rested firmly on your hip.

The air between you and the man closed like a slammed door.

Lewis didn’t speak at first. His silence - that silence hung in the space like a loaded chamber. And when he finally did speak, his voice was so controlled, so disarmingly calm, that the warning beneath it landed like a thunderclap. “She’s with me.” Three words. Quiet, steady, but wrapped in steel.

The man faltered. You watched it ripple across his face a slight shift, a flicker of discomfort, as if he’d miscalculated how far he could push. Lewis’s posture didn’t change. He didn’t bare his teeth. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

His message was carved into the taut set of his jaw, the protective cage of his arms around you, the sheer weight of his presence pressing into the man like an invisible wall.

Back off. She’s mine.

The man’s bravado crumbled just enough to reveal the hesitation beneath. He raised his hands in mock surrender, a forced laugh tumbling out as he tried to soften the edge of the moment. “Didn’t mean to overstep. Just making conversation.”

Lewis’s polite smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Conversation’s over.” The dismissal was soft. Lethal. Final.

The man lingered for half a second too long, then retreated mumbling something about catching Lewis later, slipping quickly into the crowd like a man who knew he’d overplayed his hand.

Only after the man disappeared entirely did Lewis’s grip on you soften just slightly but his arm didn’t fully release you. His thumb resumed its slow, soothing circles against your waist, like he was wiping away the residue of the unwelcome attention.

“You good?” he murmured, his voice now velvet-soft, the tension in his shoulders dissolving as his focus narrowed solely to you. Your heart was still racing, your adrenaline still buzzing beneath your skin, but you nodded, pressing into his side with a small exhale. “Yeah. I’m good.” Lewis didn’t rush you. He didn’t pull away. Instead, his hand slid from your waist to your fingers, lacing them together tightly, a deliberate act that sent a silent signal to everyone else.

You were his.

Unmistakably. Unapologetically.

His.

The possessiveness wasn’t suffocating. It wasn’t about control more about care. It was about making it impossible for anyone to mistake what you meant to him.

Even as the photographers continued to call out his name, even as the press still lingered nearby, you felt safe.

And as Lewis guided you forward with that quiet, magnetic certainty, you realised this wasn’t just about stepping into the spotlight. It was about stepping into it together.

The velvet ropes and the relentless flashes of the red carpet finally gave way to the grand entrance of the theatre, and with each step inside, the roar of the crowd outside began to dissolve into something distant, like thunder fading over a distant hill. What had moments ago been a hurricane of noise camera shutters, reporters shouting, fans crying out Lewis’s name softened into a low hum, gradually swallowed by the thick walls of the grand hall.

There was an invisible threshold, one you crossed almost without paying attention it, where the world outside - the headlines, the speculation, the careful curation of public image no longer followed. It all slipped away, as if you’d passed into a different universe where none of it could reach you.

Inside, the theatre was awash in soft, amber lighting that shimmered faintly off the marbled floors and stretched upward into soaring ceilings etched with intricate moldings. The grandeur of the space wrapped around you, not in an overwhelming way, but like a protective cocoon, shielding you from the weight of the spectacle you’d just endured.

Plush, uniformed ushers moved through the lobby with quiet efficiency, their voices hushed as they guided arriving guests toward their seats. There were no shouting reporters here. No cameras shoved inches from your face. No strangers inching closer, pushing boundaries.

Just calm.

Just the low, steady murmur of conversations and the gentle rustle of expensive fabrics as people drifted toward their places. It felt like exhaling for the first time all evening.

For the first time, you realised how tightly you’d been holding your shoulders, how shallow your breathing had become under the heat of the public eye. You felt the weight begin to lift, inch by inch, like your body was finally giving you permission to exist again without bracing for impact.

And through it all, Lewis’s hand never left yours.

If anything, his grip had tightened the moment you stepped inside, the second the velvet ropes disappeared behind you. It was as if now finally he could drop the armour he’d worn outside, the polished composure that had kept him steady in front of a thousand lenses. Here, in this sliver of quiet, he could relax. And with that release, his instinct wasn’t to let go of you it was to hold you closer.

You followed the usher as they guided you toward the front of the theatre, past rows of important names and famous faces, past whispered greetings and exchanged nods. Of course, your seats were front row. There was never a question.

Lewis gently tugged you toward your seat, and the moment you sank into the velvety embrace of the plush chair, it felt like you were landing after free-falling all night. The contrast was striking of the weightless buzz outside against the grounded stillness now settling over you.

Lewis dropped into the seat beside you, his body shifting with a long, measured exhale, as though this was the first time he’d allowed himself to breathe deeply since stepping out of the car. And then, like muscle memory, his hand found yours again fingers lacing together like they belonged there, like they always belonged there.

“This is going to be a good time,” he murmured, his voice low, softer now that he no longer needed to project for microphones or entertain the crowd. It was no longer the carefully measured public version of himself. This voice was only for you unfiltered, unguarded. The words, simple as they were, wrapped around you like a balm, soothing the frayed edges of your nerves.

You turned your head toward him, your gaze catching the curve of his lips, now curled into the softest hint of a smile not the practiced one he wore for photographers, but something smaller, warmer, real. His dark eyes had lost the sharp glint he carried on the carpet; now, they were calm, drenched in quiet affection.

And in that moment, the tension that had gripped your shoulders, the racing pulse that had thudded relentlessly in your chest it all started to melt away.

The headlines didn’t matter now.

The whispers didn’t matter.

The speculation didn’t matter.

Inside these walls, it wasn’t about what the world would say tomorrow. It wasn’t about trends or social media frenzies or dissected footage. Here, it was just you and him. The rest of the world could wait.

The lights dimmed gradually, the soft amber glow fading into a deeper, velvet darkness, until the only light remaining came from the enormous screen flickering to life. The chatter in the theatre dissolved into silence, like a switch had been flipped, and the quiet reverence that filled the room was almost sacred.

As the opening sequence of the film began, you shifted instinctively, your body leaning toward Lewis like it was the most natural thing in the world. Your head came to rest against his shoulder, the fabric of his pale pink jacket soft beneath your cheek, still carrying the faintest trace of his cologne clean, fresh and uniquely him.

Lewis welcomed you into him instantly, his arm sliding around your shoulders, pulling you into the warm, protective curve of his body. His hand splayed wide across your upper arm, his thumb brushing lazy, almost absentminded strokes along your skin through the thin fabric of your dress.

It was comforting. Yours.

You could hear his heartbeat beneath your ear steady, unhurried, grounding you in a way nothing else could.

His touch wasn’t performative anymore. It wasn’t for the cameras. It wasn’t for show. It wasn’t for the curated narrative the world was already racing to write.

It was just Lewis holding you like it was the most natural thing in the world to do. He didn’t need to speak. He didn’t need to fill the moment with more promises or empty reassurances. His presence was enough. The weight of his arm around you was enough. This was the truth of who he was not the man in front of the flashing bulbs, not the headline, not the legacy.

Just Lewis. The man who kept you close. The man who made sure you were safe. The man who had never once let go of your hand since you stepped out of that car.

You could hear the film continuing, the hum of engines, the dialogue, the familiar cadence of the racing world but your focus drifted, your heartbeat syncing with his, the velvet darkness cocooning you in the most intimate of silences.

Because this wasn’t just the premiere of a movie. This wasn’t just another milestone in his already illustrious career. This was the night Lewis chose to pull you into his orbit not in pieces, not in fragments, not as something to be tucked away in the shadows and it wasn’t about being his secret anymore.

And what struck you most what melted something in your chest was the quiet realisation that he had always been preparing you for this, gently, without pressure, until you were ready to walk beside him in full view of the world.

The media would dissect the two of you.

The photos would flood the internet.

The world would spin its stories.

But none of it mattered in this moment.

Because the most important headline had already been written in the curl of his fingers around yours, in the warmth of his breath against your hair, in the steady cadence of his heartbeat beneath your cheek.

You were his. And maybe you always had been.

And as you nestled just a little closer to him, your eyes softening as you allowed yourself to exhale completely, you knew this wasn’t about surviving the spotlight.

It was about standing in it together and that would always be enough.

By the time the film ended, the velvet seats were now empty, the grand theatre slowly slipping back into quiet as guests trickled out into the cool New York evening.

The buzz outside was still alive reporters lingering for scraps of commentary, fans clinging to barricades for one last glimpse, but Lewis had expertly guided you out through a private exit, a warm hand at your back the entire way, keeping you tucked close to him, away from the chaos.

Now, the hum of the city wrapped around the car as you both sat cocooned in the soft leather seats, the tinted windows blurring the flashes into distant glimmers that felt too far away to reach you anymore.

For the first time all night, the silence wasn’t filled with tension.

You sat with your legs tucked toward him, your body turned just slightly, head resting back against the seat as you let yourself really breathe long and deep, the adrenaline finally beginning to fade from your bloodstream. The noise outside, the relentless clicking of cameras, the flashing bulbs they all felt so far away, like they were happening to someone else, far removed from this intimate, quiet moment you now found yourself in.

Lewis’s hand was still in yours. Always in yours. His thumb was still brushing that same, familiar rhythm against your skin, a quiet tether that had grounded you all night, the gentle movement providing a sense of calm you hadn’t noticed you’d been needing.

He hadn’t let go, not once.

You looked over at him, your gaze tracing the softened curve of his jaw now that he wasn’t wearing the weight of the room anymore. The tension that had been coiled in his shoulders had unraveled. His posture more relaxed, but his eyes those deep, thoughtful eyes still flickered to you like he couldn’t quite stop checking, like some part of him still needed to make sure you were okay.

“You alright?” he asked softly, his voice now stripped of the polish he’d worn on the carpet. This wasn’t the voice he gave the cameras. This was the voice he saved for you.

You gave him a small, tired smile. “Yeah. I think I am now.”

Lewis’s lips quirked into that half-smile, the one that always made your heart skip a little. “Told you we’d be alright.”

You let out a quiet laugh, your head tilting against the seat as you studied him, the memory of the night still warm on your skin. “I was so nervous,” you admitted, the honesty slipping out easily now, safe in the privacy of the car. “I thought I was going to faint when I stepped out. I thought maybe I’d embarrass you.”

His brows drew together instantly, his thumb pausing its rhythm to grip your hand a little tighter. “Embarrass me?” His voice softened with disbelief, the very idea of it clearly throwing him off. “You didn’t embarrass me. Not for a second. You -” He trailed off, searching for the words, his thumb resuming its soft circles, grounding you in a way that only he could. “You were perfect.”

You felt heat bloom in your cheeks, a soft flutter in your chest that had nothing to do with the cameras or the crowd. “You really think so?”

Lewis’s gaze softened, his eyes lingering on you like he wanted to etch this version of you - tired, glowing, real into his memory forever. “I know so.”

The car slowed as the driver turned onto a quieter street, the city’s pulse dimming to a soft murmur as the chaos of the premiere faded into the distance. The night air slipped through the cracked window, cool against your skin, fragrant with the distant scent of rain and city life.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The silence stretched, but it wasn’t empty it was full, wrapped in the comfortable weight of shared understanding. The light outside seemed softer now, more intimate, as though the world had dialled down, just for you two, to let you breathe.

Lewis finally broke the silence, his voice a low murmur as his thumb brushed over your knuckles. “They’re gonna talk, you know. They’re gonna write their stories.”

You nodded, your heart steady now. “Let them.”

He smiled at that, proud and soft all at once. “That’s my girl.���

His words settled in your chest like something permanent, something you wanted to hold on to. He didn’t need to say more everything he had already said, everything he’d done, told you more than words could. The car pulled up in front of the hotel, the quiet rumble of the engine slipping into stillness. The driver moved to open the door, but Lewis squeezed your hand once more before you moved, anchoring you there just a moment longer.

“Thank you,” he said, his gaze locking with yours, the weight of the words settling between you, grounding you even deeper. “For being with me. For walking through that with me.” The sincerity in his voice made your chest tighten in a way that almost took you by surprise. You leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek, the warmth of his skin seeping into your lips as you whispered, “Always.”

There, in the soft glow of the streetlights, in the quiet safety of the car, you allowed yourself to close the distance between you and him just a little more. His lips, soft and warm, brushed gently against yours before he pulled away, his eyes searching yours like he was trying to capture every second of the moment.

You lingered there, your face still inches from his, the rush of the night finally settling into something you could hold onto.

His brown eyes stared into yours almost like a plea. His hand slid to your face, cupping your cheek as if to remind you that this wasn’t for the world it was just for the two of you.

Soon enough, Lewis’s lips found yours again, this time with more certainty, more passion, more everything. The kiss was slow, deliberate, as though he was savouring the feeling of having you this close, finally able to love you without the weight of the world on his shoulders. His thumb traced the line of your jaw as he deepened the kiss, and you melted into him, letting him pull you closer, hands finding his neck, your bodies aligning with ease.

It wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t hurried. It was perfect.

When you finally pulled away, both of you breathless, Lewis’s forehead pressed gently against yours. “You’re mine,” he murmured softly, almost as if reminding himself.

“I’ve always been yours,” you whispered back, feeling that truth settle in your heart.

And as you walked toward the hotel, his thumb brushing slow, steady circles against your hand once more, you knew with certainty -

You’d walk through it all again.

[strictlyfavorites]

In the weeks after the release of "We Were Soldiers" in 2002, Mel Gibson received a quiet message, off the press circuit and away from the polished interviews. It was about a real man behind the story: Sgt. Charles T. Fitts, a decorated Vietnam veteran who had fought under Lt. Col. Hal Moore during the brutal 1965 Battle of Ia Drang. Fitts, long retired and living in Texas, had recently been hospitalized following a serious injury. He had seen the film, recognized the faces, the terrain, the chaos, and relived it all. Mel Gibson, who portrayed Moore in the film, felt compelled to act, not for publicity, not as a public gesture, but because something about Fitts’s situation struck him as unfinished business.

Gibson made no public announcement. No publicist was involved. He boarded a quiet flight to Texas, requested privacy from his team, and arrived alone at the VA hospital where Sgt. Fitts was recovering. It was a weekday afternoon, quiet in the corridors. The nurses were caught off-guard to see Gibson walk in unannounced, wearing jeans, a flannel shirt, and carrying nothing but a copy of "We Were Soldiers" on DVD and a small black notebook. He asked for no press, no cameras, just permission to sit and speak with a man who had lived the hell he had only portrayed.

Fitts, in his early 60s, was recovering from multiple surgeries. When Gibson entered his room, the former sergeant reportedly saluted him instinctively, mistaking him momentarily for someone else in uniform. Then he laughed, recognized the actor, and said, “You looked more tired in the movie than I ever saw Hal Moore.” Gibson responded with a small smile and replied, “That’s probably because you actually lived it.”

Their conversation lasted over an hour. No staff recorded it, no reporters captured it. But a nurse who was present at times later recalled, “He didn’t come as a movie star. He came as someone who wanted to understand pain and say thank you.” She said they spoke about the difference between real war and cinematic battlefields, about the men Fitts had seen fall, and about the silence that followed when the helicopters disappeared. Gibson asked questions, not for performance, but for clarity. He wanted to know the weight of the gear, the feel of the boots, the sound of the M16 jamming in the dirt. Fitts, once a man of few words, opened up more than he had in years. At one point, he removed a weathered photograph from his wallet, a snapshot of his platoon, most of whom didn’t return, and handed it to Gibson. “You showed their faces. That’s what mattered,” he said.

Gibson later told his team privately that the hour spent with Fitts was “the most honest hour of my entire press tour.” He spoke of the deep humility that settled in him during that visit, something he felt could never be replicated on a red carpet or during a late-night interview. He declined to speak publicly about the meeting at the time, saying only that the film had given him an introduction, but men like Fitts had given him an education.

When Gibson left the hospital, he signed nothing, took no photos, and walked out the same way he came in, alone and quiet. As one VA staff member said, “He didn’t come here to be seen. He came here to listen.” The moment was never scripted, never planned, and it remains one of the few truly human gestures in Hollywood that lived entirely off-camera.

[devilsanddarlings]

@ofblackskies

Swallowing hard in response to Marnie’s reassurance, Kal fought the sudden urge to study his carpet in depth. He didn’t deserve her kindness. The warmth she was showing him again was more than he had ever dared to hope for, but he knew he was unworthy of it. As far as the warlock was concerned, he wasn’t doing nearly enough to warn her about the true extent of the danger she was in.

The Dominion wasn’t just one foe. Its existence wouldn’t by ended by the magical defeat of any single member. Ideas couldn’t be slain, and the prejudice witches and warlocks felt towards the other creatures of Halloweentown ran deep. It was a problem that had been brewing for centuries, and even Kal couldn’t say how many residents agreed with their ideology without being actual members.

Nor was the warlock willing to risk himself trying to find out. Marnie having grown up in the mortal world had blinded her to the uglier sides of their world, but she was on a collision course with the truth now in more ways than one. He just hoped that it wouldn’t shatter her as much as he thought it would. Perhaps the news would be better coming from Aggie?

Mind made up, he put a finger to his lips and then conjured a pen and some paper. ‘Go home to the mortal world tonight and ask your grandmother about the Dominion,’ he wrote. ‘Do not speak the name aloud in Halloweentown. Do not ask her here,’ Kal continued, underlining certain words for emphasis. ‘Don’t even ask me about this note. It’s not safe. You’ll understand more after you’ve spoken to her, okay? I…I can’t answer your questions. I’m sorry.’

“Well, this trip down memory lane has been fun. But I think it’s time you were going, Cromwell. You can, uh…take the history book with you if you like. You know where I live when you’re ready to return it.”

Sometimes, Marnie wished she were a mindreader. Like every facet of her being should know exactly what another person was thinking at any given time. It would have worked well for her - the kind of person she was. But at the same time, she wasn't sure she wanted to know what was going on in Kal's mind right now. Sure, he was being helpful, and she loved that he was. It restored a little of her faith in him that had been so haphazardly dropped a few years ago. She had always wanted to have faith in him.

"You're doing plenty." She replied softly, even if she did have the inkling that he was keeping things from her still. It wasn't... that she needed him to tell her everything. Marnie was smart. She could figure things out on her own. She was sure she could. It was just that she wished he had enough faith in her to be candid. Still, she didn't want him to end up a casualty of whatever was to come, either. And something was certainly to come. "I don't need a savior or a protector. I just needed... a little help in the right direction. Getting even that much from you is really helpful, Kal. Really." She smiled at him again.

[trashytracktales]

Omg can you please write some smut with Lando about the FIA gala??? He looks so hot in that suit and I need something about it🥵😭 Maybe after the gala ended and they’re back to their hotel or they fuck while they’re on the plane back to Monaco.

The FIA (Feral Instincts Arise) Awards | LN⁴

💌 REQUESTED by anon ──── I knew there would be requests for this the second I saw Lando on that carpet. Bon appétit 😛

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

𐙚 summary ──── It's the 2024 FIA Awards, and Lando and his girlfriend can't help but steal a moment of passion, unable to resist the tension built through teasing touches and glances during such a glamorous night.

𐙚 pairing ──── Lando Norris x she/her reader

𐙚 rating ──── explicit

𐙚 category ──── F/M

𐙚 warnings ──── 18+, mature/sexual content, established relationship, teasing, mild public intimacy, smut, descriptive language, fingering, bathroom sex, swearing.

𐙚 word count ──── 3.2k

𐙚 date ──── Dec. 14, 2024

𐙚 a/n ──── I have nothing to say except that I am absolutely devastated that my role model and inspiration, Michèle Mouton has officially retired from her role as FIA Safety Delegate. I love her so much and will forever be grateful for the representation she provided for women in motorsport throughout the years. In other news, at least everybody looked so fucking hot last night.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

IT WAS PURE torture for her to see him up on that stage from the beginning of the evening. She’d sat in the audience, her heart swelling with pride and gratitude for being able to be by his side during this exciting stage of his life — witnessing his hard work, his wins, and his dreams becoming reality. It's more than she ever imagined.

As she watched him, she realized she wasn't just proud of his accomplishments, but thankful to be the one he comes home to, the one who gets to share these moments that will live forever in both of their memories.

Standing up to cheer for him, as Lando’s name was announced for finishing second in the Drivers’ Championship, was a natural reaction. The applause was loud, a mix of respect and so much admiration for her determined racer boy who had fought tooth and nail all season.

McLaren’s triumph in the Constructors’ Championship only added to the celebration, the team beaming as they ascended the stage to accept their award.

While the room celebrated them, all she could think about was him — her man, standing under the spotlights, looking impossibly handsome in his perfectly tailored black suit and crisp white shirt. He looked perfect, from his styled curls to his sharp jawline and sweet, nervous smile. She felt very conflicted, overwhelmed with pride and love, yet squirming with a different kind of heat every time he looked for her in the audience. The way his dimple appeared when he smiled, the casual confidence in his voice as he gave his speech, and the glint of determination in his eyes as he thanked the team for having faith in him — every bit of it was intoxicating.

Now, at the dinner table, the atmosphere has shifted.

Glasses of champagne catch the glow, sparkling like liquid gold, as conversations hum softly among the elite of the motorsport world.

Lando sits beside her, relaxed in a way only he can manage after such a long, eventful evening. His suit jacket is draped over the back of his chair, his shirt sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal his forearms. He holds a champagne flute in one hand, the other resting lazily on her thigh beneath the table.

She can feel the warmth of his palm on her skin, his fingers flexing ever so slightly. It’s a casual touch — he’s sipping champagne, laughing at something Oscar just said — but the effect it has on her is anything but relaxed. Her heart races every time his thumb brushes against her soft skin, slow and intentional, almost like he knows exactly what he’s doing to her.

Her own glass of champagne sits untouched in front of her, her attention split between the conversation around them and the heat blooming under Lando’s hand. She tries to pay attention, nodding along while Andrea talks about some funny incident that happened in the garage during the last race of the season. But her thoughts keep drifting back to him.

She glances over at Lando, her breath catching at how effortlessly handsome he is, now that he’s more relaxed and in his element. The golden light softens the sharp lines of his face, making him look almost ethereal. But it’s the dimpled smirk that forms as he catches her staring that sends a shiver down her spine.

“Everything okay, gorgeous?” asks Lando, his voice low enough that only she can hear.

She nods, swallowing hard. “Positive. I'm just incredibly proud of you, that's all.”

His smirk widens, his thumb stroking her thigh with more purpose now. “You’ve said that already,” Lando murmurs, leaning in just enough that his breath brushes her ear. “But keep going. I like hearing it,” he adds, pressing his lips to her cheek.

She smiles, looking away, determined not to let him fluster her further.

However, Lando has other plans. His fingers trace unhurried patterns on her inner thigh, edging closer to the hem of her dress. The movement is subtle — nobody at the table would notice — but to her, it feels like her skin is burning. Her breathing gets heavier, and she shifts in her seat instinctively, her legs parting just enough under the table to grant him more access.

“My good girl,” whispers Lando, smiling against her cheek, then turning his attention back to the conversation.

Her heart skips at the quiet praise, and she shoots him a quick, warning glance, her eyes wide with panic.

Lando looks completely unbothered, taking part of the dialogue like he’s the epitome of innocence. The slight smirk tugging at the corner of his lips tells a very different story, though. A secret one, that only they know about.

“Stop it,” she whispers through gritted teeth, her voice so low that it’s practically a breath.

Obviously, he doesn’t. If anything, her quiet protest seems to spur him on. The pads of his fingers creep higher, brushing dangerously close to the heat between her legs. She grips the stem of her champagne flute tightly, her knuckles white as she tries to take her first sip of alcohol of the night — at least then she'll have something to blame if anyone asks her why she got so flustered all of a sudden.

“Lando,” she warns, her voice soft but firm.

“Hm?” he hums, his expression completely neutral as he keeps his attention to Oscar, who’s recounting his Turn 1 incident from Abu Dhabi.

She bites her lip, willing herself not to squirm in her seat. She almost can not believe how shameless Lando is, then she remembers all the times he tested her patience when they were in public. At that, her free hand drops to her lap, fingers wrapping around his wrist in an attempt to still his movements. He doesn’t pull away, but he also still doesn’t stop. Instead, his thumb presses a little harder, a constant reminder of his presence.

“You’re squirming, baby,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with amusement. “People are going to notice.”

“Then stop,” she repeats quietly, her tone sharp enough to earn a quick, curious glance from Andrea, who's sitting across from her. She ends up forcing a small smile, nodding, then turning back to Lando.

He chuckles under his breath, leaning in just slightly so his words are for her ears alone. “But we’re having so much fun,” he teases.

Her body betrays her as heat pools low in her belly, and she can’t stop herself from shifting again, her legs spreading a fraction wider. Lando takes full advantage of the movement, his fingers grazing higher until they’re just shy of where she needs him most. She glares at him, her eyes filled with need and her cheeks burning when his fingers slide easily over her lace panties, pressing harder on her warmth. As a response, her body jerks, and she barely suppresses a gasp, her nails digging into his wrist.

“I hate you,” she mutters under her breath, her voice shaky.

His grin returns, and he tilts his head, finally looking at her again. His gaze is dark, heated, and he looks entirely pleased with himself. “No, you don’t,” says Lando, so sure of himself.

It’s a miracle she doesn’t combust on the spot.

Because he's right — she doesn't hate him, she hates the fact that they're in public and she's incredibly turned on, but there's nothing she can do about it.

Finally, she can breathe normally when he withdraws his hand from between her legs, just as casually as he’d started. Her body is still buzzing with the lingering traces of his touch as she places her hand lightly on Lando’s shoulder. Slowly, she rises from her seat, her fingers squeezing just enough to send him a silent message only he’d understand.

At that, Lando’s heart stutters for a beat, his mouth suddenly dry as he watches her glide gracefully toward the bathrooms. The way her dress hugs her curves doesn’t help the growing situation in his pants — it’s like she knows exactly what she’s doing to him, a small punishment for what just happened between them. He tries to act like he's not affected, emptying his glass of champagne while his eyes turn back to the table, but his focus is scattered.

His hand still tingles from touching her under the table, and now he’s left to deal with the knowledge that his teasing had gotten to her.

Oh, how the tables have turned.

Minutes tick by, though they feel like an eternity.

Lando finds himself forcing a laugh at something Oscar says, remembering how impossibly talkative his teammate gets when he has a few drinks on board. He shifts in his seat, trying to mask his growing anticipation, but she’s all he can think about. His fingers drum against his empty glass, the weight of the moment making it almost impossible to sit still.

Then, his phone buzzes inside his pocket, her name lighting up the screen.

He doesn’t need to answer to know it’s just a diversion, and she’s not waiting for a conversation, either — she’s just giving him an out.

Lando clears his throat, “Sorry, I have to take this,” he says, giving the table an apologetic smile, as he pushes back his chair and making his way out of the dining area with purpose.

His heart pounds in his chest as he walks toward the bathroom, careful not to seem too rushed, but acutely aware of the tension building inside his body with each step he takes.

The hallway leading to the bathrooms is quieter, lined with soft, ambient lighting and artwork that screams understated luxury. He takes a turn, his steps slowing as he spots her standing in front of the mirror inside the women's restroom. The space itself is elegant, all marble countertops and gold fixtures, with sleek stalls and huge mirrors.

She’s touching up her lipstick, her purse resting next to her, the subtle curve of her smile betraying the fact that she knows he’s behind her. Lando approaches slowly, his footsteps soft against the polished tile. When he’s close enough, his hands settle on her waist, his touch firm yet familiar as he pulls her closer.

“There you are,” he says, his voice low and full of heat. “Worried about your makeup when it’s just going to smudge off you anyway?”

Her smile turns into a smirk as she meets his gaze in the mirror. “God, you’re the worst,” she teases, her tone light but laced with something more intimate.

Lando chuckles while she turns in his arms. Her hands slide up his chest, her touch lingering as she looks up at him, her eyes dark with intent.

“Are you sure it can’t wait until we get back to the hotel?” asks Lando, even though he already knows the answer, because he knows the look she has painted all over her face very well.

Her lips brush against his cheek in a warm, lingering kiss before her breath tickles his ear. “Baby, that's hours away.”

She intertwines her fingers with his, and leads him to one of the stalls at the end of the bathroom. The space is just as luxurious as the rest of the venue — tall wooden doors that reach from ceiling to floor, polished brass locks, and a sense of privacy that makes it feel more like a secluded room than a bathroom stall. As soon as they step inside, the door locks with a soft click, and every ounce of restraint disappears.

Lando’s lips are on hers instantly, hot and demanding, his hands already traveling to the hem of her dress. There’s no time to waste, with all those people back at the table who could realize at any moment that it is no coincidence that they are both missing at the same time.

His hands slide up her thighs, pushing the fabric of her dress higher until he reaches the thin band of her panties. His fingers slip beneath the lace, tugging them down in one swift motion before his hand returns, sliding between her legs and finding her completely soaked.

“Fuck,” he hisses, his forehead resting against hers as his fingers dip into her heat. “All this from a bit of touching?”

Her breath comes out in a shaky laugh as she clutches his shirt. “No,” she whispers, “All this from watching you on that stage, sitting next to you the entire night, seeing how people were cheering for you — and then from a bit of touching.”

A cocky smirk tugs at Lando’s lips. “That so?” he asks, pressing a finger into her, his pace measured as he stretches her slowly.

She gasps, her head falling back against the door, and he takes the opportunity to kiss her neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. A second finger joins the first, curling inside her as his thumb circles her clit, making her see stars.

Her hands, trembling with anticipation, move to his belt, fumbling for a moment before she pushes his pants down just enough to free his hardened cock. Her touch is soft at first, her fingers wrapping around him and stroking slowly, making his jaw clench.

She looks up at him, her lips curving into a teasing smile as she echoes his earlier words. “All this from touching me under the table?”

“Shut up,” he growls, grabbing her thigh and hitching it around his hip. His cock presses against her entrance, teasing her as he slides the tip through her slick folds.

“You shut up, and fuck me already,” she says, her voice thick with desire.

He doesn’t need to be told twice. With one swift thrust, he buries himself inside her, both of them gasping at the full sensation. The stretch is so sweet and perfect, and he pauses for just a moment, letting her adjust before pulling back and thrusting again, harder this time. Her back presses against the door, the cool wood contrasting with the heat of his body as he sets a relentless pace, in and out of her tight pussy. His hands grip her thighs, spreading her wider for him as he drives into her, each movement hungrier than the previous.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” Lando groans, his lips brushing against her ear. “Perfectly thight around me, baby. Always so sweet and eager, aren’t you?”

She clings to him, her nails digging into his shoulders as he angles his hips, hitting a spot that has her biting back a cry. “Lan,” she breathes, her voice shaky and full of need, while trying to mimic his rapid movements.

“That’s it,” he encourages her, his voice rough as his fingers dig into her hips. “Let them hear you, baby. Let everybody know how well you take my cock.”

Her head falls on his shoulder as he thrusts deeper, harder, his cock dragging against every sensitive spot inside her. The tension coils tighter and tighter in her belly, her body trembling as she teeters on the edge.

“Lando, fuck,” she moans wetly into his shoulder, feeling her pussy clenching around his length. “Shit, baby. Yes, don’t stop.”

As he buries himself so deep inside her, Lando realizes that's what he wants to do for the rest of the evening — the rest of his life, as a matter of fact. His lips part as he feels her walls twitching around him, making him — if that's even possible — even harder for her. His breaths come out in spasms, letting out a small cry of pleasure as his chest crashes against hers violently.

Sensing that she’s so close, Lando’s hand ends up slipping between their bodies to rub her clit in time with his thrusts. “Come on, baby. Let me feel you.”

“Are you—oh, fuck,” she tries to speak, but all her thoughts are focused on how good he makes her feel.

“Yeah, yeah,” Lando assures her, “Right behind you, love.”

It only takes a few more thrusts before she shatters around him, her walls clenching hard as her orgasm washes over her. Her moans are muffled against his neck as he continues to fuck her through her release, chasing his own high. His movements grow erratic, sloppier, his grip on her tightening as he finally lets go, spilling into her with a low, guttural moan.

For a moment, they can’t hear anything else except the soft whir of ventilation and their labored breathing. Their bodies stay pressed tightly together as the echoes of their pleasure lingers in the small space.

Her chest heaves against his as she exhales shakily, her lips brushing his neck, then up his jaw in a silent thank you.

Lando smiles, slowly pulling out of her, his cock still hard and sensitive from his release. She shudders at the sudden emptiness, but before she can speak, his hand slips between her thighs again. His fingers slide inside, pushing some of his cum and their mingled release back into her.

“Lando,” she gasps, her body clenching instinctively around his fingers.

His breath falls hot against her skin. “Gotta make sure you feel it all night.”

Her cheeks flush at his words, and she bites her lip, torn between glaring at him and melting into his touch. He strokes her lazily, savoring the way her body responds to him even now.

“Insane behavior, Norris,” she exhales sharply, finally looking up at him.

“My brand,” he smirks back at her. “But what about you, hm?” he asks, his tone soft, but teasing as his eyes rake over her wrecked expression. “Going back knowing you’re filled up so good?”

She rolls her eyes at him, but the heat in her gaze betrays her. “You’re unbelievable.”

“You love it,” he quips, fixing a strand of her hair and then kissing her deeply one last time.

She smiles against his lips, brushing her thumb over his mouth to wipe away the faint smudge of her lipstick. Then, leaning up, she presses a soft kiss to the tip of his nose. “Don’t take too long, champ.”

With that, she exits the stall, glancing once in the mirror to make sure she looks composed, and collecting her purse before heading back to the table.

When she returns to her seat, the conversation flows just as before, no one paying much attention to her absence beyond a polite glance. Her heart pounds in her chest, the sensation of being so intimately connected to Lando still fresh in her mind as she settles into her chair. She picks up her glass of champagne, finishing it in one go, her hands steady despite the warmth still coursing through her body — and the wetness between her legs.

A few minutes later, Lando comes back, his phone pressed to his ear as he pretends to be mid-conversation. His expression is casual, his voice light as he murmurs something unintelligible before slipping his phone back into his pocket and taking his seat.

But as soon as he sits down, Oscar’s eyes narrow, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

Lando catches the look, frowning slightly as he tilts his head. “What?” he asks silently, his expression confused.

Oscar doesn’t answer, instead he points directly at Lando’s bowtie, which is noticeably crooked.

Lando’s eyes widen as he glances down, and straightens it as casually as he can, his cheeks turning faintly pink.

“It's windy outside,” Lando mutters under his breath, low enough that only Oscar can hear.

His teammate just grins knowingly, leaning back in his chair. “Whatever you say, mate.”

PREVIOUS LN⁴ ONE-SHOT

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© trashy track tales, 2024

[backtothefanfiction]

First Impressions | Joaquin Torres

Summary: the first time Sam introduces you to Joaquin

Warnings: flirting, fluff, playful banter

A/N: I fell in love with this man during Falcon and the Winter Soldier. Completely forgot about him until I watched the new Cap the other night. So here’s this little before going to sleep drabble. As you will quickly be able to tell I love the idea of a Carol Danvers niece reader given the whole air force thing. Hope people enjoy. May write some more in the future.

Joaquin was smitten the second you walked into his house. When Sam said he was headed over with “some new recruit” he hadn’t expected you. A roughed up baseball cap on top of your head, faded baseball jersey, baggy oversized jeans and sneakers, dripping from head to toe and almost shivering.

“What happened?” Joaquin asked Sam as you tentatively stepped through the sliding door, not wanting to drip too much on this strangers carpet.

“He dropped me in the lake.” Your voice blurted out, completely unamused, shooting daggers at the still newly appointed Captain America.

“Yeah, well, still better that than a 40ft drop onto hard ground.” Sam retorted.

“Or you could have just not dropped me at all?!” You stressed, hands raised in the air, still in complete disbelief over this turn of events. “That’s the last time I’m ever flying with you.” You muttered and you saw Joaquin let out a little chuckle over the situation.

That’s when you really took him in. The guy who Sam sung the praises of. His supposedly best recruit, not that he would actually tell him that.

“Come on, I’ll get you a towel.” Joaquin said, leading you upstairs and to the bathroom.

“You wouldn’t happen to have anything I could change into, do you?” You asked him, as he handed you a couple towels.

“Umm, yeah, of course, I’ll just go find you something.”

You didn’t wait for him to return before you whipped off your clothes and immediately jumped in the shower to wash the murky lake water off of you. You were grateful that it was an old tub and shower curtain situation and not one of those see through glass cabinet shower situations, not that it didn’t stop Joaquin from blushing when he came back into the bathroom a few minutes later with some clothes in hand.

“Oh, sorry- I didn’t realise you were- I’ll just leave these- uh- yeah.” He rushed out before quickly shutting the door again.

He hesitated a moment as he stood with his back to the door, his brain fixated on the small glimpse he got of your naked back from behind the shower curtain. He could feel the flush in his cheeks. The smile that threatened his lips. He fought to hide it as he went back down to Sam in the kitchen.

“So who is she?” Joaquin asked as he grabbed a fresh cup of coffee and passed it to Sam before picking up his own previously discarded mug to finish.

“She’s a Danvers.” Sam said, as if the surname alone held a lot of weight, but Joaquin still didn’t bite. “As in Carol Danvers… Captain Marvel.” Sam said, walking him through it slowly until Joaquin’s face began to flicker with recognition. “Carol’s her aunt. Before she became Captain Marvel she was one heck of an Air Force Pilot. Kid saw what her aunt did and decided to pick up the mantle.”

“And she’s good?” Joaquin fished, a flame for the woman upstairs really taking hold as Sam kept adding more fuel to the fire.

“Yeah, she’s fucking great. Best female pilot I’ve ever seen.”

“So you looking to set her up with a pair of wings?” Joaquin asked, even though he had a hint of jealousy to his tone. He enjoyed being the only person other than Sam who had access to the now not so secret military wings, but he also couldn’t deny the new found need to go flying with you on a sunny afternoon and treat you to a picnic on the top of a mountain or something.

“We’ll see.” Sam said sceptically, but Joaquin knew from the way Sam had even brought you to meet him he thought you had what it takes.

“What are you two girls talking about?” You asked as you came striding back into the kitchen in a pair of Joaquin’s joggers and his old air force T-shirt. You were using a towel to squeeze out your hair and Joaquin couldn’t deny you looked right at home in his house, wearing his clothes.

“Lover boy here was grilling me about you.” Sam joked, taking in the way Joaquin looked at you.

“Was he now?” You asked feigning interest and playing up to the little bit in order to embarrass him, but as you sat across from him at the table and really took him in for the first time, you couldn’t deny he was handsome- and if the T-shirt he gave you had anything to say, you definitely had a lot in common to bond over.

“Uh- um- no- I-“ Joaquin began to stutter bashfully.

“It’s all cool dude,” you reassured. “I know he’s just messing. You really shouldn’t let him rile you up like that.”

Joaquin sighed before he leaned in closer to you, “How do you stay so calm around him?” He asked as if Sam wasn’t there and you had all the secrets.

“Eh, when you grew up being told about your badass aunt with actual super powers, some guy in a read white and blue bird costume is nothing.” You joked.

“Hey!” Sam pointed at you, “don’t you dare turn him against me or I’ll drop your ass in the lake again.”

“So you admit it! You did it on purpose.” You said, slamming your hand on the table animatedly.

“Maybe I did. Maybe I didn’t. What are you gonna do about it?” He asked back, but you didn’t say anything more. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

You rolled your eyes at him before fixing them on Joaquin instead as Sam’s phone began to ring. You both turned your eyes on him as he checked the caller ID. “I need to take this.” He said, before getting up and dismissing himself, stepping out the back door to take the call outside.

“Would you like coffee?” Joaquin asked to break up the silence the two of you were left in.

“Umm, yes, that would be great.” You said with a smile and he got up to pour you a cup full from the pot.

“It looks good on you.” He said as he came back over a moment later and handed you the mug.

“What, now?” You said confused.

“Uh, my shirt,” he said with a shrug, as he committed to the statement. “It looks good on you.”

You couldn’t help but blush slightly under his gaze. He was cute and confident and oddly endearing. “Thanks.” You smiled, as he sat himself back down. “I guess I’ll keep it then.” You joked.

“The only way you’re keeping that thing is if you were my girlfriend.” He replied, half as a joke, half as a way of informing you just how much that shirt meant to him.

“Well I guess you better ask me on a date then.” You smirked playfully as he took a sip of his coffee and he almost choked as he spat it back into his cup. But before he could say anymore, Sam came back through the sliding door.

“Alright lovebirds, you can stop having your meet cute moment now, we gotta go,” he said to Joaquin.

“And what about me?” You said indignantly, feeling a little put out.

“He’ll be back in time to take you out on a proper date later.” Sam retorted, marching back through the house to get his shit from where he’d left it by the front door.

“And what am I supposed to do in the meantime?” You asked, completely brushing over the rest of what he’d said. “I don’t even live anywhere near here!” You stressed. “You just brought me here and now you’re gonna up and leave me here!” You said indignantly.

Joaquin froze in the middle of the hallway next to you, looking from his mentor and back to you as he tried to keep up with what’s going on. He felt conflicted. “I mean, can’t she just come with us.” He offered. “I mean, you brought her out here because you wanted to see what she could do. So I say let her.”

Sam looked between the two of you slowly, before he conceded. “Uh, fine. But if anything happens with her it’s on your head.” He warned but you were both smiling.

“So, is this technically our first date?” You ribbed him as he began to usher you out the door so he could lock up.

“We’ll see. Depends if you like it or not.” He mused and you had to admit, his cheeky smile did make you swoon.

“And if I don’t?” You asked with a playful twinkle in your eye.

“Don’t worry,” he reassured you with just as equal playfulness and innuendo, “you will.”

[yanderenightmare]

♡ TW: implied noncon, hyrbid au, hybrid auction, sex trafficking, suicidal ideations, dystopian laws, subjugation

♡ FEM reader

♡ P2: Clientele

It’s scary being a bunny hybrid—especially in a world where all natural prey is bred and raised like livestock, then handpicked and auctioned off to society's apex predators.

But then again, that’s been reality all your life.

If the choice were up to you, you’d stay at the farm and become a womb for breeders. Granted, they’re a bit intense, but rabbit bucks aren’t so bad. You would spend your days cozy in the hay, barefooted and messy-haired, with other fellow herbivores—all the cows, mares, ewes, and does out on the pasture, kept safe and far removed from the belly of the beast—free to live out your days never once having to lay your round eyes on an apex at all. 

But such wasn’t your luck...

Of course, you could have fought. But fighting back is never a good idea—you never know if and when they could decide to send you to the slaughterhouse to make rabbit stew out of you instead— keep your fur to make a coat or carpet. They’ll have better use of you that way than they will with a misbehaving pet, after all.

You think about ending it yourself once you’re sitting in your cage listening to the speaker announce a heifer. That’s how the auction goes—typical farm animals first, other domestic species, then wilder exotic ones. 

In an ill-thought way, you wish you were an exotic breed—something with wings or something they’d have to keep in an aquarium—all in all, something a little harder to come by than being a rodent. Rabbits are cute, but they’re a dime a dozen and are usually sold to those who don’t feel like spending too much—trigger-happy hunter types who’re looking for cheap toys that are easily broken and just as easily replaced.

You swallow thickly. Better yet, you wish you were a bigger badder herbivore that required respect—like an elephant or a rhino. No one would mess with you then. 

But there’s no point in mulling over what you’re not. You’re prey. That’s just how it is.

But who knows? Maybe it won’t be so bad. You’ve seen someone come back to the farm after being auctioned. She’d lost an ear and could no longer speak, but other than that, she was alive and well…

You reconsider killing yourself. Suppose, the only thing keeping you from going through with it is the option of doing it later if and when it actually proves to be as bad as you imagine. You’ve never been good at making such decisions. Must be that prey mentality.

“Up next, we have a mini lop bunny,” the speaker announces, and you feel your cage move, carrying you into the spotlight where you can only see bright red eyes glaring back at you. You immediately look away.

“Known for their long ears, button nose, and round eyes—not to mention their docile nature. As one of the most popular bunny breeds on the market, mini lops are a house pet staple. Believe it or not, they’re also intelligent and social, thriving on attention, whether that be playing games or cuddling—making them the perfect choice to anyone in want of a domestic companion or a pet toy.”

You sniffle—crying and shivering, curling yourself up in a little ball within your cage, making yourself as small as possible, hiding from the predatory glares you feel surrounding you. You’ve only seen a handful of carnivores before—the shepherd dog that herds the flock back home being the biggest one. You’ve heard wolves are twice the size. Maybe you’ll be lucky and have a heart attack right now before any one of them can make their bids.

But then it starts. One number after the other. It feels over in the blink of an eye.

“Sold!” the speaker calls. “To the fine grizzly gentleman on table nine.”

Your eyes peel from being sealed shut, staring intently at your lap where you sit with your knees tucked to your chest—frozen and tense and teetering on passing out from lack of breath. Grizzly? You gulp with a swallowed whimper. Did you hear that right? As in bear? 

“No-” You suddenly understand the point of the chains that had been fixed around your ankles and wrists—given they were the only thing keeping you from thrashing against the bars—breaths hitching as you felt the cage being reeled away to make space for the next one up.

A blanket is thrown over your enclosure, engulfing you in pitch dark before you’re carried off and placed down somewhere. The floor shakes beneath you after a small moment. Something purring underfoot. It feels a little different from the carriage you’re used to but you think you’re being moved.

It’s an hour or so until you feel it come to a halt, at which point your cage is picked up and carried off again, then placed down a few moments later.

You can’t see it, but you can smell it in the air—something dangerous. It must be him. The bear that bought you.

You shield yourself once the drape is lifted and you’re exposed to the light again, squealing, “Please, mister—please don’t eat me. I only eat grass—I wouldn't taste good. And- and—I wouldn’t be very filling anyway–” while trembling underneath the shadow of the apex predator before you.

Your jumping heart was expecting nothing short of instant death, though that’s not what ensued. Instead, there’s an unfamiliar sound. A rumbling. Almost like a growl. It takes a while before you recognize it as laughter. 

“Shh, bunny,” the bear chuckles. “Don’t worry—I have no intention of eating you.”

He crouches down before your cage, though still big enough to tower over it. 

“After all,” he says. “There would be little point in spending so much on something only so bite-sized.”

Your eyes flicker to his paw, where it jingles with something. 

It’s a key.

“How about we get you out of that cage? Those shackles don’t look pleasant. I’ll remove them for you.” He unlocks the gate and swings it open, leaving you room to crawl out.

You don’t know if you should. On the one hand, the cage is keeping you safe, but on the other hand, you doubt you can stay in it forever. And who knows what might happen to his seemingly gracious mood if you refuse him.

“D’you—” It’s a silly question, but you don’t know what else to say. “You promise?”

He makes that sound again. Humored by you, it would seem. “Yes, Bunny, I promise.”

You decide to come out and only feel smaller for it, now exposed. But he keeps his promise, removing your shackles. Your eyes are peeled as he does, watching his claws be so close to you. Thick, long, curled, and black. They would puncture your skin and tear into your meat like it were nothing. You go goosefleshed at the thought.

“They always do these so tight…” he sighs. “Utterly unnecessary for domestic species such as yourself.”

You look up at him at that. He’s done this before, which must mean… “Do you—do you have others?” Or has he had others? Meaning… he doesn’t plan on keeping you around for long. 

It’s funny how that overwhelming urge to run makes you go completely numb.

Meanwhile, he looks at you in silence. Surprised at your observation, perhaps, but then he smiles, fangs and all, and you nearly skitter back into your cage.

“You’re quite astute.” Again, he rumbles with a laugh. Then he stands and walks off, setting your cuffs down on a dresser.

You only now realize you’re in a bedroom, of all places.

“I suppose there’s no use in beating around the bush.” He turns around again and leans back against the drawers, arms folded upon his broad chest as he starts explaining, “I run an entertainment business—a fun house of sorts—you might call it a burrow, as my staff is exclusively made up of bunny rabbits such as yourself.”

A burrow? Like back home? Why would a bear be doing that?

“From now on, you’ll work for me. You’ll be trained in the arts of hospitality and pleasure and cater to a clientele of sophisticated apex predators such as myself.”

Hospitality and pleasure? It almost sounds like he means for carnivores to breed with you… But that would be ridiculous. What would be the point? It’s not as if you can carry other litters but kits anyway.

“You look confused,” he chuckles again. “Allow me to explain.” He pushes himself off the dresser. “Unlike most other mammals, bunnies don’t go into heat. No, instead, bunnies are, in many ways, in a state of permanent mating season—which makes you ideal for my intents and purposes.”

You’re not sure you understand what he’s implying. But you’re growing more certain you don’t like it…

“Moreover, bunnies are any hunter’s natural prey,” he continues while walking back toward you. “Making you the perfect meal to fulfill any customer's appetite.”

He pushes the gate of the cage closed, and it clicks back in place, now locked for good and no longer an option of escape, however poor.

“Not to mention…” He smiles again, and this time, you really wish you had a place to hide. “Bunnies are natural sluts.” He crouches back down, closer now, and curls his black claw up under your chin. “All you want is to be fed and bred all day, then fall sound asleep come night.”

You swallow thickly. Your question answered. 

“And since you seem to be a smart cookie. I suppose there’d be little point in waiting."

He removes his tie.

"So, let’s start your training right away.”

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Deku, Kirishima, Hawks, Aizawa ♡ JJK – Sukuna, Geto, Naoya, Toji ♡ BLLK – Aiku ♡ DS – Doma ♡ HxH – Chrollo

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[gf2bellamy]

Hiii first of all just wanted you to know that you are the best fluff writer I've ever seen secondly i had this cute idea about bau reader and spencer outing their relationship by accident when she shows up wearing one of spencer's mismatched socks like she’s wearing one and he's wearing the other and the team reaction to it specifically morgan and penelope

matching — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: teasing from the team , secret relationship a/n: hii !! thank you so so much thats such an honor and i hope you like this <3

"I love your apartment," you said with a smile as you slipped off your shoes, stepping onto the plush carpet of Penelope Garcia’s cozy home.

"Why, thank you very much!" Garcia beamed, twirling slightly in excitement. "This is my sacred palace, my whimsical wonderland, my fortress of fabulousness!"

You laughed at her enthusiasm, setting your bag down. She had invited the BAU team over for a small get-together, but judging by the lack of noise , it seemed you were the first to arrive.

"Need help with anything?" you offered, making your way toward the kitchen.

Garcia waved a hand dismissively. "No, no, everything is fine. Completely fine." She smiled. Well, tried to smile. It was the kind of forced expression that made your profiler instincts tingle.

"Penelope," you said knowingly, tilting your head, practically demanding she spill whatever was on her mind.

She let out a dramatic sigh before reaching into the fridge and pulling out—well, something. A cake? A tragic attempt at one? You stared at it, searching for the right words but coming up empty. It was lopsided, unevenly frosted, and slightly collapsed on one side.

"What… happened?" You fought the urge to laugh, biting your lip because this—this was a disaster. And Garcia, who prided herself on being a self-proclaimed Cake Boss, was probably not in the mood for teasing.

"I got distracted," she muttered, poking at the cake with a defeated sigh.

"By…?" you prompted, raising an eyebrow.

She hesitated for a second before mumbling under her breath, "My neighbor."

Your eyes widened. "No way."

Garcia winced, realizing what she just admitted.

"You have a hot neighbor and you didn’t tell me?" you gasped dramatically, placing your hands on your hips as if personally offended. "Penelope Garcia, I thought we were best friends!"

"I was going to tell you!" Garcia defended, throwing her hands up in exasperation.

The two of you turned back to the cake, staring at it like it was a crime scene.

"Well… it doesn’t look that bad," you offered weakly.

Garcia shot you a pointed look, her lips pressed into a thin line.

"I mean, if you put enough frosting on it, maybe you can fix it?" You shrugged, trying to sound hopeful.

She let out a dramatic sigh, leaning against the counter. "There is no hope. It's a lost cause. A cake tragedy," she lamented, waving a hand over the mess.

You were about to reassure her when she suddenly narrowed her eyes at you, eyebrows raising in suspicion. "Wait a second… what on earth are you wearing?"

Confused, you followed her gaze, only to realize what she was looking at. Your socks. Or rather, your mismatched socks.

One was a plain dark blue. Totally normal. The other? A black sock covered in bright white physics equations.

Garcia pointed at it like she had just discovered a federal crime. "Excuse me, ma’am, is that… math?"

Your heart nearly stopped.

"Oh—uhm…" You cleared your throat, scrambling for an excuse. "It looked cute, so I got it," you mumbled.

A blatant lie.

Because the truth? The truth was something you and Spencer had agreed to keep between just the two of you. A small, silly little secret.

You had been dating for months now, and this morning, in the rush of getting ready, you had grabbed a random sock from Spencer’s drawer without thinking , before you sat down for breakfast—half-burnt pancakes he had attempted to make, which you had teased him about relentlessly before eating them anyway.

Because, well… he tried. And that was what mattered.

Garcia’s eyes stayed locked onto your sock, her red-framed glasses slipping slightly down her nose as she raised an eyebrow.

"Those letters and numbers are cute to you?" she asked, her tone dripping with suspicion.

"Yes?" You dragged out the word, hoping it sounded somewhat believable.

Then, suddenly—she gasped.

You barely had time to react before she squealed, clapping her hands together like she had just uncovered the biggest scoop of her life.

"I know what this is about!"

Your eyes went wide with panic. "Wait—what?"

"You bought those socks because they reminded you of our very own young Doctor Reid!" She placed a dramatic hand over her heart. "Oh, young love!"

Your stomach flipped.

"Oh, no—no, no, no—"

"You two need to get together!" she cut you off, pointing an accusing finger at you as if you were the one making bad choices and not the person currently clutching a failed cake.

You stared at her, mind scrambling for a response. Denying it would just make her more suspicious. And honestly? The idea of her thinking you just had a hopeless crush on Spencer was a lot safer than the truth—that you were already together.

So, with the best nonchalant face you could muster, you threw your hands up in surrender. "Okay, nope, let’s drop this topic." You forced a laugh, acting like she had totally nailed it.

Garcia squinted at you, clearly not buying how quickly you caved. But before she could pry any further, you seized the opportunity to change the subject.

"So," you said, quickly pointing at the crime scene of a cake, "do you have anything else besides that?"

Garcia let out a huff but allowed you to steer the conversation away. "Do I have anything else? Please." She flipped her hair dramatically. "I have cupcakes, chips, chocolate cookies, vanilla cookies—oh, I even have ice cream! And pizza! And—"

You held up a hand, laughing. "Okay, Penelope, I think we’ll be fine without the cake. That’s way more than enough food."

Before she could reply, the doorbell rang.

Garcia’s eyes lit up. "Our guests have arrived!"

She rushed to the door, and you followed close behind. As she swung it open, two familiar faces greeted you—Derek Morgan and Spencer Reid.

"Hello to my two favorite men!" Garcia beamed, stepping aside to let them in.

"Hey, you two pretty ladies," Derek greeted smoothly, flashing his signature grin.

Garcia wasted no time latching onto his arm. "Come with me," she commanded, already leading him toward the kitchen. "I need your opinion on something, and no, you don’t get to laugh at me."

You watched as she practically dragged him away, no doubt to show off the tragic cake she had created. The moment they disappeared from view, you turned to Spencer, already stepping into his space.

His arms were around you in an instant.

"Hi," he murmured into your hair, his hand gently rubbing your back.

You leaned back slightly to look at him, a small smile on your lips. "Hey. I missed you."

Before he could respond, the sound of Garcia and Derek’s voices echoing from the kitchen reminded you both to be careful. You took a quick step back just in case they suddenly reappeared.

Spencer, however, still looked amused. "You saw me four hours ago," he pointed out.

"Four hours are too long," you countered without hesitation.

Spencer chuckled, shaking his head as his curls bounced slightly with the motion. "I missed you too," he admitted, his voice softer. "Are you coming over tonight?"

The two of you started walking toward the kitchen, keeping your conversation low.

"Are you going to try and make me eat your burnt pancakes again?" you teased, raising an eyebrow.

Spencer scoffed. "I never made you eat them."

"You literally guilt-tripped me into it," you shot back, smirking.

"I offered them. You chose to eat them."

"Because you pouted, Spencer."

Spencer opened his mouth to argue, but the debate was cut short as you both stepped into the kitchen, immediately taking in the sight before you.

Derek stood at the counter, sleeves rolled up, holding a spatula covered in frosting as he attempted—and failed—to salvage Garcia’s cake. His expression was one of deep concentration, but the results were… questionable, at best.

"You’re trusting Morgan with your cake?" you asked incredulously, raising an eyebrow at Garcia.

Garcia huffed, arms crossed. "I am running out of options here."

Derek turned, pointing the frosting-covered spatula at you. "I’ll have you know, sweetheart, I am excellent at—"

And that’s when he accidentally knocked over the bowl of frosting, sending a massive glob straight onto the floor.

Derek froze.

Garcia gasped.

You burst out laughing.

"Derek Morgan!" Garcia scolded, staring at the mess in horror.

Derek sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Okay, that might have been my bad."

Spencer leaned toward you, voice barely above a whisper. "I’d like to point out that I never make this much of a mess when I cook."

You bit your lip to keep from laughing again. "That’s because you just burn things before they have a chance to make a mess."

Spencer rolled his eyes but smiled nonetheless.

Spencer, ever the gentleman, grabbed a handful of tissues and crouched down, diligently wiping up the frosting disaster while Garcia stood and dusted off her hands. Derek, still determined to salvage what remained of the cake, muttered to himself as he spread frosting across the lopsided layers.

You stood in the doorway, watching the chaos unfold with an amused smile.

But that smile vanished in an instant.

Garcia froze. Her eyes locked onto something.

“Your sock,” she said, her voice eerily calm.

Your stomach dropped.

She wasn’t looking at your sock this time. No—she was pointing at Spencer, who had just finished tossing the tissue into the trash.

“My sock?” Spencer repeated, confused, as he followed her gaze down to his feet.

The sock in question—the one covered in physics equations—sat comfortably on his left foot.

The exact same design as the one currently hidden beneath your pant leg.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Garcia’s head snapped up, eyes locking onto yours. Her expression changed instantly—realization flooding over her as she noticed the wide, guilty look on your face.

Her lips parted slightly in shock. "Oh my god," she whispered under her breath.

Spencer straightened up, now thoroughly lost. “What? What’s happening?”

Derek, finally sensing that something was going down, stopped his attempt at cake decoration and turned toward Garcia, his hands still coated in frosting. “Uh… what’s going on?”

Garcia ignored him, still staring at you.

“You lied,” she murmured, eyes narrowing.

The room was dead silent.

Derek turned his attention to you, his head tilting slightly. "Sweetheart, what is happening right now?" he asked slowly.

Garcia, on the other hand, was already spiraling. Her hand shot out, finger trembling as she pointed between you and Spencer, her mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air.

"They—they—" she sputtered, eyes wide.

Spencer took a cautious step back from her, moving instinctively closer to you as if that would somehow protect him from Garcia’s inevitable explosion. "What is happening?" he muttered under his breath, barely audible.

And then—

"They're wearing matching socks!"

Garcia's yell practically shook the apartment walls, making Spencer physically jump.

"They’re—oh my god—they’re wearing one sock each from the same set! That means—they swapped! That means—"

Her eyes practically bulged out of her head as the realization fully hit her.

"Oh. My. God. You're dating!"

Derek’s gaze snapped downward, confirming what Garcia had just screamed into existence. His eyes flickered from your foot to Spencer’s, then back up at you two.

A slow, knowing smirk spread across his face. "No way," he drawled, shaking his head in disbelief.

Spencer, who had remained mostly silent through this entire catastrophe, finally looked down at his own foot. Then yours. Then back up.

His mouth fell open.

And then it closed.

Then opened again.

Oh no.

He looked horrified.

Which, honestly, wasn’t the best reaction right now.

Panic seized your brain. Without thinking, you blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

"No, we’re not."

The words left your lips so fast it was almost impressive.

Except… yeah. That was the worst attempt at a lie in human history.

Because standing right next to you, Spencer Reid—Dr. Genius IQ Spencer Reid—was standing frozen, mouth still slightly open, his brain seemingly buffering at an alarming rate.

Which, to Garcia and Derek, said more than enough.

Garcia gasped. Derek laughed.

Spencer blinked. "Wait, are we—are we lying? Are we—"

"Yes!" You whisper-hissed. "Lie, Spencer!"

But it was too late.

Derek leaned against the counter, arms crossed, shaking his head with a smug look on his face. "Damn, pretty boy. Never thought I’d see the day."

Garcia, on the other hand, squealed, practically vibrating on the spot. "How long?! How long have you been together?!Who made the first move?! Oh my god, were there love letters? Did he quote Shakespeare?! Tell me everything."

Spencer looked at you, helpless. You looked at him, equally helpless.

The interrogation was relentless. Garcia and Derek took turns, firing off question after question as you and Spencer sat there like two deer caught in headlights.

“How long?”

“Who made the first move?”

“How was your first date?”

Spencer had handled questioning criminals far better than this. But right now he was crumbling under Garcia’s sheer determination.

You were no better. Every time you tried to dodge a question, Garcia found another way to corner you.

And the moment JJ walked in?

Garcia didn’t even greet her. Didn’t even pretend to act normal.

"JJ!" she practically shrieked, making the blonde woman pause mid-step. "Forget hello, forget small talk—did you know these two are dating?!"

JJ blinked, eyes darting between you and Spencer. "What?"

"Matching socks. Lying. Stammering. Busted!" Garcia announced dramatically, pointing at you like she had just solved a murder case.

JJ’s expression shifted immediately into surprise, then amusement. A slow, knowing smirk tugged at her lips. "Oh," she said, crossing her arms. "That makes so much sense."

And it didn’t stop there.

Each time a new member of the team arrived, Garcia immediately hit them with the bombshell, practically vibrating with excitement.

Emily? "Did you know these two have been secretly together?!"

Rossi? "our resident genius has a girlfriend! I repeat—a girlfriend!!"

Hotch? "Hotch! I know you don't like drama but this is important! These two are in love!"

You and Spencer just stood there, completely shocked, as the team celebrated your relationship.

[savyindeepspace]

How the LADS Men react to seeing you asleep on the couch:

I just wanted to write something sweet, enjoy. 💕

———————————————

Zayne❄️:

His home office was dimly lit by a single desk lamp and the screen of his laptop. “Just a few more reports, then we’ll watch that movie,” he promised. You patiently waited for him, wrapped in a big throw blanket, scrolling through your phone. A few reports turned into several. You glanced at the time and then out the window, watching the sun descend, painting the walls a golden yellow. Sinking deeper into the sofa, you felt a heavy weight on your eyelids. The slow swipe of your thumb eventually stopped as sleep crept over you, making your phone hit the carpet with a soft thud. Zayne entered the living room, pulling off his glasses and pinching the space between his brow. “I’m sorry about that…oh..” A quiet sigh fell from his lips when he saw you curled tightly into a ball. He tucked loose hairs behind your ear as he admired the peaceful look on your face. “You tried…sweet girl,” his voice caressed your ears, even in sleep. He carried you to the bedroom, tucking you into his plush bedding. His arms wrapped around you in a secure embrace, you hummed, nuzzling into his chest. Zayne pressed a kiss to your forehead, tracing gentle patterns on your back. You stirred, but your eyes remained closed, “I fell asleep didn’t I…?” “Mhmmm, but I’m happy just like this.” Taking his hand into yours, you kissed Zayne’s fingertips. “Okay…but now you owe me two movies,” you said between yawns. A faint chuckle emanated from his throat, “deal.”

Sylus 🐦‍⬛:

At first you wanted to play a prank, pretending to have fallen asleep while Sylus went through his new shipment of weapons. What you didn’t realize is how exhausted you truly were, given all the wanderers you fought that day. Suddenly, sleep didn’t seem like such a bad idea as your body sank into his gothic style couch. Sylus’s back was turned, he meticulously ran a silk cloth over the barrel of a handgun. “I heard this one packs quite the punch, maybe even more than your hunter firearm,” he spoke casually. There was a pause, but it was longer than he expected. When his crimson eyes fell on you, a crooked smirk pulled at his lips. “Very funny, sweetie, you can wake up now..” another pause, then it dawned on him, you really were sleeping. A soft snore vibrated from your nose, making Sylus release a rich chuckle. He sat beside you, petting the top of your head, “And I thought kittens were nocturnal.” He pursed a soft kiss on your cheek and pulled a blanket over you, “but you must be a rare breed.”

Caleb🍎:

You were sitting on one end of the couch. The thick bristles of a brush tickled your scalp as Caleb separated your hair into sections. “Alrighty, just a braid right?,” he asked with a hair tie between his teeth. You hummed in response, back leaning against the front of his shins. His hands moved gently and with precision as he worked, “is this okay? Not too tight?” “Mhmm.” The way his fingers grazed your scalp made your eyelids droop. This wasn’t the first time you fell asleep when Caleb did your hair, his touch was always kind and thoughtful, even when you were kids. “Okay, all set, pipsq—pips?,” your limp body slumped against the cushions, breaths coming out in soft huffs. He didn’t speak, just pulled you into his arms and leaned back, joining you in a quiet slumber. The steady rise and fall of his chest was grounding, comforting. You curled your fingers into the soft material of his shirt, the cool metal of his dog tag brushed your cheek. You didn’t know how much time passed, a few minutes? Hours? When your eyes fluttered open, Caleb was looking at you, wearing a gentle smile. “Did I fall asleep?,” you asked through a yawn, rubbing your eyes. “Like always, silly girl,” he teased, ruffling your hair. You huff, poking his side and settling back into his embrace, “you have a magic touch, I can’t help myself.” He held you until the sun peeked through the blinds the next morning, squeezing his arms around you when you stirred or fussed. Being intertwined with you was his sanctuary.

Rafayel🐚:

Salty sea air wafted through Rafayel’s studio as you watched him paint. His brush strokes were fluidly moving across the canvas, every swipe of pigment looked as if it belonged where it was placed. Occasionally he would turn to watch you as you absentmindedly doodled in a spare sketchbook. “Are you bored, cutie?,” he asked. “No, I just like watching you work, it’s very relaxing,” you replied, tucking your legs on the couch. Rafayel hummed, returning to his piece. Your eyes followed his hand, absorbing every detail of his movements. A heavy weight began to pull down on your eyelids and eventually you fell asleep. “You know, these pigments are hundreds of years old, I made them from crushed coral and shells. See this shade of red? It’s—,” his gaze fell on you and softened when he realized why you weren’t paying attention. Rafayel quietly climbed down from the ladder and sat at the edge of the couch, laying his head on your legs. “I’ll tell you the rest of the story when you wake up, cutie.” The sketchbook was open on the coffee table, inside were all kinds of drawings, but one stood out from the rest. Rough lines and light shading adorned the pages over and over, evidence of your attempts to create the perfect portrait. “Well, this sort of looks like me,” he softly laughed under his breath. The artist smiled and ran his thumb over your cheek, “ma petite artiste.”

Xavier⭐️:

After a week of intense missions, you and Xavier decided to have a quiet day of reading, watching movies and playing board games. You shared your favorite childhood comics with him and played a few rounds of Kitty Cards. “Are you secretly letting me win?” A knowing smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, “no, you’re just that good, I can hardly keep up.” You quirked your brow at him, “I know you have the highest score on every game at the arcade, you’re not fooling me,” you gently pushed him, setting your deck on the coffee table. Xavier let out a small chuckle before walking to the kitchen, returning with an armful of snacks. He splayed them out in front of you and your eyes widened at the amount of food he bought from the convenience store. “You think this will be enough for the movie?,” his voice was soft and genuine. “More than enough, I think we’ll have snacks for the whole year,” you said with a hint of sarcasm. The movie was long and slow paced, you found it hard to keep your eyes open as the story moved along. Eventually sleep washed over you, leaving your head resting on Xavier’s shoulder. The only sounds that filled the air were the movie and your drowsy breaths. Before you could drift deeper, a heavy weight leaned against you. The fading star by your side was quietly snoring, practically falling off the couch. You pulled him close, sweeping the bangs away from his brow. The movie was halfway over, but a nap with Xavier was more enticing anyway.

————————

Thank you for reading :) more LADs Fics are pinned to my profile.

[subbmissivesuccubus]

Training Part 2 - Blowjobs

A/n: Here's part 2! This is actually more like part 1 of part 2 but if I made it a whole chapter, it would end up being quite long so I decided to split it. This chapter only has Caleb and Xavier with the others being mentioned so the next chapter will have Zayne, Raphael and Sylus <3

Part 1;

"Slowly, baby. Don't push yourself."

You rolled your eyes which resulted in Caleb reaching a hand down and pinching your ear, making you whine.

"Don't roll your eyes at me, you little brat." he teased, pulling his hand away before leaning back again on the couch, "Nngh- you're lucky you're so cute."

"That she is." Xavier agreed from behind you, his touch sending a shiver up your spine, "Be good for us, angel. Don't want you to hurt yourself."

You didn't reply, focusing on your breathing instead as you pushed down, jaw aching as you took more and more of Caleb's hard cock into your mouth. His girth was stretching you out and you were doing your best to not let your teeth accidentally scratch him. Tears filled your eyes as the tip of his fat cock hit the back of your throat, making you gag but you pushed ahead, nails digging into his thighs as you attempted to deep throat him.

"Haaah- fuck." Caleb panted, his cheeks dusted a bright red as he looked down at you, his own fingers digging into the couch cushion as he fought his instinct to grab you by the head, "Feels so fucking- ah- good!"

"Keep going. That's it. Almost there, baby." Xavier said, keeping a close eye on you as Caleb's cock slid down your throat, "You're doing so good."

The white haired man was kneeling on the carpet next to you as you settled between Caleb's spread legs, your back arched as you sat on your knees. With your perk butt perched on top of your heels, Xavier was lightly touching you, his touch so gently as he caressed your cheeks, occasionally scratching them with his nails which made your whole body shiver.

You were just wearing a baby pink lingerie set, the two men having undressed you before getting you on your knees. You gagged more as Caleb slid down your throat, about to pull away when you felt Xavier thread his fingers through your hair and keep you down. It wasn't firm enough that you couldn't pull back if you really wanted to but it wasn't gentle either, letting you know that he was there.

"Just breathe. Come on." he cooed, pushing your head a bit as you took more of the brunettes dick, "You're almost there."

"Fuck- this is killing me-" Caleb moaned, tossing his head back as you finally deep throated him, your lips pressed against the base of his cock, nose snuggling into the small tuft of hair. The sensation of your tight, wet heat all over his dick, muscles contracting as you swallowed around him which just made him feel so, so good. He felt like he was ripping apart the sofa fabrics as he now had to stop himself from thrusting his hips, wanting nothing more but to fuck your cute fucking face.

"Stay there baby. You got this." Xavier encouraged, holding you in place as you sputtered around his friends dick, "5...4...3...2....."

You grunted, Xavier keeping one hand on the back of your head while the other slid to your neck, gently wrapping his fingers around it. "And...1. Ok, slowly now."

With another gag, you started to pull off of Caleb's cock in a pace slower than what you would have done- which was probably why Xavier was directing you to prevent you from hurting yourself by pulling off to roughly. Eventually, Caleb's heavy cock popped out of your mouth, standing tall and wet with thick angry veins pumping through it.

You coughed, taking in deep breaths as you brought a hand up to pump Caleb's sticky dick, your own saliva coating your fingers as you jerked him off, smiling at the way his thighs twitched. Xavier cooed compliments at you, petting your hair with one hand while the other was still around your neck in a light choke.

"Good job, pipsqueak. You managed to- fuck- deep throat me." Caleb panted out, his will power being tested, "Told you your training was worth it."

"Such a good girl." Xavier said, using his hold on your neck to tilt your face towards him before he leaned down and kissed you. Your boyfriends had long since lost any sense of shame or hesitation so Xavier couldn't care less that he was probably tasting Caleb's cock on your tongue- as long as it was you, he'd desire you no matter what. They all would.

Xavier was wearing a casual outfit, his usual big, fluffy white hoodie coupled with an undershirt and jeans. He looked so cute- and yet here he was, making you deep throat dick while groping you. You felt yourself get more lightheaded before he finally pulled away from the deep kiss, a smile on his face as he let go of you only to trail his hands down back to your ass. His hand ran in circles over your cheeks before he grabbed your panties. But instead of whisking them off of you, he bunched them up and pulled upwards, making you squeak as your panties were suddenly pulled tight up against your juicy pussy lips.

"H-Hey!" You whined with a pout, ignoring the way Calebs' cock twitched in your hand as a response, "Cut it outtt."

"Focus on Caleb, sweet pea." Xavier simply said, giving your behind a gentle smack with his free hand, "You have to make him cum, remember?"

"Yeah pip." Caleb groaned, looking more and more debauched by the minute, "Come on. Suck my balls."

He got a hand to the back of your head and gently pulled you forward, his adams apple bobbing in anticipation. You huffed, hand still pumping his cock as you allowed yourself to be directed lower, mouth open to take a ball in your mouth. You moaned around him, the vibration making the brunette hiss. His nails were starting to peel into the fabric of the couch, causing some of the thread to snap and you couldn't help but pat yourself on the back for being able to have this effect on him.

You opened your jaw wide, suckling on his sack while your hand gave special attention to the tip of his cock, rolling his pink cockhead around in the dip of your palm. You made sure to look up at him, wanting to capture every twitch and expression, glad that you were finally allowed to give your men more pleasure. Caleb looked down at you and bit his lower lip harshly, almost like he was fighting back a moan. You could only assume that you looked filthy, with your teary eyes blinking up at him innocently even as you drove him crazy.

Xavier continued to torture you, giving your panties a final harsh tug before letting go, allowing the stretched fabric to pool on your lower back. You could feel the cloth wedged tightly into your cunt and the sudden sound of a camera shutter going off made you jump. Off to the side, Caleb's phone let out a 'ding', indicating that he had received a message. You pulled off of Caleb's balls, much to his dismay, so you could turn around and give Xavier a glare just as he pocketed his phone.

"What?" he asked innocently, "When you look this delicious, do you really think I'm not going to show you off to the others? They'd kill me if I didn't."

You rolled your eyes, "You're being dramatic."

"Well...not really. Remember the first time we got you in lingerie when Sylus and Raphael were busy? We didn't send them a picture of you and Raphael threw a tantrum? And Sylus threatened to buy out Victorias Secret so you could try them all for him?"

"...I stand corrected."

A gentle tug was given to your hair, bringing your attention back to Caleb who looked like he was either on the verge of tears or on the verge of pouncing on you. Probably both.

"Keep going, baby." he pleaded, "I'm close."

"Already?" Xavier teased, "She barely started."

"Shut up. I'd like to see how long you last once you get a taste of her mouth."

You brought your head back to the poor man's cock, licking along his veins from the base, all the way to the tip. Now you were eager to get him to cum, wanting to finally feel the sensation of one of the men you love explode into your mouth. You sealed your lips around the tip, tongue running in circles over it as your hand pumped the shaft. You dug the point of your tongue into his slit and Caleb cursed so loudly it took you by surprise. With a giggle, you started to move down deeper before pulling back, making sure to keep your tongue flat on the underside of his dick as you gradually picked up the pace.

This was the first time you were bobbing your head on a cock that wasn't a toy and you were excited! You had dreamed of doing this everytime you were made to take the silicone down your throat, wanting nothing more but to be bobbing on their cocks instead-

But maybe they weren't lying when they said you needed to practice first.

Maybe it was because it was a real cock and maybe it was because his dick was bigger than the toy- but you whined in frustration as you failed to find a rhythm. Either you weren't sucking hard enough or you went too deep and gagged too violently that you had to pull away- or you forgot to move you hand while you sucked- You were way better at this when it was a dildo!

And you could tell Caleb was getting frustrated- not at you, of course- but because he was right on the edge of climaxing but he couldn't get there yet. Not with your sloppy technique.

You whined loudly, eyebrows furrowing and tears prickling your eyes as you pulled away. With an annoyed huff, you faceplanted against Caleb's bare thigh, hiding your expression.

"Hey, what's wrong?" Caleb asked, both he and Xavier leaning over you, worried. You tried not to cry, sniffling as you rested your cheek on his thigh muscle, looking up at them, "I'm sorry. I'm not able to- ah- it's tough."

"Shhh, it's okay, sweetie." Caleb cooed, "You just need a bit of practice, that's all. Do you want to continue?"

You nodded without hesitation.

"Can you help her out?" Caleb then asked Xavier, the man gently patting your back.

"You don't want to do it?" the silver haired asked.

"I won't be able to hold myself back if I do. I don't wanna hurt her."

"Okay then. Come here, princess. Let me help you."

With one more sniffle, you sat back straight, Xavier moving his position so he was kneeling right behind you. You could feel his clothed hardness pressed against your ass but it wasn't the time for that now. You shivered as he thread his right hand through the locks of your hair, getting a good grip on you before he placed his left hand on the sofa, right beside Caleb.

"Ready?" he asked and you nodded before once again, taking Caleb's still hard erection into your mouth. Xavier let you start off by yourself, watching as you took in a few inches before his grip on your hair tightened. You shivered as he started to gently move you, taking over the reins as he set up a gentle pace. Fuck. You were being used like a toy-

And you fucking loved it.

"There we go. See? It's not that hard." Xavier said, using the grip on your hair to bob your head up and down. There was a joke there but you were too focused on sucking to crack yourself up. Caleb moaned above you, his chest starting to heave up and down from the sensation and you cheered. "That's it...pipsqueak...oh yes! Your mouth is fuck- ah- fuck!"

"I'm going to increase the pace, okay?" Xavier said before he did just that, gradually picking up speed. His grip on you was tight and firm, the man clearly taking this responsibility seriously as he guided you to bob your head up and down.

Gawk gawk gawk gawk-

"Hah. Don't enjoy yourself too much now. You're going to make me jealous."

You would have rolled your eyes again if you could. But they were too full of tears to really do much else. Saliva dripped down Caleb's cock and lathered up his balls, the man having tossed his head back as he enjoyed the pleasure. His cock was sliding up and down your throat now, the tight heat making his head spin.

"Yes- yes- yessss!" he gasped, hips sputtering as he fought against his instinct to buck into your mouth, "So close- faster-"

Xavier did as he was told and you went along with it, your head now bobbing up and down his length, gags and gasps leaving your lips as sticky threads of spit formed between your lips as Caleb's fat cock. Xavier was relentless, controlling your movements with ease.

"Gonna- ah- ah- fuck- gonna cum!"

"In her mouth or on her face?" Xavier asked in the same tone like he was asking if someone wanted a glass of water.

"In her mouth- ah- push her deeper- and keep her there- fuck!"

Xavier lifted his hand off of the couch so he could use both of them to push your face down towards the base of Caleb's cock, giving you no choice but to deep throat him. You yelped as you were stuffed completely full, body tingling as you finally felt Caleb orgasm. His cock throbbed inside you, balls clenching against your chin as he came with a roar.

"Ah! Fuck fuck fuuuuckkkk!!" Caleb babbled, tossing his head back against the couch, his eyes rolled to the back of his head. His nails had somehow ripped out a bit of the couch stuffing, his thighs flexing and clenching on either side of you, back arching like a porn star. His cock spurted out semen, hot ropes of thick, white cum pouring into your mouth. You sputtered around him, throat contracting as you swallowed obediently, his dick so far down that you had no choice but to swallow.

"Good girl. Drink it all. That's it~" Xavier cooed, still pressing your head down, only letting go when Caleb visibly relaxed. You took in deep breaths as Xavier once again guided you to carefully separate from the cock in your mouth, not moving too fast. Caleb's dick left your lips a slobbered, cum stained mess, hanging heavy between his legs, clearly satisfied.

"Holy...holy fuck babe..." the man groaned, face red and sweaty, "You're amazing."

You giggled before placing your head against his thigh again, Caleb laughing along as he ruffled your hair. Xavier leaned in to place a kiss on your shoulder before he started to get up: "Let's get you a glass of water and clean you up."

But before he could get onto his feet, you grabbed his arm and pull, making him stumble a bit before he caught himself. You leaned against him, pressing your body against his chest, giving him puppy dog eyes that rivaled his own.

"I wanna make you feel good too..." you whined cutely, voice a bit hoarse, "wanna use my mouth on you..."

You felt Xavier shiver, the man clearing his throat before firmly saying: "No, baby. Maybe later. Don't want you to overwork yourself."

"I won't! I'll be careful." you insisted, not so subtly pushing your hips back a bit so your ass pressed against his clothed erection, "You don't want it?"

"You know I do. But..." Xavier trailed off, hissing at the feeling of your bubble butt against him. Caleb chuckled, grabbing his discarded boxers before standing up and shrugging them on.

"I think she'll be okay." he said to Xavier, "Besides, I'll be here to look after her and make sure she isn't overdoing it. We can consider it part of her training."

Xavier sighed, "Alright then. I suppose it won't hurt to try."

"Oh, I'm sorry." You said sarcastically at his dramatic sigh, "Is being offered a blowjob really taxing on you? You poor thing."

"Talking to me like that when I'm about to shove my cock down your throat really isn't the brightest move."

"Hah. Nice try. Caleb will stop you from being rough."

"Will he? Or will he be like me and really like the sight of you crying?"

"...Touche."

~~~~~

[moonlightazriel]

Main Masterlist

Sukuna scoffed as he eyed the message you had sent 20 minutes ago. A simple picture of three boxes stacked up and the words "brought new bookshelves today :)" underneath it.

He expected you to ask him to build them up for you, but the three dots never appeared and you had just seen the "👍🏻" he replied. Going radio silent ever since. So he sneeared and as the good boyfriend he knows he can be, he put his toolbox in the backseat and drove to your house.

Even if he would rather die than admit, he enjoyed doing things for you. Knowing he's there to take care of things for you when you couldn't do them, filled his chest with male pride.

So he drove to your place, he was already going to spend the weekend there anyway, he could use it as an excuse to build those damned shelves for you. When he parked in front of your building, he grabbed the box and his bag. Walking silently to the elevator, ignoring the girls staring at him with heart eyes in the hall.

Sukuna could hear the music coming from your apartment, opening the door with the key you gave him just last week. He called for you, but the music was louder, so he walked to the room you were slowly transforming into your reading room, thousands of books scattered around in a huge fantasy mess.

"I'm here to fix them for you, brat." He said as he pushed the door open, raising his eyebrows in surprise as he saw you in his shirt and laced panties, bending over the shelve you were already building. The second one to be precise, the first standing tall and proud by your side, perfectly put together.

"Oh! Hi Kuna." You say as you turn to reach for another screw. Looking him up and down and stopping at the red box clutched between his fingers. "What's up with the toolbox?" He scoffed harder.

"I came to build them for you, since you're clearly too weak to do it yourself." You giggled in his face, turning around and looking at the clearly good job you've been doing so far.

"I think I can manage them Kuna, don't worry." He marched over to you, hand circling your waist and pulling you flush against his hard chest.

"What kind of men do you take me for, huh?" He growled in your face and you had to press your legs together as your cunt started to throb at his tone. "My woman won't build things herself. That's what I'm here for." His lips captured yours in a slow kiss, his fingers pressing hard against the flesh of your waist, making you breathless.

And that's how you ended sitting down on the floor, watching as he finished assembling the shelves for you, his muscles contracting while he worked, as somehow at some point, his shirt got discarded against the wall. You were almost drooling as you watched him, your cunt so soaked you were afraid it was leaking on the carpet underneath you.

He grunted as he moved the last one and positioned it against the wall per your request. Turning to you with a smirk. You quickly got back at your feet, rushing to him, your hands cupping his jaw.

"How can I ever thank you for that?" You coyly said and his smirk grew wider.

"Why don't you put that big mouth of yours to use?" You eagerly nodded, ending up on your knees in front of him, the tip of his cock hitting the back of your throat. Tears welled in your eyes as you fought back the gag reflex and pushed him down even deeper, earning a satisfied growl from him.

His tattooed hand was tangled in your hair, guiding your movements up and down his shaft, drool spilling from the corner of your lips straight to his lap, he loved the sight since the first time you got on your knees for him.

"Such a brat. Couldn't keep your mouth shut and accept your man doing tasks for you." He grunted, angling his hips and hitting even deeper, making your head dizzy as less air filled your lungs, you tried to focus on breathing through your nose but everything was too much for you, so as he let you go, you gasped for air.

Your hand stroked his base, while you tried to compose yourself again, rose cheeks and sweat coating your forehead. You lowered again, giving him kitten licks on his tip, feeling the salty taste of his precum on your tongue.

He watched your hand work him up, his cock twitching at your cold touch, he felt himself nearing the edge with each precise stroke you did, lowering your head once again and wrapping your swollen lips around him for the last time.

It was too much for him, the sight of you taking him fully, your little thighs trembling, he could smell the sweet aroma of your dripping cunt, desperate to bury deep his tongue inside you and having you rolling your eyes and panting for him, mumbling incoherent phrases as you came undone.

You felt the warmth fill your tongue, his cum dripping down your throat as you swallowed him, milking every drop he was giving you, moaning at the taste. Giving him a little bite to the tip, one that earned a hum of satisfaction for him. You let go of his cock, his huge hand coming to cup your red face.

"So pretty!" He said. "Maybe if you don't be such a brat next time and call me first instead of trying to do things yourself, I'll let you cum." He smirked, pulling you up to his lap. This would be a long night.

[brookghaib-blog]

The ghost I left behind - VI

Pairing: Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x reader

Summary: Y/N and Bob had a life before he disappear, full of love, hope, and a lot of chaos, but they managed each other, she was the only one who truly could make him avoid the void inside his mind. How could he turn his only light into a shadow in his mind ?

Word count: 5,5k

Chapter V

Note: This has been an emotional rollercoster, but welcome to the final chapter!! I hope you all enjoyed the story as much as I did!

--

The soft thump of a hammer echoed through the apartment again, followed by the high-pitched whine of an electric drill that had definitely seen better days. Y/N barely reacted—just lazily flipped a page in her fashion magazine, her legs swinging slightly off the side of the couch, toes brushing the worn rug. The model on the page wore something entirely impractical for pregnancy, but Y/N still admired the color.

Her belly shifted under the oversized shirt she’d stolen from Bob weeks ago—though she refused to admit that out loud.

The sound of shuffling tools and an exasperated grunt came from the hallway, and then Bob appeared, wiping sweat from his forehead with the bottom of his shirt. His hair was a mess again. Thank God the gel hadn’t made a reappearance in weeks.

He looked tired—but in that satisfied, proud way that came after a long day of fixing what was broken.

“I finally got the damn cabinet to stop swinging open every time someone breathes near it,” he announced, stepping barefoot onto the carpet. “Your shower isn’t leaking anymore either. Window in the kitchen’s fixed. Crib’s done. Everything’s… done.”

Y/N looked up from her magazine. “You say that like you’ve conquered Everest.”

He leaned his weight on the armrest of the couch, giving her a crooked grin. “I basically have. You know how long I’ve been fighting that crooked hinge in the pantry? Longer than I fought Abomination.”

She raised an eyebrow. “And which one smelled worse?”

“Definitely the pantry.” He smirked, but then paused, looking at her with something quieter in his eyes. “You’re comfortable, right? I mean, the place—it’s finally good again?”

She didn’t answer right away. Just flipped another page, then closed the magazine and set it beside her.

“I’m comfortable,” she said, finally. “For now.”

Bob nodded, like he knew that tone well by now. He did. Two months of it.

Two months of brushing past each other in the kitchen. Two months of long conversations that always stopped right before they could be about them. Two months of him staying on the blow-up mattress in the other room, waking at every noise she made, every time she turned in her sleep.

He’d offered her everything: the Watchtower, an apartment in the city, a bigger bed, a quieter life. She hadn’t taken any of it. She’d chosen the walls they once called theirs, now patched up and reimagined as hers again.

Still, he never left.

“I know I’m being stubborn,” she said softly, rubbing her stomach as the baby gave a lazy kick. “I just… I need to know that I’m doing this right. For me.”

“I get it,” Bob said, without hesitation. “I messed up. I was gone. I left you holding everything. You don’t owe me anything.”

There was a pause, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.

“And still,” he added, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Y/N looked at him, really looked at him—hair falling in his eyes again, knuckles scraped from fixing pipes and building furniture, shirt stained with sweat and dust. His whole being radiated exhaustion and devotion.

“Do you even sleep anymore?” she asked quietly.

He gave a breathy laugh. “Yeah. When you do.”

She felt a pang in her chest, unsure if it was affection or guilt or both. She leaned back into the cushions, hand absently rubbing her stomach.

“You’re doing all this for someone who hasn’t even told you if she wants you here.”

“I know,” Bob said, softer now, sitting down slowly on the floor beside the couch. “But I’m not doing it to earn anything. I’m doing it because I want to. Because you deserve someone who fixes things when they break—even if it’s just a loose screw or a cracked tile. Or me.”

He looked down, like maybe he’d said too much. Like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to say that yet.

Y/N reached for her water bottle on the coffee table, then thought better of it and instead reached out, fingers brushing his.

“You’re better with the hammer than I thought,” she said, half-teasing.

He smiled at that. “You should see my drywall technique. Masterclass.”

The late afternoon sun bled softly through the curtains, painting the apartment in hues of gold and rose. Y/N shifted a bit on the couch, pulling a pillow behind her lower back, groaning as she tried to get comfortable.

“Hey,” she said casually, as Bob reached for his toolbox again. “You feel like going on a noble quest?”

Bob looked up, one eyebrow raised. “Oh boy. What now?”

“I want a sandwich.”

“That’s it?”

“Bacon and egg. Toasted bread. A side of fries. And a Coca-Cola.”

He blinked. “That’s a feast.”

She gave him a small grin, teeth biting her lip just slightly. “It’ll do.”

Bob exhaled like he was being sentenced to war. “Alright. Want me to go milk the cow and bake the bread from scratch too?”

Y/N leaned back into the couch, hand over her belly. “Don’t tempt me. You’ve got strong arms and the energy of a loyal man in love—I might put you to actual labor.”

He gave her a look, wiping sweat from his brow dramatically. “You are having fun slaving me around.”

“I am,” she said without apology, smug. “But you love it.”

Bob just shook his head, grabbing his wallet and keys, heading for the door. “You’re lucky I can’t say no to you.”

“I know,” she called after him sweetly.

Twenty minutes later, the door clicked open again, and Bob stepped in with two paper bags of hot food, a pair of soda cans tucked under his arm. He was already chewing on one fry, like he’d earned the reward. “Mission complete,” he said, dropping the goods on the coffee table like a hero returning from battle.

Y/N practically pounced. “God, bless you.”

They ate in silence for a while, the soft crackle of wrappers and the faint sound of city life outside the window filling the space. Y/N was already licking salt off her fingers before Bob was halfway through his sandwich.

He glanced at her plate and snorted. “You devoured that. I don’t think I even blinked and it was gone.”

She looked smug again. “I’ve got a whole human being inside me. What’s your excuse?”

“Touché,” he chuckled, and then, more gently, he reached out and rested his hand on her belly. “How are you two doing? I mean… you’re already seven months.”

Her smile softened. “We’re good. Tired, mostly. My back hates me. But he’s growing. Doctor says he’s healthy.”

Bob’s thumb traced slow, small circles on the curve of her bump. The expression on his face melted into something reverent, something quiet and heavy with awe.

Silence lingered for a few moments, the kind that feels full instead of empty.

Y/N looked down at his hand, then up at his face. “Bobby?”

He glanced up, still smiling. “Yeah?”

She watched him for a second longer, eyes unreadable, then said, “You should probably start packing up my things, you know clothes and everything.”

Bob blinked. “Huh?”

She tilted her head slightly. “I’m moving in with you.”

He froze. “Wait—what?”

“I already put the apartment up for sale,” she said with a small smile, brushing a crumb from her shirt. “Had a couple people interested. Figured I’d wait until all the fixing was done so the value would go up.”

Bob slowly lowered his sandwich, staring at her like she’d just told him the moon had fallen out of the sky.

“And you’re telling me this now?”

She shrugged, grinning. “I wanted to make sure first. And I needed a reason for you to fix everthing, you wouldn't do it if ou knew it wasn't for me. But… yeah. I’m moving in with you. I want to be there. For all of it. The baby. The crazy superhero stuff. Us, whatever we are.”

Bob still looked like he was trying to process oxygen.

“I mean, I heard,” she added with a teasing glint in her eye, “there’s a luxury suite available in the Watchtower. And a great man who sleeps on the other side of the bed. Big arms.”

His eyes went wide. “You’re serious?”

She nodded, beaming now. “Dead serious.”

Bob launched himself forward so fast the remaining fries toppled over. He wrapped his arms around her, careful of her belly, holding her with the full force of his love. He kissed her hair, her cheeks, her forehead, murmuring breathless declarations between kisses:

“I love you—I love you so much—you’re everything, everything to me—God, I’ve missed you—I can’t believe you’re actually—Y/N, I’m gonna cry—”

She laughed through it all, wrapping her arms around his neck, smiling like she hadn’t in months.

“You’re ridiculous,” she whispered into his ear.

He pulled back just enough to look at her, eyes glassy. “And you’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”

They stayed like that for a long time—wrapped in each other, the smell of fries and warmth in the air, the flickering golden light of a day well-lived wrapping around them like a promise.

--

The elevator doors of the Watchtower slid open with a soft chime, revealing Bob awkwardly juggling two cardboard boxes stacked so high they completely blocked his line of sight.

“Can someone—uh—get the doors?” Bob grunted, bumping into the wall with a thud.

Y/N followed right behind him, visibly amused, a tote bag over her shoulder and a small plant in hand. “He insisted on carrying all the heavy stuff. Said it was his superhero duty.”

Bob peeked around the boxes just in time to see Alexei, Yelena, Ava, and Walker all sitting around the common room, half-eating, half-arguing about the best combat drills. They turned toward the elevator in unison.

Alexei blinked. “What’s this? Is Bob moving out?”

“Please say yes,” Walker muttered with a mouthful of trail mix.

Bob, ignoring them, stepped forward dramatically and proclaimed with a big grin, “She’s moving in!”

Y/N elbowed him gently. “Not into your bed.”

“Yet,” Bob whispered proudly, causing Yelena to cough suspiciously and Ava to hide a grin behind her water bottle.

Alexei nearly jumped up from the couch, arms thrown wide like he was welcoming a national holiday. “YES! I knew it! The baby is coming, the woman is here, life is beautiful!”

Bob beamed, setting the boxes down and slinging an arm around Y/N’s shoulders. “She’s selling the old place. Said she wanted to be here for everything. The baby, the team… me.”

Y/N rolled her eyes at his cheesiness but didn’t pull away. “More like I didn’t want to miss out on seeing Alexei pretend to be a baby whisperer.”

“Oh please,” Alexei said proudly, thumping his chest. “I already have plans! I will teach him to wrestle before he walks. We’ll bench press together. First words will be Red Guardian.”

Y/N laughed. “Right, because nothing says healthy development like a toddler trying to do kettlebell swings.”

“By age three, he will punch Walker in the knees!” Alexei continued, completely serious.

Walker threw a chip at him. “Try it and I’m throwing him into orbit.”

Ava smirked from the other couch. “We’re taking bets on who he bonds with first. I say me. I’ve got quiet mystery aunt energy.”

“Please,” Yelena said, raising a brow. “He’ll bond with me. I’m the cool one. I’ve already bought him four tiny tactical vests.”

Y/N covered her face, laughing. “You’re all insane. But fine, he’ll need uncles and aunts to balance out whatever chaos Bob contributes.”

Bob looked mock-offended. “Hey! I’m going to be a great dad. I fixed her kitchen window. That’s like… 70% of fatherhood, right?”

“I mean… it’s a good start,” Y/N said, leaning into him slightly. “But let’s see how you do with diapers before you get cocky.”

Walker stood and clapped his hands. “Okay, well if she’s living here now, do we need to create a safe zone? Somewhere baby-proofed where Alexei isn’t allowed?”

Yelena raised her hand. “I second that.”

“Traitors,” Alexei muttered.

As they all bickered and teased each other, Bob took a quiet moment just to look at Y/N. Her smile, her comfort, her laughter blending into the rhythm of this strange, dysfunctional family—they were all here. And soon, the baby would be, too.

“Feels good?” Ava asked softly, sidling up next to him.

Bob nodded, still watching Y/N as she scolded Alexei for something ridiculous. “Feels like home.”

--

Y/N stood in the center of the Watchtower suite, turning slowly as she took it all in. The space was enormous—modern, sleek, with floor-to-ceiling windows that let in soft golden light. Bob’s bedroom was bigger than their entire old apartment, and somehow still felt empty, like it had just been waiting for someone to fill it with life.

“So, uh,” Bob said, a little nervous, scratching the back of his head. “This closet’s all yours.” He opened a set of sliding doors to reveal an embarrassingly bare rack with maybe four of his T-shirts hanging. “I mean, technically it’s mine, but… as you can see, I don’t have a whole lot of style to make room for.”

Y/N stepped inside, running her fingers along the open shelves and empty hangers. “You weren’t kidding,” she laughed. “It’s practically begging for my shoes.”

“That was the plan,” he said with a grin, dropping the boxes of her clothes beside the bed. “Take over. Redecorate. Make it yours. Whatever you want.”

She smiled softly, a flutter in her chest she chose not to acknowledge just yet. Still holding on to that healthy distance, she reminded herself.

Her attention turned to the bed and she couldn’t resist—she flopped backward onto it with a dramatic sigh, arms stretched out like a starfish. “God… this mattress… it’s like it molds to my body. I might never get up again.”

Bob chuckled. “You like it?”

“I feel like I’m being hugged by a thousand clouds.”

“Well, good.” He smirked and backed toward the massive bathroom door. “I’m gonna jump in the shower real quick. Don’t worry, I’ll leave you the bathroom next, promise.”

“Take your time. I’ll start making sense of this chaos.” She gestured to the open boxes with a wave, still sprawled on the bed.

He disappeared into the ensuite bathroom, and a moment later she heard the water turn on. Curiosity got the better of her and she wandered over, cautiously peeking in through the open door. The bathroom was ridiculous. Marble floors. Double sinks. A tub big enough to fit a family of four. A glass walk-in shower where the water cascaded like rainfall from a ceiling fixture.

Y/N blinked. “What the hell is this place? A five-star hotel?”

She turned back, letting him have his privacy, and started unpacking her clothes, folding them neatly into drawers and rearranging the few things. She was halfway through organizing when she caught movement out of the corner of her eye and turned—only to freeze in place.

Bob walked out of the bathroom, towel slung low on his hips, steam trailing behind him like he was in some slow-motion cologne commercial. Hair wet and dripping onto his broad shoulders, muscles firm and… very different than the last time she saw him shirtless.

Her gaze lingered—just a second too long. Her mouth went dry.

Bob smirked.

“You can stare, you know,” he said, casual, smug.

She snapped her eyes away, cheeks burning. “Shut up.”

“I’m just saying. I work hard, might as well be appreciated.” He winked, grabbing a T-shirt and boxers from a drawer and disappearing briefly behind the closet door to change.

She shook her head, trying to focus on folding a pair of jeans. This is going to be hard, she thought.

A minute later, he reemerged fully dressed, rubbing a towel through his damp hair. “We’re making dinner with the team. Nothing fancy, but I promised Alexei I’d supervise or he’d just fry everything in bacon grease again.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That actually sounds kind of amazing.”

He laughed. “Yeah, well. I’ll bring you a plate. But if you need anything, just call, okay?”

She nodded, offering a small smile. “Okay.”

As he opened the door to leave, she turned back to her clothes. Fold. Stack. Breathe. Then, under her breath, barely above a whisper—

“…Hold back Y/N.”

--

After organizing the last of her clothes and letting herself unwind for a bit, Y/N finally stood up, stretched, and headed toward the bathroom. The warm water felt like a balm on her tired body, and she took her time letting it relax her, scrubbing away the day, the dust, and the residual nerves of the big move. After drying off, she changed into a pair of soft sweatpants, a fitted maternity tank, and one of Bob’s oversized zip-up hoodies she’d quietly stolen from his drawer when he wasn’t looking. It smelled like him—clean, warm, comforting.

She made her way down the sleek Watchtower hallway, following the faint sounds of laughter and clinking silverware until she reached the dining area. The long table was completely set up—plates stacked high, dishes of food steaming, drinks poured. Bob and Yelena were still fussing over the placement of side dishes.

Bob caught sight of her first and grinned, wiping his hands on a dishtowel. “Hey,” he said gently, walking over. “You came down.”

“I figured it was either this or let Alexei bring me a plate the size of a car tire,” she said, glancing at the food. “This all smells amazing.”

Yelena grinned. “You’d be correct.”

Y/N stood awkwardly at the side, unsure where to go.

“Where should I…?”

Bob gently pressed a hand to her back and nudged her toward the empty chair beside his. “Right here. Always here.”

She didn’t fight it. Just smiled a little and sank into the seat.

Around the table sat Alexei, Ava, Yelena, Bucky, and Walker, all already halfway into their meals. It was surprisingly loud, the team mid-conversation, joking, teasing one another. They made room without question, offering her drinks, napkins, pointing out which food was “safe” from Alexei’s over-seasoning.

She still felt like a guest, but… less like a stranger.

Then, in the middle of a lull between jokes about Johnny’s tragic attempt to use the toaster oven, Ava leaned in across the table with a curious smile.

“So… have you two decided on a name yet?”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard. “Oh, uh—no. Not yet.”

Bob turned to her. “We haven’t really talked about it, actually.”

“I do have an idea,” she said softly, eyeing him. “I just haven’t run it by you yet.”

Bob leaned closer, curiosity written all over his face. “You do?”

“Ohh,” Yelena chimed in, sipping from her water. “Let’s guess.”

“Oh god,” Y/N groaned, already regretting the openness.

Alexei leaned back, cracking his knuckles. “Okay. Hear me out. ‘Red Guardian Junior.’”

“Absolutely not,” said literally everyone at the table, in unison.

“I like Bacon,” Walker said, unironically, pointing at the leftover strips on his plate. “Strong. American. Versatile.”

Y/N gave him a look that could kill. “You're banned from suggesting anything.”

Walker shrugged, trying to be helpful. “How about something normal? Like Matthew. Or Tyler.”

“That’s what you call a labrador, not a baby,” Ava muttered.

“What about Blaze?” Walker added.

Yelena deadpanned. “No.”

“Wait, wait,” Alexei said. “What about—Vladislav?”

Y/N stared at him. “Absolutely not naming my baby after a vampire.”

“I take offense,” Alexei grumbled.

Bob, half-laughing, turned back to Y/N. “Okay, now I have to know. What was your idea?”

She hesitated for a second. Then met his eyes and said, softly, “I was thinking… Georgie. Short for George.”

He paused, genuinely touched by the simplicity of it.

“…Because of Mr.Cooper?,” he echoed, testing the name on his tongue. “I really like that.”

“It's warm,” she said. “I like the name and...I don't know, I feel like I will always have him but... I feel like he would be honorable.”

“It’s perfect,” Bob said, and for a moment the room quieted, letting the soft sincerity settle.

“Wait, wait,” Walker suddenly said, raising a finger. “Middle name suggestion. Blaze. Just think about it.”

Y/N groaned and threw a bread roll at him, laughing.

--

The room was dim, quiet except for the distant hum of the Watchtower's systems and the soft rustle of sheets. Y/N lay back against the cloud-like mattress, belly gently curved under her oversized pajama top, flipping through her phone lazily while the glow of the bedside lamp cast a cozy hue over the space.

Bob was still moving around, digging through drawers and talking.

“So I was thinking we need one of those changing tables,” he said, pulling a shirt over his head. “The kind that doesn’t make me bend like a ninety-year-old every time. Oh—and maybe blackout curtains? You haven’t been sleeping well. Or is that just me snoring?”

Y/N smiled tiredly. “That, and your habit of kicking blankets off me in your sleep. But yes… blackout curtains. Add that to the list.”

“Also…” He paused, tugging off his jeans. “We’ll need a monitor. The fancy kind, not the creepy baby-camera-that-looks-like-it-wants-to-steal-your-soul type.”

Y/N chuckled, but then her voice faltered when she glanced his way—he was standing near the dresser in just his boxers, back to her, his muscles more pronounced than she remembered. Defined shoulders, strong arms, broad back. His transformation since Malaysia hadn’t just been emotional—it had left its mark on his body too.

She quickly looked away, cheeks heating.

He noticed.

He turned slowly, running a towel through his still-damp hair, catching the shift in her expression. His brows knit together as he walked over quietly.

“Did I—?” he asked gently, “Did I make you uncomfortable?”

She blinked, shaking her head quickly. “No, no. It’s not like that. I just… I haven’t seen you like that in a long time. Haven’t been… intimate with anyone since you left, obviously. And we’re not technically together, so I guess I just don’t know the rules. The boundaries.”

He stilled at the side of the bed, looking down at her with his heart practically pounding through his chest.

“Y/N,” he murmured, voice deeper now, low with something both urgent and tender.

Then, still in just his boxers, he slowly crawled onto the bed beside her, his hands pressing into the mattress on either side of her, his face hovering close but not touching. His eyes searched hers, full of sincerity and longing.

“We have to change that,” he whispered. “Not because I need you to be mine like some claim... but because I am yours. I don’t want anyone else. I can’t even look at anyone else. You’re everything to me—always have been.”

He moved even closer, brushing her hair gently behind her ear.

“I know I’ve hurt you. I know I need to earn back every ounce of trust. But I need you like I need air. It’s not about boundaries. It’s about wanting this to be real again. Us. And I don’t want there to be a single night where you wonder where we stand, or who you are to me.”

Y/N swallowed hard, blinking up at him. Her body flushed warm, half from nerves, half from want. He was being vulnerable—honest in a way that struck deep.

Her hand lifted instinctively, finding his cheek, fingers pressing into the sharp lines of his jaw. She held his face like something precious. Then, with a breathless whisper—

“Come here.”

And she kissed him.

It started soft—slow, like her lips were relearning the shape of his—but quickly deepened. Months of longing, grief, and unspoken love surged up between them. Her other hand tangled into his damp curls, pulling him closer. He let out a shaky breath into her mouth, hand sliding behind her back as he shifted to hold her more securely, reverently.

They kissed as if making up for every lonely night, every missed morning. They weren’t rushing—they were remembering.

When they finally broke apart, foreheads pressed together, Y/N was still flushed and breathless.

Bob exhaled a soft laugh. “You always did know how to shut me up.”

She smiled faintly, fingers still in his hair.

“You said you didn’t want me to wonder where we stand,” she said. “Then prove it. Stay. Don’t go back to the couch or disappear when it gets too much. Let’s take this one night at a time. You, me, and him.”

He pressed a kiss to her cheek, then her forehead, then hovered his lips over hers again.

“One night at a time,” he whispered. “Forever, if you let me.”

--

The Watchtower meeting room was unusually tense, mostly because no one wanted to admit they were wildly underqualified for what was coming. A potential cosmic threat—something about "energy fluctuations" and "unidentified space debris"—was heading toward Earth. And their greatest weapon against it?

One guy. Who had godlike powers… but only when he felt mentally stable enough to use them.

"Okay," Bucky started, leaning against the couch, arms crossed, "so we’ve got a new alien enemy possibly crashing through our orbit in less than 48 hours. And our only actual superpowered asset is—no offense—kind of unpredictable."

All eyes turned to Bob, who was slouched on the oversized chair by the window, a book in hand, legs half-draped over one armrest like a gangly teen. He didn’t even look up.

"Sorry, guys," Bob said, flipping a page. "I can’t be the Sentry without the… you know."

He twirled a finger in the air vaguely, then pointed it at his own head.

Walker leaned forward, squinting. "What, you mean the psychotic alter ego part, or the part where you glow like a nuke and throw mountains?"

Bob glanced up and raised a brow. "Bit of column A, bit of column B."

"So what are we supposed to do?" Walker muttered. "Ride Bob into the sky?"

Alexei perked up, nodding. "Yess."

Just then, the elevator dinged. Heads turned.

Y/N stepped in, effortlessly cool in her hoodie and joggers, sunglasses pushed up on her head, a diaper bag slung over one shoulder, and a smirk on her face. On her hip sat one-year-old George—who had his dad’s impossibly blue eyes, a mop of golden curls, and an undeniable fixation on gnawing the zipper of Y/N’s hoodie.

"Ride Bob?" Y/N echoed, raising a brow. "That seat’s taken, sweetheart."

The room broke into laughter—except Bob, who was instantly upright, already holding out his arms like George was the greatest gift on Earth (which, to be fair, he was).

George squealed, "Dada!" as Y/N set him on Bob’s lap. Bob didn’t hesitate, dropping the book and scooping the toddler up, planting loud, exaggerated kisses on his chubby cheeks.

"Hey, little dude," Bob whispered, as George grabbed a fistful of his beard. "You’ve been working on your super-strength again, huh?"

George responded by smacking Bob’s cheek with a soft babble and a pleased shriek.

"I see the Void in him already," Ava said deadpan, sipping her tea.

Alexei stood, hands on his hips. "He’s ready. Let me train him. I’ll make him unstoppable. Like Red Baby Guardian."

Y/N narrowed her eyes. "He still poops in a diaper and I'm his source of food, Red Guy. He’s not ready for the Avengers."

"Avengerz... with a Z." Walker corrected.

"Whatever."

Before Alexei could reach for the baby, Y/N scooped George back up with a practiced mom move and took off running, George laughing hysterically as he bounced on her shoulder like a giggling backpack. "No combat training till he stops licking windows!" she called.

Bob stood up, watching them disappear around the hallway with a dazed look in his eyes, a soft, stunned smile pulling at his lips. The light from the window hit something on her left hand.

The ring. That ring.

It caught the sun perfectly.

"Engaged and still blushing when she calls dibs," Bucky muttered, rolling his eyes with a half-smile.

"She can call dibs on me forever," Bob said dreamily, still staring down the hall like he’d just seen a vision. "I’d let her ride me into a warzone if she wanted."

Walker snorted. "Man. That's disgusting—but kinda beautiful."

Alexei crossed his arms. "Fine. But I still want baby to punch something someday."

Ava sighed. "Maybe start with a stress ball."

--

1 Year ago - NYC Hospital

The pale light from the window cast a soft golden hue across the hospital room. The city outside was slowly waking up, but inside, time felt suspended. Y/N was propped up on the bed, a little tired, a little puffy-eyed, but glowing—not in the superhero way, in the I-just-birthed-a-whole-human-and-he’s-perfect way.

Her hospital gown hung loosely around her shoulders as she gently cradled her newborn, baby George, to her chest. He suckled quietly, little fingers twitching, soft breaths mixing with the occasional squeak. The room was silent but for that delicate sound—until a small sniffle came from her right.

Y/N glanced over. Bob was sitting beside her, hands on his knees, just… staring. His eyes were glassy, lips parted slightly, like he was watching the sunrise from the edge of the universe. A few tears tracked down his face.

She chuckled quietly, brushing a thumb over George’s cheek. “Why you crying, Bobby?”

Bob blinked, looking at her like she’d just asked why the sky was blue.

“You’re feeding him. You’re—he’s here. You’re okay. He’s okay. I just—I didn’t think…” His voice cracked as he wiped at his cheek with the back of his hand. “We made it, Y/N. After all of it. You’re here. He’s here. I can’t believe it.”

She smiled, resting her head back against the pillows, watching him quietly fall apart in the most beautiful way. “You almost didn’t make it. You passed out when they pulled him out. Hit the wall like a cartoon.”

Bob groaned softly. “Don’t remind me. That nurse is never going to look at me the same again.”

Just then—CRASH.

The door swung open with the force of a thunderclap. The team spilled in like they'd been waiting outside the entire time with their ears to the door.

“Where is he?! WHERE IS MY NEPHEW?!” Alexei boomed, holding a bouquet made entirely of red and gold flowers, and also—somehow—a small toy bear in tactical gear.

“You brought a tactical teddy bear?” Ava said, eyeing it. “Of course you did.”

“He must learn early,” Alexei insisted.

Behind them, Bucky, Walker, and Yelena entered with various levels of coordination, each holding a bouquet or balloon, all arguing over who would be the best babysitter. At the very end, nearly trampled by Walker and a rogue "IT’S A BOY!" balloon, came Mr. Cooper—older, kind-eyed, holding a simple, handpicked bouquet of bluebells and baby’s breath.

Y/N carefully detached George, now full and half-dozing, and shifted him to a blanket as Mr. Cooper approached the bed.

“Everything go okay?” he asked softly, eyes flicking from her to Bob.

She smirked. “Smooth sailing. Baby’s perfect. Mom’s tired. And Bob—well…” she looked at him, “…almost caused a second code blue.”

“I thought the monitor flatlined!” Bob interjected from his seat. “There was a beep!”

“It was somebody screaming on the corridor, sweetheart,” Y/N said.

The team had gathered around the bed like it was the Holy Grail, peering over each other’s shoulders trying to see the baby, even though Bob was now holding him again, arms perfectly cradling the tiny human like he was made for it.

“He’s got your curls, Y/N,” Ava noted. “He’s got Bob’s big eyes,” Yelena said. “He’s got my fighting spirit,” Alexei declared proudly. “He’s been alive for four hours,” Walker deadpanned.

Mr. Cooper stepped forward, still looking between Y/N and the baby.

“So…” he asked gently, “what’s his name?”

Y/N looked around at the chaos—the grown adults bickering over who got to hold him next, Bob softly humming to George, who blinked up with those sleepy blue eyes.

She turned back to Mr. Cooper with a small smile.

“George.” She paused, then added, “Well, Georgie, really. That’s what we’ll call him.”

Mr. Cooper stared. The silence fell heavy for a beat, then his eyes began to well up.

Before he could speak, Y/N held up a hand. “Yeah, it’s after you, old man. Don’t start crying.”

But he was already crying. No sobs, no theatrics—just quiet tears sliding down his wrinkled cheeks. He stepped in and wrapped her in a soft hug, careful not to jostle her too much.

“I told you, Y/N,” he whispered, voice tight, “everything was gonna be okay. And you… you’re gonna be a good mom.”

Y/N smiled, eyes stinging now too. “I should’ve doubted you less.”

He pulled away with a nod, then looked around the room—at the laughter, the love, the baby everyone was trying (and failing) not to wake up.

“Well,” Mr. Cooper said, clearing his throat, “this kid’s got the weirdest, most dangerous family I’ve ever seen. But also the luckiest.”

Alexei, meanwhile, was whispering Russian lullabies at the baby, Walker and Yelena were arguing over pacifier brands, and Bucky was quietly tying balloons to Bob’s IV stand for “aesthetic purposes.”

Bob stood, rocking George gently and watching Y/N from across the room—his eyes full of everything: disbelief, pride, relief, love.

[duskbornraven]

Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy

This took forever because my stupid brain fought me the entire month and a half I have been working on this, and he wouldn't shut the hell up.

Paring: Jack Abbot x f!Reader

Contents: mdni plot with smut, female reader, Oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, general teasing, age gap, jealousy, a lot of just emotions in general, female reader and body descriptions, established relationships, No beta I refuse to leave the hill

Summary: Weddings are long and complicated affairs, and they often bring up a lot of emotions even when you're not the one getting married. Part 2 of this

Word Count: 10k

As the date of the wedding actually drew closer the more you couldn’t wait for it to be over. You were more than excited to go but it was still a lot for Jack, both in time management and emotionally. You saw it in the little ways, finding him asleep on the couch more than actually in bed, the signs of his pacing in the carpet, the way he seemed to cling to you when you were home. It was like you were the only solid thing in an ocean of thoughts. The way he kissed you felt more passionate, more like he was trying to swallow a piece of you to take with him. 

You went out of your way to make time for him when he was going to be home. Took little steps to make sure you saw him at least for an hour or two every day. Once you even took a personal day on his day off to just lay on the couch with him, head in his lap watching TV with his hand in your hair, the other propping open the book he had desperately been trying to finish for the last three months. 

It was one of the better days that you had both had in a long time. Not really even talking, just being allowed to co-exist in the same space as each other for more than an afternoon was more than either of you had gotten in what felt like a lifetime. 

It was a return to the cozy domestic life that had settled into the walls in your time together. If he was being honest, living with you was better than he had dared to hope. You brought life into the place and he had been missing it for too long. Even when he missed seeing you in the mornings before you got out the door, Jack could still find you in spilled coffee or warm sheets when he finally decided to try to get some sleep. 

You were the constant in his life that he missed most when you traveled. When family or work pulled you away it was like the world got just a little colder again. Sometimes translated into an extra therapy appointment before going home. But you always brought the warmth of the sunrise with you when the door swung open on your return. A little reminder that there was comfort in the day too, it just so happened that it only came in the shape of you. 

The past few weeks had been a limbo between the two ends of the spectrum. You were both home but he had to leave you more than he wanted. Slept longer when he did sleep, the struggles of working in medicine meant leaning on people who had more regular hours. Or in this case piecemealing together jobs for your groomsmen who also, mostly, worked in medicine. Jack was one of the lucky few who wasn’t at work during the day and he could help handle some of the day to day during the week. It just meant that he got home later in the day, which also meant missing you entirely when he did. It also meant that when you had errands to run at night you were long gone by the time he was forcing himself out of bed. 

The best example as the wedding creeped closer was dress shopping, something you had put off longer than you should have in all honesty. The idea had brought a new level of realness to being Jack’s wedding date. Even so more than actually attending the rehearsal dinner the weekend before. Now, standing here going through and trying to decide what would work best was stressing you more than you could have predicted. You had the brilliant idea to make a point of not showing Jack what you were wearing.The idea of something to surprise him with had seemed like fair revenge for all the photos of him you had received, looking obscenely handsome out with the wedding party. Adding insult to injury he got home long after you had passed out in bed, meaning frustrations were exceptionally high. Now here you were standing in the changing room absolutely torn on what to pick, you had narrowed it down to two choices. 

Either the safe bet or the one you had fallen in love with the second you tried it on. It was like it was made for you but it was a little too perfect for a wedding, at least that was the fear. You agonized over it, almost to the point of going against your promise to yourself and sending Jack a picture. You managed to hold strong not to actually send the photos though you did cave and ask him how safe you should play it, that you had something you liked and something you loved. It took him no time to reply. 

Go with your gut. Nobody there will hate you for looking good. 

Would be helpful if I could see it though. 

You didn’t even entertain that last text with a response. He could wait, he had been trying to get you to show him the dress since you made up your mind to specifically not show him. But you did take his advice, leaving with the one that felt like you. The one at the very least would get Jack's approval. Which was really half the battle you were already fighting in your head. 

It would be one thing if it was just an old military friend or someone from the hospital that was getting married. But life couldn't ever be simple. It had to be someone who followed him to the hospital after the army. An old, old friend who was probably inviting all sorts of fun and important people from Jack's life. 

Which also meant this wedding would be a lot of their first impressions of you. So no pressure at all, just the people who knew him best about to meet you for the first time in one big social setting, while he was also probably going to be at least a little busy throughout the night. No pressure at all. 

No matter how many times Jack told you that it would be fine it was a big deal. Probably the biggest deal of your relationship so far. It also, as Jack pointed out over dinner last night, meant that you would have to answer how you met, probably over and over again. The idea was daunting but with the difference in ages, careers and even work schedules it was probably going to come up. 

Just another thing on the ever growing list that you would have to be a little worried about. But all that did little to stifle the excitement at the idea of walking around on the arm of your incredibly handsome doctor boyfriend. 

When the day finally rolled around Jack was up before you were, and had gotten more sleep than he had planned thanks to you. You had fallen asleep on his chest, something that was a rare occurrence even with normal schedules and usually meant that he got a decent night's sleep. The added weight and your steady breathing almost always put him to sleep, especially on cool nights when the windows were cracked just enough to chill the room. 

He extricated himself carefully from under you, doing his best not to let you flop face first onto the mattress. You did stir just a little, a muffled noise that he knew was probably meant to be his name escaped you against the bed, or maybe a curse considering the bleary glare you managed. Thankfully it wasn’t until he emerged from the shower that you were actually waking up, hair still a mess and blinking sleep from your eyes. 

“You’re up on time.” You yawned, kicking away the sheets, your bare legs exposed covered only by the too large shirt of the week you had stolen from him. Your tiny, sleepy smile meant that you hadn't missed the way he tracked the movement of his eyes trailing up your thighs. 

“Had to be.” He was rechecking the bag he had packed last night, triple checking he had everything he thought he would need. He leaned forward supported by the bed, pecking you lightly on the lips before straightening back up. “Looks pretty bad if I’m late. But I’ll see you tonight, yeah?” 

Another yawn and a nod as you stretched back out on the bed, basking in the warmth that still lingered. “I can’t wait.” came the half awake reply as he ducked out of the room. Lingering only for a second to watch you start to drift back off, head buried in his pillow and swaddled once again in blankets.

On reflection, wedding party photos had to be one of the most time consuming parts of the whole day. He was one of the first to be ready that morning, had been ready for weeks mentally and really didn’t see the point in dragging out getting dressed. So here he was, changed and half asleep while waiting for the rest of the party to get ready. It was especially wearing because all he could think about was you. Still probably relaxing at home while he waited to get melted in the sun. He was finally going to get to see what you had been teasing him about for the better part of two weeks. 

It hardly seemed fair that you got to see him getting ready and he had to wait what was starting to feel like an eternity to see you all dressed up. He was a pretty patient man but this staring at the end date in its face was starting to crack the facade. Jack had been good and hadn’t gone snooping for it since you had stashed it somewhere out of eyesight. Probably for the best, he would like to think his restraint would hold but there was some room for doubt there. 

He endured the hour or so before photos and the impending ceremony pacing and letting the rest of the wedding party suck him into idle small talk. When they were released he fell to the back of the group, already pushing his social battery for the afternoon and with a mountain of small talk to climb. 

Old memories bubbling beneath the surface mixing with new excitement and the general anxiety that came with being involved in a wedding. He pushed it all down, letting himself get dragged into the conversation with the bridal party yet again. The two groups had been separate for most of the weekend other than a brief meeting the weekend before for a rehearsal dinner. It was pretty natural that there would be a lot of small talk. But he wasn’t sure he would be able to handle talking about his job any more than he already had. Too many conversations about how hard it must be doing emergency medicine and what made him choose to stick with it, how had he landed on nights? He was also relieved that most of the shit talk about him dating so much younger had been reserved for the nights out with the groomsmen. You never seemed to mind nearly as much as he did but that was because you were a saint with twice his patience. 

He was more than happy to be pulled off to help carry one of the photographer’s bags to the car. Taking the moment to check his phone for what felt like the hundredth time that hour. Normally you texted him periodically even when you knew he was busy. Now it was radio silent and he was almost certain you were doing it on purpose, making him wait to see you in person. It wasn’t that he couldn’t wait, it was that the anticipation was starting to eat him alive. He went to shove the phone back into his pocket when it vibrated in his hand. Checking the screen he paused mid step for just a moment when your name appeared with an attached photo. Opening it revealed a photo of the outside of the venue. A small crowd forming in the afternoon sunlight. Another message followed shortly after. 

Can't wait, I'll see you soon! 

Slipping in the backseat of the car he took a breath, already feeling his body protesting the schedule change in addition to far too much standing still. It had been wishful thinking that he would get a picture this close to the start time. One of the things Jack begrudgingly admired most about you was that you could be so goddamn stubborn when you wanted to be. You had been holding strong for weeks on not even letting him get a hint of what you were wearing, there was no way you would break now.

The drive wasn't bad, sitting with the guys, listening to them talk idly. They all shared the same nervous energy that he could feel still bubbling beneath the surface. Pulling up to the actual venue he wasn’t surprised to see a packed parking lot, grateful that he had to be here early and landing a decent parking spot for the truck. It wasn’t massive but he liked making sure that he would actually fit in the spaces when he would be somewhere for more than a few hours. Something you had commented on when you first started dating, his unwillingness to be that asshole with the too big truck. 

Jack once again found himself in the thick of the wedding party, entering through the main doors of the resort like other guests. A sharp right had them taking the side hallway to the back rooms to wait for their procession to start. Which wouldn’t be too much longer he noted checking his watch. He had checked the small steam of guests but hadn’t managed to spot you through the crowd. 

In what felt like seconds he was lined up for the walk and couldn’t help feel that familiar nervous energy. The gentle chatter of the crowd echoed down the hallway. Arm linking with the maid of honor he took a steadied breath as the music cued them to walk. Focused solely on getting them to their spot at the altar, not daring to look away from the cameras trained on them as they marched forward. 

It wasn’t until he took his place that he took the chance to scan the crowd, trying to remember where you were supposed to be sitting. It was a damn good thing he had kept his eyes forward. Watching an old man trip over himself walking down the aisle because his beautiful girlfriend had smiled at him would have been a rough start to the processional. Jack locked eyes with you; he was certain that was what would have happened. Your smile growing impossibly wider at him. He didn’t blush easily, but he could feel his cheeks burning under the lights now. Heat creeping under his collar and fanning into the tips of his ears. 

How he had managed to land you was beyond comprehension. Sitting there outshining everyone else in the venue, if anyone noticed his blatant stare didn’t matter. What mattered was the tiny smile you gave him when your eyes met, the way the light caught your hair. The wait had been worth it, you were beyond anything words could describe. He was pretty sure he wouldn't have been able to keep his hands to himself if you had shown him that at home. Which may have been a part of the reason you waited in hindsight, making sure it would be wearable tonight. He doubted it would make it through the evening. 

Fuck was he lucky. As far as he was concerned the luckiest man in that building today. The thought circled in his head, as unshakeable as his focus. The best part was you knew it too, he could see you fighting to keep a neutral expression the longer his gaze lingered. You were the only thing that mattered in the world at this moment, the only thing that had kept him afloat the past two weeks. He was only able to look away when you gave the tiniest jerk of your head, pointing out the fairly obvious fact that he needed to go back to facing towards the front before the bride started her walk. 

It was a beautiful ceremony. He had known it would be from the start, the couple was so grossly perfect for each other it was the sort of romance you saw in seasonal romantic comedies. Jack was very honored to be standing where he was but nothing in the world could have stopped him from stealing glances at you during the ceremony. Catching you fighting back tears more than once. Fighting down his own emotion more than he would admit during it all as well, mostly happy, some of that lingering bitter pain that refused to leave no matter how hard he tried to ignore it. 

When they were finally released to go mingle before food was served Jack wasted no time in finding you. Arm snaking easily around your waist, tugging you into him, enjoying the warmth that radiated from you. He pressed a kiss to your temple taking no small amount of satisfaction that your hand tightened on his sleeve at the touch. “You look, I mean stunning isn’t even the right word.” 

That got the rare radiant smile that reminded him briefly of man on wax wings flying far too close to the sun. He didn’t care if his wings melted so long as he was the one earning that smile. As long as he was the one lucky enough to take you home every night to the bed you had agreed to share. Your flustered thank you was drowned out by the conversation around you but he didn’t need to hear it to understand it. Getting to mingle, you under his arm was really all that mattered the rest of the night anyways. He would have to leave you here and there but right now he was all yours. 

“Wanna show you off while we have time, come on.” He steered you effortlessly through the crowd, head on a swivel before leading you to a small cluster of groomsmen you had met very briefly at the rehearsal last week and a few others that you had not met.

Introductions were short made and it was pretty clear before they even said it these were vets. They seemed to know everything about each other, they all carried some of the weight that Jack did that felt older than the hospital. Sometimes even older than Jack himself. The newer faces approached to either hug Jack or clap him on the shoulder. 

“God damn it's not fair man. Abbot always gets the pretty girls.” One of the new, well they were all new to you, newer faces sighed. Watching as Jack absently slid an arm from your shoulders to your waist, pulling you just a tiny bit closer. 

“I do not. Just the ones that matter.” You were vaguely aware that your face grew hot at that comment. 

“It's because he traded one uniform for the other. Chicks go crazy for the whole solider thing and this mother fucker went and started medicine on top of it.” Another voice cut in. 

“Ignore them.” The guy directly next to you added. Also not someone you recognized. “They were the same way when I introduced them to my wife.” He offered a hand, “Nick, I don't think I actually said hi earlier.” 

“Your wife is also too good looking to be with you Nicky.” The original guy cut in before returning to his own conversation. 

“Bunch of jealous mother fuckers.” Nick shook his head, “if you ever want a friend who’s been dealing with these jackals for a while I can introduce you to Em. She’s always looking for a new friend.”  

“I think I might need the back up.” You said it half joking, but a new friend was a new friend especially when it came to having another safe face at these functions. “Thanks.” 

Almost immediately your new ally in the circle was tapped on the shoulder by another new arrival and was pulled into a side conversation. You were just happy to watch Jack talk, he felt younger the way people always seemed to when catching up with people from their past. His motions are more animated, more quick to smile than when he was with hospital friends. 

The announcement for dinner rolled around and Jack’s attention was back on you, hand slipping into yours. Tugging your attention out of the back half of a story Nick had been telling about his job, something for the city if you were hearing him right over the overlapping chatter. 

“Keep an eye out man, rumor is the vulture might show. Can’t believe he made the list after all that.” Another one of the men you didn’t really recognize had spoken up, eyes flicking between the pair of you. 

“He knows better than to try shit with me, if he does show his face.” You raised an eyebrow and he just shook his head in response. 

You didn’t miss the way a nerve jumped in Jack’s jaw when he said it though. The way his eyes started the familiar detailed scanning of the crowd that was only reserved for late nights and possibly dangerous situations. 

When you landed at your table near the front with the wedding party he seemed to relax, pulling your seat out for you, hand on your shoulder while he settled into his own seat, making an effort not to sigh as weight came off his feet.  

As predicted the questions started pretty much as soon as the other women at the table got settled. You were the new face, the latest addition to the circle. It was nice though that it had just now come up, one ask one answer. 

It was all the usual questions, how did you meet? Is it hard dating a doctor? It was always fun comparing how your friends reacted compared to his. As much as you got eyebrow raises with his friends at the age difference it was never as bad as he got from yours. Until you made it so abundantly clear that you were the one chasing this poor man, almost from the moment you met him actually. It usually helped clear the air and it almost always got a little bit of a blush out of Jack, tonight being no exception. 

Dinner passed with small talk as the attention faded from you, Jack was more than happy to let you carry conversation. When plates were cleared music kicked in, slowly at first letting the room settle. The DJ stepping up and cueing the first dance. Which was as sweet, watching them whispering in each other’s ear, swaying together. 

When the floor opened other couples trickled out to the floor. Laughing as they passed you both by. You were engrossed in conversation still, pulled into a story Jack had heard at every get together since the army. He was more than happy to watch the other couples on the floor, steadily building his own nerve. He hadn’t actually thought about this part when he asked you to be his date. He probably should have considered it but more than anything just wanted the excuse to spend time with you. 

As luck had it, he didn't actually have to formally ask you; the DJ called for the couples to come to the floor for the final dance of the evening. You were on your feet first, taking him by the hand and leading the way with a small crowd. He could feel his pulse racing, the rush of adrenaline like it was a looming fight not a dance. 

When was the last time he had actually danced? Let someone in like this, seeing him clumsy and awkward. His relife that you also seemed less than confident out here. It would have felt wrong to not at least get you on the floor, let you feel special, beautiful. Because you were. 

The song was slow, not quite anything formal but slow enough. Your body flush with his letting him lead you in a slow dance, more rocking together than anything else. 

“Having a good night?” Your voice came from his shoulder. 

“With you? Always.” He swore he could hear your face heat against him, feel the smile tucked into his shirt collar. “Are you having a good night? I know it can be way too much when we all get together.” 

“Can’t complain so far.” Your hand squeezing his just a little tighter. 

The gentle sound of conversation from other couples mingled with the music. A pair off to the left had each other laughing hysterically, holding each other up more than anything else. Both already looking more than a little tipsy already. 

“Thank you for bringing me.” Your voice caught his attention again. His arm around your waist pulling you a little tighter in response.

“Wouldn’t want to bring anyone else.” Pressing a kiss against the back of your hand. “Glad you said yes. It would be miserable here alone.” 

You looked up at him as the song came to an end, arms circled his neck and lips met his. The kiss was short, just shy of chaste, but held all the warmth of something much deeper. Everything good about you, shared in one moment. 

Jack led you back to the table, arm around your waist, thumb idly tracing small circles against your hip as you waited for crowds to part while people took their places in between the floor and your seats. It wasn’t much later that speeches started, which had almost slipped his mind entirely despite weeks of memorization. He blamed you for his memory issues tonight, he was still catching himself staring when you weren’t looking, the off and on drinking probably wasn’t helping much either. 

Jack’s speech was one of the better ones in your own personal opinion. That didn’t mean that you understood the subtle interdepartmental hospital jabs or the calls back to the military. That didn’t matter, the speech wasn’t for you. It was for the very adorable couple sitting beside the mic stand. Your bias came entirely from the fact that it was so Jack, the jokes, the timing, the rare genuine smile at the end. It felt like something he agonized over, read and then re-read to make sure it was perfect. The type of memorization that he had you quiz him on on occasional rare studies he found. 

Speeches wrapped and Jack left you again, dragged off to another round of wedding photos with more of the family. You were hardly paying attention to the crowd around you. More than happy to wait where he had left you at the bar and people watch and take a minute of silence after dinner. You hadn't anticipated a slightly tipsy guest joining you. Standing a little too close for comfort. It was hard to miss the way his eyes lingered a little too long. Or the way he let his arm rest a little too long pressed against yours before apologizing when you pulled away. 

“Pretty girl like you shouldn’t be drinking alone.” The smile was too easy, too familiar already. 

“I’m not drinking alone.” You nodded towards the doors that lead outside. “Just waiting for him to get back.” 

“Well if he’s not here then you’re alone.” The glass slid closer to you. “Come on, one drink won’t kill you.” There was something almost charming in the way he looked at you, but a little too smooth, an act that had been mastered rather than something natural. 

You didn't miss the way he brushed the back of his hand against your arm when he leaned away, leaving the glass almost touching the back of your hand. Smiling all the while like you were sharing a moment. Those brown eyes never leaving your face, too confident that he could wear you down. 

“It probably won’t, this conversation might.” You, maybe mistakenly, took the drink. Positive that you had kept your eye on it the whole time and honestly a drink might help you get through this easier. You could just disappear into the crowd, but that meant it would be a pain to find Jack again. If you waited you would be annoyed but easy to spot if the guy was still hanging around. Despite his persistence so far nothing was screaming at you to run, annoying yes. Scary? Not even a little. 

Admittedly you also didn’t know anyone else here that you were sure wouldn’t take the guy’s side. You were pretty sure the bartender was also keeping an eye on the situation from the glace she had spared you when he approached. Waiting and playing the cold indifferent card was winning out from the logical standpoint. So you moved a little further away and swirled the cup. Watching the mingling couples and praying that Jack would hurry the hell up. 

“Are you here with your boyfriend then?” Another casual lean too close across the cool bar top. 

“That is what I was hinting at.” You still wouldn’t meet his gaze, focusing on a group of women not too far away. 

“Is he a hospital or Army friend?” Pressing forward again, knowing you were almost out of bar to escape to. 

“Both actually.” You smiled at that, meeting his eye for the first time since he approached you. “I’m guessing you’re in the army camp.” 

“Naturally, Mark Taylor at your service.” He gave a slightly drunken salute, the smile a little more organic the more he drank, his eyes seemingly darker by the second. It did nothing to make him less gross, the charm still too manufactured. “Serving gave me skills in all things that matter, just an fyi.” 

Despite your attitude towards him Mark seemed hell bent on spending his time at the reception glued to your side, determined to keep the scrap of attention that you had given him. He was now regaling you with old tales of heroics that might have impressed anyone else in the room. He seemed fine, pushy and too much of a flirt, but not like an axe murderer. Your eyes broke from his the instant you caught the sound of the heavy doors opening again just audible over the crowd. 

Jack spotted you almost immediately where he had left you at the bar, further towards the edge and engrossed in a conversation with another man. Which, fair enough, he had been gone for the better part of the hour. He hadn’t expected you to sit in isolation, and had really doubted that nobody would approach you. It wasn’t until the crowd between you shifted and he got a good look as the man brushed a hand over yours while taking your empty glass. The one simple, intimate act lit a fire. The flicker of annoyance that got him pushing a little more aggressively through a suddenly too crowded room. 

When he was about halfway across the room it was easier to see that the man was pretty clearly a few drinks in. One arm used to support him against the solid wood, the other nursing a beer bottle. He was also too close, almost pressing up against you as he spoke. A strong enough breeze would have pushed your bodies together. You weren’t paying him any attention clearly scanning the crowd. The fire flickered steadily, that simmering anger below the surface. Until that supporting arm dipped boldly behind your back, pulling him towards you. Jack was through the crowd, stepping behind you as you pulled away from the other man. 

Anger turned to rage, turned to calm as his brain caught up. Not a stranger, not to him. Some asshole he had butted heads with for more years than he had cared to admit. Always turning up where he wasn’t wanted and pushing limits he really should know better than to be pressing. It looked like there was a vulture circling tonight. 

You overbalanced just a little, caught easily on Jack’s arm. The tension in his body was as plain as day, unwilling to look away from the perceived threat. But the weight of you against him broke that moment. Eyes finding yours and softening just a little as he searched them. 

“Been waiting for you.” Your voice was soft, a hand on the back of the neck pulling him in, letting the kiss speak for him for just a second. Possessive and demanding against you, pulling you impossibly closer, making his point. 

Kissing you was heaven, always had been, would be for as long as you let him keep doing it. This time especially was everything he needed that solid proof that he was the one supposed to be here. Maybe it was everything you needed too based on the way you gripped his shoulder, the reassurance that always came with his presence. He could tell you had been drinking, could taste the hint of the drink on your soft lips. He knew the same was probably true for you since  he could still feel the burn of whiskey in his throat.

When he pulled away he wasn’t surprised to see Taylor still watching, hand too tight on the glass in front of him. Those cold brown eyes unchanged after a lifetime out of the service. Jack also wasn’t surprised he had been after you, or that he wasn’t happy to see that it was him holding you. That you let him stand between the pair of you, a clear line in the sand. 

“Taylor.” Clipped and formal, disdain clear in his voice. 

“Abbot.” Equally as displeased as he scowled as Jack moved between you, blocking you mostly from sight. His back to you to face the other man fully, his arm moving to wrap around your shoulder. He wanted to touch you still, but also needed to be between the pair of you. 

“Been a long time.” His grip tightening on your shoulder, almost certainly risking a bruise, something he would make up to you later. 

“You got old.” The younger man scoffed, looking him over. 

“You haven’t changed, still circling where you’re not fucking wanted.” There was the old anger just under the surface like it always was when the pair of them were together. “Didn’t know you were going to be here, might not have come.” 

“Not surprised. There's a lot of things you seem to miss.” The other man was still looking at you and clearly directed his next question at you rather than the newest arrival. “This that boyfriend you mentioned?” 

“Amazing guess.” You tucked against Jack’s back more solidly, letting the warmth of him shelter you from the confrontation. 

“Shame that someone as pretty as you has such shit taste in men.” A scoff, the slamming of his drink and pushing the glass away. Eyes not leaving the pair of you, the way you clung to Jack. The tension that still coiled in Jack’s shoulders, the almost unblinking defiant glare. He caved, leaving his finished drink at the bar and disappearing into the crowd. Sparing you a backwards glance. 

“You good?” Jack had refocused on you. Eyes searching your own for the answer before you spoke, his hand cupping your jaw. 

“I’m a lot better now.” Your hand lingered on his arm feeling the tension leaving his body just a little, his attention refocusing on you. “Guy was persistent. Came over not long after you left. I wasn’t sure what it would take to get him to leave. He must have tried his whole playbook from the sound of it.” 

The simmer was back, the calm from the confrontation had faded but not the anger that the piece of shit had been there, had touched you. Had probably spent however long whispering the usual filth at you, trying to make you forget you weren’t here alone for however long you held his interest. 

He wasn’t aware that his jaw was locked, eyes almost unblinking as he watched the other man retreat through the crowd. His posture was too straight, like every muscle in his body had been drawn taught, a man ready for a fight even after the threat had passed. A man whose territory had been stepped on and the insult still lingered too bitter on this tongue. 

“Are you good?” Your voice snapping him out of the thoughts, didn’t dismiss them by any means but gave him the push to do something about it. 

“Will be.” His hand wrapped around your wrist, vice like, a solid tether to him while he led you wordlessless through the crowd. Effortless making a path through the sea of people, leading you to the stairwell in the far corner of the room. Pushing the doors open with more force than he intended. The noise almost immediately muffled by the cold brick of the stairwell. There was only one level below you, isolated and with some privacy in the corner under the steps. 

The door hadn’t fully closed on the level above you before your back met the solid stone of the wall behind you. His lips on yours, crushing you beneath him. His hand between your legs the faint scratch of nail against exposed skin before brushing against the thin cloth that separated you from his touch. The faintest scratch of his facial hair has his mouth broke from yours, moving deliberately along your jaw feeling the rush of heat across your skin at his touch. The jealous, clawing part of him finally quieted at your hands searching for purchase against him.

A desperate moan escaped you as fingers pushed aside the fabric, teasing before pressing a finger, then two into you. Lips and teeth trailing over whatever exposed skin he could reach as you writhed between him and the wall at your back. 

He hushed you, the sound muffled against your already too hot skin. Hands desperately scrambling for purchase against the fabric of his jacket. You were a wreck for him already, soaked and needy against his fingers. 

“All this for me? Or did that jackass get you this excited?” His voice thick as he spoke, pulling back to study your face. “Tell you how pretty you were? How good he'd make you feel?”

Any actual words you would have managed were replaced but a whine as he stilled, all but pulling away. Shades of brown eclipsing the green, pupils dilated. Studying your face, waiting for your answer, pulling a little further away from you, just enough for it to make the point. 

“You. All for you.” Your hips chased his retreating fingers, pleading, desperate. “Jack only you, please.” 

“Better be.” He pressed back into you, returning to the rhythm he had set. Free hand working his belt loose, watching you struggle to stay quiet. The way you arched against him when he curled his fingers just right. Earning him another muffled noise that might have been his name. 

It was impossible to ignore the way your desperate motions, the muffled whines fed the growing arousal pressing against you in the empty stairwell. The look in his eyes couldn’t even be deceived as hungry, starved was more accurate. A man who had gone days without a proper meal and had stumbled into a feast. 

“Been killing me seeing you in this.” His free hand teasing the material of the dress between his fingers. “Like it was made for you. Spent weeks making me wonder about it.” The drag of his thumb over your neglected clit, drinking in the way you fought to keep quiet, the way your breath stopped just for that split second. “Then I see some asshole practically begging to get you out of it. Doubt he would even know how to handle you.” 

A frantic shake of your head earned another circle. A pathetic noise escaped you and his hand clamped over your mouth, eyes watching the way yours seemed to grow impossibly more dilated. Something practically purring in his chest that he would have to dissect later. 

“Going to get us caught.” He rumbled against you. “That what you want? Let your new best friend find you like this?” 

Jack’s hand did little to muffle the desperate moans that you did very little to try to stop as the mounting pleasure coiled in your core. Another broken noise as his fingers worked instantly earned an appreciative growl as you clenched around his fingers, arching into him as much as you could. The building pleasure bringing tears to your eyes desperately searching his face. 

“I got you, let go for me.” Whispered against the shell of your ear, breath warm even against your too hot skin feeling that familiar tremble at your core. “You’re right there, I can feel it.” 

You didn’t need to be told twice, a muffled, broken noise as those eyes drank in your expression. Knees failing to hold your weight as your Orgasm ripped through you, falling into Jack’s solid frame. “There you go, there’s my girl.” His arm around you, keeping you upright. A kiss pressed into the side of your head. 

You were still in the weak and foggy state when the door pushed open on the level above you, the sound  of the party filling the space, echoing all around you. Bringing you back to the reality of the situation. There were at least fifty people just a floor above you, you had snuck off with one of the more important people in the wedding party. Of course someone would come looking for him. 

An echoing voice called down the stairs. “Hey Abbot, you down here?” 

“Yeah man, what’s up?” His voice was too even, way too controlled as he stood there holding you up with his fingers still inside you, watching you intently as your eyes cleared. A clear message to keep quiet reflected in them. 

“We need you for like five, maybe ten?” Came the echoing answer down the steps. “You good to come up?”

“Be right there.” The sound of the heavy metal door closing on the level above you and a pause before he stepped away, leaving you cold and empty. 

Heat rushing sight of him sucking his fingers clean before addressing you. “Meet you up there, give it a second.” A fleeting kiss, the taste of you lingering faintly. Those darkened eyes watching you for a minute longer before making his way back up the steps.

Jack knew he had probably been caught, had at least left the door open for speculation. It didn’t help that he had to wait an agonizing few minutes for the erection to at least start softening. It was a little hard to miss the way his dick pressed against the fabric of his pants. If he hadn’t been caught walking out hard would certainly raise a few questions. When it was finally clear to push his way back onto the main floor he found a small huddle of the other groomsmen. Walking to join them, hands in his pockets. 

If there was any suspicion here then they didn’t say anything to his face, which was a pretty good sign that he had been much less obvious than he had suspected he was. Or they were being nice, which was much less likely with the current company. They didn’t press against the excuse that he just wanted five minutes downstairs away from their dumb asses and the noise. 

The other guys just a little help getting the cars loaded for when the newlyweds took off.  It was pretty easy work and gave him time to actually go get himself cleaned up a little better. Catching Taylor watching him occasionally as he navigated the crowd, returning his glare with a smirk. 

By the time they were rounding up guests to leave you had managed to mingle and not draw any attention as far as you could tell. You had admittedly just latched yourself onto the group with the most friendly faces and hoped that Jack would find you eventually. 

“So we wind up having to bail him out of jail and half sneak him back on base with us.” You had landed yourself with a few of the people from dinner, most of the names lost somewhere in the ongoing list you had tried to remember. Currently you were in the middle of a story about the groom from back when they were all young and dumb. 

“And as luck had it, your very drunk friend wound up also being friends with the poor asshole at the gates that night, who maybe let you off lighter than he should have.” Hands in his pockets Jack had materialized once again, cutting through the group like a knife. “Who knew we’d be standing here watching him get married to that bartender.” 

His focus shifted to you a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, “crazy what brings two people together sometimes.” He looked tired, not quite exhausted, the sort of heaviness you associated with a long day out rather than the drained man who sometimes returned from the hospital. 

The call to meet outside for the couple to leave was made, venue staff ushering the lingering guests out the back doors. The hall slowly emptying into the scenic night air, the lights of Pittsburgh proper admittedly made for a beautiful backdrop this far away. Guests formed a loose semicircle around where they had been directed. You, like the other guests around you, were focused solely on the couple as they exited from a separate set of doors. 

You missed the way Jack’s eyes had focused only on you. The way you craned your neck to get a better view. The way your face lit up again and cheered with the other guests. The way you brushed against him without even seeming to notice. The way your face lit up for the bridesmaid who caught the wedding bouquet, excitement for a total stranger radiating off of you. 

If the idea of marriage hadn’t already been spinning somewhere in his subconscious it certainly was now. It wasn’t hard at all to picture doing this again all of a sudden, but that also was because it was you. You had crashed into his life and dragged him back out of the dark, just a little. It wouldn’t be easy going through it again, just like moments leading up to today had been painful. But if it was with you, for you? It would be worth it. He forced himself to look forward when the crowd applauded again, the wheels still turning in the back of his mind, maybe picking up speed a little when you grinned over at him again. 

The pair of you weren’t the first ones to head back towards the main lobby but you were among the first. Only stopped by the occasional out of town friend wishing Jack a good night, offering a nice to meet you in your direction before slipping out into the night. The goodbyes were a little longer for those who, like you, who had rooms at the resort for the night. Not by much though as it was clear exhaustion was taking its toll. 

“Been waiting all fucking night to get you up here.” Arms pulling you against him once the door to your room shut. “Get to take this off you.” A hand trailed along the fabric still draping across you, tracking the zipper. The sound of the teeth parting the only noise in the room followed by the soft thud of the dress finally falling away from you. 

You slipped from his touch, shoes kicked by the door, bra discarded easily along the way, aware that he was trailing right behind you. Sinking onto the edge of the bed, looking up to catch the hunger in those eyes before pushing you back, the sheets cool against your already flush skin. His weight pinning you easily beneath him, kissing you like he may actually never get to again. His tongue danced so easily against yours as he re-mapped the roof of your mouth, like it had changed in the hours since he had last been able to kiss you like this. 

Your hands worked to undo his belt in the limited space between the press of his body, the hiss of the leather sliding through loops filling the room. The metal clinked against the floor a moment later joining the growing pile of discarded clothing. Jack reluctantly pulled away to finish stripping. Quickly at first, then slowing when he caught the glint in your eye, his own hunger mirrored in your blown pupils. Hands worked diligently, watching you grow more and more impatient, stepping out of reach when you tried to help.  

“I had to wait, you can wait.” He murmured, adding his shirt to the pile of clothing thrown behind him before settling on the bed to finish stripping. The leg came off, finally, but was left within reach. Wouldn’t want the damn thing getting in the way, didn’t plan to do much standing for a while either. 

He fell heavy back onto you, pulling you back into a heated kiss, the pull of your lower lip on his teeth. The heat of his skin radiated in the inches between you, there was something electric in that space, a distant rolling of thunder. Then a flash of lightning, pure electricity, as his hand reached to slide along your bare stomach and slowly inching lower. His eyes solely focused on yours as he boke for air. All the different shades of brown and green eclipsed by black, swallowed by the need that was threatening to eat him alive. 

Fingers once again finding their way against you, a satisfied noise escaping him when he felt just how much you needed him. Still needed more than the release that you had found downstairs, evidenced by the mess you had already made of your thighs. You could feel him twitch against your leg in response to your soft noise of pleasure. Helped wriggle out of your underwear when he tugged gently at the elastic.  

A shadow passing very briefly over his features. His weight disappears from you, only to feel yourself pulled to the edge of the bed. Hands pressing your thighs apart making room for him, kneeling in front of you. If there was a question forming it was swallowed by the moan that ripped out of you, the first experimental flick of his tongue, followed by something closer to a growl than anything else.

“Been too long.” The scratch of his beard against your things briefly as he trailed kisses along them. 

The heat of his breath against you then his tongue was on you, slowly deliberately. That desperate noise reverberated from him again as a desperate hand tangled in his hair. It didn’t take long for him to bring you to the edge. Devouring you like he would never get to again, like the way you moved against him, your hand tangled in his hair, all of it would disappear once he pulled away. 

But he did pull away to trace over your clit. Eyes locked onto yours, now focused solely on getting you to finish on his tongue. It was practiced as much as needly, savoring every second. Eyes shutting when he coaxed your release, his name falling from your lips over and over again, each iteration more desperate. Movements becoming lazy almost as he drank you in, only pulling away, chin glistening, when you gave a whine and an insistent tug of his hair.

His weight settling back against you heavily, the press of his painfully hard cock against your thigh, a hand trailing up your thigh, a finger followed quickly by another, stretching you open still. Another desperate sound from your lips as your hips rolled against the movement. 

“Still so needy.” It was a whisper, maybe not even meant to be said out loud. Words wouldn’t come to you, instead a whimper and a roll of your hips, arching against him, needing more. Not just inside you, but against you, needed to feel all of him against your skin. 

“Want more?” rasped against your ear, sending a humming jolt of electricity down your spine. The deliberate grind of his hard cock against your leg. “Want me, that it?” 

You nodded desperately, nails digging into his back. A keening whine escaping the back of your throat, fingers brushing perfectly against the spot that always sent fire through your veins. A teasing brush of his thumb over your clit, not enough, not nearly enough. 

“You can still talk, right? Use your words.” Another broken whine when his touch lessened and the need burned hotter, molten desire flowing through you. 

“Jack, please.” A gasping breath and when the only response you received was a raised eyebrow. “Please, I need you.” 

“I’m right here.” Teeth against the shell of your ear, another roll of his hips, “What more do you need?” 

Something between frustration and pleasure escaped you as the teasing touches became a practiced, patient circle that made you arch and squirm. Pleasure coiled below your gut, that familiar coil wound too tight, screaming to be let go. You still wanted, needed more, needed him inside you. He knew it, beneath the hunger and the want was that frustratingly smug confidence that he only seemed to get when he had you like this. 

“Fuck me. Please.” Shame long abandoned somewhere in the depths of those darkened hazel eyes.

He was off you, the absence of him making your suddenly too cold, too empty body arch, chasing after him. Only to be pressed back into the mattress a second later, the drag of his tip against you, thrusting shallowly against your ruined entrance, just shy of pushing into you. “All you had to say.” 

Before you could respond he was pushing into you, head falling into your shoulder. “Always so tight for me. Fuck.” 

He started slow, dragging himself almost all the way out before pushing back into you, inch by inch. Drinking in every reaction, the way your breath caught, the way your eyes widened. It had been too damn long since he had been able to have you like this, been able to have you like this. 

When he has his fill of the slow push into you and the soft breathy noises it pulled out of you in the quiet room he adjusted, pulling back as much as his position over you would allow. Your legs over those broad shoulders the next instant, pulled flush to let him press into you again. Blunt nails digging into the soft skin of your thighs his own groan mixing with whatever sinful noise escaped you. 

Head pressing almost too perfectly inside you, vision blurring as he set an unrelenting pace, head heavy, his breathing positively ragged. Your back curved, back off the mattress, his hands pulling you flush. Sweat running in thin trails across his arms, muscles flexed to keep you where he needed you. 

It wasn’t long before your feet met the starkly cold mattress, knees pressed into your own shoulders, arms falling either side of you to cage you. 

“Let me feel you, come on.” Another snap of his hips against yours. “Need to feel you come apart.” 

You were on the edge, white hot pleasure wound so tight it almost hurt. Your eyes screwed shut, head thrown back and trying to focus on the sensation. Until a too warm hand was pressed against your cheek. 

“Look at me.” Your eyes snapped open, matching his. Tears clouding your vision as pleasure built, watching him focused solely on you. “That’s it, so close, fuck- so close.” 

His hand fell away to help support his weight, his chest flush with yours, sweat sticking you together, ragged breaths fanning over your face, your neck, your shoulders as he kissed and sucked the exposed skin he could reach. 

The occasional scape of teeth as you fluttered around him, walls clenching, urging him deeper, faster. Whatever pace you had before had been abandoned for the desperate chase of release as the coiling tension snapped with earth shattering finality. There was nothing in the world but you, Jack and the bed cradling you in his embrace. Your voice broke, a string of oh fucks mingling with moans that could have been an attempt at his name, the syllables disrupted, ruined as thoroughly as you felt. 

You were lost in the fog when Jack came, his own voice failing him, buried as deep as he could be, letting your release rip his own from him. Letting himself fall heavily against you, soft kisses pressed against your sticky skin. His eyes falling closed as your heart hammered against his ribs, your arms pushed against him. He didn’t move, didn’t want to help you move him either, Jack was perfectly happy to lay here for the rest of the night. 

“Jack” You were laughing, god you had such a pretty laugh. “I have to get up at least.” 

“Give me a minute.” His face was still buried in the crook of your neck, doing his level best to drown in your scent. Warm and familiar and so inviting. He could stay here forever, softening inside you and pressed together. 

“Come on old man, I’ll help you get to the shower.” He pushed himself up with a groan. Sweaty skin feeling apart and he pulled out of you. grabbing the first piece of clothing he could find to help deal with the mess he had made of you.

“One of these days we’ll be prepared.” You took the offered clothing from his hand. “You’d think the military man would be ready for anything.” 

“If we start taking fire I’ll cover you.” He scoffed, getting himself to the edge of the bed. “Not my fault you can’t keep your hands to yourself.” 

“You started it this time.” Your protest was punctuated by the gentle creaks of the bed as you forced sore, shaking muscles to carry your weight. 

You weren’t far behind him though, sitting up carefully, considering you had to actually sleep in this bed after this. Slipping past him to get yourself a little more cleaned up and get the shower started, fully aware that you would take longer than he would to get presentable. 

Jack was watching the city lights on the edge of the bed when you finally emerged, half dressed and practically steaming from the heat of the shower. His head cocked when he heard you padding over the carpet behind him but he kept his eyes on the window. 

Only looking over at you when you settled yourself against him, hand tracing across his back. You didn’t say anything, knew him well enough to know he was thinking about something and just needed the quiet.

A slow breath, nervous even though he probably shouldn’t be, this wasn’t even top ten for most stressful moments in your relationship. But if he didn’t say it now he was worried there wouldn’t be another time. “I know I haven’t said it exactly, but” A pause, another deep breath, “you know that I love you right? Because I do. So much.” 

Silence, a yawning chasm that he was dangling over, hovering midair like a cartoon character before they realized the road had been stripped away from them. “Of course I know you do Jack. You don’t have to say it.” 

Your face lit up, tears in the corner of your eyes. The softest smile you had ever given him. “And I love you too.” The chasm closed, his feet back on solid ground, no  more fear of falling. 

He kissed you again, soft and slow, holding you to him, committing this to memory, willing this moment to be burned into his memory forever. When he pulled away your eyes were still misty, but also still so warm. Turning your attention back to the bathroom before glancing back at him. 

“You also failed to mention that we have that incredible bath by the way. We could fit like four of me in there” You pointed over his shoulder. 

“I didn’t think I needed to.” Eyebrow raising, fighting outright laughing at you. 

“Maybe we check that out before we go to bed?” There was a hint of that pleading tone, the one he would never admit made his resolve crumble. 

“Solid plan.” Feeling your weight dip off the bed followed by the sound of running water. The thought entered his mind that he was still probably the luckiest guy in the whole fucking building tonight. 

[noirscript]

his silent script

Pairing: Yandere!Actor x Smut Writer!Reader Description: You never meant for your words to become real, but Dorian Shaw—celebrated actor, relentless shadow—has stepped straight out of your pages. He watches you like he knows you, like he’s living the life you created for him, and when he speaks, it’s with the certainty of a man who refuses to be just fiction. Warning/s: YANDERE | Stalking | Psychological Manipulation | Power Imbalance | Implied Coercion | Implied Threats | Note/s: Happy 900 followers! Actually, it already exceeded 900. I hope I can finish Sovereign's Reign on or before I reach 1,000 followers. ^^ Anyway, enjoy reading!

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The first time you met him; it wasn’t with flashing cameras or red carpets. It was raining—of course it was raining—and the bookstore’s leaky ceiling made a steady plip-plip onto the laminate floor.

You’d come for peace. You found him instead.

He was in the back corner of the romance section, hood low over his brow, fingers grazing the spines like he was choosing a victim rather than a novel. Tall, still, silent. The kind of presence that made you aware of your own heartbeat.

You didn’t recognize him. Not really. Maybe you’d seen him once, in passing on some trailer auto-playing on your phone. But the name meant little. The face meant nothing. You weren’t in the business of idolizing men who wore fake faces for a living.

Still, you noticed the way his eyes lingered too long on the shelf where your name sat, your series nestled between glossier, brighter titles. You saw the slight twitch in his jaw when he picked up the second book in your “Sin & Silk” trilogy. And then—he smiled.

Not like a fan. Like a man who’d just found something he’d been missing.

“Is this one any good?” he asked, holding up the copy. His voice was deep—velvet laced with smoke—and you immediately felt heat crawl up your neck.

“I wouldn’t know,” you said, brushing past him to the counter. “Never read it.”

He laughed—just once. “Liar.”

You turned. He was still watching you.

“You’re her,” he said. “The author.”

Your stomach sank. “So?”

He didn’t answer. Just flipped the book open, letting the pages fan out beneath his fingers, stopping on a dog-eared chapter. You knew exactly which scene it was. Chapter 17. The one your editor almost didn’t let you keep. Too dark, too raw, too real.

But you’d fought for it. And won.

Now he was reading it. Slowly. Deliberately.

“This scene,” he murmured. “The way he talks to her. Makes her feel like she’s drowning even when she wants more.”

You stiffened. “You make it sound creepy.”

He smiled again. This time, it didn’t reach his eyes.

“It’s not creepy if it’s real.”

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

You didn’t think much of it. A strange encounter. A nameless man in a bookstore. A slightly unsettling comment.

Then a week later, your book shot up the charts.

Overnight, your inbox was flooded with messages. Your social media exploded. Edits. Fanart. BookTok girls screaming about the “Sin & Silk” trilogy, especially Chapter 17. You didn’t understand why—until you saw the video.

Him. The man from the bookstore.

Only now, the hood was off. The world’s most sought-after actor, Dorian Shaw, was staring into a camera, book in hand, reading your words.

“I couldn’t put it down,” he said in a quiet interview, caught between questions about his next thriller and a luxury brand endorsement. “There’s something real in this writing. Dark, yeah. But honest. Like she’s not afraid to tell the truth.”

Dorian Shaw. Award-winning. Obscenely handsome. A man with a face built for obsession and a voice that bent crowds.

And now, he was yours.

Your book, your name, your words—on his lips.

It should’ve been thrilling. You should’ve been grateful.

But when you watched that interview, it wasn’t his praise that stuck with you.

It was the way he looked at the camera.

Like he wasn’t just recommending your book.

Like he was speaking to you.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

The next time you saw him; it was at your signing event. Your publicist was buzzing, hands fluttering as she arranged stacks of books and fixed your hair between signatures.

“He promoted you,” she whispered. “Do you have any idea what that means?”

You did. Your Amazon page had crashed. Pre-orders were climbing. But all you could think about was the way his fingers lingered on your words.

He showed up without fanfare. No entourage. No disguise. Just Dorian, dressed in dark tones, leaning against the end of the line like he belonged there.

People turned. Whispered. Phones clicked.

And still, he waited. Twenty-three minutes.

When he finally reached you, he didn’t hand you a book.

He slid a black envelope across the table.

“I read them all,” he said. “But I think you already know that.”

You stared at him. “Why are you here?”

His smile was slow. Purposeful.

“I want to talk. The real kind. About the man you wrote.”

“I write fiction.”

“You write truth in disguise.”

He stepped back, letting the crowd absorb him. But as he disappeared, he called over his shoulder:

“Open it when you’re alone.”

Inside the envelope was a script. Handwritten. Raw. A scene lifted straight from Chapter 17—but with differences. Subtle, unnerving ones.

The villain won.

The heroine didn’t run.

And at the bottom, scrawled in ink that had bled through the page:

You wrote him. I became him.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

You tried to avoid it after that. Ignored the surge of followers. Declined interviews. Turned adaptation offers.

But Dorian was persistent.

He posted again. A black-and-white video of him reading a monologue from your latest release. The comments were chaos. His fans demanded a collab. Your sales doubled. Your publisher offered a new contract. Your name was trending.

And through it all, he watched.

At first, it was distant. A like. A repost. A subtle nod during his press tours.

Then he started commenting. Small things. Quotes from your work. Direct lines. No context.

Then came the invitations. A book panel he was hosting. A charity gala “in your honor.” He even showed up at a local café reading where you’d been assured anonymity.

You finally gave in at a networking event your agent guilted you into attending. He was there before you. Waiting at the bar.

“You never answered my messages,” he said as you approached, drink in hand.

“I don’t owe you anything.”

“No,” he said. “But you created me.”

You shook your head. “You’re not him. He’s fiction.”

Dorian leaned in, voice lowering. “I’ve played gods, killers, kings. But none of them fit like him. None of them felt like me—until your story.”

You hated the way he said it. Like it was fate. Like he truly believed it.

“You don’t know me,” you said.

“I know you better than anyone who’s ever touched your skin,” he said, his voice almost reverent. “Because I’ve read the parts of you no one else dares to look at.”

You walked away.

But something tethered you there.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

And now, you were in the backseat of a car. One you didn’t remember getting into. Rain blurred the windows. Your hands were shaking.

The partition slid down.

Dorian looked back at you from the driver’s seat.

“You shouldn’t get in strange cars,” he said.

Your mouth went dry. “This isn’t my driver.”

“No,” he agreed. “It’s mine.”

You reached for the handle. Locked.

“Please,” he said. “Just listen.”

You swallowed. “You stalked me.”

“I followed the story.”

“There is no story.”

“There is,and you know it.”

His voice was quiet, almost broken.

“You wrote me. I was fragments before you. Empty roles. Hollow scripts. But then I found your words. And I felt something. For the first time in years, I felt alive.”

He turned in his seat, eyes meeting yours.

“Don’t take that from me.”

The knife was beneath the seat. You knew it. He didn’t reach for it.

Instead, he took your book from his coat. Your first. The one that had started it all.

“Let me show you what this means to me,” he whispered. “Let me be him.”

Your heart pounded.

“I don’t want him.”

“Yes, you do,” he said. “You buried him in fiction. I’m digging him out.”

Silence sat between you like a second presence.

Then, softly: “Give me one scene. Just one. Let me prove I understand.”

And you, against everything rational, nodded.

He didn’t touch you.

But he looked at you like you were the final line of a monologue he’d rehearsed a thousand times.

And when it was over, you went home.

And picked up your pen.

And rewrote the ending.

This time, the villain stays.

TBC.

noirscript © 2025

Taglist: @hopingtoclearmedschool @violetvase @zanzie @neuvilletteswife4ever @yamekocatt @fandangoballs @mel-vaz @vind1cta @greatwitchsongsinger

[mmochammoss]

Fan behavior

Izuku Midoriya had burner accounts. Plural.

Some were obvious, like the ones he used to scroll through hero discourse on Twitter or reply to fans anonymously. But some were…

more specific.

A private Instagram that followed pro-hero fanpages, analysis pages, and even a few shipping accounts. A Reddit username dedicated to lurking in threads like r/heroranks and r/candidproheroes. A TikTok profile with zero posts but a very suspiciously curated ‘likes’ tab.

He had always been like this. Always online. Always watching. Not in a creepy way, just in a lifelong fanboy kind of way. Most people assumed he didn’t have time for any of that anymore now that he was the number-four hero. But Deku made time.

Especially when it came to you.

You had taken the hero world by storm. All strength, grace, and confidence, with a quirk that could split pavement and a smile that could break the internet.

He remembered watching your first solo billboard debut while eating convenience store snacks on the rooftop of a building at two in the morning, freezing mid-bite because you looked that good.

You were always beautiful. Always capable. Always you. And he was always… just a little bit obsessed.

Not in a weird way, of course.

You were old classmates. Friends. You had trained together, cried together, fought alongside one another back in the U.A. days. You’d even defended him online after his first public interview when his voice cracked halfway through a sentence.

You’d always been sweet to him. Gentle. Supportive.

He used to chalk up his crush on you to proximity. Just another harmless high school thing. Everyone had one, right?

But his thoughts of you didn’t fade the way most high school crushes were supposed to.

They only grew.

And now, years later, every time your face popped up on the side of a building or in his timeline, he remembered just how thoroughly and hopelessly he had not grown out of it.

Especially when he saw the fan content. And there was always so, so, so much of it.

It made total sense to him though. You were internet gold.

There were memes. There were fancams. There were reaction edits, deep-dives, lore threads, shipping compilations, whole Discord servers dedicated to analyzing your every move and wondering which pro hero you might be dating (if any).

Izuku tried not to pay too much attention.

Until one night, curled up in bed after patrol, scrolling on one of his private burner accounts, when he saw it. A fan edit titled simply:

“She looks at him like that’s her favorite person alive.”

It was under some viral TikTok audio, something soft and emotional.

The clips were nothing special on their own. Moments pulled from interviews, red carpet footage, post-battle recaps.

But they were all of you and him.

You glancing at him across a press panel. Smiling at something he’d said in an old agency interview. A photo someone had taken where you had your hand on his shoulder after a tough mission, face full of quiet pride.

And his favorite:

A short clip where you’d been asked about what hero inspired you most these days.

You had smiled, eyes soft, and answered,

“Ouuuuu? Who inspires me the most?… Probably Deku! I look at all he’s done and all he’s gone through and it reminds me that I can always push harder, do more, be better, y’know?”

He watched it three times.

Then a fourth.

Smiling through every rewatch, until…

“Shit.”

He threw his phone onto the bed, face hot, heart racing. He stared up at the ceiling and groaned.

Because he knew. He finally, finally knew. This wasn’t just some crush anymore.

He’d liked you once, of course.

Back in school, it was simple. You were warm, kind, devastatingly beautiful, and you always treated him like he mattered, even when he barely believed it himself.

But this? This was different. It wasn’t admiration. It wasn’t innocent. It was full-body want.

The kind that lived in his soul, tight and aching, every time your name lit up his feed. And God, he felt so guilty for it sometimes.

Because you were more than beautiful.

You were brilliant. Respected. One of the top heroes in the country. And a good person. And he admired you for that. He did.

But sometimes…

Sometimes he just wanted to imagine you whispering his name.

Not “Deku.” Not “Midoriya.” Izuku.

He wanted to hate himself for how his mind wandered. For how badly he wanted to touch you. To kiss you. To pull you into his lap and feel your fingers drag through his hair as he got drunk on your lips.

He wanted your body wrapped around him after long missions. Your thighs warm against his sides. Your mouth against his skin. Your voice soft with pleasure, telling him just how much you’d missed him.

And worse than all of that? He wanted you to want him back. Not as a coworker. Not as a friend. But as something real.

He rolled over onto his stomach, face burning as he buried it in the pillow and groaned. He shouldn’t think like this. He knew better. But it was too late.

Because it wasn’t just about how badly he wanted to kiss you anymore. It was about how deeply, desperately, helplessly he was in love with you. Not some idealized version of you. Not the you from glossy spreads or high-res fan edits.

You.

The way your nose scrunched when you laughed. The way you chewed on pen caps when thinking. The way you’d always text him congratulations after a good mission, even when he hadn’t spoken to you in weeks.

You were real.

And he wanted you in every way a person could be wanted. He felt ashamed of it. Guilty. Like he was crossing some unspoken line just for thinking it. But how could he not?

How could he not dream of kissing you until your knees gave out? Of holding you so close he’d feel your heartbeat match his? Of letting you ride the high of your shared victories straight into his arms, or his bed, into something so perfect it made his brain short-circuit?

He wanted you. He was so far gone.

Maybe, someday, if he could stop hiding behind burner accounts and start being brave again he’d tell you.

And if you let him, he’d love you for real. Not from a distance. Not through a screen. Not like a fan.

Like a man who wanted to be completely and totally yours.

[riddlemelater]

Ruin Me - T.N

masterlist | nav

⚠︎ all characters 18+ | MDNI ⚠︎

summary: Theo's struggling with the weight of his duty, lucky for him, you aren't ready to give up on him— No matter what he's done.

wordcount: 4.6k

warnings: Death Eater!Theo X fem!reader, mentions of blood/murder, alcohol use, smut, p in v, slight nipple play if you squint, mild pain kink, rough sex, emotional repression, implied trauma/war, established relationship.

a/n: My humblest apologies for not updating my Mattheo fic. I’ve just lost a very dear family member this week, and I'm struggling with the motivation to write. In the meantime, please accept this Theo draft that’s been gathering dust for months. Take care of yourselves, lovelies <3

The first indication that all was not well was the front door slamming shut with a resounding thud. One that echoed through the dark halls of his family's property and lingered in the air like a bad smell. The sheer force of it had the supporting walls trembling from the impact as it settled into place, as though it had shaken the very foundations on which the manor was built.

Then, it was the heavy drag of dragon-skin boots across the hardwood floors, careless and scuffing at every surface that dared get in their way. Loud, thudding footsteps that resounded through the corridors, causing you to bristle with anticipation. No doubt that Theo was trailing dirt, blood, and Merlin knows what else across the fitted carpets and polished halls. Even worse, you doubted he cared at all, too focused on whatever he'd been cajoled into doing tonight.

He often got like this after a mission, as if he’d lost all ability to think. His usual dry humour and composure replaced by a sort of tunnel vision focus, bordering on obsession. Whenever Theo was like this, he had no regard for anyone or anything— he was volatile, cold, unpredictable.

And there was nothing that could fix that. Not even you.

The poor elves would be appalled when they saw him, his blatant disregard for their strenuous upkeep of Nott Manor an unthinkable sin. You could picture them now, begrudgingly cleaning up the offending footprints while muttering sourly about the reckless heir they were bound to serve. You made a mental note to apologise profusely on his behalf in the morning, already thinking about what baked treats would best appease two scorned house-elves.

Before Theo’s return, all had been well - or, at least — as well as it could be when your boyfriend was in the presence of the Dark Lord.

The soft crackling of the fire in the far corner of the bedroom cast a flickering glow across the room, like the fleeting light of the setting sun on a summers evening. And as the flames burned out to embers you sat tight jawed, fidgety, and trying to distract yourself with one of the books that rested on Theo's bedside.

As one hand flicked through pages you weren't really reading, the other rested in the fur of the purring feline in your lap. The small creature, curled up and warm against your cool skin, soothed the restlessness you fought halfheartedly. You fell into a rhythm, stroking his fur in time with the gentle rise and fall of his tiny frame, biting at the dry skin of your bottom lip.

You hated when Theo was away.

He had been out for hours. So long in fact that you'd abandoned any hope of fulfilling your dinner plans, and instead settled into the plush - but empty - four poster bed. Armed with a book and the cat, who'd soon taken to sprawling out on Theo’s side of the mattress, and you waited apprehensively.

Time twisted in on itself — hours slipping by in a slow, aching crawl. You'd learned not to keep an eye on the clock nowadays, and so you continued to scratch behind the cat's ears, smiling as he purred every so often. You were almost envious of how ignorant the small animal was, sleeping soundly through the heavy thud of boots just down the hall, the footsteps heading to ruin what looked like a perfectly good nap wrapped up in Theo's expensive sheets.

Down the hall, the familiar sound of a cupboard opening, then a glass being firmly sat down on the table echoed through the corridors. Your mind's eye pictured Theo, reaching for one of the many bar cabinets, pouring a healthy glass of whiskey then dispersing of it in one, large gulp.

Not a good night, then. You thought absently and continued your pets, turning a page of the book propped up against the pillow, halfheartedly trying to feign interest. It was best not to pry on nights like this, he'd tell you in his own way once he was ready. Or maybe he wouldn't, and you'd just have to accept that there were some things best left unsaid. Some sins that were best left unconfessed.

You listened to the soft purr of the sleeping animal beside you and waited, anxious.

Eventually, Theo appeared—sullen, quiet. As expected, he said nothing, and so you said nothing either. You stole a glance at him and regretted it instantly: gaunt lines carved into his face, flecks of what you could only assume was blood scattered across his skin. The dark circles beneath his eyes had become a near-constant feature, and his hair stuck out in every direction, like he’d been dragging his fingers through it for hours.

He looked so different now from the fourteen-year-old boy you'd fallen in love with. Back then, his dark circles were from staying up too late in the library, his dishevelled hair from falling asleep on his notes while he tried to practice a particularly difficult spell. Now his late nights were filled with fear, spurred on not by academic success, but by dark magic and a burning mark on his left forearm.

Through your thick lashes, you watched his robes fall unceremoniously from his body, piling in a discarded heap by the ottoman. He kicked them away from his feet, and his boots clattered against the floor a moment later, with the same careless disregard for where they landed. You said nothing, only watched the dull expression on his face— lifeless and miserable— and waited for him to speak.

Theo sighed and huffed as though something was weighing heavily on his mind, yet he didn't speak, only stripped down to his boxers and disappeared into the en-suite. The shower began to run and your eyes flitted up to meet the ajar door he'd just slid behind, tentatively listening to his movements until he settled underneath the stream of water.

Definitely not a good night.

Wordlessly, you rose from the bed and lifted his robes, dropping them into the washing basket without taking a look at them - you didn't want to know what, or who, was staining them. On nights like this, it was best not to ask because you’d never like the answer, and Theo would struggle to meet your gaze.

The water still ran in the bathroom, falling harshly against the tiled floor as Theo scrubbed at his skin with fervour, a ritual neither of you had entirely come to terms with. Your teeth bit at the dry skin of your lips, the air thick with tension, and you returned his boots to the shoe rack, murmuring a quick cleaning spell and hiding them from sight. As if hiding the evidence he'd ever left the house might help him forget.

Whether that was for your benefit or Theo’s was unclear.

In the bathroom, Theo was muttering, not loud enough for you to make out details, but enough that you were aware of it. Whatever had happened tonight was playing on his mind. You knew it was bad, but Theo had come home in one piece - and that? Well, that was good enough for you.

Was it selfish of you? Perhaps. But Theo was alive, and really, that's all that mattered.

In recent years, you'd seen how ruthless Voldemort could be, you'd watched when the lifeless body of Cedric Diggory had appeared before the student body, pale and lifeless, whilst his father wailed at his side. When Harry Potter had fought him in the Department of Mysteries, you’d all seen the news coverage. You could still picture the Daily Prophet's front page announcing his return, clear as day. And when things had begun to change at Hogwarts, you'd only held onto Theo tighter, promised that no matter what, you were there for him.

A promise you would honour to the grave.

Theo was no stranger to the cruelty of the Dark Lord. His mother’s death had marked him, twisted him into something darker even as a child, but it was his father’s loyalty to the cause that had nearly destroyed him. You still remember the look on his face when he received that letter in your sixth year—that letter.

It was December. You’d just finished your winter exams. Theo had decided to stay at Hogwarts over the break, just to be with you, to escape whatever darkness called to him. But that evening, as he sat beside you on the couch, his fingers trembling as he hesitated, something in him was cracked open. He’d been terrified to show you what he’d received in the morning post—a letter that wasn’t just words on parchment, but a death warrant. A promise. One that sealed his future as a servant of the Dark Lord.

The moment he handed it to you, his eyes wide, he looked to you as if you might be his salvation — or his undoing. But before you could say a word, before you could reach for him, he crumpled the letter back in his hand and whispered, "I have to go."

And Theo went home for Christmas that year.

It took him nearly twenty minutes to get clean enough that his hushed murmurs had fallen quiet, and another ten until the water finally shut off entirely. You weren’t sure what version of Theo you’d get.

Some nights he’d come in without a word, he’d shower and scrub at his skin— scrub at that mark until he felt better— then he’d collapse into bed beside you, wrap his arms around your waist and tug you close, whisper sweet nothings into your ear till you fell asleep tangled up together. You wouldn’t speak, but you’d burrow closer, let his tight grip squeeze the breath from your lungs if it meant he could rest easier.

“Still here, then." He said flatly, his tone laced with a bitter sharpness. You looked up at him cautiously, studying him. "Thought maybe you'd have finally grown a spine and left."

The towel around his waist dropped, and he tugged on a fresh shirt and clean boxer shorts, not glancing at you once.

So it was that version of Theo tonight.

You said nothing, your fingers still stroking the cat lying beside you. The small creature stirred a little, then sat up quickly as Theo scoffed. Its eyes narrowed as it stretched out, as if limbering up for an attack— the sweet thing had always preferred you, much to Theo’s amusement, and clung to your side whenever he had the chance. Your gaze flitted from the cat to Theo, concern etched into your features.

"Don't look at me like that. I don't want your pity." He spat, instinctively tucking his left arm from sight, pulling a jumper over his head a moment later. You knew he hated when you saw his mark.

The cat sprang off the bed and scuttled out the door quickly, Theo's words clearly agitating the small beast. You frowned, watching the end of his bushy tail slipping out of sight, leaving the two of you alone.

"You scared him." You murmured softly, your eyes lingering on the slightly ajar door. Then, as if you'd drifted off briefly, your head turned back towards Theo, taking in the sight of him as he dried his hair with the towel, his dark locks tousled and damp from the shower

"Theo baby, I-" You tried, voice tender and careful. Using that word— that name that was only ever his— hoping it might jolt him out of his spiral. Comfort him, ground him.

But he flinched like the word burned him.

"Don't."

It came out like a snarl, cutting through your hesitant words. So unlike your Theo, it was almost unrecognisable. He spun sharply, eyes wide. Wild.

"Don't fucking 'baby' me." His voice was low and cruel. Mocking.

You bristled, swallowing back the sting. Fighting every instinct to physically recoil from his words. He didn’t mean it. You knew that, even if it hurt to hear. Your nails dug into your palms, crescents pressing deep into skin. Every breath felt brittle, like it might shatter in your throat. You wanted to move—reach for him—but your limbs felt like they’d been filled with lead. If you could just get to him, take his hand, press kisses to his bruised knuckles and red skin, maybe he’d see. Maybe then he’d realise you were in this for keeps.

Maybe if you just—

"I killed a boy with eyes the same shade as yours tonight."

He didn’t look for your reaction — didn’t need to. He could feel it in the silence. He didn't need to see your wide eyes or parted lips to know. He just started to pace, hands dug into his hair and tugging angrily, as if he could tear the image of their lifeless faces from his mind if he pulled hard enough.

You swallowed the lump beginning to form, crawling across the bed till you were sat at the edge. Waiting for the right moment to interrupt, but he was talking now, and he needed to talk about it. You needed him to talk.

“A kid. Younger than me.” He muttered, not looking at you, just pacing angrily. As if he were at war with himself. "I didn't flinch."

“What kind of person doesn’t flinch?” He scoffed, a bitter, breathless sound that didn’t quite reach a laugh. “I looked him in the eyes. Held my wand steady as he begged. Do you know how easy it was?”

You couldn’t tear your eyes off him, uncontrollable tears welling up and threatening to spill. He stopped pacing for a moment, just long enough to look at you— and Merlin, there was something fractured in his stare. Like he wanted you to see him as a monster, that cruel snarl on his face as if he wanted you to look away in shame.

“Like breathing. That easy.” He snapped his fingers and you flinched, your whole body jerking like a puppet on a string.

Theo's chest heaved, as though the act had knocked the wind out of him. His shoulders collapsed inward, jaw slack, fingers twitching faintly like they hadn’t gotten the message that the moment had passed.

His eyes fluttered shut, as if he couldn't bear to even look at you. His tongue ran across the inside of his cheek, and he exhaled a bitter sigh, one that was loaded with self-loathing and spite. Your heart broke for him.

"Theo, baby. You had no choice." You murmured weakly, pleading. It wasn't enough, but what else could you say— I'm sorry your father signed you up for a war you didn't want to be a part of?

"I killed someone tonight. Do you even get that?" He snapped incredulously, taking a step closer to you. And it was like that flicker of softness from just a moment ago had vanished, replaced by the hardened composure that had been drilled into him.

Your lip trembled, mouth opening and closing, useless, as you tried to speak. Tears pricked in your eyes, blurring your vision as you stared back at him, speechless.

"Dead. Gone. Just like that. Do you really think you understand how I feel at all?"

He took another step toward you, less than a meter from the edge of the bed where you sat. The same bed that you'd held him in as he cried, sobbed till his voice died out about the things he was terrified to have to do. Things he could now do, as easily as breathing, apparently.

You shook your head in quiet defeat. He scoffed once more.

"Exactly. So don't sit here with your little book and your— your fucking cat and act like everything is fine."

His voice raised louder, crueller, and you forced yourself to look away and exhale shakily. Theo hadn't taken his eyes off you since his outburst; he just stood and watched, chest heaving up and down in ragged breaths.

"Theo..." You said softly, rising from the mattress and reaching out to cup his cheek, holding his face in your much smaller hand like he was made of glass. "You didn’t have a choice. It's not your fault."

He opened his mouth, another argument on the tip of his tongue, and your head shook gently. He blinked, as if he was about to ignore you, but then he pressed his lips together and his eyes softened.

"It's not your fault, baby." You said again, stronger this time. Less like you were trying to convince him, and more like you were telling the truth. Your thumb stroking over his cheek in tender, repetitive swipes. He didn't flinch under your touch, but he didn't lean into it either. Just stared down at you with something unreadable in his eyes.

"You can't forget it, I know." You soothed, "But you don't need to deal with it on your own either. You can talk to me."

Theo's head shook just slightly. "You don't know what you're saying." He swallowed, his familiar blue eyes staring down at you.

"Yes, I do."

He shook his head again, firmer. "I can't. I'll only hurt you. I'll destroy everything good in you just by being with you."

Your hand slid down his cheek, skimmed down past the tender skin of his neck, and paused as it reached his chest. You could feel the quick, uneven thrum of his heart, pulsing in his chest like a trapped bird.

"Then ruin me." You murmured.

It came out soft, but sure—like you meant it. Like it wasn’t some reckless offer made out of pity or panic, but a choice. A deliberate invitation to be broken, that you’d do anything if it meant that he wouldn’t have to break alone.

Theo froze. His chest stopped its ragged rise and fall. His eyes dropped to where your hand pressed flat against his chest, to the place where you could feel the wild, desperate flutter of his heart. And then he looked back at you.

Your breath hitched as he surged forward, lips pressing against your own in a bruising kiss that made you stagger back a step. He was unrelenting, however, and his strong hands only wrapped around you, pulling you back to him.

One hand tangled in your hair, messy and desperate, pressing your head closer to his and chasing your lips hungrily. The other rested on the small of your back, his fingers grasping at your clothes like you'd slip away otherwise.

You let your fingers slide up his chest, over the taut muscles of his shoulders, feeling the harsh beat of his heart under your fingertips, mirroring the frantic rhythm in your own chest.

The kiss was heated, raw, and filled with unspoken words. Theo's grip tightened, the tips of his fingers digging in enough that you winced, and a quiet groan fell from your lips. His breath was hot against your skin as he pulled away just enough to press his forehead to yours. His hand drifted to your face, cupping it like you were the most precious thing on earth.

His eyes searched yours — torn, conflicted, filled with a mixture of guilt and something deeper. His lips parted as if he was going to say something, but he didn't. Instead, he closed the space between you once more, his kiss rough. Stripped of all restraint and filled only with desire.

His hands roamed again, pulling at your clothes with a sense of urgency that matched the frantic pulse of your heartbeat. There was no hesitation in how he moved, only the fierce need to feel something other than the heaviness inside him. To feel you, real and tangible, here with him.

Your back hit the mattress before you could even register moving, and Theo was climbing on top of you in an instant, caging you in between his arms. His lips found yours quickly, pressing desperate kisses across your lips, nose brushing against yours as he moved.

It didn’t feel like his usual tender kisses. It felt like there was something more, as if he was pouring all of the hurt and anger that had boiled up inside him into the kiss, and you were all too eager to take it.

Theo growled low in his throat as he tore his mouth from yours, only to bury it in the soft curve of your neck. His teeth sank into your skin, rough and unrelenting, leaving behind an angry, pulsing bruise.

“Theo—” you gasped, fingers digging into his shoulder as a sharp ache bloomed beneath his bite. But he didn’t respond— didn’t even seem to hear you. He was lost, wholly consumed by the feel of your body, by the desperate need to drown in something that wasn’t blood or guilt.

Your spine arched instinctively, pressing closer as he ravaged your neck with hungry, possessive nips. His hands moved blindly, tugging at your clothes with a desperation that bordered on frantic— stripping you like he couldn’t bear even an inch of fabric between you.

“So fucking gorgeous…” he breathed against your skin, voice gravelly and low. His hand snaked down to grasp at your chest, kneading roughly at your tits.

Your head tilted back as a moan tore from your throat, and Theo groaned at the sound— low and wrecked— like it shattered something within him.

“Fuck— do that again,” he muttered, his mouth hot and desperate against your collarbone. His fingers grasping at your nipple and pinching, rolling it between his fingers.

You writhed underneath him, moaning softly, and Theo swore under his breath— something guttural and half-feral. Something that only made you want to moan louder, to give him that satisfaction.

“Drives me fucking mad…” he rasped, lips trailing down your chest. “You don’t even know.”

His mouth wrapped around your nipple without warning, sucking hard enough to make you jolt, his teeth grazing at the sensitive flesh just shy of too rough. His hand slipped between your thighs, forcing them apart with a bruising grip.

“All I think about—” he muttered into your skin, voice breaking. “All fucking day.”

He pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes, his own dark and glazed over with need. “You make it stop.” He breathed, pressing a soft kiss to your skin, “The only time I can breathe is when I’m inside you.”

You barely had time to process his words before his fingers slid underneath the waistband of your panties, dragging them down with a rough urgency that made your breath catch. He didn’t wait for your permission, pressing two fingers against your heat, swearing under his breath as he felt how wet you already were.

“Fuck,” he muttered as if it hurt, “you’re soaked for me— always are, aren’t you?”

Your hips bucked into his touch and his eyes snapped up to meet yours, tearing away from between your thighs as if it pained him to look away. “You love this, don’t you?” He growled, “Letting me ruin you like this.”

He pressed inside quickly, thick fingers filling you, and your cry only encouraged him to work quicker, pushing in and out of you with ease.

“That’s it,” Theo murmured, eyes mesmerised by the way his fingers disappeared inside of you. “Taking it so well, good girl.”

“T-Theo!” You gasped, eyes screwing shut as he continued his ministrations.

At the sound of your voice he smirked, dragging his thumb to your clit and drew small circles, working you open quickly. His mouth still panting against your throat, watching the way you writhed and moaned, “Gonna fuck you so hard you won’t remember your own name.”

Your thighs trembled as he pumped his fingers into you, whispering filthy words of praise as you whimpered and writhed beneath him. Each thrust felt precise and punishing, his palm grinding against your clit in the most delicious way.

Theo’s mouth was everywhere— biting at your throat, licking over bruises he’d just made, his tongue catching on your pulse point like he needed to taste how alive you were beneath him. Like that alone was enough to keep him grounded.

“God,” he rasped, pulling his hand back to strip the rest of his clothes from his body, barely breaking contact with your sensitive skin. “Gonna lose my fucking mind.” He groaned.

Your legs parted instinctively as he adjusted, and he caught your thighs in his palms, humming approvingly as you opened yourself up to him. His cock was rock hard, the tip glistening with pre cum as he lined himself up, then paused, his eyes meeting yours.

“This what you wanted?” He asked roughly, unable to stop himself from pressing forward just slightly. “Say it. Tell me.” He urged.

“Yes,” you panted, “Theo, please—”

He didn’t let you finish.

He pushed in with a hard thrust, one that knocked the air from your lungs as he buried himself to the hilt in one desperate motion. Your walls clenching around him, causing his body to shudder above you and a strangled sound breaking in his throat.

“Fuck, baby. So tight.” He gritted out, head falling against your shoulder as he started to move. “So perfect for me.”

Every thrust was hard, deliberate— like if he buried himself deep enough he could fuck the memories out of his head. You could feel it in the way his hands gripped your body, the way his rhythm faltered every time you gasped his name.

Your back arched as he drove into you, unrelenting, each thrust dragging little gasps from your throat. The sound of skin slapping against skin echoed through the room, wet and filthy and desperate, and the broken moans he drew from you only matched the obscene sounds.

“Fuck, you feel—” he choked out, voice raw with need, “—so fucking good. Can’t think— can’t fucking breathe.”

His fingers bruised your hips, dragging you back onto him as if he needed you closer. His mouth finding yours in a kiss that was all heat, and teeth, and breathless groans. You whimpered into his mouth, nails clawing at his back and he only hissed through his teeth, the pain spurring him on.

“Theo— fuck— Theo,” you gasped, head tipping back as your body began to tremble beneath him, your orgasm fast approaching.

He snapped his hips harder, faster, his thrusts turning punishing as he chased both your pleasure and his own oblivion. His face burried in your neck, breath ragged and uneven as he panted against your skin.

“Gonna cum,” he groaned, biting down hard on your shoulder. “Gonna come inside you— fuck— can’t stop—can’t—”

You cried out as your orgasm hit, clenching around him like a vice, your whole body seizing from the sheer force of it. Your orgasm triggered Theo’s and he tipped over the edge just after you. His thrusts faltered as he spilled into you with a low, guttural sound, his hips jerking erratically as he emptied himself, still clutching onto you tightly.

You were still catching your breath when his body finally stilled, the frantic pace giving way to a trembling stillness as he collapsed on top of you. His hands, once gripping onto your hips harder enough to bruise, loosened quickly— like he was suddenly now aware of how lost in the moment he had been.

His forehead dropped once more, pushing against your shoulder as his damp curls brushed against your skin and he exhaled shakily. For a long moment he didn’t move, just breathed, shallow, broken breaths against your collarbone.

“Shit— I’m sorry,” he mumbled, barely audible. “I didn’t mean to— fuck. I just… I didn’t know where else to put it.”

Your hand rose instinctively, fingers threading through his curls, massaging lightly.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” you murmured against his hair, “You’re allowed to let it out.”

He hummed absently, and his arms tightened around you. Clutching on like you were the only thing keeping him afloat. “I love you so much.” He mumbled in an exhausted voice.

“I love you too, Theo.” You replied, and you squeezed him tighter. “Get some sleep now, baby.”

[kxsagi]

“𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐚𝐠𝐢 𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐛𝐥𝐮𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟗𝟖 💔”

a/n: THESE LEAKS BRUH

FIRST, ISAGI AND RIN TIE AT #1

THEN SHIDOU BEATS BAROU FOR #3

AND NOW NAGI IS FULL ON ELIMINATED HUH????????

nagi fans i feel your pain, but trust that he will come back and maybe pull a kunigami but not turn out emo 🤞 (don’t know artist credits sorry)

when you walk into the apartment, you expect to find nagi on the couch, maybe gaming half-heartedly or mindlessly scrolling through his phone. instead, you see him sprawled out on the floor, limbs splayed like he’s been dramatically struck down in battle. 

your first thought is that he’s dead. 

your second thought is that, no, if he were actually dead, he’d at least have had the decency to collapse onto something more comfortable. 

“… seishiro?” you call hesitantly, setting your things down. 

a long, guttural groan comes from the floor. 

you squint. “you good?” 

“no.” his voice is muffled against the carpet. “i lost.” 

“yeah, i saw.” you walk over, nudging his leg with your foot. “but do you have to be on the floor about it?” 

“yes.” 

you sigh and crouch down beside him. “you know normal people mope on the couch, right?” 

“couches are for winners,” he mutters, still facedown. 

you purse your lips, fighting back a grin. “so, what, the floor is for losers?” 

he nods, just the faintest movement against the rug. “i live here now.” 

you roll your eyes, reaching out to poke his cheek. “okay, well, if you live here, you still have to eat. get up.” 

another groan, this one even more dramatic. “too much work…” 

“okay, but what if i said there was cake in the fridge?” 

silence. 

then slowly, nagi turns his head just enough to peek at you with one eye, white hair a complete disaster. 

“what kind of cake?” 

you smile sweetly. “strawberry shortcake.” 

his fingers twitch against the floor. “is it… fresh?” 

“super fresh.” 

he exhales like you’ve just given him the will to live. but then, just as quickly, he groans again. “can’t move. limbs don’t work.” 

you cross your arms. “so, what, do i have to carry you now?” 

he blinks at you. then, after a pause, nods. “yeah. carry me.” 

you stare at him. “you are literally taller than me.” 

“you’re strong,” he counters, voice sleepy, but serious. “too strong.” 

you snort. “fine. but if i pull a muscle, i’m eating your cake.” 

his eyes widen, and suddenly, he moves, slow and sluggish, but definitely not paralyzed like he claimed. before you know it, he’s reaching out, wrapping his arms around your waist, and –

flop. 

he collapses into your lap, draping himself over you like a massive, lazy cat. 

“there,” he mumbles, nuzzling into your stomach. “halfway there. now just drag me.” 

you burst out laughing. “seishiro, i swear –” 

he sighs dramatically. “just leave me here. let the floor take me.” 

you shake your head, running your fingers through his messy hair. “you big baby.” 

he hums, eyes slipping shut. “mmm. your baby.” 

your heart does a weird little flip, but you push past it. “so, does that mean you’re getting up now?” 

“… nah.” 

you sigh, but you don’t stop stroking his hair. instead, you let him sink into the warmth of your touch, fingers threading through soft white strands. 

“you know,” you murmur, “i’m really proud of you.” 

his breath hitches, just slightly, but you feel it. 

“even though i lost?” he mumbles. 

“especially because you lost,” you say. “because you fought for something. because you cared enough to try. and because you were amazing, seishiro.” 

his fingers tighten slightly in the fabric of your shirt. 

you smile. “besides, you’re still my winner.” 

he exhales, long and slow, nuzzling further into you. “… you’re so unfair.” 

“yup.” you boop his nose. “now get up before i eat your cake.” 

he groans but finally, finally, peels himself off the floor. 

as you help him up, he leans against you, arms still lazily wrapped around you, chin resting on your shoulder. 

“… can you still carry me, though?” 

you shove him playfully. “get your own cake, you menace!”

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢