#’you’ll have to catch me first’ is way up there

[letsgobarbs]

SYD take a fucking bow. How does it feel you absolute icon at having written one of the very best Pitt fics of all time ever. the entire series has me gasping and sighing and laughing and giggling and crying and in fucking shambles.

I loved the job specificities. I loved how much it told us about the characters. You either do this for a job or your research was so thorough someone should hand you a degree. I loved how much that situation informed us of the characters. It was nothing short of absolutely fantastic. It was like meeting Jack all over again outside the show. Just. Brilliant.

I have so many favourtie parts it's utterly insane, every other line made me feel things.

A man who rewrites the rules not because he doesn’t care—

But because he cares too much to follow them.

THAT'S JACK. He cares far too much and has a bleeding fucking heart.

This man is exhausted. Unshaven. Probably hasn't eaten in twelve hours. And yet every move he makes now is poetry. Violent, beautiful poetry. He’s not a man anymore—he’s a scalpel. A weapon for something bigger than him.

my heart, he has it entirely. I love the way you paint him.

Jacket folded over the back of the stool, sleeves pushed to your elbows, fingers already flying across the keyboard of your laptop. You’re building fast but clean. Sharp lines. Conditional formatting. A crisis-routing framework that looks like it was written by a task force, not two people who met five hours ago in a trauma hallway soaked in blood.

This was the best date ever. I knew before he confessed later in the fic that this is where he wanted to ask her out. I knew. You've written it wirh such care like of course, of course, this is where he'd lose his heart to her. Standing. Fucking. Ovation.

“I just didn’t know how much I needed you until you stayed.”

I sighed, felt my throat tighten from the emotions.

“You make it easier to breathe in that place,” he adds. “And I haven’t breathed easy in years.”

Another favourite because my god does that man need a moment to breathe, to actuallynfeel the air in his lungs.

And for the first time in weeks—maybe longer—you don’t feel like you're catching up to your own life. You feel placed. Like someone made room for you before you asked.

I SCREAMED out of want, yearning. Yes, this. It's a need. And the way you wrote it too, with the flow that made it seem effortless. The care that Jack put into thinking for her and accomodating her took my breath away.

With a man who saw your strength before you ever raised your voice.

BITING MY FUCKING FIST I WANT THAT MAN SO BAD

“I looked at you,” he says, “and I thought, ‘If I ask her out now, I’ll never stop wanting her.’”

I couldn't breathe.

His thumb traces the side of your face like he’s still getting used to the shape of you. His mouth moves like he’s learned your rhythm already, like he’s wanted to do this since the first time you told him he was wrong and made him like it.

I'm in love. So complete in love with the way you write Jack Abbot. And th3 way you write Jack Abbot in love.

Jack crosses the threshold slowly, like someone walking into a church they haven’t set foot in since the funeral. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t kiss you. Doesn’t offer a greeting. His movements are mechanical. His body’s tight.

I'm in love with the way you paint images. I love the way you describe and unfold and guide.

He looks down. Then back up. “I think I was afraid you’d get bored of me. That you’d realize I’m too much and not enough at the same time.”

I wanted to hug him so bad.

He nods. “Yeah. But you make it feel like home.”

SCREAMING CRYING THROWING UP

This is the man you’ll build every room around.

I had to take a very deep breath to dmsteady myself. Love like this makes me lightheaded.

“I know I leave shit everywhere and you color-code spreadsheets because it’s the only way to feel okay. I know you’re steadier than me. Smarter. Better. But I need you to be mine. Fully. Officially. Before I ruin it by waiting too long.”

best proposal ever. i could read it again and again and again.

“I’ll wait. Years, if I have to. I don’t care when. But I need the word. I need the promise.”

i—

This man.

The way you write him.

Hate him for not existing. You deserve one of those magic pencils from the kids shows that make whatever you write come alive. I'd trap you in a basement and make you write Jack Abbot content until we all had one in the flesh.

Slide it on yourself, right there, while he’s still inside you. It fits perfectly.

The ring on your finger. And his cock inside you. Both a perfect fit. Poetic asf.

This was perfect. I'm in love with it. I don't even have the words to explain how much. I wanna live in your brain. I wanna crawl inside your walls. Wanna be your best fucking friend.

Irregularities

prequel to the life we met series (part one ✧ part two ✧ part three ✧ part four)

summary : A federal audit brings a sharp, brilliant compliance officer face-to-face with Jack Abbot, a rule-breaking trauma doctor running a shadow supply system to keep his ER alive. What starts as a confrontation becomes an alliance and the two of them fall in love in the messiest, most human way possible.

word count : 13,529

warnings/content : 18+ MDNI !!! explicit language, medical trauma, workplace stress, injury description, mention of child patient death, grief processing, alcohol use, explicit sex, hospital politics, emotionally repressed older man, emotionally competent younger woman, mutual pining, slow-burn romance, power imbalance (non-hierarchical), injury while drunk, trauma bay realism, swearing, one (1) marriage proposal during sex

Tuesday – 8:00 AM Allegheny General Hospital – Lower Admin Wing

Hospitals don’t go quiet.

Not really.

Even here—three floors above the trauma bay and two glass doors removed from the chaos—there’s still the buzz of fluorescent lights, the hiss of a printer warming up, the rhythm of a city-sized machine trying to look composed. But this floor is different. It's where the noise is paperwork, and the blood is financial.

You walk like you belong here, because that’s half the job.

Navy slacks, pressed. Ivory blouse, tucked. The black wool coat draped over your arm has been folded just so, its lapel still holding the shape of your shoulder from the bus ride over. Your shoes are silent, soft-soled—conservative enough to say I’m not here to threaten you, but pointed enough to remind them that you could. Lanyard clipped at your sternum. A pen looped into the coil of your ledger notebook. A steel travel mug in one hand.

The other grips the strap of a leather bag, weighed down with printed ledgers and a half-dozen highlighters—color-coded in a way no one but you understands.

The badge clipped to your shirt flashes with every turn:

Kane & Turner LLP : Federal Compliance Division

Your name, printed clean in black sans serif.

That’s the only thing you say as you approach the front desk—your name. You don’t need to say why you’re here. They already know.

You’re the audit. The walk, the clothes, the quiet. It’s all part of the package. You’ve learned that you don’t need to act intimidating—people project the fear themselves.

“Finance conference room’s down the left hallway,” says the woman behind the desk, not bothering to smile. She’s polite, but brisk—like she’s been told to expect you and is already counting the minutes until you’re gone. “Security badge should be active ‘til five. If you need extra time, check with admin operations.”

You nod. “Thanks.”

They always act like audits come unannounced. But they don’t. You gave them notice. Ten days. Standard protocol. The federal grant in question flagged during the quarterly compliance sweep—a mismatch between trauma unit expenditures and the itemized supply orders. Enough of a discrepancy that your firm sent someone in person.

That someone is you.

You push the door open to the designated conference room and are hit with the familiar scent of institutional lemon cleaner and cold laminate tables. One wall is floor-to-ceiling windows, facing the opposite hospital wing; the rest is sterile whiteboard and cheap drop ceiling. Someone left two water bottles and a packet of hospital-branded pens on the table. The air is too cold.

Good. You work better like that.

You slide into the seat furthest from the door and start unpacking: first the laptop, then the binder of flagged ledgers, then a manila folder marked ER SUPPLY – FY20 in your handwriting. You open it flat and smooth the corners, spreading it across the table like a map. You don’t need directions. You’re here to track footprints.

Most audits feel bloated. Fraud is rarely elegant. It’s padded hours, made-up patients, vendors that don’t exist. But this one is… off. Not obviously criminal. Just messy.

You sip the lukewarm coffee you poured in the break room—burnt, stale, and still the best part of your morning—and begin.

Line by line.

February 12th: Gauze and blood bags double-logged under pediatrics.

March 3rd: 16 units of epinephrine marked as “routine use” with no corresponding case.

April 8th: High-volume saline usage with no corresponding trauma log.

None of it makes sense until you hit the May file.

May 17th.

Your finger stills over the page. A flagged case code—4413A—a GSW patient brought in at 02:11AM, code blue on arrival. The trauma bay requisition log is blank. Completely empty. No gauze. No sutures. No chest tube. Not even surgical gloves.

Instead, the corresponding supply usage appears—wrong date, wrong bay, under the general medicine supply closet three doors down. The only signature?

J. Abbot.

You sit back in your chair, eyes narrowing.

It’s not the first time his name has come up. You flip through past logs, then again through the April folder. There he is again. Trauma-level supplies signed under incorrect departments. Equipment routed through pediatrics. Trauma kit requests stamped urgent but logged under outpatient codes.

Never outrageous. Never duplicated. But always… altered. Shifted.

And always the same name in the bottom corner.

Jack Abbot Trauma Attending.

No initials after the name. No pomp. Just that hard, slanted signature—like someone in too much of a hurry to care if the pen worked properly.

You lean forward again, grabbing a sticky note.

Who the hell are you, Jack Abbot?

Your phone buzzes. A reminder that your firm expects an initial report by EOD. You check your watch—8:58 AM. Still early. You’ve got time to dig before anyone notices you’re not just sitting quietly in the background.

You open your laptop and search the internal directory.

ABBOT, JACK. Emergency Medicine, Trauma Center – Full Time Contact : j.abbot@aghosp.org Page: 3371

You hover over the extension.

Then you close the tab.

There are two ways to handle something like this. You can go the formal route—submit a flagged incident for admin review, request clarification via email, cc your firm. Or...

You can go see what the hell kind of doctor signs off on trauma supplies like they’re water and lies to the system to get away with it.

You stand.

Your shoes are soundless against the tile.

Time to meet the man behind the margins.

Tuesday — 9:07 AM Allegheny General Hospital – Emergency Wing, Sublevel One

You don’t belong here, and the walls know it.

The ER hums like a living organism—loud in the places you expect to be quiet, and disturbingly quiet in the places that should scream. No signage tells you where to go, just a worn plastic placard labeled “TRAUMA — RESTRICTED ACCESS” and an old red arrow. You follow it anyway.

Your heels click once. Then again.

A tech throws you a sideways glance. A nurse barrels past with a tray of tubing and a strip of ECG printouts clutched in her fist. You flatten yourself against the wall. Keep moving.

This isn't the world of emails and boardrooms and fluorescent-lit compliance briefings. Here, time is blood. Everything moves too fast, too loud, too hot. It smells like antiseptic and old sweat. Somewhere nearby, a man is moaning—low, ragged. In another room, someone shouts for a Glidescope.

You don’t flinch. You’ve sat across from CEOs getting indicted. But still—this is not your battlefield.

You square your shoulders anyway and head for the nurse’s station, guided by the pulsing anxiety of your purpose. The folder tucked against your ribs is thick with numbers. Itemized trauma inventory. Improper codes. Unexplained cross-departmental requisitions. And one name—over and over again.

J. Abbot.

You stop at the cluttered, overrun desk where five nurses and two interns are trying to share a single charting terminal. Dana Evans, Charge Nurse, gives you a look like she’s been warned someone like you might show up.

“You lost?” she asks, not unkind, but sharp around the edges.

“I’m here for Dr. Abbot. I’m conducting an internal audit—grant oversight tied to the ER trauma budget.”

Dana lets out a soft, near-silent laugh through her nose. “Oh. You.”

“Excuse me?”

“No offense, but we’ve been placing bets on how long you’d last down here. My money was on ten minutes. The med student said eight.”

“I’ve been here twelve.”

She cocks a brow. “Well. You just made someone ten bucks. He’s at the back bay, not supposed to be here this morning—double-covered someone’s shift. Lucky you.”

That last part catches your attention.

“Why is he covering?”

Dana shrugs, but her expression flickers—tight, guarded. “He’s not supposed to be. Got a call about a kid he used to mentor—resident from one of his old programs. Car wreck on Sunday. Jack’s been pacing ever since. Showed up before sunrise. Said he couldn’t sleep.”

You blink.

“You’re telling me he—”

“Hasn’t slept, probably hasn’t eaten, definitely hasn’t had a civil conversation since Saturday? Yeah. That’s about right.”

You process it. Nod once. “Thank you.”

She grins. “You’re brave. Not smart. But brave.”

You leave her laughing behind you.

The trauma wing proper is a maze of curtained bays and rushed movement. You keep scanning every ID badge, every profile, looking for something—until you see him.

Back turned. Clipboard under his elbow, talking to someone too quietly for you to hear. He’s taller than you’d imagined—broad in the shoulders, but tired in the way his weight shifts unevenly from one leg to the other. One knee flexes, absorbs. The other does not.

You recognize it now.

You walk up and stop a respectful foot behind.

“Dr. Abbot?”

He doesn’t turn at first. Just adjusts the pen behind his ear, flicks a switch on the vitals monitor. Then:

“Yeah.”

He looks over his shoulder, sees you, and stills.

His face is older than his file photo. Harder. Faint stubble across his jaw, a constellation of stress lines under his eyes that no amount of sleep could erase. His black scrub top is creased at the collar, short sleeves revealing tan forearms mapped with faded scars and the pale ghost of a long-healed burn.

You catch your breath—not because he’s handsome, though he is. But because he’s real. Grounded. And already deciding what box to put you in.

You lift your badge. “I’m with Kane & Turner. I’m conducting a trauma budget audit for the grant you’re listed under. I’d like to go over some of your logs.”

He stares at you.

Long enough to make it feel intentional.

“Now?”

“I was told you were available.”

He huffs out a laugh, if you can call it that—dry and crooked, more breath than sound. “Jesus Christ. Yeah. I’m sure that’s what Dana said.”

“She said you came in before sunrise.”

Jack doesn’t look at you. Just scratches once at his jaw, where the stubble’s gone patchy, then drops his hand again like the gesture annoyed him. “Didn’t plan to be here. Wasn’t on the board.”

A beat. Then: “Got a call Sunday night. One of my old residents—kid from back in Boston. Wrapped his car around a guardrail. I don’t know if he fell asleep or if he meant to do it. Doesn’t matter, I guess. He died on impact.”

His voice doesn’t shift. Not even a flicker. Just calm, like he’s reading it off a report. But his fingers twitch once at his side, and he’s standing too still, like if he moves the wrong way, he might break something in himself.

“I’ve been up since,” he adds, almost like an afterthought. “Figured I’d do something useful.”

You hesitate. “I’m sorry.”

He finally looks at you, and the hollow behind his eyes is like a door left open too long in winter. “Don’t be. He’s the one who didn’t walk away.”

A beat of silence.

“I won’t take much of your time,” you say. “But there are significant inconsistencies in your logs. Some dating back six months. Most from May. Including—”

“Let me guess,” he interrupts. “May 17th. GSW. Bay One unavailable. Used the peds closet. Logged under the wrong department. Didn’t have time to clear it before I scrubbed in. End of story.”

You blink. “That’s not exactly—”

“You want a confession? Fine. I logged shit wrong. I do it all the time. I make it fit the bill codes that get supplies restocked fastest, not the ones that make sense to people sitting upstairs.”

Your mouth opens. Closes.

Jack turns to face you fully now, arms crossed. “You ever had a mother screaming in your face because her kid’s pressure dropped and you’re still waiting for a sterile suction kit to come up from Central?”

You shake your head.

“Didn’t think so.”

“I understand it’s difficult, but that doesn’t make it right—”

“I’m not here to be right,” he says flatly. “I’m here to make sure people don’t die waiting for tape and tubing.”

He steps closer, voice quieter now.

“You think the system’s built for this place? It’s not. It’s built for billing departments and insurance adjusters. I’m just bending it so the next teenager doesn’t bleed out on a gurney because the ER spent two hours requesting sterile gauze through the proper channel.”

You’re trying to hold your ground, but something in you wavers. Just slightly.

“This isn’t about money,” you say, though your voice softens. “It’s about transparency. The federal grant is under review. If they pull it, it’s not just your supplies—it’s salaries. Nurses. Fellowships. You could cost this hospital everything.”

Jack exhales hard through his nose. Looks at you like he wants to say a hundred things and doesn’t have the energy for one.

“You ever been in a position,” he murmurs, “where the right thing and the possible thing weren’t the same thing?”

You say nothing.

Because you’ve built a life doing the former.

And he’s built one surviving the latter.

“I’ll be in the charting room in twenty,” he says, already turning away. “If you want to see what this looks like up close, you’re welcome to follow.”

Before you can answer, someone shouts his name—loud, urgent.

He bolts toward the trauma bay before the syllables finish echoing.

And you’re left standing there, folder pressed to your chest, heart hammering in a way that has nothing to do with ethics and everything to do with him.

Jack Abbot.

A man who rewrites the rules not because he doesn’t care—

But because he cares too much to follow them.

Tuesday — 9:24 AM Allegheny General – Trauma Bay 2

You were not trained for this.

No part of your CPA license, your MBA electives, or your federal compliance onboarding prepared you for what it means to step inside a trauma bay mid-resuscitation.

But you do it anyway.

He told you to follow, and you did. Not because you’re scared of him—but because something in his voice made you want to understand him. Dissect the logic beneath the defiance. And because you're not the kind of woman who lets someone walk away thinking they’ve won a conversation just because they can bark louder.

So now here you are, standing just past the curtain, audit folder pressed against your chest like armor, trying not to breathe too shallow in case it looks like you’re afraid.

It’s loud. Then silent. Then louder.

A man lies on the table, unconscious. Twenty-five, maybe thirty. Jeans cut open, a ragged wound in his left thigh leaking bright arterial blood. A nurse swears under her breath. The EKG monitor screams. A resident drops a tray of gauze on the floor.

You don’t step back.

Jack Abbot is already at the man’s side.

His hands move like they’re ahead of his thoughts. No hesitation. No consulting a textbook. He pulls a sterile clamp from a drawer, presses it to the wound, and shouts for suction before the blood can pool down the table leg. The team forms around him like satellites to a planet. He doesn't yell. He commands. Low-voiced. Urgent. Controlled.

“Clamp there,” Jack says, to a stunned-looking intern. “No, firmer. This isn’t a prom date.”

You stifle a snort—barely. No one else even reacts.

The nurse closest to him says, “BP’s crashing.”

“Pressure bag’s up?”

“In use.”

“Give me a second one, now. And call blood bank—we’re skipping crossmatch. Type O, two units.”

You shift your weight quietly, moving two inches left so you’re out of the path of the incoming trauma cart. It bumps your hip. You don’t flinch.

He glances up. Sees you still standing there.

“You sure you want to be here?” he asks, not pausing. “It’s not exactly OSHA compliant.”

You meet his eyes evenly.

“You invited me, remember?”

He blinks once, but says nothing.

The monitor screams again. Jack lowers his head, muttering something you don’t catch. Then, to the nurse: “We’re not getting return. I need to open.”

“You want to crack here?” she asks. “We’re two minutes from OR three—”

“We don’t have two minutes.”

The tray arrives. Jack snaps on a new pair of gloves. You glance down and catch the gleam of something inside him—a steel that wasn’t there in the hallway.

This man is exhausted. Unshaven. Probably hasn't eaten in twelve hours. And yet every move he makes now is poetry. Violent, beautiful poetry. He’s not a man anymore—he’s a scalpel. A weapon for something bigger than him.

And still, you stay.

You even speak.

“If you’re going to override a standard OR protocol in front of a compliance officer,” you say calmly, “you might want to narrate it for the notes.”

The entire room freezes for half a second.

Jack looks up at you—truly looks—and his mouth twitches. Not a smile. Something older. A flicker of amusement under pressure.

“You’re a piece of work,” he mutters, turning back to the table. “Sternotomy tray. Now.”

You watch.

He cuts.

The man survives.

And you’re left trying to hold onto the version of him you built in your head when you walked through those double doors—the reckless trauma doctor who flouts policy and falsifies entries like he’s above the rules.

But he’s not above them.

He’s beneath them. Holding them up from below.

Twenty-three minutes later, he’s stripping off his gloves and washing his hands at a sink just past the trauma bays. The blood spirals down the drain in rust-colored ribbons. His jaw is clenched. His shoulders sag.

You step closer. No fear. No folder to hide behind now—just your voice.

“I don’t know what you think I’m doing here,” you say quietly, “but I’m not your enemy.”

Jack doesn’t look up.

“You’re wearing a suit,” he says. “You carry a clipboard. You track numbers like they tell the whole story.”

“I track truth,” you correct. “Which is a lot harder to pin down when you hide things in pediatric line items.”

He turns. That gets his attention.

“Is that what you think I’m doing? Hiding things?”

“I think you’re manipulating a fragile system to serve your own triage priorities. I think you’re smart enough to know how to avoid audit flags. And I think you’re exhausted enough not to care if it lands you in disciplinary review.”

His laugh is dry and joyless.

“You know what lands me in disciplinary review? Not spending thirty bucks of saline because a man didn’t bleed on the right fucking floor.”

“I know,” you say. “I watched you save someone who wasn’t supposed to make it past intake.”

Jack pauses.

And for the first time, you see it: a beat of surprise. Not in your observation, but in your acknowledgment.

“Then why are you still pushing?”

“Because I can’t fix what I don’t understand. And right now? You’re not giving me a goddamn thing to work with.”

A long silence stretches.

The sink drips.

You fold your arms. “If you want me to report accurately, show me what’s behind the curtain. The real system. Your system.”

Jack watches you carefully. His brow furrows. You wonder if anyone’s ever said that to him before—Let me see the whole thing. I won’t flinch.

“Follow me,” he says at last.

And then he walks. Not fast. Not trying to shake you. Just steady steps down the hallway. Past curtain 6. Past the empty crash cart. To a supply room you didn’t even know existed.

You follow.

Because that’s the deal now. He shows you what he’s built in the margins, and you decide whether to burn it down.

Or defend it.

Tuesday — 10:02 AM Allegheny General – Sublevel 1, Unmapped Storage Room

The hallway leading there isn’t on the public map. It’s narrower than it should be, dimmer too, the kind of corridor that exists between structural beams and budget approvals. You follow him past the trauma bay, past the marked charting alcove, past a metal door you wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t stopped.

Jack pulls a key from the lanyard tucked in his back pocket. Not a swipe badge—a key. Real, metal, old. He unlocks the door with a twist and a grunt.

Inside, fluorescent light hums awake overhead. The bulb stutters once, then holds.

And you freeze.

It’s a supply closet—but only in name. It’s his war room.

The room is narrow but deep, lined wall-to-wall with shelves of restocked trauma kits, expired saline bags labeled “STILL USABLE” in black Sharpie, drawers of unlabeled syringes, taped-up binders, folders with handwritten tabs. No digital interface. No hospital barcodes. No asset tags.

There’s a folding chair in the corner. A coffee mug half-full of pens. A cracked whiteboard with a grid system that only he could understand. The air smells like latex, ink, and whatever disinfectant they stopped ordering five fiscal quarters ago.

You take a breath. Step in. Close the door behind you.

He watches you like he expects you to flinch.

You don’t.

Jack leans a shoulder against the far wall, arms crossed, one leg bent to rest his boot against the floorboard behind him. The right leg. The prosthesis. You clock the adjustment without reacting. He notices that you notice—and doesn’t look away.

“This is off-grid,” he says finally. “No admin approval. No inventory code. No audit trail.”

You walk deeper into the room. Run your fingers along the edge of a file labeled: ALT REORDER ROUTES – Q2 / MANUAL ONLY / DO NOT SCAN

“You’ve built a shadow system,” you say.

“I built a system that works,” he corrects.

You turn. “This is fraud.”

He snorts. “It’s survival.”

“I’m serious, Abbot. This is full-blown liability. You’re rerouting federal grant stock using pediatric codes. You’re bypassing restock thresholds. You’re personally signing off on requisitions under miscategorized departments—”

“And you’re here with a folder and a badge acting like your spreadsheet saves more lives than a clamp and a peds line that actually shows up.”

Silence.

But it’s not silence. Not really.

There’s a hum between you now. Not quite anger. Not admiration either. Something in between. Something volatile.

You raise your chin. “I’m not here to be impressed.”

“Good. I’m not trying to impress you.”

“Then why show me this?”

“Because you kept your eyes open in the trauma bay,” he says. “You didn’t faint. You didn’t cry. You watched me crack a man’s chest open in real time, and instead of hiding behind a chart, you asked me to narrate the procedure.”

You blink. Once. “So that was a test?”

“That was a Tuesday.”

You glance around the room again.

There are labels that don’t match any official inventory records you’ve seen. Bin codes that don’t belong to any department. You pull a clipboard from the wall and flip through it—one page, then another. All hand-tracked inventory numbers. Dated. Annotated. Jack’s handwriting is messy but consistent. He’s been doing this for years.

Years.

And no one’s stopped him.

Or helped.

“Do they know?” you ask. “Admin. Robinavitch. Evans. Anyone?”

Jack leans his head back against the wall. “They know something’s off. But as long as the board meetings stay quiet and the trauma bay doesn’t run dry, no one goes looking. And if someone does, well…” He gestures to the room. “They find nothing.”

“You hide it this well?”

“I’m not stupid.”

You pause. “Then why let me see it?”

Jack looks at you.

Not quickly. Not dramatically. Just slowly. Like he’s finally weighing you honestly.

“Because you’re not like the others they’ve sent before. The last one tried to threaten me with a suspension. You walked into a trauma bay in heels and told me to log my chaos in real-time.”

You smirk. “It is hard to argue with a woman holding a clipboard and a minor God complex.”

He chuckles. “You should see me with a chest tube and a caffeine withdrawal.”

You flip another page.

“You’ve been routing orders through departments that don’t even realize they’re losing inventory.”

“Because I return what I borrow before they notice. I run double restocks through the night shift when the scanner’s offline. I update storage rooms myself. No one’s ever missed a needle they weren’t expecting.”

You shake your head. “This is a house of cards.”

Jack shrugs. “And yet it holds.”

“But for how long?”

Now you’re the one who steps forward. You plant yourself in front of the table and open your binder. Click your pen.

“I can’t pretend this doesn’t exist. If I report this exactly as it is, the grant’s pulled. You’re fired. This hospital goes under federal review for misappropriation of trauma funds.”

He doesn’t blink. “Then do it.”

You stare at him. “What?”

He steps off the wall now, closes the space between you like it’s nothing.

“I’ve survived worse,” he says. “You think this job is about safety? It’s not. It’s about how long you can keep other people alive before the system kills you too.”

You inhale, hard. “God, you’re dramatic.”

He smirks. “And you’re stubborn.”

“Because I don’t want to bury you in a report. I want to fix the goddamn machine before someone else gets chewed up in it.”

Jack stares at you.

The flicker of something new in his expression.

Respect.

“Then help me,” you say. “Let me draft a compliance framework that mirrors what you’ve built. A real one. If we can prove this routing saved lives, reduced downtime, and didn’t drain pediatric inventory, we can pitch it as an emergency operations protocol, not fraud.”

His brows lift, skeptical. “You think they’ll buy that?”

“No,” you say. “But I’m not giving them the choice. I’m giving them math.”

That gets him.

He grins. Barely. But it’s real.

“God,” he mutters. “You’re a menace.”

“You’re welcome.”

He turns away to hide the grin, but not before you catch the edge of it.

And then—quietly—he reaches for a file at the back of the shelf. It’s older. Faded. Taped up the side. He places it in your hands.

“What’s this?” you ask.

“The first reroute I ever filed. Back in 2017. Kid named Miguel. We were out of blood bags. I had a connection with the OR nurse who owed me a favor. Rerouted it through post-op. Saved the kid’s life. Never logged it.”

You glance down at the file. “You kept it?”

“I keep all of them.”

He meets your eyes again.

“You’re not here to bury me. Fine. But if you’re going to save me, do it right.”

You nod.

“I always do.”

Tuesday — 12:23 PM Allegheny General – Third Floor Charting Alcove

There’s no door to the alcove. Just a half-wall and a partition, like someone once tried to offer privacy and gave up halfway through. There’s a long desk, a broken rolling chair, two non-matching stools, and a stack of patient folders leaning so far left you half expect them to fall. The overhead light buzzes faintly, casting everything in pale hospital yellow.

You sit at the desk anyway.

Jacket folded over the back of the stool, sleeves pushed to your elbows, fingers already flying across the keyboard of your laptop. You’re building fast but clean. Sharp lines. Conditional formatting. A crisis-routing framework that looks like it was written by a task force, not two people who met five hours ago in a trauma hallway soaked in blood.

Jack stands across from you.

Leaning, not lounging. One arm crossed, the other flexed slightly as he rubs a knot in his shoulder. His scrub top is wrinkled and dark at the collar. There's a faint stain down his side you’re trying not to identify. He hasn't touched his phone in forty minutes. Hasn’t once asked when this ends.

He’s watching you.

Not like you’re entertainment. Like he’s waiting to see if you’ll slip.

You don’t.

“You ever sleep?” he asks, finally breaking the silence.

You don’t look up. “I’ve heard of it.”

He makes a sound—half laugh, half breath. “What’s your background, anyway? You don’t have the eyes of someone who studied finance for fun.”

“Applied mathematical economics,” you say, still typing. “Minor in gender studies. First job was forensic audits for nonprofits. Moved to healthcare compliance after a board member got indicted.”

That gets his attention. “Jesus.”

You glance at him. “I’m not here because I care about sterile supply chains, Dr. Abbot. I’m here because I know what happens when people stop paying attention to the margins.”

He leans in. “And what happens?”

You meet his eyes.

“They bleed.”

Something in his face tightens. Not defensiveness. Recognition.

You go back to typing.

On your screen, the Crisis Routing Framework takes shape line by line. A column for shelf code. A subcolumn for department reroute. A notes field for justification. A time-stamp formula.

You highlight the headers and format them in hospital blue.

Jack watches your hands. “You make it look real.”

“It is real. I’m just reverse-engineering the lie.”

“You ever consider med school?”

You snort. “No offense, but I prefer a job where the people I save don’t flatline halfway through.”

He grins. It's tired. But it's real.

You type another line, then say, “I’m flagging pediatric code 412 as overused. If they run a query, we need to show it tapered off this month. Start routing through P-580. Float department. Similar stock, slower pull rate.”

He nods slowly. “You’re scary.”

“Good. You’ll need someone scary.”

He rubs his thumb along his jaw. “You always this relentless?”

You pause. Then look at him.

“I grew up in a house where if you didn’t solve the problem, no one else was coming. So yeah. I’m relentless.”

Jack doesn’t smile this time. He just nods. Like he gets it.

You shift gears. “Talk me through supply flow. Where’s your weakest point?”

He thinks. “ICU hoards ventilator tubing. Pediatrics short-changes trauma bay stock twice a year during audit season. Central Supply won't prioritize ER if the orders come in after 5PM. And once a month, someone from anesthesia pulls from our cart without logging it.”

You blink. “That’s practically sabotage.”

You finish a formula. “Okay. I’m structuring this like a mirrored requisition chain. Any reroute needs a justification and a fallback, plus one sign-off from a second attending. If we’re going to pitch this as protocol, we can’t make you look like the sole cowboy.”

Jack quirks a brow. “Even though I am?”

“Especially because you are.”

He laughs again, and it’s deeper this time. Not performative. Just… easy.

He moves closer. Pulls a stool up beside you. Watches the screen over your shoulder.

“Alright. Let’s build it.”

You glance at him sideways. “Now you want in?”

“I don’t like systems I didn’t help design.”

You smirk. “Typical.”

“Also,” he adds, “I’m the one who’s gonna have to sell this to Robby. If it sounds too academic, he’ll assume I lost a bet and had to let someone from Harvard try to fix the ER.”

“I went to Ohio State.”

“Even worse.”

You roll your eyes. “We’re naming it CRF—Crisis Routing Framework.”

“That’s terrible.”

“It’s bureaucratically unassailable.”

“Still sounds like a printer manual.”

“You’re welcome.”

He chuckles again, and it hits you for the first time how rare that sound probably is from him. Jack Abbot doesn’t laugh in meetings. He doesn’t charm the board. He doesn’t play. He works. Bleeds. Fixes.

And here he is, giving you his time.

You scroll to the bottom of the spreadsheet and create a new tab. LIVE REROUTE LOG – PHASE ONE PILOT

You look at him. “You’re gonna log everything from here on out. Time, item, reroute, reason, outcome.”

Jack raises a brow. “Outcome?”

“I’m not defending chaos. I’m documenting impact. That’s how we scale this.”

He nods. “Alright.”

“You’re going to train one resident to do this after you.”

“I already know who.”

“And you’re going to let me present this to the admin team before you barge in and call someone a corporate parasite.”

Jack presses a hand to his chest, mock-offended. “I never said that out loud.”

You glance at him.

He exhales. “Fine. Deal.”

You close the laptop.

The spreadsheet is done. The framework is real. The logs are ready to go live. All that’s left now is convincing the hospital that what you’ve built together isn’t just a workaround—it’s the blueprint for saving what’s left.

He’s quiet for a minute.

Then: “You know this doesn’t fix everything, right?”

You nod. “It’s not supposed to. It just keeps the people who do fix things from getting fired.”

Jack tilts his head. “You really believe that?”

You meet his eyes. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

He studies you like he’s trying to find the catch.

Then he leans forward, forearms resting on his knees. “You know, when they said someone from Kane & Turner was coming in, I pictured a thirty-year-old with a spreadsheet addiction and no clue what a trauma bay looked like.”

“I pictured a man who didn’t know what a compliance code was and thought ethics were optional.”

He grins. “Touché.”

You smile back, tired and full of adrenaline and something else you don’t have a name for yet.

Then you stand. Sling your laptop under your arm.

“I’ll send you the first draft of the protocol by morning,” you say. “Review it. Sign off. Try not to add any sarcastic margin notes unless they’re grammatically correct.”

Jack stands too. Nods.

And then—quietly, like it costs him something—he says, “Thank you.”

You pause.

“You’re welcome.”

He doesn’t say more. Doesn’t have to. You walk out of the alcove without looking back. You’ve already given him your trust. The rest is up to him.

Behind you, Jack pulls the chair closer. Opens the laptop.

And starts logging.

Saturday — 12:16 AM Three Weeks Later Downtown Pittsburgh — The Forge, Liberty Ave

The bar pulses.

Brick walls sweat condensation. Shot glasses clink. The DJ is on his third remix of the same Doja Cat song, and the bass is loud enough to rearrange your internal organs. Somewhere behind you, someone’s yelling about their ex. Your drink is pink and glowing and entirely too strong.

You’re wearing a bachelorette sash. It isn’t your party. You barely know half the girls here. One of them’s already crying in the bathroom. Another lost a nail trying to mount the mechanical bull.

And you?

You’re on top of a booth table with a stolen tiara jammed into your hair and exactly three working brain cells rattling around your skull.

Someone hands you another tequila shot.

You take it.

You’re drunk—not hospital gala drunk, not tipsy-at-a-networking-reception drunk.

You’re downtown-Pittsburgh, six-tequila-shots-deep, screaming-a-Fergie-remix drunk.

Because it’s been a month of high-functioning, hyper-competent, trauma-defending, budget-balancing brilliance. And tonight?

You want to be dumb. Messy. Loud. A girl in a too-short dress with glitter dusted across her clavicle and no memory of the phrase “compliance code.”

You tip your head back. The bar lights blur.

That’s when you try the spin.

A full, arms-above-your-head, dramatic-ass spin.

Your heel lands wrong.

And the table snaps.

You hear it before you feel it—an ugly wood crack, a rush of cold air, your body collapsing sideways. Something twists in your ankle. Your elbow hits the edge of a stool. You end up flat on your back on the floor, breath gone, ears ringing.

The bar goes silent.

Someone gasps.

Someone laughs.

And above you—through the haze of artificial light and bass static—you hear a voice.

Familiar.

Dry. Sharp. Unbelievably fucking real.

“Jesus Christ.”

Jack Abbot has been here twelve minutes.

Long enough for Robby to buy him a beer and mutter something about needing “noise therapy” after a shift that involved two DOAs, one psych hold, and an attempted overdose in the staff restroom.

Jack hadn’t wanted to come. He still smells like the trauma bay. His back hurts. There’s blood on his undershirt. But Robby insisted.

So here he is, in a bar full of neon and glitter, trying not to judge anyone for being loud and alive.

And then you fell through a table.

He doesn’t recognize you at first. Not in this light. Not in that dress. Not barefoot on the floor with your hair falling out of its updo and your mouth half-open in shock.

But then he sees the way you try to sit up.

And you groan: “Oh my God.”

Jack’s already moving.

Robby shouts behind him, “Is that—oh shit, that’s her—”

Jack ignores him. Shoves through the crowd. Kneels at your side. You’re clutching your ankle. There's glitter on your neck. You're laughing and crying and trying to brush off your friends.

And then you see him.

Your eyes go wide.

You blink. “...Jack?”

His jaw tightens. “Yeah. It’s me.”

You try to sit up straighter. Fail. “Am I dreaming?”

“Nope.”

“Are you real?”

“Unfortunately.”

You drop your head back against the floor. “Oh God. This is the most humiliating night of my life.”

“Worse than the procurement meeting?”

You peek up at him, hair in your eyes. “Worse. Way worse. I was trying to prove I could still do a backbend.”

Jack sighs. “Of course you were.”

You wince. “I think I broke my foot.”

He presses two fingers to your pulse, checks your ankle gently. “You might’ve. It’s swelling. You’re lucky.”

“I don’t feel lucky.”

“You are,” he says. “If you’d twisted further inward, you’d be looking at a spiral fracture.”

You stare at him. “Did you really just trauma-evaluate my foot in a bar?”

Jack looks up. “Would you prefer someone else?”

“No,” you admit.

“Then shut up and let me finish.”

Your friends hover, but none of them move closer. Jack’s presence is... commanding. Like the bar suddenly remembered he’s the person you call when someone stops breathing.

You watch him.

The sleeves of his black zip-up are rolled to the elbow. His hands are clean now, but his cuticles are stained. His ID badge is gone, but he still wears the same exhaustion. The same steady focus.

He touches your foot again. You flinch.

Jack winces, just slightly.

“I’ve got you,” he says.

Jack slips one arm under your legs and the other behind your back and lifts.

“Holy shit,” you squeak. “What are you doing?!”

“Getting you off the floor before someone livestreams this.”

You bury your face in his collarbone. “I hate you.”

He chuckles. “No, you don’t.”

“You’re smug.”

“I’m right.”

“You smell like trauma bay and cheap beer.”

“Don’t change the subject.”

He carries you past the bouncer, past the flash of phone cameras, past Robby cackling at the bar.

Outside, the air hits you like truth. Cold. Sharp. Clear.

Jack sets you down on the hood of his truck and kneels again.

“You’re taking me to the ER?” you ask, quieter now.

“No,” he says. “You’re coming to my apartment. We’ll ice it, wrap it, and if it still looks bad in the morning, I’ll take you in.”

You squint. “I thought you weren’t off until Monday.”

Jack stands. “I’m not, but you’re coming with me. Someone’s gotta keep you from dancing on furniture.”

You blink. “You’re serious.”

“I always am.”

You look at him.

Three weeks ago, you rewrote a system together. Built a lifeline in the margins. Saved a hospital with data, caffeine, and stubborn brilliance.

And now he’s here, brushing glitter off your shoulder, holding your sprained foot like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“I thought you hated me,” you murmur.

Jack looks at you, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

“I didn’t hate you,” he says.

He leans in.

“I just didn’t know how much I needed you until you stayed.”

Saturday — 12:57 AM Jack's Apartment — South Side Flats

You don’t remember the elevator ride.

Just the press of warm hands. The cold knot of pain winding tighter in your foot. The way Jack didn’t flinch when you leaned into him like gravity wasn’t working the way it should.

He’d carried you like he’d done it before.

Like your weight wasn’t an inconvenience.

Like there wasn’t something fragile in the way your hands gripped the edge of his jacket, or the way your voice slurred slightly when you whispered, “Please don’t drop me.”

“I’ve got you,” he’d said.

Not a performance. Not pity.

Just fact.

Now you’re here. In his apartment. And everything’s still.

The door clicks shut behind you. The locks slide into place. You blink in the quiet.

Jack’s apartment is...surprising.

Not messy. Not sterile. Lived in.

A row of mugs lined up by the sink—some hospital-branded, one chipped, one that says “World’s Okayest Doctor” in faded red font. A half-built bookshelf in the corner with a hammer sitting beside it, a box of unopened paperbacks on the floor. A stack of trauma logs on the kitchen counter, marked with highlighters. There’s a hoodie tossed over the back of a chair. A photo frame turned face-down.

He doesn’t explain the place. Just moves toward the couch.

“Feet up,” he says gently. “Cushions under your back. I’ll get the ice.”

You let him settle you—ankle elevated, pillow beneath your knees, spine curving against the soft give of the cushion. His hands are firm but careful. His touch steady. No wasted movement.

The moment he turns toward the kitchen, you finally exhale.

Your foot throbs, yes. But it’s not just the injury. It’s the shift. The collapse. The way your brain is catching up to your body, fast and unforgiving.

He returns with a towel-wrapped bag of crushed ice. Kneels beside the couch. Presses it gently to your swollen ankle.

You wince.

He watches you. “Still bad?”

“I’ve had worse.”

He cocks his head. “Let me guess—tax season?”

You smile, tired. “Try federal oversight for a trauma unit that runs on scraps.”

His mouth twitches. “Fair.”

He adjusts the ice. Shifts slightly to sit on the floor beside you, back against the edge of the couch.

“Thanks for not taking me to the hospital,” you murmur after a beat.

He snorts. “You were drunk, barefoot, and covered in glitter. I figured they didn’t need that energy tonight.”

You laugh softly. “I’m usually very composed, you know.”

“Sure.”

“I am.”

“You’re also the only person I’ve ever seen terrify a board meeting into extending a $1.4 million grant with nothing but a color-coded spreadsheet and a raised eyebrow.”

You grin, despite the ache. “It worked.”

He looks at you then.

Really looks.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “It did.”

Silence stretches, but it’s not awkward.

The hum of his fridge clicks on. The distant wail of a siren threads through the cracked kitchen window. The ice burns through the towel, numbing your foot.

You turn your head toward him. “You don’t talk much when you’re off shift.”

He shrugs. “I talk all day. Sometimes it’s nice to let the quiet say something for me.”

You pause. Then: “You’ve changed.”

Jack’s eyes flick up. “Since what?”

“Since the first day. You were—” you search for the word, “—hostile.”

“I was exhausted.”

“You’re still exhausted.”

“Maybe.” He rubs a hand over his face. “But back then, I didn’t think anyone gave a shit about the mess we were drowning in. Then you showed up in heels and threatened to file an ethics report in real-time during a trauma code.”

You grin. “You never let me live that down.”

He chuckles. “It was hot.”

You blink. “What?”

His eyes widen slightly. He looks away. “Shit. Sorry. That was—”

“Say it again,” you say, heartbeat ticking up.

He hesitates.

Then, quieter: “It was hot.”

The room stills.

Your throat goes dry.

Jack clears his throat and stands. “I’ll get you some water.”

You catch his wrist.

He stops. Looks down.

You don’t let go. Not yet.

“I think I’m sobering up,” you whisper.

Jack doesn’t speak. But his expression softens. Like he’s afraid you’ll take it back if he breathes too loud.

“And I still want you here,” you add.

That breaks something in his posture.

Not lust. Not intention.

Just clarity.

Jack lowers himself back down. Closer this time. He leans forward, arms on his knees, forearms bare, veins visible under dim kitchen-light glow. You’re aware of the space between you. The hush. The hum.

“I’ve been trying to stay out of your way,” he admits. “Let the protocol speak for itself. Let the work be enough.”

“It is.”

“But it’s not all.”

You nod. “I know.”

He meets your eyes. “I meant what I said. I didn’t know how much I needed you until you stayed.”

Your chest tightens.

“You make it easier to breathe in that place,” he adds. “And I haven’t breathed easy in years.”

You lean back against the couch, exhale slowly.

“I think we’re more alike than I thought,” you murmur. “We both like being the one people rely on.”

Jack nods. “And we both fall apart quietly.”

Another silence. Another shift.

“I don’t want to fall apart tonight,” you whisper.

He looks at you.

“You won’t,” he says. “Not while I’m here.”

And then he reaches for your hand. Doesn’t take it. Just lets his fingers rest close enough that the warmth passes between you.

That’s all it is.

Not a kiss.

Not a confession.

Just one long moment of quiet, where neither of you has to hold the weight of anyone else’s world.

Just each other’s.

Sunday — 8:19 AM Jack's Apartment — South Side Flats

You wake to soft light.

Filtered through half-closed blinds, the kind that turns gray into gold and casts long lines across the carpet. The apartment is quiet, still warm from the night before, but there’s no sound except the faint hum of the fridge and the scrape of the city waking up somewhere six floors down.

Your foot throbs—but less than last night.

The pain is dulled. Managed.

You shift slowly, eyes adjusting. You’re on the couch, still in your dress, a blanket draped over you. Your leg is elevated on a pillow, and your ankle is wrapped in clean white gauze—professionally, precisely. You didn’t do that.

Jack.

There’s a glass of water on the coffee table. Full. No condensation. A bottle of ibuprofen beside it, label turned outward. A banana and a paper napkin.

The care is unmistakable.

You blink once, twice, then sit up slowly.

The apartment smells like coffee.

You limp toward the kitchen on your good foot, using the back of a chair for balance. The ice pack is gone. So is Jack.

But on the counter—neatly arranged like he planned every inch—is a folded gray hoodie, your left heel (broken but cleaned), a fresh cup of black coffee in a white ceramic mug, and something that stops you cold:

The new CRF logbook.

Printed. Binded. Tabbed in color-coded dividers. The first page filled out in his slanted, all-caps writing.

At the top: CRF — ALLEGHENY GENERAL EMERGENCY PILOT — 3-WEEK AUDIT REVIEW. In the corner, under “Lead Coordinator,” your name is written in ink.

There’s a sticky note beside it. Yellow. Curling at the edge.

“It works because of you.— J”

You stare at it for a long time.

Not because it’s dramatic. Because it’s not.

Because it’s simple. True.

You pick up the binder, flip to the first log. It’s already halfway filled—dates, codes, outcomes. Jack has been tracking everything. By hand. Every reroute. Every save. Every corner he’s bent back into shape.

And he’s signing your name on every one of them.

You run your fingers over the paper.

Then reach for the mug.

It’s warm. Not fresh—but not cold either. Like he poured it minutes before leaving.

You sip.

And for the first time in weeks—maybe longer—you don’t feel like you're catching up to your own life. You feel placed. Like someone made room for you before you asked.

You limp toward the window, slow and careful, and watch the street below wake up.

The city is still gray. Still loud. But it’s yours now. His, too. Not perfect. Not quiet. But it’s working.

You lean against the frame.

Your chest aches in that unfamiliar, not-quite-painful way that only comes when something shifts inside you—something big and slow and inevitable.

You don’t know what this is yet.

But you know where it started.

On a trauma shift.

In a supply closet.

With a man who saw your strength before you ever raised your voice.

And stayed.

One Month Later — Saturday, 6:41 PM Pittsburgh — Shadyside, near Ellsworth Ave

The sky’s already lilac by the time you get out of the Uber.

The street glows with soft storefront lighting—jewelers locking up, the florist’s shutters halfway drawn, the sidewalk sprinkled with pale pink petals from whatever tree is blooming overhead. The restaurant is tucked between a jazz bar and a wine shop, easy to miss if you’re not looking for it.

But Jack is already there.

Leaning against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, like he doesn’t want to go in without you. He’s in a navy button-down, sleeves pushed up to the elbow, top button undone. He’s not hiding in trauma armor tonight. He looks clean. Rested. Still a little unsure.

You see him before he sees you.

And when he does—when his head lifts and his eyes find you—he stills.

The kind of still that feels like reverence, even if he’d never call it that.

He says your name. Just once. And then:

“You came.”

You smile. “Of course I came.”

“I wasn’t sure.”

You tilt your head. “Why?”

He looks down, breathes out through his nose. “Because sometimes when things matter, I assume they won’t last.”

You step closer.

“They haven’t even started yet,” you murmur. “Let’s go in.”

The bistro is warm. Brick walls. Low ceilings. Candles on every table, their flames soft and steady in small hurricane glass cylinders. There’s a record player spinning something old in the corner—Chet Baker or maybe Nina Simone—and everything smells like rosemary, lemon, and the faintest hint of woodsmoke.

They seat you at a two-top near the back, under a copper wall sconce. Jack pulls out your chair.

You settle in, napkin across your lap, and when you look up—he’s still watching you.

You say, half-laughing, “What?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing.”

You arch a brow.

Jack clears his throat, quiet. “Just… didn’t think I’d ever sit across from you like this.”

You tilt your head. “What did you think?”

“That you’d disappear when the work was done. That I’d keep building alone.”

You soften. “You don’t have to anymore.”

He looks away like he’s holding back too much. “I know.”

The first half of the date is easier than expected.

You talk like people who already know the shape of each other’s silences. He tells you about a med student who called him “sir” and then fainted in a trauma room. You tell him about a client who tried to expense a yacht as “emergency morale restoration.” You laugh. You eat. He lets you try his meal before you ask.

But somewhere between the second glass of wine and dessert, the air starts to shift.

Not tense. Just heavier. Like both of you know you’ve reached the part where you either step closer… or let it stay what it’s always been.

Jack leans back, arm resting on the back of the chair beside him.

He watches you carefully. “Can I ask something?”

You nod.

“Why’d you keep answering when I texted?”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“I mean—you’re good. Smart. Whole. You didn’t need me.”

You smile. “You’re wrong.”

Jack doesn’t say anything. Just waits. You fold your hands in your lap. “I didn’t need a fixer,” you say slowly. “But I needed someone who saw the same broken thing I did. And didn’t flinch.”

His jaw flexes. His fingers tap the edge of the table. “I flinched,” he says. “At first.”

“But you stayed.”

Jack looks down. Then up again. “I’ve never been afraid of blood,” he says. “Or death. Or screaming. But I’ve always been afraid of this. Of getting used to something that could disappear.”

You exhale. “Then don’t disappear.” It’s not flirty. It’s not dramatic. It’s a promise.

His hand finds the table. Palm open.

Yours moves toward it.

You hesitate. For half a second.

Then place your hand in his.

He closes his fingers around yours like he’s done it a hundred times—but still can’t believe you’re letting him. His voice is low. “I like you.”

“I know.”

“I don’t do this. I don’t—”

“Jack.” You squeeze his hand. He stops talking. “I like you too.”

No rush. No smirk. Just this slow-burning, backlit certainty that maybe—for once—you’re allowed to be wanted in a way that doesn’t burn through you.

Jack lifts your hand. Presses his lips to the back of it—once, then again. Slower the second time.

When he lets go, it’s with a softness that feels deliberate. Like he’s giving it back to you, not letting it go.

You reach for your phone, half on autopilot. “I should call an Uber—”

“Don’t,” Jack says, low.

You pause.

He’s already pulling out his keys. “I’ll drive you home.”

You smile, small and warm.

“I figured you might.”

Saturday — 9:42 PM Your Apartment — East End, Pittsburgh

The hallway feels quieter than usual.

Maybe it’s the way the night sits heavy on your skin—thick with everything left unsaid in the car ride over. Maybe it’s the way Jack keeps glancing over at you, not nervous, not unsure, but like he’s memorizing each second for safekeeping.

You unlock the door and push it open with your shoulder.

Warm light spills out into the hallway—the glow from the lamp you left on, the one by the bookshelf. It’s yellow-gold, soft around the edges, the kind of light that doesn’t ask for anything.

Jack pauses at the threshold.

You watch him watch the room.

He notices the details: the stack of books by the bed. The houseplant you’re not sure is alive. The smell of bergamot and something citrus curling faintly from the kitchen. He doesn’t say anything about it. He just steps inside slowly, like he doesn’t want to ruin anything.

You toe off your shoes by the door. He closes it behind you, quiet as ever. You catch him glancing at your coat hook, at the little ceramic tray full of loose change and paper clips and hair ties.

“You live like someone who doesn’t leave in a rush,” he says softly.

You tilt your head. “What does that mean?”

Jack shrugs. “It means it’s warm in here.”

You don’t know what to do with that. So you smile. And then—like gravity resets—you’re both standing in your living room, closer than you meant to be, without shoes or coats or any buffer at all.

Jack shifts first. Hands in his pockets. He looks down, then up again. There’s something almost boyish in it. Almost shy. “I keep thinking,” he murmurs, “about the moment I almost asked you out and didn’t.”

You swallow. “When was that?”

He steps closer. His voice stays low. “After we wrote the first draft of the protocol. You were sitting in that awful rolling chair. Hair up. Eyes on the screen like the world depended on your next keystroke.”

You laugh, soft.

“I looked at you,” he says, “and I thought, ‘If I ask her out now, I’ll never stop wanting her.’”

Your breath catches.

“And that scared the hell out of me.”

You don’t speak. You don’t need to. Because you’re already reaching for him. And he meets you halfway. Not in a rush. Not in a pull. Just a quiet, inevitable lean.

The kiss is slow. Not hesitant—intentional. His hand finds your waist first, the other grazing your cheek. Your fingers curl into the front of his shirt, anchoring yourself.

You part your lips first. He deepens it. And it’s the kind of kiss that says: I waited. I wanted. I’m here now.

His thumb traces the side of your face like he’s still getting used to the shape of you. His mouth moves like he’s learned your rhythm already, like he’s wanted to do this since the first time you told him he was wrong and made him like it.

He breaks the kiss only to breathe. But his forehead stays pressed to yours. His voice is hoarse.

“I’m trying not to fall too fast.”

You whisper, “Why?”

Jack exhales. “Because I think I already did.”

You press your lips to his again—softer this time. Then pull back enough to look at him. His expression is unguarded. More than tired. Relieved. Like the thing he’s been carrying for years just finally set itself down. You brush your thumb across the line of his jaw.

“Then stay,” you say.

His eyes meet yours. No hesitation.

“I will.”

He follows you to the couch without asking. You curl into the corner, legs tucked beneath you. He sits beside you, arm behind your shoulders, body warm and still faintly smelling of cologne.

You rest your head on his chest.

His hand moves slowly—fingertips tracing light shapes against your spine. You think maybe he’s drawing the floor plan of a life he didn’t think he’d ever get.

Neither of you speak. And for once, Jack doesn’t need words.

Because here, in your living room, under soft lighting and quiet, and the hum of a city that never quite sleeps—you’re both still.

And neither of you is leaving.

Sunday – 6:58 AM Your Apartment – East End, Pittsburgh

It’s still early when the light begins to stretch.

Not sharp. Not the kind that yells the day awake. Just a slow, honey-soft glow bleeding in through the blinds—brushed gold along the floorboards, the edge of the nightstand, the collar of the shirt tangled around your frame.

It smells like sleep in here. Like warmth and cotton and skin. You’re not alone. You feel it before your eyes open: the quiet sound of someone else breathing. The weight of a hand resting loosely over your hip. The warmth of a body curved behind yours, chest to spine, legs tucked close like he was worried you’d get cold sometime in the night.

Jack.

Your heart gives a small, guilty flutter—not from regret. From how unreal it still feels. His arm shifts slightly. He inhales. Not quite awake, but moving toward it. You keep your eyes closed and let yourself be held.

Not because you need protection. Because being known—this fully, this gently—is rarer than safety.

The bedsheets are half-kicked off. Your shared body heat turned the room muggy around 3 a.m., but now the chill has crept back in. His nose is tucked against the crook of your neck. His stubble has left faint irritation on your skin. You could point out the way his foot rests over yours, how he must’ve hooked it there subconsciously, anchoring you in place. You could point out the weight of his hand splayed across your ribcage, not possessive—just there.

But there’s nothing to say. There’s just this. The shape of it. The way your body fits his. You shift slightly beneath his arm and feel him breathe in deeper.

Then—“You’re awake,” he murmurs, his voice sleep-rough and warm against your skin.

You nod, barely. “So are you.”

He lets out a quiet hum. The kind people make when they don’t want the moment to change. You turn in his arms slowly. He doesn’t fight it. His hand slips to your lower back as you roll, fingers still curved to hold. And then you’re facing him—cheek to pillow, inches apart.

Jack Abbot is never this soft.

He blinks the sleep out of his eyes, messy hair pushed back on one side, face creased faintly where it met the pillow. His mouth is slightly open. There’s a dent at the base of his throat where his pulse beats slow and steady, and you watch it without shame.

His eyes search yours. “I didn’t know if you’d want me here in the morning,” he says.

You reach up, touch a lock of hair near his temple. “I think I wanted you here more than I’ve wanted anything in weeks.”

That gets him. Not a smile. Something quieter. Something grateful. “I almost left at five,” he admits. “But then you turned over and said my name.”

You blink. “I don’t remember that.”

“You said it like you were still dreaming. Like you thought I might disappear if you stopped saying it.”

Your throat catches. Jack reaches up, runs a thumb under your cheekbone. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says.

You rest your forehead against his. “I know.”

Neither of you move for a while.

Eventually, he shifts slightly and kisses your jaw. Your temple. Your nose. When his lips brush yours, it’s not a kiss. Not yet. It’s just a touch. A greeting. A promise that he’ll wait for you to move first.

You do.

He kisses you slowly—like he’s checking if he can keep doing this, if it’s still allowed. You kiss him back like he’s already yours. And when it ends, it’s not because you pulled away.

It’s because he smiled against your mouth.

You shift again, stretching your limbs gently. “What time is it?”

Jack rolls slightly to glance at the clock. “Almost seven.”

You hum. “Too early for decisions.”

“What decisions?”

“Like whether I should make breakfast. Or pretend we’re too comfortable to move.”

Jack tugs you a little closer. “I vote for the second one.”

You laugh against his chest. His hand strokes up and down your spine in lazy, slow passes. Nothing rushed. Just skin and warmth and quiet.

It’s a long time before either of you try to get up. When you do, it’s because Jack insists on coffee.

You sit on the bed, cross-legged, blanket pooled around your waist while he pads around the kitchen in boxers, hair a mess, your fridge open with a squint like he’s trying to understand your milk choices.

“I have creamer,” you call.

“I saw. Why is it in a mason jar?”

“Because I dropped the original bottle and couldn’t get the lid back on.”

Jack just laughs and pours two mugs—one full, one halfway. He brings yours first. “Two sugars?”

You blink. “How did you know?”

“You stirred your coffee five times the other day. I watched the way your face changed after the second packet.”

You squint. “You remember that?”

Jack shrugs, eyes soft. “I remember you.”

You take the cup. Your fingers brush. He leans in and kisses the top of your head. The apartment smells like coffee and him. He stays all morning. You don’t notice the time pass.

But when he kisses you goodbye—long, lingering, forehead pressed to yours—you don’t ask when you’ll see him next.

Because you already know.

Friday – 12:13 AM Your Apartment — East End, Pittsburgh

You’re awake, but just barely.

Your laptop is dimmed to preserve battery, the spreadsheet on screen more muscle memory than thought. You’d told yourself you'd finish reconciling the quarterly vendor ledger before bed, but your formulas have started to blur into one long row of black-and-white static.

There’s half a glass of Pinot on your coffee table. You’re in an old sweatshirt and socks, glasses slipping down the bridge of your nose. The only light in the apartment comes from the kitchen—low, golden, humming.

It’s late, but the kind of late you’re used to. And then—three knocks at the door. Not buzzed. Not texted. Not expected.

Three solid, decisive knocks.

You sit up straight. Laptop closed. Glass down. Your feet find the floor with a soft thud as you cross the room. The locks click one by one. You look through the peephole and your heart stumbles.

Jack.

Black scrubs. Blood dried along his collar. One hand braced against your doorframe, as if he needed the structure to hold himself up.

You don’t hesitate. You open the door. He looks at you like he’s not sure he should’ve come. You step aside anyway.

“Come in.”

Jack crosses the threshold slowly, like someone walking into a church they haven’t set foot in since the funeral. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t kiss you. Doesn’t offer a greeting. His movements are mechanical. His body’s tight.

He stands in the middle of your living room, beneath the soft spill of light from the kitchen, and doesn’t say a word.

You shut the door. Turn toward him.

“Jack.”

His eyes lift to yours. He looks wrecked. Not bleeding. Not broken. Just… done. And yet still trying to hold it all together. You take one step forward.

“I lost a kid,” he says, voice gravel-thick. “Tonight.”

You go still.

“She came in from a hit-and-run. Eleven. Trauma-coded on arrival. We got her to the OR. Her BP was gone before the second unit of blood even cleared.”

You don’t interrupt.

“She had these barrettes in her hair. Bright pink. I don’t know why I keep thinking about them. Maybe because they were the only clean thing in the whole room. Or maybe because—” he breaks off, jaw clenched.

You reach for his wrist. He lets you.

“I didn’t want to stop. Even after I knew it was gone. Her mom—” his voice cracks—“she was screaming.”

Your fingers tighten gently around his. He finally looks at you. “I shouldn’t be here.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t want to bring this to you. The blood. The mess. You work in numbers and deadlines. Spreadsheets and order. This isn’t your world.”

“You are.”

That stops him. Jack looks down.

“I didn’t know where else to go.”

You step into him fully now, arms sliding around his back. His hands hover for a moment, unsure.

Then he folds. All at once. His chin drops to your shoulder. One arm tightens around your waist, the other wraps up your back like he’s afraid you might vanish too. You feel it in his body—the way he lets go slowly, like muscle by muscle, his grief loosens its grip on his spine.

You don't rush him. You don’t ask more questions.

You just hold.

It takes him a long time to speak again.

When he does, it’s from the couch, twenty minutes later. He’s sitting with his elbows on his knees, your throw blanket around his shoulders.

You made tea without asking. You’re curled at the other end, knees drawn up, watching him with quiet presence.

“I don’t know how to be this person,” he says. “The one who can’t hold it all.”

You sip from your mug. “You don’t have to hold it alone.”

Jack lets out a sound that’s not quite a laugh. “You say that like it’s easy.”

You set the mug down. Shift closer.

“You patch up people who never say thank you. You hold their trauma in your hands. You drive home alone with someone else’s blood on your shirt. And then you pretend none of it touches you.”

He looks over at you.

“It touches you, Jack. Of course it does.”

He doesn’t respond. You reach for his hand. Laced fingers. “I don’t need you to be okay right now.”

His shoulders drop slightly. You lean into him, resting your head on his arm.

“You can fall apart here,” you say, voice low. “I know how to hold weight.”

Jack breathes in like that sentence pulled something loose in his chest. “You were working,” he says after a beat. “I shouldn’t have come.”

You look up. “I audit grants for a living. I’ll survive a late ledger.”

He smiles, barely. You move your hand to his jaw, thumb brushing the stubble there.

“I’m glad you came here.”

He leans forward, presses his forehead to yours. “Me too.”

He kisses you once—slow, still tasting like exhaustion—and when he pulls back, it feels like the world has shifted a half-inch left.

You don’t say anything else. You just get up, take his hand, and lead him down the hallway.

You fall asleep wrapped around each other.

Jack’s head pressed between your shoulder and collarbone. Your legs tangled. Your arm around his middle. And for the first time in hours, his breathing evens out. He doesn’t flinch when the siren howls down the block. He doesn’t wake from the sound of your radiator clanking.

He stays still.

Safe.

And when you wake hours later to the soft grey of morning just beginning to yawn over the windowsill—Jack is already looking at you. Eyes soft. Brow relaxed.

“You okay?” you whisper.

He nods. “I will be.”

Jack watches you like he’s learning something new. And for once—he doesn’t try to fix a single thing.

Two weeks after the hard night — Thursday, 9:26 PM Your Apartment — East End, Pittsburgh

The second episode of the sitcom has just started when you realize Jack isn’t watching anymore. You’re curled into the corner of the couch, fleece blanket over your legs, half a container of pad thai balanced precariously on your thigh. Jack’s sitting at the other end, your feet in his lap, chopsticks abandoned, one hand absently rubbing slow circles over your ankle.

His gaze is fixed—not on the TV, not on his food. On you.

You pause mid-bite. “What?”

Jack shakes his head slightly. “Nothing.”

You raise an eyebrow. He smiles. “You’re just… really good at this.”

You blink. “At what? Being horizontal?”

He shrugs. “That. Letting me in. Making room for me in your life. Turning leftovers into dinner without apologizing. Letting me keep my toothbrush here.”

You snort. “Jack, you have a drawer.”

He grins, but it fades slowly. Not gone—just quieter. “I keep waiting to feel like I don’t belong in this. And I haven’t.”

You watch him for a long beat. Then: “Is that what you’re afraid of?”

He looks down. Then back up. “I think I was afraid you’d get bored of me. That you’d realize I’m too much and not enough at the same time.”

Your heart tightens. “Jack.”

But he lifts a hand—like he needs to say it now or he won’t. “And then I came here the other week—falling apart in your doorway—and you didn’t flinch. You didn’t ask me to explain it or shape it or make it easier to hold. You just… held me.”

You set the container down. Jack shifts closer. Takes your foot in both hands now. Thumb moving over your arch, slower than before.

“I’ve spent years patching things. Working nights. Giving the best parts of me to strangers who forget my name. And you—” he exhales—“you made space without asking me to perform.”

You don’t speak. You just listen. And then he says it. Not softly. Not theatrically. Just right.

“I love you.”

You blink. Not because you’re shocked—but because of how easy it lands. How certain it feels.

Jack waits. Your mouth opens—and for a moment, nothing comes out. Then: “You know what I was thinking before you said that?”

He quirks a brow.

“I was thinking I could do this every night. Sit on this couch, eat cold noodles, watch something dumb. As long as you were here.”

Jack’s eyes flicker. You move closer. Take his face in both hands. “I love you too.” You don’t say it like a question. You say it like it’s always been true.

Jack leans in, kisses you once—sweet, grounding, slow. When he pulls back, he’s smiling, but it’s not smug. It’s soft. Like relief. Like home.

“Okay,” he says quietly.

You nod. “Okay.”

Four Months Later — Sunday, 6:21 PM Regent Square — Their First House

There are twenty-seven unopened boxes between the two of you.

You counted.

Because you’re an accountant, and that’s how your brain makes sense of chaos: it gives it a ledger, a timeline, a to-do list. Even now—sitting on the floor of a house that still smells like primer and wood polish—your eyes keep drifting toward the boxes like they owe you something.

But then Jack walks in from the porch, and the air shifts. He’s barefoot, hoodie sleeves pushed up, a bottle of sparkling water dangling from one hand. His hair’s slightly damp from the post-move-in rinse you bullied him into. And there’s something different in his face now—lighter, maybe. Looser.

“You’re staring,” he says.

“I’m mentally organizing.”

Jack drops beside you on the floor, leans his shoulder into yours. “You’re stress-auditing the spice rack.”

“It’s not an audit,” you murmur. “It’s a preliminary layout strategy.”

He grins. “Do I need to leave you alone with the cinnamon?”

You elbow him.

The room around you is full of light. Big windows. A scratched-up floor you kind of already love. The couch is still wrapped in plastic. You’re sitting on the rug you just unrolled—your knees pressed to his thigh, your coffee mug still warm in your hands. There’s a half-built bookcase in the corner. Your duffel bag’s still open in the hall.

None of it’s finished. But Jack is here. And that makes the rest feel possible. He glances around the room. “You know what we should do?”

You look at him, wary. “If you say ‘unpack the garage,’ I’m calling a truce and ordering Thai.”

“No.” He turns toward you, one arm braced across his knee. “I meant we should ruin a room.”

You blink. Then stare. Jack watches your expression shift. You set your mug down slowly. “Ruin?”

“Yeah,” he says casually, totally unaware. “Pick one. Go full chaos. Pretend we can set it up tonight. Pretend we didn’t already work full days and haul furniture and fail to assemble a bedframe because someone threw out the extra screws—”

“I did not—”

He holds up a hand, grinning. “Not important. Point is: let’s ruin one. Let it be a disaster. First night tradition.”

You pause.

Then—tentatively: “You want to… have sex in a room full of boxes?”

Jack freezes. You raise an eyebrow. “Oh my God,” he mutters.

You start laughing. Jack covers his face with both hands. “That’s not what I meant.”

“You said ruin a room.”

“I meant emotionally. Functionally.”

You’re still laughing—half from exhaustion, half from how red his ears just went.

“Jesus,” he mutters into his hands. “You’re the one with a mortgage spreadsheet color-coded by quarter and you thought I wanted to christen the house with a full-home porno?”

You bite your lip. “Well, now you’re just making it sound like a challenge.”

Jack groans and collapses backward onto the rug. You follow him. Lay down beside him, shoulder to shoulder. The ceiling above is bare. No light fixture yet. Just exposed beams and white primer. You stare at it for a long beat, side by side. He turns his head. Looks at you.

“You really thought I meant sex in every room?”

You shrug. “You said ruin. I was tired. My brain filled in the blanks.”

Jack snorts. Then rolls toward you, props himself on one elbow. “Would it be that bad if I had meant that?”

You glance at him. He’s flushed. Amused. Slightly wild-haired. You reach up and thread your fingers through the edge of his hoodie.

“I think,” you say slowly, “that it would make for a very effective unpacking incentive.”

Jack grins. “We’re negotiating with sex now?”

You shrug. “Depends.”

He kisses you once—soft and full of quiet mischief. You blink up at him. The room is suddenly still. Warm. Dimming. Gentle. Jack’s smile fades a little. Not gone—just quieter. Real.

“I know it’s just walls,” he says softly, “but it already feels like you live here more than me.”

You frown. “It’s our house.”

He nods. “Yeah. But you make it feel like home.”

Your breath catches. He doesn’t say anything else. Just leans down and kisses you again—this time longer. Slower. His hand curls against your waist. Your body moves with his instinctively. The kiss lingers.

And when he finally pulls back, forehead resting against yours, he whispers, “Okay. Let’s ruin the bedroom first.”

You smile. He stands, offers you a hand. And you follow. Not because you owe him. But because you’ve already decided:

This is the man you’ll build every room around.

One Year Later — Saturday, 11:46 PM The House — Bedroom. Dim Lamp. One Window Open. You and Him.

Jack Abbot is looking at you like he wants to burn through you.

You’re straddling his lap, bare thighs across his hips, tank top riding high, no underwear. His sweatpants are halfway down. Your bodies are flushed, panting, teeth-marks already ghosting along your collarbone. His hands are firm on your waist—not rough. Just present. Like he’s still making sure you’re real.

The window’s cracked. Night breeze slipping in against sweat-slicked skin.

The sheets are kicked to the floor.

You’d barely made it to the bedroom—half a bottle of wine, two soft laughs, one look across the kitchen, and he’d muttered something about being obsessed with you in this shirt, and that was it. His mouth was on your neck before you hit the hallway wall.

Now you're here.

Rocking slow on his cock, bodies tangled, your hand braced on his chest, the other wrapped around the back of his neck.

“Fuck,” Jack groans, barely audible. “You feel…”

“Yeah,” you whisper, forehead pressed to his. “I know.”

You’d always known.

But tonight?

Tonight, it clicks in a way that guts you both.

He’s not thrusting. He’s holding you there—deep and still—like if he moves too fast, the moment will shatter.

He kisses you like a vow.

You can feel how wrecked he is—his hands trembling a little now, his mouth hot and slow on your shoulder, his body not performing but unraveling.

And then he exhales—sharp, shaky—and says:

“I need you to marry me.”

You freeze.

Still seated on him, still connected, your breath caught mid-moan.

“Jack,” you say.

But he doesn’t stop.

Doesn’t even blink.

“I mean it.” His voice is low. Hoarse. “I was gonna wait. Make it a thing. But I’m tired of pretending like this is just… day by day.”

You open your mouth.

He lifts one hand—fumbles behind the nightstand, like he already knew he was going to crack eventually.

And pulls out a ring box.

You blink, heart pounding. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

He flips it open.

The ring is huge.

No frills. No side stones. Just a bold, clean-cut diamond—flawless, high clarity, set on a platinum band. Sleek. A little loud. But elegant as hell. The kind of thing that says, I know what I want. I’m not afraid of weight.

You blink down at it, still perched on top of him, still pulsing around him.

Jack’s voice drops—tired, exposed. “I know we won’t get married yet. I know we’re both fucking alcoholics. I know we argue over the thermostat and forget groceries and ruin bedsheets we don’t replace.”

Your throat goes tight.

“I know I leave shit everywhere and you color-code spreadsheets because it’s the only way to feel okay. I know you’re steadier than me. Smarter. Better. But I need you to be mine. Fully. Officially. Before I ruin it by waiting too long.”

You look at him—really look.

His eyes are glassy. His hair damp. His lips parted. He looks like he just survived a war and crawled out of it with the only thing that mattered.

You whisper, “You’re not ruining anything.”

He doesn’t flinch.

“Say yes.”

“Jack.”

“I’ll wait. Years, if I have to. I don’t care when. But I need the word. I need the promise.”

You lean forward.

Kiss him slow.

Then lift the ring from the box.

Slide it on yourself, right there, while he’s still inside you. It fits perfectly.

His breath stutters.

You roll your hips—just once.

“Is that a yes?” he asks.

You drag your mouth across his jaw, bite down gently, then whisper: “It’s a fuck yes.”

Jack flips you—moves so fast you gasp, but his hands never leave your skin. He spreads you beneath him like a prayer.

“You gonna come with it on?” he asks, voice wrecked, forehead to yours.

“Obviously.”

“Fucking marry me.”

“I just said yes, idiot—”

“I need to hear it again.”

“I’m gonna marry you, Jack,” you whisper.

His hips drive in deeper, and you sob against his neck. Jack curses under his breath.

You come first. Soaking. Gasping. Shaking under him. He follows seconds later—moaning your name like it’s the only language he speaks.

When he collapses on top of you, still sheathed inside, he’s breathless. Raw.

He lifts your hand. Looks at the ring.

“It’s too big.”

“It’s perfect.”

“You’re gonna hit people with it accidentally.”

“I hope so.”

Jack presses a kiss to your palm, right at the base of the band.

Then, out of nowhere—

“You’re the best thing I’ve ever done.”

You smile, blinking hard.

“You’re the best thing I ever let happen to me.” You hold up your left hand, wiggling your fingers. The diamond flashes dramatically in the low light. “I can’t wait to do our shared taxes with this ring on. Really dominate the IRS.”

Jack groans into your shoulder. “Jesus Christ.”

You laugh softly, kiss the crown of his head.

And somewhere between his chest rising against yours and the breeze cooling the sweat on your skin, you realize:

You’re not scared anymore.

You’re home.

[bytemee]

۶ৎ LUCKY FOR ME — kim minjeong.

“you’ll be here so lucky for me.”

⌗ in which— minjeong falls in love.

pairings. college!student!winter x college!student!fem!reader

warning(s). fluff, kissing, mutual pining, and let me know if theres more!

word count. 2.2k

authors note. laufey i love you. im also writing chat. its hard to write nowdays...if u guys have short prompts u can send them i need some practice

minjeong had never really been in love before.

she always thought love was supposed to be something you eased into, like a hot bath. something that made sense because when it's with the right person, it shouldn't be a puzzle, something to decipher. but then there was you. loud where she was quiet, messy where she was meticulous, late where she was always on time. a walking contradiction to everything she was, but like they say, opposites attract.

for example, positive and negative, up and down, winter and summer.

the first time she met you was in the library. not in some romantic, serendipitous way, but because she was the unlucky library assistant assigned to track you down for not returning your books. you had disappeared from the library after freshman year, only showing your face again when you absolutely had to. she, on the other hand, had practically lived there.

“you’re a hard person to find,” she had said, arms crossed as she blocked your escape.

“yeah, well,” you had shrugged, giving her a sheepish smile, “i didn’t think anyone would actually come looking.”

she had rolled her eyes, but a little bit of her irritation melted away. you had apologized profusely, even offering to buy her lunch to make up for the trouble you caused. she had told you it wasn't necessary, that it was part of her job, but you were insistent, and she made it her mission to avoid you so you wouldn’t be able to catch her off-guard again.

and then, at the end of sophomore year, there you were again. this time, she was at the coffee shop on campus, sitting with a study group. you had been in line behind her, and the barista had called her name wrong, and you had corrected him. and that was it. the moment that changed her life.

because when she turned around, her nose and cheeks still red from the cold, her dark brown hair falling out of the scarf that covered her head, the sight of you stopped her in her tracks.

you had smiled at her and said, "hey. you're minjeong, right?"

you had known her name.

after that, you kept showing up. in the library, at the coffee shop, even in the dining hall where she usually ate alone. you made excuses to talk to her, slipping into her world so effortlessly that she didn't realize how much she had started to expect your presence until the days felt emptier without you.

you had this way of filling up her quiet world, making everything brighter and more vibrant than she had ever seen before. you didn't just change her life. you changed her.

the way you'd hum softly under your breath when she studied, the way you'd tap her notebook absentmindedly while waiting for her to acknowledge you. you annoyed her in a way she never minded, always finding a way to disrupt her routine just enough to make life more interesting.

she caught herself looking for you before she even realized she wanted to see you. she'd look over her shoulder as she walked across campus, and when you weren't there, it almost disappointed her. sometimes, you'd surprise her, and her heart would skip a beat, but then you'd smile at her and tell her you missed her, and it would start beating again.

sometimes, she didn't understand why you liked her.

but you did.

it had started slowly, but now, the realization that she loved you hit her like a tsunami, and it scared her. it felt like she couldn't breathe, like she had a rock sitting on her chest. because she had never done this before, and even though it was the scariest thing in the world, it was also the best feeling in the world.

minjeong sighed as she put down the pen and picked up her phone. her finger hovered over your contact name, but instead of calling you, she texted:

do you want to join me for a study session tomorrow?

it only took a few seconds for the three dots to appear, followed by

sure! where and when?

tomorrow, 2pm. library.

sounds perfect. can't wait!

minjeong smiled to herself and put her phone back down on the table. she turned back to her book, her face bright red.

the next day, she arrived at the library early. too early. the clock on the wall barely hit 1:30, and she was already flipping through the pages of a textbook she had no intention of reading. every few minutes, she glanced up at the door, waiting for you to walk in.

and when you did—hair a little messy, wrapped up in a scarf that barely matched your jacket, your backpack hanging off one shoulder—minjeong nearly forgot how to breathe.

“hey!” you grinned, sliding into the seat across from her. “you’re early.”

“you’re late,” she teased, though she knew you weren’t.

you laughed, shrugging off your backpack and coat. you pulled out your own stack of textbooks, notebooks, and pencils, setting them down on the table with a loud thud. she couldn't help but smile, watching as you got settled and flipped open your notebook.

minjeong was lost in her own thoughts, so when you spoke, it startled her.

"so, did you invite me here just to stare at me, or…"

her cheeks burned, and she turned away. "sorry. i didn't mean to…"

"oh, no, don't be sorry!" you chuckled, waving a hand dismissively. "i was kidding… if it makes you feel better, i was staring too."

"you were?"

"well, yeah." you blushed, ducking your head slightly. "i like looking at you."

minjeong fell in love with you. again.

and again, and again, and again. she can almost rewind time, remembering every moment where you'd shown her a new reason to fall in love with you. it's impossible not to notice when everything about you is perfect. when you make mistakes, it doesn't make her want to run away. instead, it makes her want to get closer. to see all of you, flaws and all.

the first time was when it rained in the middle of spring and neither of you had an umbrella. she offered to share hers, but the wind had other plans, flipping it inside out and soaking you both within minutes. you had laughed, really laughed, and winter had just stared at you, like she had never heard anything like it before.

there was the second time on a summer night when you stayed out too late, sitting on the roof of your dorm, looking at the stars, and talking about the future. she had fallen asleep with her head on your shoulder, waking up the next morning wrapped in your arms and covered in blankets. you had kissed her forehead gently, telling her to go back to sleep.

and the third time was during the fall evening when she found you waiting outside the library, arms crossed, blowing warm air into your hands. "you're late, you know," you had teased, and she had rolled her eyes but smiled anyway. that night, after studying together for hours, she invited you back to her room for the first time.

and here she was again. falling even harder.

the driver grumbled about the frost on the windshield, muttering something about how shitty the visibility was. you let out a slow sigh, sneaking a glance at minjeong’s side profile, then at the driver, then back at her.

“minjeong,” you murmured, your voice so soft and low she almost thought she imagined it.

she turned her head just a little. “hmm?”

and that’s when you leaned in, closing the space between you, your lips pressing against hers.

for a second, she didn’t move—too surprised to react, frozen in place, unsure of what to do. she felt like she was in a dream, like any minute, she was going to wake up. she felt a rush of emotion—an overwhelming, terrifying mix of excitement, joy, and fear, all at once. and then, like an ocean wave, it swept her off her feet.

and finally, after what felt like an eternity, she kissed you back.

your lips were soft and gentle, and she felt like she was melting. like she had been cold all her life, and finally, after years of being numb, she was warm. when you pulled away, her lips still tingling, you rested your forehead against hers, smiling at her softly.

the taxi came to a stop outside the dorm, the engine giving a final sputter as it powered down.

"we're here," the driver announced, sounding impatient.

minjeong’s head was still spinning from the kiss, and you could barely catch your breath. the snow continued to fall softly, each flake twinkling as it landed on the ground. she didn't say anything as she followed behind you, exiting the taxi and walking to the front door of the dorm.

and that’s when you realized—you didn’t have your keys.

you checked your pockets. nothing. a glance at minjeong’s face told you she’d caught on too, and you cursed under your breath.

"i'm so stupid," you muttered, running a hand through your hair.

minjeong reached out and gave your hand a gentle squeeze. "you're not stupid."

you sat on the steps of the building, leaning back against the stone railing, and buried your face in your hands. "i can't believe this," you mumbled. "we're gonna freeze to death out here." minjeong sat down beside you, close enough that your knees touched. she put an arm around you, pulling you close, and rested her head on top of yours.

"it's not so bad," she whispered.

you lifted your head, looking at her in surprise. "it's not?"

"no," she said. she smiled, and it made you feel safe. "it's actually kind of nice."

you hummed in agreement before muttering, "roommate’s probably out, though. i’ll just have to call her to come back and open the door." you fished your phone out of your pocket, but before you could call, minjeong grabbed your wrist gently.

"don't," she said, shaking her head. "let’s just… sit here for a while."

you hesitated, then put your phone back in your pocket, leaning into her side. "okay," you whispered.

and that's how the two of you stayed, sitting in the snow, your breaths creating small clouds of smoke that vanished into the winter air. and when you felt her lips press against the top of your head, her warmth surrounding you, her fingers laced through yours, you didn't care how cold it was anymore.

minjeong had never really been in love.

so please forgive her for the helpless haze she's in when you're near.

[papayainsectorone]

teach me how

════════════════════════

summary: you´re back together and there´s no stopping this time

content: 18+! smut, nsfw, praise kink, mutual pining, desperate!Oscar, playful domination, light dom/sub dynamics, dirty talk, penetrative, p in v (finally good lord)

word count: 4,2 k

pairing: oscar piastri x fem!reader

a thought: the middle gif i´m screAMING MY SHAYLAAAA, he´s so cute, yeah i know there´s also .... stuff ..... going on but his little smile i can´t

if you have any ideas in regards of teaching him more, send me a message maybe?

credits: gifs by @shakespearian-love amazing blog for cute and/or rather sexy stuff hehe

part 1 - part 2 - part 3 - part 4 - part 5 - part 6 - part 7

════════════════════════

You’re finally in the same place.

The screen’s been replaced by skin.

You’re on the couch, tangled up in each other, mouths locked in a kiss that’s gone on too long to still be called just kissing. His hands are in your hair, on your waist, gripping like he’s afraid you might vanish if he lets go.

You’re in his lap, straddling him, your thighs bracketing his, heat pressed against heat. His breath stutters every time your hips shift every time the friction reminds you both how little is still between you.

It’s intoxicating. The closeness. The weight of him under you. The way his fingers dig into your back like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you.

“Fuck,” he breathes against your mouth. “You feel—God, you feel so good.”

You smile, forehead pressed to his. “That’s kind of the point.”

He laughs, but it’s shaky overwhelmed in the best way. You can see it in his eyes: that gleam of desire, of need, of something bigger rising between you. But there’s still that flicker underneath — the uncertainty, the awe.

You trail your hands up his chest slowly, letting your fingers map the planes of him. “You okay?”

He nods, breath catching. “Yeah. Just... can’t believe this is real.”

You kiss him again, slower this time. Softer. Letting it simmer.

When he shifts underneath you, you feel how hard he is and the soft, desperate noise he makes when your hips roll just slightly is everything.

Your lips brush his jaw as you speak, voice low and wicked. “You want more?”

His head tips forward, forehead resting against your collarbone as he nods. “Yeah. I do.”

You cup his face, coaxing him to look at you. “Then let me show you how to get more.”

His breath hitches, and for once, he doesn’t just wait for your next move his hands trail down your waist, grip firmer now, and he leans in like he’s tasting the idea of taking his time.

“First rule,” you whisper, rocking just slightly in his lap, “you don’t rush.”

Oscar’s fingers flex on your hips. “But—”

“No buts,” you cut in softly, smiling against his cheek. “You’re so desperate for it, you’ll miss the part where I melt for you.”

He groans, already pliant beneath you and you can feel the way that affects him.

“Slow,” you murmur again. “Let me ache for it.”

You guide his hands to your thighs, then under your shorts, letting him grip the bare skin there. “Tease me.”

He swallows hard. “Tease you?”

“Mhm. Don’t dive in. Just… play. Feel the way my body reacts to you, you already know how to do it”

His hands explore more boldly now, dragging up your legs, thumbs pressing into your inner thighs and when he brushes just a little too close to the edge of your panties, you inhale sharply.

He freezes. “That good?”

You hum, rolling your hips a little in approval. “Getting there.”

Something shifts in his eyes then, still nervous, still unsure in flickers, but darker now. Hungrier. Curious enough to obey your instructions but just bold enough to want to push them.

“Where else?” he asks, voice low and rough.

You guide his hand to your chest, letting him knead through the fabric first before you whisper, “Under.”

He doesn’t hesitate and when his fingers slip beneath your top and find your breast, you arch into him.

His other hand cradles the back of your neck as he kisses you deep and slow like he’s trying to follow the rhythm of your moans with his tongue.

“Now what?” he murmurs when you break apart, breathless.

You press your mouth to the shell of his ear. “Now you tell me what you want.”

His voice is wrecked. “I want you. I want to make you come. I want to feel you fall apart in my hands.”

That’s new. The boldness. The want, stripped down and laid bare.

It catches you off guard and turns you on even more.

But his gaze still flickers, just for a moment like he’s wondering if he went too far, like he’s still asking for permission beneath the heat.

You kiss him again, slower, more indulgent. “Good. Show me.”

He lays you back on the couch, tentative but confident enough to follow through, dragging his hand down your stomach, under the waistband of your shorts.

You gasp when his fingers slip lower, stroking you through your panties, light and teasing at first, until you press your hips up and he learns the rhythm that makes you sigh.

“You’re so wet,” he whispers, almost reverent.

“For you,” you manage, breathless. “Always for you.”

He kisses you then, deep and hungry, fingers stroking just right, and you let him lead now, let him learn you by touch and sound, your thighs trembling as he circles just right.

And when your hips buck and your moan turns desperate, he pulls back just enough to smirk. “You said slow.”

You stare at him, stunned — that little spark of cocky confidence suddenly blooming behind his flushed cheeks.

“Oh,” you murmur, breath catching, “look at you.”

He grins, a little wild, still learning but owning it.

“You're dangerous now,” you tease, hands in his hair.

“I’m trying to be,” he murmurs.

And then his fingers dip past your panties, real and bold and perfect, and you break, moaning his name like it’s the only word that’s ever mattered. It slips from your lips unbidden, desperate, reverent.

Your head tips back, thighs trembling, chest rising in stuttered breaths as he works you open with those long, eager fingers. And when he finds that perfect rhythm not too fast, just right, just deep enough, your body arches into him like instinct.

Your nails dig into his shoulders as the pressure inside you tightens, sharp and unstoppable. “Oscar,” you gasp, your voice wrecked and aching. “Fuck, you feel so good—you're so good—”

And it does something to him, that praise. You feel it in the way he breathes out shaky and low, the way his mouth twitches into a grin that he tries to hide. But he doesn’t stop. He watches you with wide, hungry eyes soaking in the way you come undone for him, the way your body pulses around his fingers as you cry out again, broken and blissed.

You’re still catching your breath, hips twitching with the aftershocks, when you look at him. Really look.

“So good. The way you touched me—God, Oscar. You made me feel everything.”

You take his hand, still damp from where he touched you, and bring it to your lips. You kiss his fingertips slowly, deliberately one by one watching the way his breath catches, how his eyes darken. Then, without looking away, you part your lips and suck two of them into your mouth.

His jaw drops slightly. You swirl your tongue around them, slow and sinful, eyes locked with his the entire time, sucking off your own wetness.

His breath stutters. “Fuck,” he whispers, voice low and wrecked. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You release them with a soft pop, letting your lips curl into a smile. “That wouldn’t be very good of me,” you murmur, “not when you’ve been such a good boy.”

His hand tightens on your hip instinctively. He’s gone completely still, except for the rapid rise and fall of his chest.

That’s when you see it — the flicker behind his eyes. A brief second of uncertainty, like the high cracked open something inside him. His lips part, eyes scanning your face, searching.

And you don’t let it linger.

You cup his cheek, still panting, still dizzy from the fall. “Baby,” you murmur, voice gone soft and warm, “you were perfect.”

His brows twitch upward. “Yeah?”

You smile, soft but dangerous. “But you’re forgetting who’s in charge.”

Before he can answer, you flip him smooth and easy, straddling his lap again, palms pressed to his chest. His mouth falls open, a little stunned, a little wrecked.

“Don’t worry,” you purr, rolling your hips slowly against him. “You’re still learning.”

His hands find your waist like second nature now, gripping just tight enough to anchor himself. His head falls back against the couch with a groan as you move against him — slow, teasing, deliberate.

“You feel that?” you murmur, leaning close, dragging yourself over the hardness straining between you. “How worked up you’ve got me?”

He nods, eyes fluttering. “Yeah,” he breathes.

You let it simmer between you for a moment the heat, the tension, the steady grind of your hips making both of you ache.

Then, softer, more curious, you tilt your head. “Tell me what you want.”

He blinks up at you, pupils blown wide, lips parted. His hands tighten instinctively on your ass, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

“I—” He swallows hard, breath catching. His cheeks flush deeper, bright pink against the curve of his jaw. “I want…”

You rock forward again, pressing your body down, and it knocks the air from him. Still, he manages to meet your gaze.

“I want to be inside you,” he says, voice barely more than a whisper but it lands like a thunderclap in your chest.

The admission hits with something raw and honest, desire tangled with reverence. You can see the way it costs him — that vulnerability, that ache.

Your heart stutters. But your voice stays steady, smooth as honey.

“Good boy,” you murmur, leaning in to kiss him slow and deep, letting him feel just how much you want it too.

Your kiss deepens, and he melts into it, hands still clutching your hips like they’re the only solid thing in the room.

Oscar’s breath hitches.

You smile, soft and sure. “Lie back, baby.”

His eyes search yours for a second — trust, awe, something tender flickering there — and then he obeys, leaning back into the cushions, arms falling to his sides like surrender.

You stay on your knees, straddling his thighs, hands skimming up under his shirt, then down again, teasing the waistband of his pants. “Can I?” you ask, voice low.

He nods, a breathless, “Yeah,” escaping him — already wrecked and you haven’t even touched him properly yet.

You lean in for one more kiss, slow and teasing, before you shift lower and then you’re tugging his pants down, watching the way he lifts his hips to help, eager and shaking a little.

His cock strains against his boxers, and the sight makes your mouth go dry.

You meet his eyes again — wide, flushed, nervous and desperate — and your heart squeezes. “So beautiful,” you murmur, letting your hand glide over him, slow and reverent, still over the fabric.

Oscar groans, head tipping back, and his hips twitch just slightly under your touch.

“Patience,” you whisper, fingers slipping under the waistband now. “Let me take care of you.”

And as you ease the last layer down, baring him completely, his breath leaves in one hitched gasp like he can’t believe this is real, like he’s never felt more seen in his life.

You move up his body again, straddling him, your bare skin sliding against his in a slow, heated glide. His eyes drop to where your bodies meet, pupils blown wide, lips parted like he’s trying to catch a breath that won’t come.

His hands drift up your thighs, reverent and searching, fingers warm against your skin. You guide them to your waist, grounding him with a quiet command.

“Keep them there,” you murmur. “Just feel me.”

And you start to move — slow, deliberate, grinding down until the thick, hard length of him is perfectly nestled between your folds. The pressure makes your breath stutter. Every shift of your hips drags your slick over him, your swollen clit catching just enough to make your stomach coil.

Oscar groans, deep and raw, his hands twitching on your waist. But he listens. He keeps them there, jaw tight, chest heaving.

You lean in, mouth brushing his. “Feel that?” you whisper. “That’s how much I want you.”

He nods, breath shaky. “Fuck”

Your lips trail down the side of his neck as you keep grinding, slower now, your wetness coating him, spreading heat between you with every drag of your hips. His cock sits hot and heavy between your folds, lips hugging him on either side, slick and perfect.

“Feels like you’re already inside me,” you whisper against his throat, and he lets out a strangled sound, hips moving slightly.

His voice is rough, wrecked. “I can’t help it—you’re… I need—”

“See?” you murmur, hips circling in a slow rhythm. “This is how you learn. How you take your time.”

He nods again, but his brows pinch in concentration, like he’s trying to memorize every second.

When he starts to lift his hips into yours again, you stop, pressing your hands to his chest.

“Easy,” you coo, kissing the corner of his mouth. “You’ll get what you want.”

He groans, frustration bleeding into want, and you feel his fingers twitch against your sides. But he listens — waits, trembles under your control.

“I want you to remember this,” you whisper. “Every second. The way it feels to be made to wait. To be taken care of.”

His head tilts back, throat exposed. “I—fuck—I’m trying,” he gasps.

You smile, wicked and warm. “Good. Because we’re not rushing this.”

He looks up at you then, pupils blown, lips swollen, and still just the tiniest bit unsure under all that want. You can see it in the flicker of hesitation, the slight tremble in his hand as it drifts over your thigh.

So you slow it down for a beat, leaning in close to nuzzle against his cheek. “You’re doing so good,” you whisper. “You’re perfect.”

The tension in him breaks just a little replaced with trust. With that quiet, yearning devotion he only shows you.

Then, when you’re both so wound up you’re trembling, you sit up, reach for the drawer beside the couch, and slip a condom into his hand.

“You ready?”

His breath catches. He looks at it, then at you like he can’t believe you’re letting him have this. Like he might ruin it if he moves too fast.

But then he nods.

“Yeah,” he says, voice rough, eyes steady. “I want you.”

You lean down and kiss him again, letting the moment stretch.

“Then take your time,” you whisper. “And let me feel you.”

The moment lingers, full of anticipation. You can feel the heat between you, the quiet urgency in the way he touches you.

He sits back up, his breathing shallow, his chest heaving slightly with each intake of air.

“Are you sure?” he asks, his voice rough, almost pleading.

You nod, guiding his hand to your waist. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

“I... I want you,” he murmurs, his voice trembling as he lifts his gaze to meet yours, his face flushed, lips parted. “More. Please.”

You pause, your hips stilling as you look down at him, taking in his desperation. His hands grip your waist, his fingers digging in slightly as he waits, as though he’s holding his breath.

“Do you trust me?” you ask softly, your thumb brushing over his lips as you keep your gaze locked with his.

He nods, his chest heaving with anticipation. “More than anything.”

You smile softly at his answer, your heart racing as you slowly begin to lift your hips higher. The space between you grows for just a moment, your hands trembling slightly as you reach down to position him. You guide him carefully, feeling the tension in his body as he watches you, his breath catching with every movement.

"Ready?" you whisper, your voice almost trembling with the same desire that’s reflected in his eyes. He can barely manage a nod, his pupils blown wide, his body tense, waiting for the next step.

You lower yourself slowly, so deliberately that each inch feels like an eternity. You can hear his breath hitch as you sink down onto him, the heat of him filling you, the sensation so overwhelming you almost lose control.

“Mmm,” you moan softly, the sound of your voice a mix of pleasure and satisfaction. “Oscar...”

His hands are on you, gripping your hips, but he can’t seem to move. His mouth opens, trying to form words, but nothing comes out just shallow breaths and groans as he struggles to stay composed.

"Shh," you whisper, leaning down to kiss him gently on the lips. "Don’t rush, baby. Feel it."

You sink even deeper, inch by inch, savoring the slow stretch, the delicious heat between you. Your hands rest on his chest, and you can feel the rapid beat of his heart beneath your fingers, matching the rhythm of your own.

He stutters, trying to speak, but his voice cracks as he whispers, “I— I can’t...”

You smile against his lips, kissing him deeply, and you can feel his hands tightening on your hips, his fingers digging into your skin. His breath becomes more erratic, his eyes still wide with wonder and anticipation.

“You don’t have to say anything,” you murmur, continuing to move slowly, your body adjusting to his in the most intimate, deliberate way. “Just feel it.”

He moans in response, his body trembling as he tries to hold back, to keep from losing himself entirely. But you can tell — the way his body moves beneath you, the way his chest rises and falls — that it’s taking everything in him to stay composed.

Each movement of your hips is slow, deliberate, and full of passion. You kiss him again, and this time, it’s deeper, hungrier, as though you’re both trying to anchor yourselves in this moment, to keep from floating away.

You continue to sink, inch by inch, taking your time. “That’s it,” you murmur as you sit fully in his lap again, walls clenching around him, holding him close, tight, full.

He whines — a quiet, strangled sound — hands trembling where they grip your waist, like he’s barely holding himself together.

You don’t move at first. Just sit there, still and full, letting him feel every second of it. Letting him feel you. His head tips back against the couch, eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

Then, slowly — achingly slow — you roll your hips once.

He gasps. His whole body jerks beneath you.

Another roll, a little firmer. A little deeper. You shift until you find the angle that makes you both whimper, makes heat coil low and tight in your belly.

You keep going, slow and deliberate, hips gliding in smooth, unhurried circles. He’s a mess already, lips parted, flushed red, chest rising and falling like he’s been running.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “You feel—God, you feel so good.”

You lean in, brushing your lips over his, your voice just a breath. “You’re doing so well, baby. Just let go.”

And then you start to build. Inch by inch. You press down harder, pick up your pace, just slightly — enough to make his breath stutter, to make your own hips tremble with the growing pleasure.

The heat builds fast, curling inside you, spurred on by the way his hands grip tighter, the way his hips start to meet yours, tentative at first, then bolder. Your bodies move together, fluid and urgent, chasing something you can both feel rising fast.

“Oscar,” you breathe, voice soft but demanding, your body grinding against his with more purpose now, more need, “are you ready?”

His eyes snap open — wide, blown, hungry. He looks at you like you’re everything, like this moment might just undo him.

“Yes,” he says, breathless, shaking. “Yes. I want—please, I want to feel you.”

You press your forehead to his, lips barely touching. “Then take it. Move with me.”

And when he does — when his hips thrust up to meet yours, finally matching your rhythm — it’s fire. Raw and real and overwhelming.

You ride him slow but harder now, bodies slick with sweat and heat and want. He holds you like he never wants to let go. His mouth finds your shoulder, your neck, your jaw, desperate and reverent.

“You’re perfect,” he pants, almost like he doesn’t mean to say it out loud.

You smile against his skin, breath catching.

His breath catches also, and he stutters your name, but the words are lost in the kiss you share, deep and consuming. The world around you disappears as you both hold on to each other, surrendering to the feeling that’s consumed you both.

As you finally come down from the high, you rest against him, your chest heaving, your body still trembling with the intensity of what just happened. His hands remain on you, gentle now, caressing your back, and you know this moment, this connection, was everything you both needed.

You stay there, resting in his lap, the world outside this small space fading away. The two of you are tangled together, skin against skin, hearts still racing in the aftershock of what just happened.

You can feel it, the way your body trembles ever so slightly, how the warmth between you slowly cools, but the connection remains. He’s still holding you tightly, his arms wrapped around you like he never wants to let go, his hands moving gently along your back, as if grounding himself to you.

You shift slightly, and that's when you realize, feeling the slickness between your legs, how your body is still reacting, how it’s leaking, even after everything. You can tell he's aware of it too, the way he stirs, his chest heaving as his breath catches in his throat.

His body, which was once so tense, is softening beneath you, but you feel the weight of his touch on you still firm, still present, his fingers pressing lightly into your skin as if to keep you close. His eyes are half-lidded, and you catch a glimpse of them glazed, a little lost, but full of something deeper now.

When his gaze meets yours, you see it. His pupils are still wide, his breath uneven. There's a softness there, something raw in the way he looks at you, as though he's just been taken somewhere he didn’t know he could go. You see the hint of vulnerability, a glistening in his eyes, maybe even a tear or two that he tries to blink away, but he doesn’t pull away from you. He holds you tighter, pressing his face into your neck, breathing you in like you’re the only thing that matters.

"You're okay," you whisper, your hand brushing through his hair, soothing him as best as you can. "You did so amazing. So good, Oscar."

He lets out a shaky breath, clinging to you as if the weight of the moment is too much to bear on his own. His voice is barely a whisper, rough and thick with emotion. "I... I didn’t know it could feel like that."

You feel the vulnerability in his words, and something in you stirs. You’re not just his teacher anymore, you’re his anchor. You’ve led him through something new, something intense, and now, he’s grounded by you, but you feel the shift in the air it’s not just the physical connection. It’s the emotional one, the part of him that’s laying himself bare before you.

"I’m right here," you murmur, placing a kiss on his forehead, your thumb brushing gently over his cheek.

He holds you tighter, and for a moment, it’s as if the whole world outside this room doesn’t exist. The intensity of the moment settles, and there’s just the quiet breathing between the two of you — the subtle, intimate rhythm of shared silence after something so profound.

His hands shift on your back, sliding to your waist, but there’s no rush to move. His body is still soft beneath you, his breaths coming in shallow gasps as he tries to collect himself, as if he’s in disbelief over the depth of everything he just felt.

"Thank you," he finally whispers, his voice barely audible, thick with gratitude and something deeper.

You smile softly, your chest swelling with something you can’t quite place. "You’re welcome, Oscar."

You stay like this for a while no words, just the feeling of him holding you close, his hands steady on your body.

His breathing evens out, though he still clings to you, his arms tight around you, his face buried in the crook of your neck. The warmth of his body against yours lulls you both into a peaceful silence.

After a while, he shifts slightly, his voice still a little hoarse, but with a hint of a smile in it now. "I never knew... how much I could want someone. How much I could feel."

You glance down at him, your heart racing as you kiss him softly, slow and deep, reaffirming everything without saying a word.

And in that quiet space between the two of you, something unspoken passes — something tender, something real. It’s not just about what’s happened physically. It’s the bond that’s been forged, the intimacy that’s now written in the space between your bodies and hearts.

[lov3lycosmos]

𝑅𝑜𝑜𝑚 0406 — H.H

𝐺𝑒𝑛𝑟𝑒: smut MDNI

𝑃𝑎𝑖𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠: non idol!hyunjin x fem!reader

𝑆𝑦𝑛𝑜𝑝𝑠𝑖𝑠: while hanging out at the hotel bar, you notice a man that catches your eye~

𝑊𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠: one-night stand, dom!Hyunjin, mirror play, degradation + praise, hair pulling, spanking, cumplay, aftercare, light choking, fingering, oral (f and m rec), rough sex, just pure filth...

𝑤.𝑐: 1.6k

𝐶𝑜𝑠𝑚𝑜𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑡𝑒: just had to write something for his new photoshoot cause holy FUCK he looks so good ughhhhhhhh, it's not super long but it's something!

𝑚𝑦 𝑙𝑖𝑏𝑟𝑎𝑟𝑦!

You spotted him the second you walked into the bar—leaned against the counter, black silk shirt unbuttoned halfway, collarbones glinting under the moody golden lights. He looked like a fucking dream: tall, effortless, with wet hair swept back like he’d just stepped out of a shower and decided to ruin someone’s life.

And for the last twenty minutes, he hadn’t taken his eyes off you.

You tried to play it cool. Ordered a drink. Laughed at your friend’s comment. Pretended not to notice the way he was watching you like a cat with its paw already on the mouse’s tail.

But the second he stood, drink in hand, and started walking your way, your heart kicked into overdrive.

"Alone?" he asked, voice smooth and low. The kind that hummed under your skin.

You raised an eyebrow. “Maybe.”

He smirked. “Maybe I’ll fix that.”

You let your eyes trail down his body—deliberately slow. The silk shirt clung to his skin in places, hinting at a toned chest, abs, muscle just beneath softness. Rings glinted on his fingers where they curled around his glass. And his scent—warm and clean, just a little spicy—wrapped around you the second he leaned in.

“You're not from around here,” he said knowingly.

“Nope. Just in town for the weekend.”

Hyunjin tilted his head, gaze flicking to your lips. “Then we should make it count.”

You huffed a soft laugh, amused. “You always this direct?”

“Only when I see something I want.”

The air between you tensed like a pulled string. His hand ghosted over your hip, not quite touching—just enough to let you feel the heat. And when he leaned in closer, lips brushing your ear, his breath sent shivers down your spine.

“Let me take you upstairs,” he whispered. “Just once. No strings, no pressure. Just you, me, and one night you’ll think about every time you touch yourself after this.”

You should have walked away. Should’ve rolled your eyes and finished your drink.

Instead, you met his gaze head-on and asked, “Are you always this cocky?”

His grin deepened. “Only when I know I’ll be right.”

And the worst part?

So did you.

You let him lead you out of the bar, his hand pressed warm and firm to the small of your back. The walk through the lobby was silent but heavy with tension—his thumb occasionally brushing skin, his gaze never leaving your face, your body, your mouth.

By the time the elevator doors closed behind you, your pulse was a drumbeat in your throat.

Hyunjin leaned against the mirrored wall and looked you up and down with the kind of hunger that made your thighs clench. “Still time to change your mind,” he offered softly, though his eyes betrayed how much he hoped you wouldn’t.

You stepped in closer, tilting your head. “Still time to disappoint me,” you teased back.

He laughed, and the sound was deep, amused, dangerous. Then he pushed off the wall and cornered you gently, one hand braced beside your head, the other brushing your jaw.

“Don’t worry, angel,” he whispered, mouth barely a breath from yours. “Disappointment isn’t in my vocabulary.”

And the second the elevator dinged at his floor, he took your hand and tugged you down the hallway.

You didn’t even know his full name. But the second his hotel door clicked shut behind you, you knew you’d let him do whatever he wanted.

The first kiss wasn’t sweet. It was filthy. Tongue, teeth, hands everywhere—Hyunjin kissed like he wanted to consume you, like he was starving and you were the first meal he’d had in days. His hands roamed instantly—fingertips dragging down your spine, palming your ass, gripping harshly enough to bruise.

You whimpered into his mouth when he grabbed a fistful of your hair and tugged your head back. His lips ghosted over your jawline before latching onto your throat, sucking hard. “Mine for tonight,” he growled, teeth scraping against your pulse point. “Don’t even think about covering these.”

Then you were walking—no, stumbling—backward as he pushed you toward the giant mirror across from the bed. His hands didn’t leave your body for a second. When your knees hit the edge of the mattress, he spun you to face the mirror.

"Look," he ordered, standing behind you.

And god—you did. Your lips were already red and kiss-swollen, hair tangled, pupils blown wide. But it was Hyunjin that made your knees wobble. Standing behind you, his chest rising and falling steadily, his eyes were locked on your reflection. His black silk shirt clung to his damp skin, half-buttoned but completely open at the chest, and his pants hung low enough to make your mouth water.

He leaned in to whisper in your ear, eyes still locked on yours in the mirror. “Do you see how fucking pretty you look like this? Ruined and I haven’t even started.”

His hand slid between your legs, fingers teasing over the slick mess soaking your underwear. “This for me?” he teased, rubbing slow circles. “Fuck, you’re dripping.”

You gasped as his fingers pushed your panties aside. Two slipped in with ease, curling just right. Your knees buckled, but he caught you, one arm wrapping around your waist, the other still thrusting and curling deep inside. His rings were cold against your skin, his voice hot in your ear.

“Such a slutty little hole,” he growled. “You’d let me fuck you in front of this mirror, wouldn’t you? Let me bend you over and watch while I make you beg for it.”

You moaned—loud and shameless—and he laughed. “That’s what I thought.”

He pulled his fingers out and dragged them to your lips. “Open.”

You obeyed, tongue wrapping around his fingers as he pushed them in. “Good girl,” he praised, watching your reflection intently. “Keep that mouth open while I ruin the rest of you.”

You barely had time to process before he was bending you over the bed, cheek pressed to the cool sheets. His hands gripped your hips, nails digging in as he aligned himself behind you.

The stretch of him was devastating. He didn’t ease in—he filled you in one deep, hard thrust that made your vision blur.

"Fuck," he hissed. "You're tight. Made for me. Just fucking made for me."

He fucked you mercilessly. Hard, deep thrusts that had you gasping and crying out his name. His hand wrapped around your throat, just tight enough to make your thoughts haze.

“That’s it,” he growled, leaning over you, chest pressed to your back, pace relentless. “Let them hear you. Let the whole fucking hotel know how good I fuck this cunt.”

He spanked you—once, twice—hand cracking across your ass as he slammed into you harder. “Say it,” he barked. “Say who this pussy belongs to.”

“You!” you cried out, broken. “You, Hyunjin—fuck, it’s yours!”

“Damn right it is.”

He pulled out and flipped you over effortlessly, dragging you to the edge of the bed. He dropped to his knees, fingers spreading you open before his mouth latched onto your clit.

You screamed.

Tongue fast and merciless, he licked and sucked like he was trying to devour your soul. One hand held your hips down while the other plunged two fingers back inside you, curling perfectly. Your thighs shook, eyes rolled back, back arching clean off the bed.

“You gonna cum?” he growled against you. “Then cum all over my fucking face.”

You did.

It hit you like a shockwave—white-hot and explosive. Your thighs clenched around his head but he didn’t stop, didn’t let up, dragging the orgasm out until you were sobbing from overstimulation.

He rose from his knees slowly, mouth and chin glistening. “Told you I’d ruin you,” he murmured, crawling over you. “Now be a good girl and take it one more time.”

He slammed back into you and this time—he didn’t stop until he came with a low, guttural groan, hips stuttering as he filled you, whispering filth in your ear even as he pulsed inside.

You didn’t know how long you laid there—naked, sore, dazed—on the rumpled hotel bed. Your body buzzed from aftershocks, your thighs sticky with his release, your breathing still uneven.

Hyunjin brushed the hair from your forehead with surprising tenderness. His touch, once rough and possessive, was now soft. “You okay?” he asked, voice low and genuine.

You nodded weakly. “Yeah.”

“Too much?”

“No,” you said with a shaky laugh. “Perfect.”

He smiled then—something real, something soft. “Good.”

He stood, walked into the bathroom, and returned with a warm towel. He knelt between your thighs again, this time just to clean you up. His fingers were delicate now, his eyes focused only on making sure you were comfortable.

Once he was done, he gently pulled you into his arms and laid back on the bed, keeping you close against his chest. The scent of his cologne clung to your skin—deep and warm.

“You were…” he started, then kissed your temple. “So fucking good.”

You chuckled into his neck. “You too.”

For a long moment, there was only silence. His fingers traced lazy circles into your back.

“You know,” he said, almost shyly, “I don’t usually… do this.”

“What? One-night stands?”

“No,” he murmured, brushing his nose against your cheek. “Have them stay after.”

Your heart stuttered.

You looked up at him. His eyes were calm again, but there was something soft there. Something unsure.

You smiled.

“Then maybe this doesn’t have to be a one-time thing.”

He blinked, and then the corner of his mouth lifted in a grin that made your stomach flip.

“Yeah?” he asked. “You’d come back?”

“Only if you keep the silk on.”

He laughed—loud and real this time—and pulled you even closer. “Deal.”

𝑡𝑎𝑔𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡: @vampzity @sooniedoongiedori25 @mhluvie @yaorzu-blog @lze325 @felixleftchickennugget @lezleeferguson-120 @m-325 @psychicyouthfox @pixie-felix @angel-writes-here @heechwe @galaxy4489 @minniesverse @gncbnahc

[raekensluver]

george and reader angst!!!!! george has to grovel for forgiveness because you now that boy is a people pleaser and would hate to piss anyone off mistakenly

my babyyyy

contains: angst, hurt/comfort, established relationship, miscommunication, emotional vulnerability, people-pleaser!george clarke

george clarke x fem!reader

he doesn’t know what exactly he did wrong. that’s the worst part. because you’re not yelling. not crying. you’re just quiet.

too quiet.

you won’t look at him when he calls your name the second time. you’re sitting on the edge of the bed with your phone in your hands, thumbs frozen mid-text like even that’s too much effort.

“can you just—” you say, voice sharp in a way that slices clean through him, “give me a minute, george.”

he stares. blinks like it’ll reset something. like this is a misunderstanding and all he has to do is ask the right question and you’ll laugh and shake your head and tell him he’s overthinking again.

but you don’t. you just breathe out. tired. like you’ve had to explain yourself too many times already.

“i didn’t mean to upset you,” he says finally, quietly, like it’s an apology even though he’s not sure what he’s apologizing for.

you still don’t look at him. “that’s kind of the problem, isn’t it?”

he freezes.

“you didn’t mean to,” you say. “but you still did.”

and it lands. heavy. true.

he thinks back—replays the night in his head like CCTV footage. the offhand joke he didn’t defend you from. the way he brushed off your expression because he was trying not to cause a scene. the way someone laughed at your expense, and he laughed too, because god forbid george clarke make someone uncomfortable.

except it was you.

it was always supposed to be you he protected first.

“i’m so sorry,” he says, finally stepping closer, hands flexing uselessly by his sides like he wants to reach for you but knows he doesn’t get to—not yet. “i wasn’t thinking. i didn’t mean to— i swear, i just thought—”

“you didn’t think,” you say, but it’s not cruel. it’s just... exhausted.

and that’s worse.

you press your palm to your eyes like you're trying not to cry. like you’ve already done that part and you’re trying to hold onto what’s left of your pride.

his chest twists painfully. “i should’ve said something. to him. i should’ve shut it down.”

you don’t answer.

“i didn’t— i didn’t want to make things awkward,” he says, voice cracking a little, “but i’d rather have every one in the room hate me than have you look at me like this.”

and you finally look up. his breath catches.

“you really hurt me, george.”

he nods. “i know. i hate that i did. i hate that i didn’t realize in the moment. and i don’t expect you to forgive me just because i’m sorry. but i am. so, so sorry.”

you stare at him for a long time. like you’re trying to believe it. like you want to.

he takes a step closer, voice quiet. “please don’t shut me out. let me fix this.”

a beat. then:

“don’t do it again,” you whisper.

his whole body sags like the breath’s been punched out of him. he nods, fast, desperate. “never. i swear. never again.”

you still look guarded. but you don’t move away when he kneels in front of you, hands gentle on your knees, eyes wide and wrecked with guilt.

and when you finally lean forward, pressing your forehead to his, he closes his eyes like it’s a blessing he didn’t think he deserved.

[maxinehufflepuffprincess]

Guardian Angel

Yeon Si-eun x Reader x Ahn Su-ho

Taglist. Masterlist. Progress Update. Love at First Fight Collections.

Warnings: Blood, Violence, Cursing.

Summary: Su-ho stops Si-eun from crossing the line.

It was mock test day. The day you had been studying hard for. The room was silent as you focused on your test. You were sitting at the desk beside Su-ho. Of course, your loving boyfriend was catching up on sleep, using the cute pink pillow he always used. The same pink pillow you had gifted him for his birthday a few years ago. You had a matching one, but yours was blue. Su-ho had given you a good luck kiss before the test, telling you ‘I know you’ll pass. You’re smarter than you think you are, baby.’

The silence had been destroyed as a slapping sound filled the room that had previously only been filled with the sound of writing and breathing. So this new sound had caused you to jump. You turned to look in the direction of the sound, only to see Si-eun now looking at the new student, Oh Beom-seok.

“There was a bug that landed on your neck.” Si-eun just stared at the male. You looked over at Su-ho, who was now awake and watching. He looked at you with a lopsided smile as he nodded his chin at your paper. His silent way of telling you to focus on your test. So you did. 

Suho cared a lot about your studies. It was all a part of the future the two of you had planned together. And whilst your grades didn’t need to be perfect, they needed to be good enough to get into a good college. You and your boyfriend were determined to have a good life together. It was one of the reasons he was working rather than focusing on school. Because he wanted to help his grandmother, and he also wanted to start saving for your lives together. 

Your parents were supportive. They had seen the kind of man that Su-ho is. How hard-working he was, how he took care of you. He was dedicated. Your mother always helps you make lunches for Su-ho to eat at work. Your father always asked Su-ho to do odd jobs around the house just so he could pay him more than enough. Su-ho didn’t like to accept handouts. But your parents wanted to help you toward your future. So this was your father and Suho’s compromise.

The sound of a chair moving caught your attention. A frown appeared on your face as you watched Si-eun stumbling out of class. Something was wrong. 

“Hey, where are you going?” The voice of your teacher filled the room as Si-eun walked out, saying nothing. This wasn’t like him. He never leaves during a test, practice or real. You placed your pencil down and grabbed your water bottle. You got up and quickly followed after Si-eun. 

“Hey! Si-eun.” He didn’t even register your voice at first. Everything was spinning, and he was having a hard time walking straight. He somehow made it to the boys’ toilets. You had walked in just as he had left the stall, having then bumped into a hand dryer. 

You quickly went to him and helped guide him to the sink. You turned the tap on and watched as he splashed water on his face. He looked like he was getting ready to go for the door, so you then gently took his hands and helped him sit down on the floor. “Hey, listen to me. Just sit here for a moment and breathe, lovely. I know you want to get back to the test, but you can’t continue the test like this. Here, drink some of this.” 

You opened your water bottle and helped him drink some. It took a few minutes, but the world seemed to finally stop spinning. Si-eun’s eyes finally locked on you. He didn’t feel like himself, but he felt better. Not completely, but it was enough. He could see the concern on your face. But why would you be concerned about him? You weren’t friends. Sure, you were nice to him, sweet even, you had stuck up for him quite a few times, and you always congratulated him whenever he won something, but you weren’t friends. So why had you followed after him?

He watched you take a cloth from your pocket and put it under the tap for a moment. His gaze dropped to the ground. You turned the tap off before gently dabbing Si-eun's face, hoping to cool him down. It helped, really it did, but he was still so confused by why you were helping and what had even happened. He had never had that happen before. His stomach flipped as he felt you take his chin between your thumb and index finger. You tilted his head gently to look at you properly. 

“Are you okay, sweetheart?” By the gods, your voice was dripping in sweetness, worry and sincerity. Your eyes locked with his before your eyes roamed his face. 

“Why did you follow me?” The words came out very monotone. 

“You didn’t look well. Something was wrong, you never leave during a test. Plus you were walking weirdly. Stumbling. I wanted to make sure you were okay.” You explained as you moved the cloth to his neck.

You noticed he never leaves during a test? You noticed he had stumbled. You cared enough to check on him. 

“But why?” He asked. Why did you care? Why were you here, checking on him? No one else was. Everyone else was focused on their tests, so why not you? Why were you here with him?

“Think of me as your Guardian Angel.” You winked with a soft giggle. You carefully stood up and held a hand out to him. The first thing he saw was the pretty silver ring on your finger. Simple, dainty. A heart. His eyes then moved to your nails. They were a soft lilac shade of purple. Purple. That seemed to be your colour. Your helmet colour, your phone case colour, your water bottle colour. It was the colour of your favourite pen and your favourite hoodie you had claimed from Su-ho years ago. Purple was a sign of royalty. That was what you were. In the eyes of Su-ho and many of the other students. A kind and benevolent Queen who simply wanted the best for her red-wearing King. 

“Come on. If you’re ready, we can go back to class. If not, we can stay here a little longer.”

Taking your hand, Si-eun got up and began walking back to class, he stumbled a little, so you helped him. You helped out of the bathroom and down the hallway. You opened the door to the classroom and helped him over to his seat. You watched him for a moment, just making sure he was okay, when you spotted it. The patch on his neck. Had he hurt himself? “Did you hurt your neck?” You asked him quietly, making him look at you in confusion. 

“What?”

“The plaster on the back of your neck. Did you get hurt?” What plaster? What the hell were you talking about? 

Su-ho’s voice soon pulled your attention away from Si-eun. 

“Baby. Finish your test, please.” You nodded and gave Si-eun a soft smile. You walked to Su-ho and kissed his forehead softly before slipping into your seat. 

Si-eun placed a hand on the back of his neck. He pulled the patch off, It wasn’t a plaster. It was a patch, and someone had put it there on purpose. This must have been what had happened to him. He was angry. This was done on purpose. Then he slapped himself, causing the entire class to look at him. 

Su-ho had been in the middle of drifting back to sleep when the slap happened. He turned in his seat to look at Si-eun. He was shocked, confused. Why was this guy slapping himself? Once, twice, three times. But he didn’t stop. Even as the teacher asked what was wrong, he didn’t stop. Twelve, thirteen, fourteen. It wasn’t till a hand reached out that he stopped. Your hand. You had gently grabbed his wrist.

“Si-eun.” You were concerned. “What’s going on?” 

“Oh, nothing.” He said as he looked up at you before going back to his test. He didn’t miss how you and Su-ho looked at each other. You sat back in your seat, continuing with the test. 

—----------------

The test was over, and everyone was now marking their answers. You were doing well so far. A few questions had stumped you, but that was to be expected. You were back in your usual seat in front of Su-ho. Your boyfriend was quietly sleeping as you went through your test. You were happy. You had done better on this test. 

“Su-ho’s gonna be so proud of me.” You giggled to yourself. However, a bang pulled your attention away from your paper. Su-ho lifted his head from his pillow, which he had just been sleeping on, to look over at the sound. Si-eun.

Si-eun looked over at Beom-seok, who glanced at Yeong-bin and then looked at Si-eun. 

“Si-eun, uh, it’s… It’s not what you think.” Si-eun’s grip tightened on his pen. He stared at his test, and his hand shook. He was angry. Fucking Yeong-bin didn’t know how listen. Si-eun got out of his seat and began walking towards the back of the room. All eyes watched the boy who was always in the background. 

‘Newton's Second Law. Force is equal to mass times acceleration.’ He moved his pen from one hand to the other before reaching for a book on a student’s desk. ‘The centrifugal force of an object can be used to create a greater impact.’ From there, the room became chaotic. 

Si-eun hit Yeong-bin in the face with the book before turning to one of the bully’s lackeys, Tae-hoon and stabbing his pen into the male’s hand. Causing him to wail in pain as he clutched his hand.

“Oh my god.” Jung-Chan, another of Yeong-bin’s goons, stood up, and his paper aeroplane fell out of his hand. 

“You fucking luatic!” Tae-hoon screamed. 

Si-eun continued hitting Yeong-bin with the book in his hand. He cornered the taller male against the wall by the window. All it took was one moment for Yeong-bin to lean against the curtain so that Si-eun could take his next step. He wrapped the curtain around the bully’s head before bashing the book against his face one more time. Yeong-bin tried to protect himself. He tried putting his hands up, but it was hard to breathe. It was hard to focus as Si-eun held the curtain tight, one arm against his throat, and the book constantly hitting him. It was the eighth hit that had him bleeding.

The entire class flinched, recoiled and watched. No one moved except to back away.

You stood up. A hand gently wrapped around your wrist. Su-ho stood up and looked at you. “I’ll sort it. Stay here.” He pressed a kiss to the crown of your head. He saw the worry in your eyes. You were worried about Si-eun. It was like he had given in to all the anger, all the frustration, all the hate. Everyone had a breaking point. This was Si-eun’s. And whilst you didn’t like Yeong-bin, you were worried that Si-eun might cross the line and kill him.

Si-eun threw the book. It hit Yeong-bin before hitting the wall. Yeong-bin fell to the floor.

“I asked a favour. I said to stop.” Si-eun lifted his foot. But it didn’t come down. Su-ho grabbed Si-eun and pulled him back, causing the shorter male to fall.

“Nope, nope. Let’s not cross the line, hmm? Enough is enough.” Su-ho shrugged as he placed his hands in his pockets. 

“You next?” Si-eun asked him after getting up. 

“Me? Nah.” Su-ho pointed to himself. He looked over at you for a moment. You were watching, but you were safe. “You just woke up a guardian angel.” He picked up a paper aeroplane and threw it as he let out a chuckle. 

“Funny?”

“Trying to be.” Your boyfriend replied and itched his nose. 

“Babe. Not the time.” You spoke, your arms crossed over your chest. He looked over at you and sighed. You knew he was trying to lighten the mood. He watched as you grabbed your bag and pulled out your first aid kit. You always carried it with you for just in case. 

Si-eun looked down, his eyes focused on his pencil case. ‘Unconditioned reflex. An innate, automatic response to a stimulus, such as closing one’s eyes unconsciously when an object suddenly appears.’ He threw it at Su-ho, who had turned to face him again. As the contents of the pencil case flew his way, Su-ho raised his hands and turned to face away, squeezing his eyes shut. Si-eun took the opportunity to grab a chair and run at Su-ho.

Si-eun swung the chair three times. Su-ho dodged each one. The third swing caused the chair to hit a desk. 

“Cut it out, crazy man. I’ll have to hit you if you don’t. Hmm?” Su-ho was giving him a chance to stop this. 

“Si-eun, that’s enough. Please.” You stepped forward. 

Si-eun swung the chair again, missing Su-ho but hitting the lockers. Su-ho punched him, causing Si-eun to drop the chair and stumble against the lockers. 

“You should’ve stopped when I said.” Su-ho let out a small sigh. 

“Who are you to tell me what to do?”

You walked up to Su-ho's side. “He’s just trying to help, Si-eun. There is a line in everything we do. When you cross that line, you can’t come back from it. You got your revenge, Yeong-bin’s nose is broken. Tae-hoon has a hole in his hand and Jung-chan is scared shitless. Enough is enough. Please.”

Si-eun looked between the two of you. He heard you, but he was still so angry. He still saw red. He turned and began to grab a chair. Su-ho pushed you behind him, gently but quickly. “Not with her here.” He warned. He wouldn’t tolerate you getting hurt or being in the line of danger. Not ever. It didn’t matter if you could defend yourself or not, you were his everything. His light in the dark. You were his sunshine, who could always make him smile. His number one supporter. You were his past, his present and his future. No one was going to hurt you in any way and get away with it. Not whilst he was still breathing. 

“What are you two doing?!” A voice shouting. A teacher. 

“Put… Put the chair down. How could you even think of doing this in class?” Su-ho placed his hands on his hips. “Let me explain, ma’am. I was trying to break up my friends’ fight. But then, I almost fell over this chair. I’m sorry.” He bowed. 

Su-ho looked at Si-eun. “Apologise to her.” The two stared at each other for a moment. “Come on, hurry!” He raised his voice. Si-eun was quiet. Breathing hard as he took everything in. Everything that had happened. His eyes roamed the class. Everyone was watching him. His eyes finally landed back on you and Su-ho. Both of you had helped him today in your own different ways. One sweet, calming and caring. One aloof, joking yet dominant. 

Two classmates who were strangers to him had tried to help him and claimed to be his guardian angels. And for what? Was it morals? Would Su-ho have stepped in if it were anyone else? Would you have followed anyone else out during a test? His stomach felt fluttery, and his heart pounded as he watched the two of you. Your right hand and Su-ho’s left hand are intertwined. Su-ho stood in front of you slightly, still protecting you even though the danger was no more. You had a soft look in your eyes. 

Something told Si-eun that this wouldn’t be the last time he crossed paths with the school’s childhood sweethearts.

----------------

Love at First Fight Collection Taglist: Thank you for supporting me. Let me know if you wanna be added to or taken off of this Taglist.

@thecheshireprincess @potato-vagina @spanish-delulu-23 @deliciousmagazinequeen @mizxuqii @psychobitchsthings @hikaerys @pookynknowntranger @eijizwrld @seungminsbestywesty @d4ily-s-nsh1ne @all-of-kpop @mirwors @cassidyysblog @gublerstylesobrien1238 @louissst28 @gaylilslut @edensparadisee @ghost-reine @yeon103 @sousydive @aple-piie @kamiliora @lhaehyuck @dna-black-and-blue

[morbidlcve]

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ save a horse: (0.1)

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ pairings: cowgirl(dbf)!Emily x innocent!reader

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ content: pet names, Emily being sexy, masturbation, pervy Emily.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ wc: 1.3k

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ an: new and first series i hope you all enjoy.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ 18+, men + minors dni.

REQUESTS ARE OPEN

masterlist

Emily cursed under her breath, the ache pulling between her legs after dismounting her horse. Being stuck there for four hours definitely made her legs sore. She walked her horse to the stable tying her up then made her way to the house. She’s sweaty and dirty after a long day's work on the ranch. She doesn’t watch where she's going trying to undo the belt of her chaps. She pauses briefly when she comes toe to toe with you, well your sandals and white frilly socks. 

She looks up and you can barely see her face due to her hat covering her from the beating sun. You smile brightly, closing your book. “Afternoon sweetheart? You’re Hotch’s daughter aren’t you? Your daddy told me you’d be staying with me this summer whilst he’s away with work.” she grumbles, shaking the accessory off. She comes and takes a seat next to you, her boots heavy on the floorboards. 

She smirks at you, you look so cute in your little red and white checkered sundress, she can practically smell your innocence and it ignites something within her. “Guess I'm taking care of you this summer darlin’.” 

“Your daddy trusts me with you, and I'm going to make sure you have a summer you’ll never forget.” she smiles, noting her double entendre; her voice carrying a hint of a promise. Hotch asked her to look after his kid whilst he went away on business- what he failed to mention that his “kid” was a sight for sore eyes and pure little thing at that. 

Her eyes flit to the stalls where the horses are starting to whinny. She sighs, adjusting standing up, adjusting her belt and hat. You, taking in your surroundings with awe, completely miss the way she’s staring at you- the way the sun has already started to make your skin glow. She clears her throat- “You wanna help me with the horses sweetheart?”

You’d be lying if you said that the nickname she just gave you totally didn’t just make your stomach flip; but she’s like two or three times your age and nonetheless- your dad’s friend. You shake the feeling off, smiling sweetly at her- excitement simmering in your chest. “Yes!” you squeal, jumping up and following her into the stables. 

You watch her walking around the den, when she reaches for the pitchfork, her muscles in her arms working, the muscles in her back contracting as she throws the hay into the stalls. She can feel you staring, smirking, she calls over her shoulder. “Well don’t just stand there sweetheart, grab a shovel.” You stutter, shuffling to grab a shovel and scoop the food she told you to give them into their stalls. 

By the end of the task you are tired and sore- your arms feel as though they are about to fall off. “You not used to all this work?” she chuckles leading you back into the house. “No,” you say sheepishly, rubbing your sore arms. “You did well sweet” she says, hanging up her hat and kicking off her boots. “I’m going to shower, make yourself at home- once i’m done i’ll sort something out for dinner for us.” she shouts down to you from upstairs. 

You sigh rummaging in your duffel bag for the book you were reading and go to tuck yourself onto the couch and pick up where you left off. About twenty minutes pass and you hear Emily walking down the stairs. Your breach catches in your throat- she’s wearing a black vest with white short linen shorts, baring her smooth legs. She reaches up to take the towel off her head, the vest riding up the slightest bit, catching a glimpse of her toned stomach. “Right, what would you like for dinner?” she says wandering into the kitchen. Right, dinner. 

You swallow, getting up from your seat and following her through to the adjacent room. “I’m not sure, whatever you’d eat if I weren’t here I guess” you say, accepting a glass of apple juice from her. “Okay sure.” she says, reaching in the cupboard to fetch a box of pasta. She places it into a pan with water and allows it to cook. 

In the end Emily ends up making pesto pasta. You wash the dishes, much to her dismay and she puts them away. “We now have a few options, we can either go sit outside and cook s'mores or we can sit in here and watch a movie.” 

You smile, “S’mores, definitely s’mores.” 

“You got it sweetheart.” She takes the marshmallows and chocolate covered crackers from the pantry and goes outside to start the fire. You find the chairs stacked against the house and set them up for the two of you. Once seated, you feel an awkward sort of tension between the two of you, none of you really knowing how to really begin the conversation. 

“So.. horses huh?” you say, feeding the marshmallow onto the stick, holding it over the flame. Emily chuckles beside you. “Yeah, all my life, my mom moved around a lot, not for me, so I stayed with my nana and pops. Once their time came I got all this.” she motioned to the ranch. You nod, not really knowing what to say. “Do you like it?” you ask. 

“Yeah.. I do, horses, they just get you, you can tell a lot by a person on how the horse acts around you.” She says wistfully. “What about you?” she says, redirecting the conversation. You tell her about yourself, what you want to do with your life. You share your interests and hobbies outside of work and the conversation flows freely.

Hours must’ve gone by because when you start to shiver, Emily stands up- arms stretching above her head, really displaying her lean abs. You feel your face flush and begin to look down. “We should probably head in, it's getting dark and late,” she sighs, collecting the trash and tossing it into the can. She covers the fire whilst you put away the chairs. By the time you’re done, Emily is waiting on the patio for you. 

You follow her in the house awkwardly as she grabs your bags and leads you upstairs. She shows you to your new room for the next month and half, and gives you a tour of the top half of the house. “If you need anything, here’s my room.” She says, her hands coming to settle on her hips. She looks around the room, but you don’t notice, you’re too busy staring at her. Her sharp facial features, high cheekbones, perfectly sculpted nose, pointed jawline. “I’ll leave you to get ready for the night.” she says, bidding you goodnight. And just like that, you’re left alone. You start to unpack your bags, putting your clothes away in the dresser and putting your other bits in a new home. You take out some pyjamas and head into the bathroom. You turn it on and wait for it to get to the right temperature before hopping in. You start to clean yourself, lathering the loofah with body wash, running it over your body. Your eyes slip shut letting the water fall over you. 

Emily’s mouth hangs open as she watches you in the shower, pushing your door slightly ajar. Your perfect pert nipples, the round of your ass. She lets out a low groan, slipping her hand into her panties. She sighs rubbing her clit furiously, building up the stimulation. Her head drops as you run the sponge through your legs. She’s trying so hard to be quiet but when you look like that it rivals impossible. She gasps, slipping two fingers in trying to bring herself to an orgasm quickly. Your head falls back, scrubbing your shampoo into your scalp and she snaps. Legs shaking slightly. She pulls her hand out of her shorts and quickly makes her way out of your room back to her own. 

Flopping into her bed, she sighs. She is so fucked. 

fanart by: @tassiadulacs

[schlattschlut]

Do I have to do everything for you? Schlatt x charlie x reader smut

-

Schlatt catches you staring at Charlie gives you an opening, when you’re too scared to take it, Schlatt does it for you.

aka Schlatt showing Charlie how to treat you right

Cw: smut, threesome f/m/m, degradation, Schlatt is over your bullshit tbh

Wc: 2,882

-

Schlatt and I were monogamous, or so I thought. I never looked at another man once we got together; But then he introduced me to Charlie and as much as I loved my boyfriend, it was hard not to look at Charlie.

I didn’t think it was possible to find another person who could treat me as well as Schlatt does until I met Charlie and he started holding doors for me, making my favorite drink when I don’t feel well, letting me complain to him about my issues that were definitely superficial but he always made me feel valid in my drama. Not to mention that he was just gorgeous, even before he took off his glasses and changed his hair, I would catch myself eyeing him up in discord calls.

This being the first time I’d been near Charlie in person, I didn’t realize how obvious my staring was until Schlatt called it out.

“Enough.” Schlatt’s voice pulls me from my daydreams. He slams his notebook down in front of him, the two of us had been sitting at the kitchen table, working on our own things in silence; Schlatt stands from his spot, rounding the table to stand next to me.

“What?” I ask sheepishly, my cheeks heating up as he towers over me.

“You know what.” Schlatt bites back, shoving his hands in his pockets and leaning down to speak lowly into my ear, “You’ve been staring at Charlie for 20 minutes.”

My eyes widen at his words, shocked he had caught me and equally shocked he didn’t seem that mad.

“I wasn’t- I don’t think-“ I stumble over my words, trying to find the right excuse to get me out of this.

Schlatt remains silent for a moment, his head now next to mine, looking in the direction I was facing. In my line of view was Charlie, standing at the sink washing dishes after we had all eaten, oblivious to anything around him as he focused intently. I couldn’t help it, seeing Charlie wearing an apron he insisted on putting on, caught up in his own world. Schlatt had caught me red handed, watching the man in front of me do a simple task, while half paying attention to the book in front of me.

Schlatt huffs, standing up straight and crossing his arms. “You can fuck him.” He says confidently, causing me to whip my head around to look at him.

“Excuse me?” I ask, standing from my chair to face him.

“You heard me.” He grumbles, “You can fuck him, but you have to be the one to tell him.” Schlatt smirks proudly, knowing just how difficult initiating those conversations was for me.

I scoff, crossing my arms and glaring at him. “That is a wild way to make an accusation.”

Schlatt laughs, genuinely finding it funny I thought he thought I was cheating, “It’s not an accusation, toots… honestly it’s more of an order.” He shrugs.

I feel my brain shut down as he continues to speak, it was rare for him to speak in such a serious tone for so long without breaking character; I was starting to believe him.

“I can fuck him, because you’ll let me?” I clarify, raising an eyebrow in disbelief.

Schlatt shakes his head, his laugh becoming even dryer as time went on. “No, sweetheart. I know you want to fuck him, so I’m letting you.”

Though he explains it, I still don’t understand. He wanted me to fuck Charlie? Was this some sick way of breaking up with me?

The worry in my eyes must’ve been visible to Schlatt as he spoke up again, “Listen, if you can manage to tell Charlie your feelings… You can sleep with him, no strings attached or whatever.”

I breathe deeply, making sure to think over my next words before saying them, in case I say the wrong thing and this all goes south. “Why does my boyfriend want me to fuck one of his best friends so bad?” I tilt my head to look at him.

Schlatt huffs again, clearly annoyed I wasn’t just accepting what he was saying. “You and Charlie have been ogling each other for how long? And I don’t feel threatened by him so…” He shrugs, “Fuck him, if you want.”

-

I dropped the conversation there, knowing we’d be going in circles for hours if it continued.

But the thought never left my mind as a few days pass, I spend the pondering Schlatts offer, wondering how I could possibly ever bring that up to Charlie. I watched Charlie every day as he moved around the rented air bnb, slapping Schlatt on the arm every time he catches me and makes kissy noises.

After at least 36 hours of deep thought, I came to the conclusion that I should at least talk to Charlie, it couldn’t possibly hurt to casually mention it, right?

So one night, after everyone else had gone to bed or home while Schlatt and I snuggled into a corner of the couch and Charlie puttered around in the kitchen, loading the dishwasher and putting things away.

I lean away from Schlatt, looking between him and the open door to the kitchen. I bite my cheek anxiously before I stand from his lap, kissing him quickly and slipping off towards the kitchen where Charlie was standing over the sink, humming to a song in his head as he scrubbed a plate.

“Hey.” I said softly, making Charlie jump and almost drop the plate in his hand. He sets the plate down safely and turns to look at me, his chest rising heavily as he worked to catch his breath.

“Jesus, you always do that.” Charlie states, splashing me with some of the soapy water.

I gasp, dodging as much of the water as I can. “I can’t help that you’re jumpy!” I laugh, finally looking up at him. My cheeks blush as I realize he’s wearing my favorite sweater of his, the black and white one that fit him so well.

He rolls his eyes, leaning against the counter and crossing his arms. “Did you need something?” He asks.

I nod, gulping nervously as he unknowingly put his biceps on display, reminding me how strong he was.

“Yeah, I…” I start to speak, fully ready to admit my feelings to him, having a speech planned and everything. Yet now it seemed like I couldn’t talk at all, no words coming out as I panicked.

Charlie looks at me with concern but before he can ask if i’m okay, I turn around and exit the kitchen, ignoring Schlatt who stands from the couch to try and comfort me as I make my way to our shared room and flop down on the bed, my face burning up with embarrassment.

I had figured someone would follow me, likely Schlatt, to either confront or comfort me. I secretly prayed no one did and they allowed me to sulk in peace.

Thankfully, my wishes are granted as no one even knocks on the door, though I can hear them all bustling around the house as I lay in bed. I keep my face flat against the mattress, replaying the conversation in my head a thousand times. Realizing all the cool things I could’ve said, instead of choking and running away.

At least an hour, maybe two, passes before I hear from anyone. I sit by myself, debating if I should be brave and leave the room or stay inside with my own thoughts.

Though it seems Schlatt decides for me, as I nervously fiddle with the edge of the blanket, I hear a knock at the door and the sound of the knob turning slowly. Schlatt sticks his head in, seeing me sat on the bed, he opens the door fully and invites himself in.

He stands at the foot of the bed, his hands behind his back as he rocked back and forth lightly, “Hi.” He states.

“Hi.” I reply, “What can I do for you?” I ask, tilting my head in question.

Schlatt clears his throat, running his hand through his hair as he stares at the wall behind me. “So,” He starts, which is usually a bad sign, meaning he had formed an idea.

“Oh god.” I mutter. Schlatt sticks his hands out in defense.

“Hear me out, would you? Just give me a chance.” He pauses, waiting to see if I’ll interrupt him again before continuing. “Okay, so… I know that whole conversation with Charlie kind of crashed and burned.”

I wince as he brings it up, the memory still too fresh in my mind.

“However!” He continues, “I might have talked to him about it…” He almost mumbles the last part.

My jaw drops, “Schlatt!” I scold, my cheeks heating up with a new found embarrassment.

“I’m sorry, okay, but you’re really bad at talking to people.” He replies. I cross my arms and huff, knowing he’s right. I allow him to continue, “He’s down if you are.”

He said it so quickly I almost missed it, but I didn’t and my heart fell to my stomach as I processed his words.

“He is?” I ask in slight disbelief, not entirely trusting Schlatt to not be pulling my leg.

He only nods, stepping away from the bed and back towards the door, opening it and ushering someone in; revealing Charlie who had clearly been waiting close by.

My blush gets stronger as everything starts to unfold, realizing that Charlie was in fact interested in this and my boyfriend had been the one to tell him. I wasn’t sure if I should be angry or grateful because I would’ve never talked to him on my own.

I shift to sit on my knees, watching them both closely. Schlatt had his eyes focused on Charlie, who was staring at me.

“Well?” Schlatt asks expectantly, waiting for Charlie to make a move.

Charlie head snaps from me to Schlatt, he blinks repeatedly as he processes what to say and do. “I- Uh-“ Charlie stumbles over his own words, his heart beating against his chest and his pants starting to strain were making it hard to focus.

Schlatts expression drops from expectant to annoyed. He and Charlie had discussed this prior and Charlie swore not to chicken out, that if I was in so was he. But now he stood next to the bed, nervously shifting his weight back and forth. Schlatt waits another moment before groaning. “Do I have to do everything for you two?” He questions, grabbing my ankle and yanking me down the bed towards him.

I squeak as he does, now laying on my back with Schlatt between my legs. He holds both my knees in his hands, pressing them into his sides. He looks up at Charlie again, pointing to the ground next to him. “Stand here.” He commands and Charlie immediately follows the order, standing where Schlatt told him.

My heart races, I swear it’s going to burst out of my chest. They’re both looking down at me, making me feel incredibly small. I shift uncomfortably as they stare me down, Schlatt chuckling.

“Well, since you seem to be struggling, I’ll fuck her first.” Schlatt says to Charlie, unfazed by the way Charlie’s eyes widened and he swallowed nervously. Schlatt then looks at me, slapping my thigh roughly to get my attention on him. “That alright with you, sweetheart?” He asks.

I nod frantically, growing more impatient by the second. Schlatt knew I would be okay with it, but he just had to play it up for Charlie just a bit.

Schlatt grows even more impatient as Charlie and I stay quiet. He slips his fingers under the waistband of my shorts, pulling them down and off my legs. His pants go next, pooling around his ankles as he pulled me even closer to him.

I catch Schlatt looking at Charlie, tracking his movements and ensuring he had his full attention on us. My eyes are locked on Schlatt as my hands grip the sides of his shirt nervously.

He leans forward, shushing me softly and pushing his hips into mine, stretching me out slowly as I whine softly. Once he’s fully seated, he leans back and smiles at Charlie, grabbing the back of his neck and bringing him closer, “See.” Schlatt says, “This is what you’re supposed to do.”

Charlie laughs awkwardly, his palm pressing against the front of his jeans as Schlatt holds him close to us.

I whine at Schlatt, tugging on his shirt. “Don’t be mean.” I mumble, trying to defend Charlie. Schlatt just scoffs, pulling almost all the way out before slamming his hips into mine again, effectively shutting off my brain for a moment.

He turns to Charlie again, “You watching?” He asked lowly. Charlie keeps his eyes trained on us nervously, unsure exactly where to look.

Schlatt grunts and his hips start to move quicker, his length stretching me further each time, his head falling back as he tried to remind Charlie to keep his eyes on us. I reach forward, grabbing the front of Charlie’s shirt and pulling him closer until he was kneeling on the bed next to me.

Schlatts hands are roaming the expanse of my legs, his fingers brushing lightly over the skin; a stark contrast to the way his hips slam against mine. He’s groaning softly, losing control more and more with each thrust.

“Your turn.” He grunts to Charlie, gesturing for him to take his pants off. Charlie stutters for a moment, losing his confidence as both of us watched him. Schlatt glares at him, looping his fingers into Charlie’s belt loop and tugging him even closer. His hands leave my body momentarily as he unzips Charlie’s jeans for him; pushing them down his thighs. “Fuck my girlfriend, bro.” Schlatt says, almost casually as he slips out of me, stepping aside for Charlie to take his place. He grabs Charlie’s shoulder, tugging him to stand in the position he was just in.

Charlie stares down at me nervously; I smile softly at him, leaning on my elbows and running my hands down his chest. “C’mon, Charlie…” I murmur teasingly. “I want you to fuck me.”

I see Charlie’s eyes darken at the words, as if he’s suddenly come to terms with the situation and is finally ready to play. “I’ll fuck you, princess.” Charlie mutters, grabbing himself by the base, nudging his tip against my clit a few times before pushing in slowly. I can’t help but mewl at the feeling of him. He didn’t have the length that Schlatt did, but he matched him in girth and my body couldn’t seem to get enough.

My head lolls to the side as Charlie takes a second to catch his breath, I watch Schlatt as he takes his own length in his hand, pumping it slowly; running his thumb over the tip and using the precum as lubricant. Schlatts free hand runs along my calf, down to my thigh as his eyes focus on where Charlie and I connect. “Move.” Schlatt commands Charlie.

Charlie’s head turns to look at Schlatt, his daze clearing again as his starts to move his hips, whimpers and moans fall past his lips quietly. “So tight…” Charlie whines, “God you feel good…” He groans out.

Schlatt chuckles, sliding his hand over my thigh to press his thumb against my clit. I gasp, squeezing around Charlie; causing his hips to stutter as he falls forward slightly.

I know Schlatt is enjoying this just as much as Charlie, if not more. His thumb moved over my clit quickly, clearly trying to bring me closer to the edge as Charlie’s moans only got more frequent.

“Shit, Charlie.” Schlatt laughs, his hand pumping over his cock faster, “You might actually make her come.”

I nod frantically in agreement, my eyes closing as my climax approached quickly, “Please Charlie,” I whine, opening my eyes just enough to see him panting over me. “Wanna come for you…” I beg.

His hips speed up, his hands pressing my hips into the mattress to keep me from moving as he seems to chase his own pleasure at the same time.

“Come, you slut.” Schlatt orders, taking his hand off himself long enough to slap my inner thigh. The feeling of both men against me starts to make my brain feel fuzzy, my release slowly building until I couldn’t stop myself from coming; my vision turning white and my breathing heavy as it washes over me.

I squeeze around Charlie again, hearing him gasp and his hips stuttering as his own release spills into me, slowly leaking down onto the sheets below. The sight alone is enough for Schlatt, he grunts and I feel his come dripping down the side of my leg as he whispers praises towards us both.

Schlatts free hand steadies him against the mattress before he gives in and falls down next to me, still catching his breath. Charlie follows suit, pulling out of me with a whine before climbing into bed next to me, wrapping his arm around my waist.

“Was that so fucking hard?” Schlatt grunts out, “I’m not doing it for you next time.”

[darnell-la]

Old man Logan filming reader while fucking her while he threatens to blackmail her + humiliation kink

note: we didn’t know how to make the story, but we found a way as always. as you guys know, we’re freaked out, and by that, we mean, we’re the freakiest page on Tumblr. if we could say make our stories more spicy without getting reported, we would…

warnings: cnc, rough sex, kidnapping, manhandling, chained, angry Logan, etc

———

Y/n isn’t to much of a good person when it comes to hanging out with her friends. She had thought arguing with her Uber guy that her friends ordered wouldn’t come back and bite her in the ass, until now.

Once she woke up in a dark room, changed and gagged with the familiar smell, she had known she should’ve stayed home tonight.

Logan made the quick decision to teach people what happens when they mistreat strangers. He thought he’d maybe scare her a little, but after thinking, he wanted to do more.

No one knew where he lived. No one knows that she’s fine yet. She couldn’t possibly get away from him, and he didn’t have to let her leave. He could keep her for himself since a girl like her wouldn’t be too much to miss out in the world.

“Just look at you. Pathetic. All that talkin’ you did with your friends went out the window, huh, Bub?” Logan teaser as the young girl fought against the chains and tried to scream, but couldn’t.

“No one can hear you. We’re far away from any kind of human life — Perfect for me,” Logan said as she got up from a chair and stepped towards her, walking past a camera he had set up to look directly at her.

“You see this? This was thrown in the dump — It works perfect for what I need it for,” y/n’s heart began raising, not knowing what this man was going to do to her. She’s never been tortured before, and she had no plans to die any time soon.

“Please,” y/n cried through her gag, hoping to gain some sympathy from the older man, but the only thing that was gained was a rick hard boner that poker hard through his jeans.

“I’m not going to let you go- ever — And, if you somehow escape, just know I’ll have hundred of videos of you crying on my cock — Soon you’ll visibly enjoy it, and I don’t think you’ll want the world to see that, right?”

Y/n barely understood anything the man was saying as she never stopped fighting, screaming, and begging in her chains.

“You’re prettier then I thought — It was pretty dark out there hours ago, but now that I’ve got you in the spot light and closer to my face — I can definitely see myself making a good slut out of you,”

Logan quickly got into his knees and climbed in top of y/n, now hobbling onto her skin as she screamed for some kind of help.

Chaining her hands behind her back made everything easier to bite down on. Her kicks were annoying him, but not enough to stop tasting her.

“What a goddamn peach,” Logan said as he moved down to her lower body, now pulling down her skirt that she loved for the night. Now she had wished she never wore it. Same goes for her shirt that shoes to much of her cleavage.

“Please, stop!” Y/n tried her beg to beg the man through her gag, but that only turned him in. She was all bite out ago, and now she’s crying for him to get off of her. The night cousins have gotten any better for the old man.

“No need to shave for me, princess — You’re to pretty to be worried about a bush,” Logan roughly moved y/n around the mattress to make sure the camera a few feet away from then would catch the angle he wanted to use her in.

“I bet we’d make a great couple — Never liked a young brat, but if you’re as tight as I think you are, I’ll consider,”

Y/n knew she was ain’t getting out of this situation. Getting out of chains seemed impossible unless he let her out. Even if she could get out of the chains, what would she do then? Logan is way too huge to fight off.

“Hey, relax — Let me at least get in first, yeah?” Logan said as he moved in between her legs. “Might wanna save all that fighting for when it actually matters. Unless you’re fine with being relaxed on my cock,”

Those words had triggered y/n’s brain, instantly making her cry. She never thought anything like this would happen to her, but she just had to go home alone tonight. She ever does, yet, tonight, she did.

“See what you’ve got me looking like?” Logan said as he pulled himself out of his jeans, dropping his huge length on top of y/n’s now uncovered cunt. “Might take a bit to fit, but I’ll make it work,”

As Logan spat all over her heat snd his cock, y/n tried her best to make every begging word clear. Now she was more focused on how she would be able to take him. She’s never seen a cock that huge in real time.

“Hey- Hey — All that begging ain’t gon stop me, okay? You should’ve thought abut your fucking actions when you were bitching with your friends,”

Y/n wanted to argue back with the man and tell him how rude he was at first, but all of that died when she felt him push into her, almost getting everything in, in one go.

The young girl could celery scream. All she could do was stiffen up and and take deep breaths as the man began thrusting into her slowly, trying to get every inch of himself through her folds.

“Fucking hell, Bub,” Logan growled as he continued to thrust, feeling her grip him tighter than he ever thought anyone could. “I’m definitely filling you up more the once a day,”

“S-Stop,” y/n stuttered as she felt an instant knot fill in her stomach. “Relax yourself so I can push better,” even thought Logan wanted to teach the young girl a horrible lesson, he still wanted to make sure she enjoyed some of it.

To watch and see her hide the pleasure is all he wants, especially for the camera. She’d never leave or think about treating him like shit again if he had that against her.

“P-Please, no more,” y/n begged as she felt his balks brush against her other hole, letting her know he was all the way in. “I-I can’t,” y/n cried into her gag as her eyes rolled back.

Logan went to speak until he felt y/n gushing around him. He couldn’t believe it until he looked down then back up at her face. The way her eyes crossed showed him how hard it’ll be for her to ignore how much she’d love the pleasure he’s about to give her.

“Yeah, that’s it — Keep it coming,” Logan said as he placed his hands in her waist to pull her into his thrust. “All that crying, and you’re crying on my dick — What a fucking lie you are, Bub,”

Y/n shook her head, not wanting his words ti get ti her head, but they already had. If her were to ask her right now if he felt good inside her, she would be lying if she said another other then yes.

“Maybe after doing this a few times, we can let whatever happened earlier tonight, go — We can leave it behind us and get to know each other — Would be a dream to have a pretty thing like you around with no complaints,”

Y/n continued to shake her head, upset that the way he talked to her as he fucked her was making her feel a type of way. She’s not even scared of him anymore. The only thing she’s scared of is what he said before — Having her enjoying this caught on camera.

“I’ll tell you what, Bub — If you do good for me for a month, I’ll let you redeem yourself. I’ll be nicer and might even say fuck it to the tapes. How does that sound? — But, only if you stay,”

Y/n wanted to curse at the man. She wanted to scream and punch him, but sadly, the only thing she could do was nod quickly with her fucked out eyes. The way he pounded into her made her forget that he was a stranger who had kidnapped her.

“That’s my girl,”

[holylulusworld]

Stuck in the middle (2)

Summary: Your best friend and his husband got this.

Pairing: Stucky x fem!Reader, former ??? x fem!Reader

Warnings: angst, abandonment, relationship problems, hurt & comfort, bisexual Stucky, hinted grey/dark Stucky

Catch up here: Stuck in the middle (1)

As promised, Steve and Bucky took good care of you. After enjoying a warm bath with you in the huge, luxurious bathtub, they wrapped you in a soft, fluffy towel.

You didn’t have to wear one of Steve’s old shirts. Bucky made one call, and not twenty minutes later, Chatrice, the owner of one of the most expensive boutiques, stood in front of their door, delivering the clothes the brunette ordered.

“I hope you’ll like it.” She was kind enough to show you every piece of clothing and helped you try on a few dresses before you settled for a comfortable pajama. “Just enjoy.” She whispered. “Mr. Barnes is a very nice man, but he never put so much effort into making someone happy.”

“Oh,” you didn’t know how to react. Did she genuinely mean it, or was this merely a tactic to sell more clothes to Bucky?

“I know he’s happily married, but believe me, you must mean a lot to them if they ask me to come here at that time of the day, offering a chauffeur to drive me. These two are a keeper.”

You were stunned at her words. Why would Bucky put so much effort into making his husband’s best friend happy?

“All done?” Steve asked, poking his head into the guest room they prepared for you. “Does she like the clothes?”

“We found something she likes,” Chatrice answered honestly. You chose a few clothes, nothing too fancy. That’s not your style. “If you need anything else, give me a call.”

She talked about the payment and more orders with Bucky as you nervously shifted on your feet. “How about we choose the food while Bucky handles this?” Steve was quick to distract you. He always knew when you were closing yourself off. “What do you want to eat tonight?”

“Why are you doing all this for me?” You murmured, ashamed you let your boyfriend ruin your friendship with Steve. “I mistreated you for another man.”

He shook his head. “Baby doll, you did nothing wrong. He gaslighted you and made you believe I’m a bad friend. If the one you love threatens to break up with you, you’ll do anything to keep them.”

“Still, I’m sorry.” You grabbed his hand, squeezing it. “You were my best friend and didn’t deserve how I treated you.”

“We will forget about this,” Steve said, and cupped your face. He smiled and pressed a soft kiss on your forehead. “If you allow Buck and me to help you and take care of you, all is forgiven.”

“I don’t know what to do now,” you sniffled. “I  have everything I own at his house, and all of my money is… I gave it to him to pay for the roof and such.”

“We will get all your belongings first thing in the morning,” Bucky casually said, as if your boyfriend would let you back inside his house. “Don’t worry, Y/N. I have my way with words to make people…compliant.”

Bucky smirked darkly for a second before walking off to make a few calls. You shuddered for a second but brushed your gut feeling off. Steve and Bucky were your haven in this time of need.

“She’s finally asleep,” Steve whispered as he watched you sleep on one of the monitors hanging on one of the walls at their office. “We need to get her things and make sure that piece of shit stays away from her.”

“Hmm…” Bucky nodded thoughtfully. He looked at the monitor, already planning their next steps. “We have her here, at our home. She’ll need us, Steve. What he did is unforgivable. How can he choose that woman over our doll?”

“He was always a bitchy boy,” Steve huffed and crossed his arms over his chest. “He manipulates and schemes to get what he wants.”

“In other words, an utter asshole,” Bucky concluded. “We will do whatever it takes to keep her, right?”

“Right,” Steve confirmed. “He never deserved her. All this time, he was lusting over that woman while having Y/N in his life.”

“Do you want me to break his face?” Bucky dipped his head, his smirk deepening. “You know, I get all hot and bothered after punching some asshole’s face.”

“Buck,” Steve purred his husband’s name, already grasping for him. His hands ended up in Bucky’s hair, and his lips hungrily claimed Bucky’s. He moaned into his mouth. “How about we lead this to the bedroom? She’s asleep…”

“Lead the way, sexy man…”

Morning came much too soon. You weren’t prepared to see your boyfriend, or now ex-boyfriend, again. He hurt you so deeply by siding with Penelope that there is no coming back from this.

“Morning, beautiful,” Bucky cooed and plopped down on the sofa next to you. He was wearing nothing but a pair of boxers and a smirk. His hair looked like someone was having a blast messing it up last night. “How do you feel? Are you ready to rip that asshole a new one?”

You took a deep breath and shook your head. “Not really. I don’t know what to say or how to act when I see him today.”

“Let Stevie and me handle this.” Bucky wrapped one arm around your shoulders and softly whispered your name. “You can make a list and stay here if you want to.”

You leaned in his embrace, enjoying the little comfort Bucky offered. You knew it was all because his husband was your best friend. Still, you didn’t take his kindness for granted.

“I’d like to come with you,” you sleepily murmured. “I must face him before I can even think of moving on, one day.”

“We will be with you the whole time, Y/N.” Steve looked at his husband, having one of their silent conversations. “If he only breathes wrong, he’ll need new teeth.”

Steve was never openly violent around you, and you wondered if he’d hurt your boyfriend for you.

Steve wouldn’t let you leave the house without breakfast. He made you your favorite pancakes while his husband brewed tea and coffee for the three of you.

You chatted with them and ate, feeling relaxed for the first time since Penelope came back into the picture.

Bucky wanted to leave earlier to strike fast and hard. – His words, not yours.

“Ah, she's finally crawling back home,” Penelope snapped at you the moment you wanted to unlock the door. She ripped the door open to belittle you once again.

“A good morning to you too,” you replied, feeling the anger resurface. “I came here for my belongings. If you’d step out of my way, I’ll be quick to leave you and your slutty cunt to your conspiracy to get my boyfriend.”

“Bitch!” She snapped at you, but you only laughed. Because this time, you weren’t alone. “What? Who are you?” She hissed as Bucky and Steve stood next to you.

“Oh, these are my friends. They are here to help me.” You shoved her aside, entering your former home to get everything packed. “Get out of my way, and you can have him all for yourself. I’m done here.”

Steve and Bucky silently followed you inside. “Here, put a sticker on everything belonging to you. Our moving team will pack it up.” Steve handed you the stickers, little kittens playing with yarn.

You giggled when you looked at the stickers. “Okay…thank you.”

Things went smoothly. You put stickers on everything you owned and wanted to take with you. One angry look from Bucky kept Penelope away, and the moving team was able to carry everything out of the house before noon.

One last time, you looked around the house that was your home until yesterday, but somehow, you didn’t feel sad anymore.

A new feeling took the sadness's place. Hope? Freedom? No, it was relief. It felt like a heavy weight lifted off your chest when you realized you didn’t have to endure Penelope’s cruelty any longer.

“All done?” Steve asked. He placed his hand on your shoulder. “Do you want to have a look around again?”

“No…” You looked at the mug in your hand, the one you bought for your boyfriend for Valentine’s Day. You snorted and threw it against the wall. “Best boyfriend, my ass!”

“You go, girl!” Bucky cheered while his husband watched you with amusement. “Do you want to destroy more?”

“No.” You confidently said, looking at Bucky. “I’m done here for good.” Crouching down, you grabbed your cat. “Sorry for leaving you alone last night.”

Steve offered his hand to you, smiling as you took it without hesitation. “Good. Let’s head out then.”

“Alright, let’s have lunch,” Bucky added, and followed you outside the house. He looked at the cat in your arms. “That's your cat?”

“Uh—I brought her home a few days ago. She’s from a shelter, and…uh…he wasn’t too happy.” You sniffed. “If you don’t like cats, I can ask a friend to take her for the time being. I’ll look up apartments next thing today.”

“No…” Both said in unison. “There’s no hurry, and we like cats. Let’s bring you both home.”

“What’s their name?” Bucky took the white cat out of your hands. “That’s a pretty cat.”

“Alpine.”

“Well, hello there, Alpine. You and your mommy are our best girls from now on…”

[wint3rbarnes]

‘a dream is a wish your heart makes.’

summary ۶ৎ in which, bucky returns home to you as a sergeant.

warnings ۶ৎ mentions of war, lots of fluff, pet names ( sweet girl, doll, baby, babydoll ), no use of y/n.

1940s bucky barnes x bestfriend’s little sister!reader.

𝓐/n ۶ৎ hi! first fic on tumblr and i’m so excited and nervous to post this so please be kind; if you don't like it, simply move on. i used to write tons of fanfics years ago and i loved it, but i suddenly lost confidence and feared posting my writing and ideas, so i’m hoping posting on here will help me gain my confidence back! support will be heavily appreciated, my loves. please don’t copy, translate or repost my work to any other platforms. thank you for taking the time to read this ♡

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪ ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐

the prospect of returning to brooklyn is a fever in bucky's blood, but it isn’t the familiar streets that fuel it. it’s you: his best friend’s little sister, who’s become a lighthouse for him, guiding him through darkness which casts over the intense waves of the sea ( in his case, army training ). he often finds himself lost in contemplation, wondering how someone as sweet as you can even tolerate being in his presence. every night, under the cold, pitch black sky, he thanks his lucky stars for having you in his life.

the train ride back feels like an eternity, but he spends the entire time imagining your face, the way your eyes crinkle when you laugh, the gentle curve of your lips when you’re lost in thought. your smile is his shield, your laughter his battle cry. he knows that you’re his anchor, the one constant in a world teetering on the brink of madness. you’re his solace, his hope, his reason to keep fighting, to keep coming back. because in a world full of uncertainty and coldness, you’re his certainty, his light, his everything. and he can’t wait to see you again and bask in your warmth.

he, of course, never dares to act upon his secret feelings for you, having respect for steve. but the distance, the aching void of your absence, is making it excruciatingly harder to continue holding back. he’s always dismissed the saying, "absence makes the heart grow fonder," as mere sentimentality, until now. now, every mile that stretches between you is proof to its truth, each thump of his heart a burning remembrance of what he’s denying himself of.

thus, with his return, he’s determined to see you first, his mind already picturing the moment. he imagines the way your innocent, bambi-like eyes will light up with unadulterated bliss, the way you’ll throw yourself into his awaiting arms. he’ll lift you effortlessly off your feet, inhaling the exhilarating scent that’s so distinctly you, holding you close, because in that embrace, he can pretend, just for a moment, that you’re truly his.

he retrieves the key from its hiding place beneath a loose brick, where you usually keep a spare, and slips into your apartment, securing the lock behind him. brooklyn has never been the safest place, especially at nighttime. your apartment, though small and undeniably rundown, holds a winsome aesthetic due to your ability to change the ordinary into something ensorcelling. forget-me-nots sit on surfaces, creamy knitted blankets drape over the worn couch, and framed drawings steve made adorn the walls. it may not seem much to an outsider, but the sempiternal memories it has is more than enough to call it home.

the familiar scent, a mix of vanilla and homely warmth, envelopes his senses, instantly easing the tension that has been weighing down his shoulders since being drafted ( or enlisted as he tells people ). no lights illuminate the space, only the glow of the moon filtering through the windows, guiding him towards your bedroom. he quietly creaks the door open, his breath catching in his throat. time seems to stand still, the missing piece of himself slotting back into place, because there you are, fast asleep in your bed, the thin duvet pooling softly around your waist and a brown, slightly tattered teddy bear tucked securely under your chin.

he remembers a time long ago, back when childhood sleepovers with steve happened most weekends, where one night, he overheard you whimpering, enduring a nightmare in your room from across the hall. without a second thought, he had snuck in, clutching that same beloved teddy bear, and gently placed it in your arms. he hoped that when he wasn't there to personally ward off your bad dreams, the stuffed toy would help protect you.

silently closing the door behind him, his feet carries him to the side of your bed. he crouches down, the fabric of his pants pulling taut against his firm thighs. oceanic blues roam over you, taking in every detail. you look ethereal, like an angel bathed in moonlight. your hair cascades across the pillows like a halo, framing your face. your freckles, usually subtle, are now more prominent under the moon's soft glow, and your pink lips, which he imagines are as soft as clouds, a stairway to heaven, form a cute, innocent pout.

bucky smiles softly to himself, his calloused thumb gently brushing against your cheekbone. the roughness of his skin, due to countless hours of training and previously working at the docks, is different to the delicate softness of your face. the simple touch makes him exhale, a quiet release of pent-up tension, as he savours the moment.

he knows he should’ve waited until morning, resisted the urge to enter your home unannounced in the dead of night. but the anticipation had become unbearable, a tenacious tide pulling him forward. he knows he should let you sleep, allow you the rest you deserve, but the need to gaze into your eyes, to hear your dulcet voice, to hold you close and never let go, has overwhelmed all reason.

"doll," he whispers, the familiar nickname rolling off his tongue with ease, "it’s me, it's bucky."

as though his name is a prayer, a lifeline in the realm of sleep, your eyes flutter open, bleary with sleep. a sleepy hum escapes you, and the corners of his mouth curve upwards in response, amusement twinkling in his eyes as reality slowly returns to you. with a gasp, you sit up, your teddy bear tumbling forgotten to the side, no longer needed to keep you safe now he’s here. without a second thought, you throw your arms around his neck, clinging to him.

he chuckles, a sound he hasn’t realised he's been missing for ages until now. his strong arms wrap securely around your waist, one hand gently cupping the back of your head, fingers reveling in the softness of your hair. “i missed you too, sweet girl," he murmurs, his lips pressing a tender kiss to your forehead. the simple touch sends a flurry of butterflies fluttering in your stomach, and warmth bubbles inside of his chest, his mind going fuzzy with the feel of your skin against his lips.

your face nestles into the curve of his neck, and he feels a dampness soaking his skin, the sound of soft sniffles reaching his ears. "oh, sweet girl, are you crying?" he coos, his voice laced with concern. if his absence for training has upset you this much, he can’t help but wonder how you’ll react when he’s eventually shipped off. a wave of protectiveness washes over him, and he tightens his hold, murmuring soothingly, "shh, it's okay, i’m here now."

“i m-missed you so much. w-was so lost without y-you.”

your words, as pure as you are, spark a longing within him, a fierce desire to consume you whole. he wishes he can keep you tucked away in the deepest depths of his heart and soul, where you’ll never be alone, eternally cherished and loved beyond measure.

"i know, baby, i know," he croons, gently tucking his hands behind your legs and lifting you as he rises. he lays you down with utmost care, your bambi eyes still puffy from crying as he tenderly wipes away the tears on your rosy cheeks. unable to resist the pull, that damn tide again, he slides in beside you, wrapping the duvet over you both as you snuggle into his chest. he can’t bring himself to care about his sergeant uniform that’ll inevitably get creased; his only concern is for you: his precious ball of light.

"every day felt like hell without you," he murmurs, his hand tracing constellations on your back in a soothing rhythm. he adores the way you sigh in contentment, now calmer, melting into his embrace. "but now," he adds quietly, "it feels like heaven in your arms."

“you- you have more muscle.” you blurt out, feeling the way he’s more toned up against you.

“that’s what you have to say to me? i’ve gained more muscle?” he teases before sighing dramatically, “here i thought you liked me for my personality.”

“that’s a bonus.”

he pinches your hip in response to your teasing remark, eliciting a soft gasp from your lips as you curl further into his chest. your cheek then presses against something cold, causing you to pull back slightly, your eyes widening as they focus on the badge. "you're a sergeant?" you breathe out, a mixture of surprise and admiration in your voice.

“yes, ma’am.” bucky smirks at your reaction.

“you must’ve worked really hard for the title.” you softly say. “‘m proud of you, james.”

you’re pride in him interconnects deeply with his soul. he feels as though he’s floating on cloud nine as he smiles into your hair, gently brushing it back from your forehead. "how have you been, doll?" he asks softly, his voice laced with genuine care, wanting to know every little detail of what you’ve been up to since he’s been away.

and so you tell him everything, secure in the fact he’ll listen intently, never interrupting, never judging the little side stories you add along the way. as you ramble on, sharing the news of the job you've been accepted into, musing about the possibility of getting a kitten, and saying how you’ve been journaling your dreams in sparkly, gold ink, he feels an overwhelming sense of pride for how far you’ve come. you were such a shy, timid thing growing up, too skittish to even hold a conversation with a boy. yet, here you are now, a social butterfly whose wings are flourishing, and he can’t help but feel honoured that he was the cocoon in which you safely nested in.

"tell me one of your dreams," he requests after you finish speaking, your dainty hands, which had been waving around animatedly, now idly fiddling with the buttons on his suit.

you can’t deny how incredibly handsome he looks. he always possessed a certain charm, but now that he’s returned, it’s amplified, especially accentuated by his sergeant's uniform. yet, despite his dashing appearance, that isn’t the reason you’ve fallen for him. you’ve fallen for him because, in a world full of boys, he stands out as a true gentleman.

"that i have a husband who knows me inside and out, who cherishes and takes care of me," you answer softly, almost wistfully, "we’d live in a cottage house tucked away in the meadows, and my wedding ring would gleam under the sunlight. we’d take walks with the squirrels and birds while collecting flowers and herbs, just like my mama used to." the words hang in the air, tinged with a hint of melancholy, as if you know it might never come to pass. not with the war raging on, not with the economy spiraling downward. you can barely scrape together enough rent for this small apartment if it weren't for steve's support.

bucky listens intently, completely lost in a daydream of what you’ve described. he can picture the two of you in that cosy home, waking up to the sight of you every morning, the sunlight gently caressing your features. he imagines holding your hand, yours and his wedding ring rubbing together, a symbol of the everlasting connection you’d share. he can envision those peaceful walks in the meadows, where he’d lift you over muddy patches, eager to protect your pure spirit from any blemish, then tenderly tuck a flower behind your ear, showering your flushed face with kisses.

he can imagine a life brimming with undeviating devotion and immeasurable love, a life untouched by the coldness of the world. yet, a question lingers in his mind: do you picture him by your side in that life?

“that sounds heavenly, sweet girl,” he softly whispers, “do you picture anyone specific as your husband?”

shyness washes over you as you offer a hesitant nod. he gently tilts your chin upward, his captivating baby blue eyes locking with your own, wide and innocent bambi eyes. "use your words, doll," he coaxes softly.

your breath hitches delicately at the sudden intimacy. the space between you seems to crackle with anticipation, a magnetic pull drawing you closer. you can feel his breath mingling with your own, sending shivers down your spine. your grip on his clothing tightens slightly, your chipped nail polish a splash of colour against the dark, army green fabric; vulnerability and strength rolled into one.

“you…i picture you.”

it’s like fireworks explode within him, igniting a grin that spreads across his face, radiant and unrestrained. in this moment, the world fades away, leaving only the two of you suspended in time, surrounded by dreams of a shared future. he cups your face with both hands, his heart pounding against his ribcage like a frantic drumbeat. "i’m going to make all your dreams come true, babydoll," he vows.

“you will?”

bucky’s gaze intensifies, and a soft smile plays on his lips as he lowers his head. he seals his fate when his lips meet yours, and it’s as though a dam has burst, unleashing a whirlwind of emotions you never knew exists. his kiss is tender yet firm, sending waves of warmth throughout your body. you close your eyes, savouring the moment, lost in the sensation of his touch, and for the first time, you feel truly alive.

it’s like the universe has conspired to align, him pouring every ounce of his passion into the kiss, determined to make your first one as magical as humanly possible. you taste exquisitely sweet and utterly addictive, vanilla lingering on his tongue. you feel soft against him, like a plush pillow which he yearns to rest his head on. as he reluctantly parts, allowing you to catch your breath, his thumb gently traces the contours of your swollen lips, his gaze drifting dreamily into your hazy, love-struck eyes.

“you’ve always been my dream girl, doll. let me be your dream man.”

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪ ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐

[moongirlcleo]

Reverence -a drabble

❤︎  tags and content: mirror sex, possessive!xavier x f!reader ❤︎  author note: check out all my fics by searching #moongirlcleo or on AO3

🔞NSFW content - Minors DNI 🔞 Dividers: @/omi.resources ©2025 moongirlcleo do not repost, copy, translate, or modify

You didn’t mean to make him jealous.

You never do.

But the way that rookie Hunter had been just a little too close on the mission, fingers brushing yours, laughing too freely, eyes flicking down to your lips like they didn’t belong to someone else. Xavier had seen it all. Silent, still as a blade before the strike, he had only nodded, said nothing, even offered a faint smile.

But now? Now, the door clicks shut behind you with the finality of a cage, and you realize Xavier’s silence was never indifference. It was restraint.

He crowds you against the mirror before you can blink, the shimmer of light from his fingertips ghosting up your jaw like moonfire. Cool. Reverent. But the way his eyes bore into your reflection- icy and endless- is anything but.

“You didn’t stop him.” His voice is low, quiet enough to make you feel every word.

“I didn’t need to,” you breathe, the back of your head resting against his shoulder now, his chest flush to your spine. “You were there.”

Xavier’s hand glides down your waist, then lower. “That’s not the point.”

He lifts your wrist gently, his fingers wrapping around the delicate bones like he’s handling glass until he pins it above your head. The mirror fogs where your breath catches.

“You’re mine,” he murmurs, tone deceptively soft, eyes locked on yours in the glass. “Say it.”

You hesitate. His grip tightens. It’s not enough to hurt, but enough to command.

“Say it, starlight.”

“I’m yours.”

He exhales slowly, like the storm inside him just barely ebbed back from the edge.

His other hand traces your throat, fingertips dancing down the front of your shirt, and the faint glow of his Evol blooms under your skin as light slides beneath fabric like liquid silk, warm and buzzing.

“This body,” he whispers, brushing his lips against the shell of your ear. “Your pulse. Your thoughts. They’re all made for me. Only me.”

Your breath hitches as his teeth catch your neck- no gentle kiss, just a warning bite, deep enough to sting. Deep enough to mark.

“Xavier, I–”

“I see the way you look at me,” he cuts in, his voice velvet and heat. “The way you need me to ruin you a little. Let me.”

Your knees tremble as he shifts behind you, tugging at your clothes with a control so precise, it makes your heart pound harder. The chill of the air against your newly exposed skin only makes the warmth of his palm feel hotter. When his hand slides between your thighs, your breath cracks open against the glass.

“Do you know how long I’ve waited?” he whispers. “Centuries. Lifetimes. I’ve bled through time to find you again and I’ll brand your soul if I have to. No one else gets to touch what’s mine.”

The glass steams as your cheek presses against it, a moan slipping out before you can bite it back. He’s slow, deliberate, almost reverent in the way he teases you like he’s memorizing every inch, like this is a ritual and you’re the altar.

Your hips press into his hand. He groans, low and guttural, right against your skin.

“I should make you beg,” he murmurs, dragging his teeth along your shoulder. “But I need to feel you come apart too badly.”

The room blurs around the edges, your world narrowing to where your bodies meet, where light curls and dances around your skin like a halo. You feel yourself tightening, climbing, unraveling under his name whispered like a prayer between gasps. The moment you fall apart, he’s right there pressing deeper, holding you up like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

“I’ll never let you go,” he breathes, still inside you, hand cradling your jaw so you meet his eyes in the mirror. “Even if time tries to take you again. I’ll burn the stars out first.”

Your muscles twitch with aftershocks, chest rising and falling in uneven stutters, and you think maybe he’ll let you rest.

But he doesn't move. Doesn’t loosen his grip around your wrist. His body is still flush against your back, the heat of him caging you in, light still pulsing faintly beneath your skin like an afterglow… like a signature.

“You thought that was enough?” he murmurs, voice husky and laced with disbelief, as if you’ve offended him with how quickly you broke.

You blink, throat dry. “Xavier, I-”

“No.” He finally releases your wrist, only to guide both hands down your hips, spinning you around with terrifying gentleness. He lifts you like you weigh nothing and settles you on the bathroom counter, legs parted around his waist.

The mirror behind you reflects it all: your flushed cheeks, the glint of sweat on your collarbone, the disheveled desperation in your eyes. And Xavier, barely holding it together, storm clouds brewing in that pale, merciless gaze.

He leans in and licks a slow stripe along your pulse point, savoring the way your breath stutters again.

“One orgasm doesn’t erase him touching you,” he says, each word dipping lower, darker. “So I’ll leave you dripping with proof that you’re mine.”

His fingers return to your core slick, confident, and unrelenting as he strokes you back to the edge. Your legs tighten around him, your moan swallowed by his mouth crashing against yours, messy and deep and devouring. He swallows every sound you make like he’s starving for them, for you, like you’re the only thing keeping his eternity from collapsing in on itself.

And when you fall again, he doesn’t pause. He presses his cock in fully this time, filling you with a groan that scrapes the back of his throat, forehead resting against yours, breath shaky.

“You fit me,” he whispers against your lips. “Like you were carved for me. Always.”

The stretch is dizzying, the pace he sets unforgiving. Not frantic, but purposeful. Devastating. Like he wants to etch this rhythm into your body so no one else could ever match it. His thumb brushes your lower lip, watching with dark fascination as you tremble, whimpering his name.

“Open your eyes,” he demands.

You obey, dazed, and see your reflection again- flushed, wrecked, utterly his. Xavier’s gaze in the mirror is locked on your expression, jaw clenched, sweat dampening his temples, but his focus is razor-sharp.

“Look at how perfect you are like this.” His hand grips your thigh, forcing it higher, deeper. “I want you to remember this. Every time you see yourself, remember who ruined you.”

You gasp his name again, more broken now, your third climax crashing into you like a wave of light, electric and raw. He thrusts through it, chasing his own, and when it hits him, he curses low in your ear. Something in another language, breathless and reverent. You feel him throb deep inside you, warmth spilling with each twitch of his hips.

But he doesn’t pull out.

Instead, his arms wrap tightly around you, burying his face in your neck, breathing you in like you’re the only air he’s ever known.

“I’ll never lose you again,” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin like a vow. “I’ll let the stars die.”

[undercoveravenger]

Doting

Pairing: Astarion x Male!Reader

Requested: No

Summary: Astarion is a little overwhelming when you’re injured.

-----

In your experience, there is almost nothing better than a good fight - the thrum of adrenaline, the pounding of your heart, the sweet sting of overworked muscles. Truly, there is little better, but this? This is torture.

You’re used to injury, it comes with the territory of being a melee fighter, but you’re not accustomed to taking it easy and letting yourself be doted on the way Astarion demands that you be. 

He hadn’t seemed to care about your hesitance to settle down and allow yourself to heal when you started traveling together, but ever since the fight at Moonrise Towers he’s been much more… invested in your recovery. He’d been on you almost as soon as General Thorm’s body hit the ground, prying the blood-slicked handle of your axe from your fingers and shoving it at Karlach so he could start dragging you back up the passageways back toward camp, waving away Jaheira and her Harpers and anyone else that sought to speak to you. 

Once you’d made it to camp, he was quick to unbuckle your armor and cast it aside, helping you clean off the blood in the river nearby before dumping you in your bedroll and demanding that you stay there. He’s been hovering since you got back, checking in near-constantly and always offering to bring things to you when you’re more than capable of fetching things yourself. You’d been the one to land the killing blow on the avatar of Myrkul, and now you’re barely allowed to lift your own canteen when you want a drink!

Even now, as you silently slip from your bedroll and move to take up your greataxe, you can hear him digging through the camp chest and muttering about the lack of medical supplies. He’ll be peeved when he figures out that you’ve snuck out, but you know you’ll be more helpful using your strength to clear what’s left of the battlefield than lying here counting the holes in your tent. Your fingers close around the haft of your axe and lift and there’s a flash of pain as the movement puts too much strain on your injured ribs. The stitches give as your skin tears and the wound pulses as it begins bleeding sluggishly again.

“Shit,” you hiss under your breath, free hand coming up to press over your wound like that’ll stop him from knowing.

Already you can hear the chest snap shut outside and swift footsteps approaching your tent. 

“I know I haven’t done anything to draw blood,” Astarion pushes aside the door flap, unimpressed crimson eyes fixing on you almost immediately. “So care to tell me why you’re bleeding again?” He raises an eyebrow at you and nods pointedly back at your bedroll. A sigh escapes you but you relent, placing your axe back in its place against the tent support and moving to sprawl back out on your bedroll at Astarion’s feet.

He settles silently at your side, unraveling your bandages until he can get at the pulled stitches. He uses the sharp tip of one of his daggers to slice through the damaged thread and carefully removes the remnants from your flesh before setting about threading up a curved needle so he can replace the stitches you’d pulled.

“I don’t understand,” Astarion says softly, voice hardly above a whisper, “why you won’t just let yourself heal.”

Your breath catches as the needle pierces your skin for the first stitch. “Because I’m fine and my time would be better spent helping out there.” You tip your head back to look at him but he won’t meet your eyes. “It’s just one little stab wound - it’s not like this would kill me.”

His lips twist into a sharp frown and his eyes flash up to meet yours. You’re more than a little surprised by the anger you see in them. “It could have. Any number of things in that dreadful place could have and then you’d be gone and I’d be alone again and I can’t be alone again!”

You’re stunned, baffled, by his outrage. Sure, you’d warmed each other’s bedrolls before and he’d told you something of his past, but he’d never led you to believe he cared this much. His chest heaves with the weight of his admission and his eyes are bright, like he’s on the verge of tears, but you knew he’d rather die than shed a tear over the likes of you.

“Astarion,” you say and the sound of your voice seems to snap him back to the present. You take his hand in yours and guide it up to press over your heart so he can feel its steady beating under his palm. “I am fine. Really, I’m alright. I am not going anywhere.”

He nods, opens his mouth like he’s going to say something and then thinks better of it. He nods again, and turns back to your stitches. He finishes them deftly, and then settles down at your side as soon as your bandages are tied back in place, lying next to you with his head on your shoulder and his hand firmly against your heart.

“Once Shadowheart or Halsin get back, we’ll have them heal you,” he says quietly, “but until then, let me stay? Just-” Astarion’s voice breaks off slightly and you’re not quite sure where the two of you stand anymore, whether this has pushed you past your playful bullying and comfortable acquaintanceship and into new territory or if you’re expected to just keep on as you always had. “Just let me make sure you’re alright until then.”

You’re still antsy, still itching to go back to Moonrise and help with the wounded, to help clear the wreckage, but Astarion is warm where he is curled close to your side and the weight of him is soothing enough that you’re content to stay where you are for the time being. Slowly Astarion’s breath starts to even out and you find sleep beginning to creep up on you as well.

You know that you’ll have to talk to him about what this means for the two of you when you wake, but for now, at least, you don’t mind his doting.

[alohajix]

Description: [Y/N] signed her son up for soccer to help him feel a little braver. She didn’t expect it to feel like she was the one learning how to start over. And she definitely didn’t expect the coach to start feeling like home.

Warnings: single parenthood, child anxiety, parental guilt, emotional vulnerability, fear of abandonment, slow-burn romance, eventual consensual smut (soft to intense).

Word count: TBD.

author’s note: this little mini-story is actually part of something a bit bigger! if you enjoyed part one, i’m planning to share the four other parts exclusively on my patreon as i write them. there’s zero pressure, of course—just knowing you’re here reading already means the world to me. but if you’d like to support my work even more and follow this story as it continues, you’ll be able to find the rest over there when they’re ready. thank you so much for reading. i appreciate you more than you know! 🫶🏻🫶🏻

Main Masterlist

Marked by Midnight’s Masterlist

***

Warnings: child nervousness, social overwhelm, parental self-doubt, references to past social exclusion, emotional tension, fear of letting someone in.

Word count: 3,748.

The field is busier than I expected. Parents already staking their claims with fold-out chairs along the sidelines, sipping from oversized thermoses, shouting to each other over the hum of kids in matching jerseys sprinting across the grass like it's the World Cup. My stomach pulls tight as I kill the engine, my hands still wrapped around the steering wheel like I'm not entirely sure if we should even be here.

I glance into the rearview mirror, catching Archie in the back seat, small hands fidgeting with the hem of his jersey again. He's been doing that since we left the apartment—rolling the fabric between his fingers like it might unravel if he stops. It's bright red, way too big on him. He'd wanted it that way. Said the bigger one felt safer. Like armor, he told me, with the kind of serious little face only a six-year-old could pull off. But looking at him now, all I can think is how small he really looks in it.

I let out a slow breath and glance toward the field again, already feeling the weight of every other parent who looks like they've done this a hundred times before. Like they belong here. Like they belong together.

I climb out of the car, shut my door gently, and walk around to his side. He doesn't move when I open it, just looks up at me with those wide, worried eyes I know too well. The same eyes I've seen every time we try something new. I crouch down so we're level, resting my elbows on my knees.

"Alright, champ... you ready?"

His feet swing nervously over the edge of the seat. His voice is so soft I almost miss it.

"Do I have to go with them by myself?"

God, how many times have I heard that question in one form or another? First days of school, new babysitters, birthday parties where he doesn't know anyone but me. The same fear, every time. The same knot in my stomach when I have to lie just a little to make him believe this time will be different.

I reach for his hand, curling my fingers around his.

"You don't have to do anything you don't want to," I tell him quietly, brushing a piece of hair off his forehead. "But remember what we said? About trying? About being brave enough to see if it feels a little better once you get started?"

He bites his lip hard enough to leave a mark, glancing toward the field. I follow his gaze, taking in the kids already spread out in messy clusters, parents shouting encouragement like this is the most important thing in the world. My throat feels tight just looking at it.

"I'll be right here," I add softly. "The whole time. You can look for me whenever you want."

His chin wobbles just a little, but after a second, he nods. It's barely there, but it's enough. I press a quick kiss to his temple, breathing him in like it might settle something in me, too. That familiar scent of shampoo and syrup and him. My safe place, even when I'm the one who's supposed to be his.

I hold out my hand.

"Come on. Let's go check it out."

He slips his hand into mine without saying another word, holding on tight. Tighter than usual. We start walking toward the noise. And even though I've already promised him it's going to be okay, I'm not sure I believe it yet.

The closer we get, the more it feels like my skin's been pulled too tight. Like every step drags me further into a place I'm not convinced we belong. Archie's fingers are sweaty in mine, small and tense, and I can feel the tiny tremble in them with every squeeze. He's walking slower now, half a step behind, like if he keeps dragging his feet long enough, maybe I'll turn us around and call the whole thing off.

I want to. God, I want to. But I don't.

We stop at the edge of the field, just shy of the first line of folding chairs. I shift my weight, standing tall enough to look like I know what I'm doing, even though the truth feels like it's unraveling by the second.

Parents are everywhere—chatting over the hum of thermoses being popped open, stretching their legs out toward the grass like they've claimed this territory a dozen times before. Some of them are wearing team hoodies. Some already know each other's kids by name. You can tell by the way they laugh like it's nothing new.

I tuck Archie in a little closer to my side, scanning the field until I find the group in red jerseys forming near the far goalpost. A man's standing in front of them, clipboard tucked under one arm, whistle hanging loose from his neck. His sleeves are already shoved up to his elbows, hands gesturing casually as he calls the group to attention.

"All right, Red Rockets, let's bring it in!"

The way he says it catches me off guard—not sharp, not impatient, not the way I expected someone to rally a group of six-year-olds on a cold Saturday morning. It's... soft. Confident, but not loud. Like he already knows they'll listen without needing to shout.

I feel Archie flinch just a little beside me, his body shrinking closer to mine like the sound spooked him. I glance down, smoothing my thumb across the back of his hand.

"It's okay," I whisper, even though I have no idea if that's true.

When I look back up, the man's moving. Walking toward the group of kids gathering into a loose circle in front of him. I catch the edge of his voice again—lower this time, more focused on the ones who haven't settled yet.

Archie stiffens all over again, frozen like he's deciding whether to bolt or hide. And all I can think is please don't shut down. Not yet.

I'm already running through my backup plan in my head—how to peel him off the sidelines gently if he refuses to move, how to keep my voice from cracking when I tell him it's okay, we can try again another week—when I catch movement from the corner of my eye. He's walking toward us. Steady. Unbothered. No clipboard this time, no whistle in his hand. Just easy steps like he's done this before. Like he's not in a rush to fix anything.

Archie stiffens even more, his little body locking up next to mine like he's bracing for impact. I lean down toward his ear, lowering my voice to that quiet, steady hum I've learned works better than anything else.

"It's okay, baby. Just breathe. I'm right here."

He stops a couple of steps away, leaving space like he knows better than to crowd us. His hands are loose in his jacket pockets, his mouth tipping into the kind of smile that feels... patient. The kind that makes it look like this isn't a problem to solve—it's just a moment to walk through.

"Hey there," he says, nodding once like it's the most normal thing in the world to approach strangers this way. "First day nerves?"

I shift my weight, pulling Archie a little closer to my side.

"Yeah," I answer softly, my voice rougher than I mean for it to sound. "We just moved here. Still trying to find our place."

He nods like that makes perfect sense. Like he's heard it before.

"'S a lot, isn't it?" he murmurs, glancing toward the field again like he remembers exactly what it feels like to stand on the outside of something. "Is that your little one, then? Number five?"

I look down at Archie, who's still clinging to me, eyes wide but curious now.

"Yeah. Archer. We... we call him Archie."

Harry crouches down slowly, resting his elbows on his knees. He doesn't reach for Archie. Doesn't try to pull him out of hiding. He just lowers himself to his level and lets his voice drop even softer.

"Hiya, Archie. I'm Harry. Coach Harry, technically, but that feels a bit too serious for six-year-olds, don't you think?"

Archie doesn't answer, but his grip on my sweater loosens just a little. His eyes flick to Harry's shoes, then to his face, then back to me like he's checking if I'm still here. Harry keeps going, easy as anything.

"Y'know, we've got a job open today," he adds with a quiet grin. "Someone needs to help me set up all those cones over there before the team comes in. Think you might be able to help me with that?"

Archie shifts his weight, biting his lip, and for a second I'm sure he's going to shut down again. But then—so small I almost miss it—he nods. Just once. Harry doesn't make a big deal out of it. Doesn't whoop or cheer or make it a moment bigger than it needs to be. He just leans back on his heels, pushes to his feet, and tips his head toward the pile of cones on the grass.

"We'll just be over here," he says to me softly. "Promise I'll bring him right back."

I stay frozen where I am, arms wrapped tight around myself like I might actually fall apart if I move too fast.

Archie follows him. Slowly, yeah—but he follows. Two tiny steps at first. Then one more. He's a full body length behind, but he's moving. Moving toward something without me. My throat feels like it's closing up just watching it happen.

I hover at the edge of the chairs, not daring to sit down. My eyes flick to the other parents spread out along the sidelines, already swapping stories about school pickups and carpool schedules like this is just another weekend. Some of them aren't even watching the field. Some are already halfway through their second cup of coffee, shouting out names like they've done this a hundred times.

It's strange, standing here alone. My arms wrapped around myself like I'm bracing for something, like I'm waiting for a punch that never comes. I glance up at the sky for no reason at all, noting the gray clouds stretching low and heavy over the trees at the far end of the field. One gust of wind, and it'll probably rain.

Of course, I didn't bring an umbrella. I didn't think that far ahead. I'd been too busy worrying about Archie. About whether or not I could even get him this far.

I shift again, pressing my tongue to the back of my teeth to stop myself from calling Archie back. My fingers itch to reach for him, to pull him out of the spotlight and hide him somewhere safer. Somewhere smaller. Somewhere where he doesn't have to try so hard. But I don't. I stay planted. I watch Harry kneel beside the pile of cones, picking them up one by one and laying them out on the grass like he's got all the time in the world. He doesn't even glance back to see if Archie's still following. He just... waits.

Archie shifts his weight from foot to foot, looking back toward me like he's asking permission without saying it out loud. My chest tightens, but I nod once, small and steady, like I'm not terrified he's about to fall apart in front of everyone. And then he moves again. Steps right up to the pile and crouches awkwardly, his little fingers fumbling to grab a cone. Harry leans in a little, points to a spot on the field, and Archie starts walking toward it, arms stiff like he's afraid to drop it.

I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. My throat stings with it. Like I've been holding that breath for longer than just today. It's small. So small. But it's more than I expected. I've seen people give up on him before. I've watched them get impatient when he freezes or takes too long to answer or hides behind me when they try to pull him out of his shell too fast. I've heard the tight, strained "it's okay, some kids just aren't social" more times than I can count. Always laced with that disappointed edge like they've already decided he's too much work.

I've seen the way they check their watches. The way they glance toward me with that half-frown, half-smile that really means "he's slowing us down." I've walked Archie back to the car more times than I can count with his head on my shoulder, whispering it's not his fault even when I know he doesn't believe me.

And every time it happens, I feel that weight in my chest. That bitter little voice in the back of my head that says see? This is why you keep your circle small. This is why you don't expect people to stay.

But Harry doesn't flinch. Doesn't push. He just lets Archie take his time, moving one cone at a time like there's nothing else to do today but wait for him to figure it out.

I glance down at the ground by my feet, kicking at the grass with the tip of my shoe like that might ground me somehow. It doesn't. All I can do is watch. All I can do is hope. I feel my heart catch in my throat because I already know I shouldn't let myself get used to that. He's just doing his job. And it's nothing. But the way it feels settling in my chest tells me I'm lying to myself already.

The rest of practice passes in a blur. I barely register what the other kids are doing. I don't hear a single word the parents around me say. I'm too locked in on Archie. On the way he stays close to Harry, watching every move like he's afraid he might miss something important.

And somehow, somehow, he stays. He doesn't run back to me. He doesn't shut down. He doesn't quit.

By the time Harry claps his hands together and calls the team in one last time, Archie's cheeks are flushed, curls sticking to his forehead, his little hands tugging on the bottom of his jersey again—but his shoulders aren't hunched the way they were when we got here. He's tired, but he's still standing.

I push off the fence and start toward the edge of the field, hugging my arms around myself again like it's going to hold me together for the next thirty seconds.

Harry crouches down to Archie's level again, says something low that makes Archie nod. Then he stands, turns toward me, and starts walking over with that same easy pace like we aren't two strangers standing on opposite sides of a life we haven't figured out yet.

"He did great," Harry says when he reaches us, nodding toward Archie like he means it. "Took a little warming up, but he stuck it out."

I swallow the knot in my throat, brushing Archie's hair off his forehead again.

"Thanks for being patient with him. I know he's... a lot sometimes."

Harry frowns a little—just for a second—like he doesn't like hearing that.

"He's not a lot," he says quietly, like it's a fact. "He's a kid. Kids move at their own pace."

And just like that, something in my chest pulls tight again. Because no one ever says it like that. Not without sounding like they're trying to convince themselves. But Harry says it like he actually believes it.

I shift my weight, blinking hard to keep my expression neutral. My mouth opens to thank him again, but nothing comes out. I chew the inside of my cheek instead, heat creeping up the back of my neck.

Before I can embarrass myself further, he clears his throat, rocking back on his heels.

"Listen, uh—would it be alright if I grabbed your number? Just in case we have to reschedule or... if Archie forgets anything?"

I freeze for a second longer than I probably should. I shouldn't. I shouldn't. That little voice in my head kicks in fast, warning me not to blur the lines. Not to give anyone even an inch closer than they need to be. But he's looking at me with that same steady patience I've watched him give to Archie all morning. Like I have a choice. Like he'll back off if I say no.

I nod. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone, already unlocked to a blank contact screen. I take it carefully, fingers brushing his. His skin is warm. Calloused, like he works with his hands for real. I feel it all the way down to my wrist, like something I shouldn't notice but do anyway.

I stare at the screen longer than I need to. I could fake it. I could type a number off by one digit and let this stay exactly what it is. Professional. Detached. Easy to forget.

But my thumb moves before I can stop it. I type my real name—[Y/N]. My real number.

When I hand it back, Harry glances at the screen, then up at me again with that easy, unreadable smile.

"Perfect. Thanks [Y/N]." God help me, I don't trust myself not to read too much into it.

Archie shifts beside me, tugging lightly on the hem of my sleeve like he's working up to something. He's got that scrunched-up little look on his face—the one he gets when he's thinking too hard. His cheeks are still flushed from running around, curls sticking to his damp forehead, but his eyes are darting between me and Harry like he's trying to figure something out.

Harry tucks his phone back into his jacket pocket and gives Archie one last ruffle of his hair, starting to turn back toward the rest of the kids when Archie blurts it out—loud enough for half the field to hear.

"Mama... can Coach Harry come to dinner sometime?"

The words hit me like a slap to the chest. Quick. Sharp. Immediate. My stomach drops. My throat closes. I freeze.

Harry doesn't. He doesn't laugh. He doesn't flinch. He doesn't even blink, really. His smile doesn't falter for a second. He just crouches down to Archie's level again, his voice dropping low and soft, like it's just for him.

"Maybe one day, little man," Harry says, reaching out to tap two fingers lightly against Archie's tiny fist. "Gotta keep practicin' those kicks first, yeah? That's the deal."

Archie beams like he's just been promised Disneyland. I, on the other hand, feel like my face is on fire. My heart slams so hard I swear I can hear it in my ears. I glance around like I'm half-expecting someone to be standing there listening, but no one is. No one's paying attention to us at all.

Except me. Except Harry. Except Archie, who's already moved on like it's the most normal thing in the world to invite a complete stranger to dinner.

I clear my throat, tightening my grip on the strap of my bag.

"Alright, bud... let's grab your stuff."

Harry stands again, brushing his palms against his thighs like he's shaking off the grass. His eyes meet mine for one last second, and there's something there I can't quite name. Not teasing. Not pity. Just... something steady. Something that feels like he already knows I'm going to overthink this all night.

"See you next week?" I ask before I can stop myself, my voice tighter than I mean for it to be.

Harry nods, rocking back on his heels again.

"Wouldn't miss it."

And just like that, he's gone—turning back toward the pile of equipment like the last five minutes didn't knock the air clean out of my lungs.

Archie talks the whole walk back to the car. Little bursts of excitement tumbling over each other—how he kicked the ball once, how Coach Harry let him carry the cones, how next week he's going to run even faster. He's out of breath before we even make it across the parking lot, his tiny hand swinging in mine like all the fear from earlier never happened.

I keep nodding, making all the right noises, but it feels like my head is full of static. Like I can't get my feet back under me, no matter how many steps I take.

I get him buckled into his booster seat, double-check the straps even though I know they're fine. I lean in, pressing a kiss to his temple like I always do, breathing him in for just a second longer than necessary. He giggles, pushing at my face with one small hand.

"Mamaaa," he laughs, like I'm embarrassing him. Like it's funny. Like his heart isn't still tangled up in my hands the way mine is in his.

I shut the door quietly and lean back against the car, staring out at the emptying parking lot. Most of the families are gone already. The folding chairs are packed up, the chatter's faded, and the breeze is colder now than it was an hour ago. I wrap my arms around myself, digging my nails into my sleeves like that might stop the way my chest feels like it's caving in.

I don't know what I expected today to be. But it wasn't this. It wasn't the way Archie actually stayed. The way he looked—pink-cheeked and almost proud—for the first time in God knows how long. And it sure as hell wasn't the way Harry spoke to him. Or to me. Like we weren't some charity case. Like he wasn't performing patience for points. Like he actually... saw us. Both of us.

I shove my hand into my pocket, pulling out my phone before I can stop myself. My thumb hovers over the screen for half a breath too long before I swipe it open and scroll to my contacts.

Harry.

I lock the screen again and stuff it deep into my jacket like I can hide from it if I don't look too long.

"Okay," I whisper to myself, pushing off the car and moving toward the driver's side.

I'm already overthinking it.

***

@cloudyluun @gem1712 @dipmeinhoneyh @idk1990 @harrrrystylesslut @sparxx27 @likea-silhouette @fangirl509east @starryhaze-crystal @mads3502 @run-for-the-hills @twinklaei @belgianblondee @pbandnutella @maudie-duan @cat-loves-music @harrysgirl2003 @harrystyleshotwife @secretands-blog @dutchtheatrelore @angeldavis777 @idkidcfuboh @maddiesalvatore1839

[kakashisacademia]

pairing: hooker Toji Fushiguro x you | warnings: paid sex

summary; you’re a shy sweet girl until you book Toji one day for an hour and he ruins you completely

ೃ⁀➷ Break For The Man You Paid For

“You sure about this, sweetheart?” His voice is low, rough. And worse, almost bored. Like he’s just confirming an order at a takeout window. He’s leaning against your doorframe in a dark jacket, arms crossed, eyes dragging over your body like you’re a price tag.

You nod barely. You can’t even look him in the eyes. “Y-Yes. I… I want to.”

He smirks. “Alright. Let’s see the money.”

Your hands tremble slightly as you hand him the envelope. He takes it without a word, flips through the bills, and raises a brow when he sees the tip tucked in. “Didn’t say you had to pay me extra.”

“I… I just thought, um, you should have it,” you mumble. “Since… you’re doing this.”

Toji lets out a quiet, humorless chuckle. “Doing you, you mean.”

You freeze. He sees it. Sees the flush rise in your cheeks, the way your thighs press together a little.

He jerks his chin. “Lead the way, then. Time’s ticking.”

You nod again, turning to walk toward your bedroom, and he follows, his eyes locked on the sway of your hips in your too-soft, too-cute little dress.

You sit on the edge of the bed, hands folded in your lap. Toji shrugs off his jacket and sets it on your chair like this is any other job.

“You ever done this before?” he asks, voice low as he kicks off his boots.

Your eyes flick to his and then back to your lap. “No. I’ve never…”

“Figured.” He pauses, gaze dark. “You nervous?”

You nod. “Y-Yeah.”

He hums. “You should be.”

And then he steps between your knees, tilts your chin up with a single finger. “You paid me to fuck you, sweetheart,” he says, voice calm and heavy. “So unless you’ve changed your mind, I’m gonna give you what you paid for.”

Your breath catches. And god, that look in his eyes like he doesn’t care, like you’re just another client, but there’s a flicker, just a flicker, of something sharper. Like he’s already guessing how you’ll sound when you break.

He steps back then and already stripping in a slow, methodical way. Shirt off, scars on display, pants dropping low on his hips before he slides them off. You can’t help but stare. His body is… terrifying. Thick muscle. Power. And that heavy cock he rolls the condom onto without ceremony.

You undress then too, hands shaking, the urge to hide thickens. God, this is a mistake, you think over and over again when you sit back down. And it only gets worse.

He doesn’t ask what you like. Doesn’t touch you first. He just kneels on the bed, grips your hips, and pulls you toward the center like you’re nothing more than a pillow to fuck.

You gasp, arms fluttering a little as you adjust. “W-Wait… just, um-”

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he mutters. “Unless you want me to.”

Your face burns. He leans over you, knee spreading your thighs apart, positioning himself with practiced ease. You feel the thick press of him, blunt and unrelenting, against your entrance.

“Try to relax,” he says, flat. “Won’t take long.”

He pushes in. Your breath stutters, more from the stretch than the pain. He’s big. So much bigger than you expected. And he’s not slow about it either, just steady, deep, filling.

You grip the sheets. He watches your face as you squirm. Not out of concern, but curiosity. Like he’s trying to decide if you’re enjoying it or regretting everything.

“You’re tight,” he mutters. “Thought you said you wanted this.”

“I- I do,” you whisper. “It’s just-”

He stills. There’s a second. Just one. Where something shifts in his eyes. A flicker of… not tenderness, but awareness. Maybe even guilt. He exhales, low.

Then, he says softer. “You ever had a guy inside you before?”

You hesitate. Then nod. “Only once. It was years ago.”

That explains it. Toji braces himself on one arm and slowly rocks his hips, less force this time, more glide. Watching your lashes flutter, the way your lips part in surprise.

“Feels good?” he asks, voice still flat, but quieter now.

You nod. You’re trying. So hard to enjoy it. But your face is flushed, lips bitten pink, thighs trembling like you’re trying not to embarrass yourself.

And Toji, bored, cold Toji, watches it all.

“…You’re cute,” he mutters, almost to himself.

You blink up at him.

“I mean,” he continues, fucking you with lazy, deep strokes, “for a shy little thing who paid for dick like it’s takeout.”

Your face burns. But your body clenches, just a little, and he feels it.

He smirks. “Oh. So that does do something for you.”

His hips roll slow, deep. Not lazy now, intentional.

Your hands clutch the sheets, chest heaving, mouth parted in the softest moan. He can feel you pulsing around him, every little squeeze sending heat right to his spine.

“Fuck,” he mutters, voice darker now, no longer bored. “You’re soaked.”

You whimper, turning your face away in embarrassment.

“Don’t hide,” he growls, hand catching your chin and turning you back. “I wanna see.”

Your lip trembles. And it shouldn’t affect him. You’re a client. This is a job. But the way you look at him like he’s something more, like he’s the first man who’s ever really touched you… fuck, it does something to him.

“You want me to make you feel good?” he asks, voice low and rough against your cheek.

You nod.

“Use your words, sweetheart.”

“…Yes. Please.”

His hand slides down between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, rough and warm, not gentle, but good. Your body jolts, breath catching.

“You this sensitive from just a few strokes?” he murmurs. “Fuckin’ hell, baby. You were made to be fucked.”

You choke on a moan. He thrusts deeper now, fingers circling your clit, watching your expression twist with pleasure you’re too shy to admit.

“Say it,” he growls. “Say you like it.”

“I… I like it.”

“Say you like being used.”

Your breath hitches. You hesitate. “I like being used.”

And that’s it. Toji’s control starts to crack. His rhythm picks up, harder now, more intense. Your body bounces beneath him, thighs shaking, eyes glossy with overwhelmed pleasure.

He leans down, mouth hot at your ear. “Still shy, princess?” he taunts. “Even while you’re clenching around me like you’re about to cum?”

You let out a soft, desperate noise. So close you’re shaking. And that makes him grin.

“You gonna cum for the cock you paid for?” he growls. “Gonna soak it like a good little client?”

Toji can feel the way your walls flutter, the way your legs tighten, your hips bucking just slightly against the force of his thrusts. You’re panting now, clutching the sheets like they’ll save you, like if you just focus hard enough, you won’t cum. But that’s not gonna fly.

“Uh-uh,” he growls, grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head with one hand. “Don’t you fucking dare hold back on me.”

Your eyes go wide. “I…I can’t… Toji!”

“You will.” His hips slam into yours harder, deeper. “You think I came all this way for you to hold that pretty little orgasm in?”

You shake your head, trembling.

“Paid good money, didn’t you?” His voice is hot against your ear. “So cum, sweetheart. Soak my cock. Make it worth my time.”

Your back arches, the force of him, his filthy voice, his control. All of it tears through you.

You break. You cry out, legs locking around his waist, body spasming under him as the orgasm crashes through you so hard it nearly knocks the air from your lungs. It’s loud. It’s messy. And worst of all, it’s so much better than you ever expected.

Toji watches you fall apart with a dark, satisfied grin.

“Fuck,” he mutters, thrusting through the aftershocks as your pussy clenches helplessly around him. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

You whimper, tears at the corners of your eyes, face hot and flushed. And he’s still hard. Still moving. Still inside you, deep and full and relentless.

“Cute thing like you should get used to cumming for me,” he murmurs, dragging his lips across your jaw. “You think this is over?”

You blink up at him, dazed. He gives your thighs a squeeze, grinding his hips just right.

“It’s a flat rate, sweetheart,” he smirks. “I don’t stop till the hour’s up.”

Her eyes widen. She’s still shaking. Still dazed from her first orgasm, thighs sticky and trembling, lips parted in soft, shattered whimpers.

Toji doesn’t give her a break. He grabs her waist, flips her like she weighs nothing, and drags her up onto all fours. Her body is limp, pliant, already wrecked.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he grunts, kneeling behind her, cock still thick and hard, glistening with her slick. “You wanted the full hour, right?”

You try to protest, whimpering. “I…I need a second.”

But his chest is suddenly pressed to your back, hot and heavy, making you arch. His hand slides around your front, palm wide against your belly, holding you in place.

“You’ll be fine,” he breathes against your ear. “Just keep that pretty little pussy open for me.”

And then he slams into you again. You cry out, voice raw, high-pitched, barely human. The angle is deeper. Devastating. Like he’s reshaping you from the inside out.

His hand moves. Rough fingers sliding up, curling under your jaw and suddenly he’s got you by the throat. Not choking. Not cruel. Just holding. Like he owns you now.

You whimper, hips rocking back into him without thinking.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters, voice a dark growl. “Look at you.”

His pace is filthy. Brutal. Skin slapping. Your body jerking forward with every thrust, eyes rolling.

“Your sweet little act’s slipping, baby,” he snarls, lips brushing your temple. “Didn’t think you’d beg for it like this.”

You try to form words, but they melt on your tongue.

“Thought you’d be quiet. Thought you’d be polite.” His grip on your throat tightens, just enough to make your heart stutter. “But now you’re moaning like a goddamn porn star.”

“Toji, pl-please.”

“Yeah?” he snarls. “Beg again. Beg like you’re gonna pay me to own you.”

Your body convulses. Another orgasm crashing through you before you even realize it’s coming. Your legs collapse. He holds you up, still thrusting, not letting you fall, not letting you hide.

“You gonna remember this?” he growls. “Next time you’re wet and lonely and thinkin’ about booking a nice, quiet boy to fuck you gentle?”His hand curls tighter around your neck. “You’ll think about me.”

Your body’s gone limp beneath him. Eyes glassy, lips trembling, drool at the corner of your mouth. You’re barely upright, shaking with every thrust, every drag of his cock splitting you wide open from behind.

But Toji isn’t done. Not even close. He fists your hair and pulls you up against his chest, dragging your back flush to his soaked torso, your knees barely supporting you. Your breath stutters, weak and ragged.

“That’s it,” he breathes at your ear, voice low, dangerous, almost giddy in its cruelty. “That’s the face I wanted.”

You can’t speak. You just moan, open-mouthed and broken. His hand catches your jaw, turns your face toward the mirror across the room.

“Look at you,” he growls. “Fucked stupid. Paid me to break you, and now you don’t even know what day it is.”

You stare. You see yourself. Red faced, hair a mess, mouth hanging open, tits bouncing with every hard, punishing thrust. Your thighs are glistening, your eyes wet, your body marked where his hands gripped too tight.

And Toji behind you looks feral. Chest heaving. Muscles flexed. That usual bored smirk nowhere to be found. He looks hungry.

“See what you do to me?” he hisses, snapping his hips hard. “You see what you fucking unlocked, sweetheart?”

You whimper, nodding helplessly.

“You thought this was just business,” he growls. “But look at me. Look at how fuckin’ hard I still am after making you cum twice. Look at how I can’t stop.”

You let out a strangled moan as another orgasm builds, your body clenching down on him involuntarily.

“That’s it,” he breathes, voice dark and reverent. “Let it hit you. Fall apart. I want you gone, baby. I want you wrecked. Ruined. Cryin’.”

He grips your throat again, thumb brushing your spit-slick lips.

“Cum,” he growls, voice low and guttural, hips pounding into you so deep you feel it in your ribs. “Fucking cum for me.”

And you do. It hits you so hard you scream. Legs give out. Vision goes white. Your body folds in on itself and he catches you. Hand in your hair, cock still inside you, eyes locked on your twitching reflection like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

And all he can say, voice wrecked and chest heaving, “Fuck.” And then he comes, hard. His groan long and croaked as he fills the condom.

The shower’s warm. Steam curling around you, hands braced to the tile, trying to keep from sliding down. Toji’s behind you, his massive palm gently guiding water down your back. It should feel awkward. Transactional.

But instead, it feels… safe. And quiet.

You’re trembling, flushed from heat and adrenaline, and the only thing you can whisper, soft and confused, “…But the hour’s up?”

He goes still behind you. Then a low, short laugh like you just asked if the sky is blue.

“The fuck’s your point?”

You glance over your shoulder. He’s not even looking at you. He just grabs the body wash and starts rubbing it into his chest like he belongs there, like this is nothing.

“I just…” You blink. “I thought you’d leave.”

He snorts. “What, you got somewhere to be?”

You flush deeper. “No…”

“Good.” He reaches around you, hand brushing your waist not sexual, just familiar. Steady. “Me neither.”

Your heart thuds painfully. Then quieter, almost shy, you murmur, “You didn’t have to stay…”

And his eyes finally meet yours. There’s no grin now. No smirk. Just a slow blink, a shrug of his broad shoulders.

“I wanted to.”

That’s it. No flirt. No seduction. Just truth.

And suddenly, you’re really trembling. Not from the sex, not from the heat, but from how seen you feel. How safe. How real this moment has become. Toji notices.

“Hey,” he murmurs, stepping close, crowding you into the warm tile with his chest. “I’m not goin’ anywhere yet. So relax.”

His hand curls gently under your jaw, tilts your face up to him. “You’re not just another lay,” he mutters, eyes softer now. “I don’t do this. I don’t stay. So don’t look at me like that.”

You whisper. “Like what?”

“…Like I’m something good.”

You smile anyway.

And even though he curses under his breath, even though he turns away and grabs the shampoo like it never happened his hand stays on your waist.

She falls asleep on his chest after the shower. Just like that. Naked, boneless, her cheek smushed into his pec like it’s her damn pillow. Her fingers curl softly against his ribs. Her breath is warm. Even in sleep, she clings.

Toji’s staring at the ceiling like it personally offended him. He should leave. He should have left hours ago. Fuck, he should’ve never stayed in the first place.

But here he is. Flat on his back. Smelling like her shampoo. Spent. With a soft little thing drooling on his chest and wearing his damn heart like it’s hers now.

The room is quiet. Too quiet. He should move. Should shove her off. Should say something. But all he can do is stare at the ceiling fan spinning above them and think, ‘fuck. I’m so screwed’.

Because he’s been with women. Dozens. All shapes, all types. Loud ones. Wild ones. Girls who knew what they wanted and weren’t shy about it.

But this one? She was quiet. Sweet. Nervous. She whispered, not moaned. She looked at him like he mattered.

And now after he fucked her out so hard she could barely stand, she just… trusted him. Fell asleep like he wasn’t the coldest, meanest son of a bitch alive.

His arm moves before he can stop it, sliding around her waist, holding her a little closer. His fingers press against her soft hip, just to feel her warmth. Her realness. She sighs, content in her sleep, and burrows in deeper.

And Toji, the fucker who’s broken bones and walked away from love like it was nothing, feels something shift behind his ribs.

His heart stutters. Catches. And for the first time in a long, long time… he whispers something soft, like it hurts.

“…What the hell are you doing to me, sweetheart.”

No answer. Just the hum of the fan, the warmth of her breath, and the quiet ache of something he might not survive. But he stays.

And when morning comes he’ll still be there.

[angelqueef]

i am IN LOVE with your forbidden fruit!simon. if you ever have anything that has more stoner ghost i would cry fr. luv u~

forbidden fruit, prologue

wow thank you!! here’s a little blurb about when the horny stoners first met, just 4 you!

cw: simon is retired, drug usage (weed), dom/sub undertones if you squint, not proofread

willow tree, plush moss, a marshy pond less than ten feet in front of you. it’s the ideal spot. a little bit of a long walk from the main park, but it’s secluded, quiet. the chances of you getting caught are slim.

you lay down your picnic blanket under the tree and curate the perfect spread: a fruit bowl, warm sandwich from your favorite hole-in-the-wall café, ginger ale, and two fat joints, rolled and packed with love—sealed in pink paper.

you sigh contentedly at your work and take a cross legged seat on the soft blanket, music playing in your ears. it’s not too loud, but loud enough that you can’t hear him, the man that takes a seat on the bench just some feet behind the willow tree.

simon doesn’t see you either. he thinks he’s just stumbled upon a beautiful, unoccupied smoke spot. the stump of the tree is wide enough to hide your slouched figure, and his own earbuds blare music that envelops his ears enough that he doesn’t hear you unwrap your sandwich and spark up.

it’s not until the wind blows that he notices someone else in his spot. the earthy, citrusy scent fills his nostrils, with the undercurrent of something musky and warm, vanilla sweet. you.

he watches smoke billow from behind the tree, chuckling to himself. someone else found a perfect spot, huh? he lights his own joint and leans back, sighing as the first puff melts the stiffness in his joints.

you’re munching on a strawberry and taking long drags of your joint, adoring in the way the fruit flavors the smoke. you sniff, for some reason the smoke smells stronger. it’s heavy and savory in your lungs. much different from what you’re smoking. you lean back and peak behind the tree to find the source. you catch a huge, burly man clad in black, spread across the bench.

you two barely make eye contact before you squeak, hiding back behind the tree. god dammit, your secret isn’t so secret anymore.

simon’s eyes widen at the glimpse of you, curls springing from your head like a crown, eyes and skin brown and glossed, glowing under the evening sun.

suddenly his booted feet are dragging his body to you.

you’re a bit scared, but you’re so high that the anxiety just simmers in your stomach, unable to rise to your brain.

“hello,” he greets, voice low and gravelly.

you study him with worried eyes—blonde cropped hair under a black hoodie, gold lashes that traced around his amber eyes, a crooked nose, frown lines that wormed their way between his brows, a scar that trails down his right cheek, soft but equally large muscles that strain against every inch of fabric. you swallow the heat that pools inside you. he’s handsome.

“hi,” you say back, chirp barely audible.

“sorry t’bother ya,” he starts, also shy. “couldn’t help but notice someone in my secret spot.”

you let out a giggle, one that lasts longer than it should, “this is my secret spot.”

he pauses his music, hoping your laugh can imprint itself on his eardrums and stay there forever, “really, now? hope you don’t mind sharin’ then.”

“i don’t mind,” you scooch over on the blanket without thinking. what the hell were you doing, letting a stranger, let alone a man, this close?

“you’re not gonna kidnap me, are you?” god, this weed makes you chatty.

simon cocks an eyebrow at you. silly girl, so naïve. he has no wants of hurting you, in fact quite the opposite. but your lack of self preservation makes his chest tighten. he gets the primal urge to protect you.

“no, luv. got no intentions of botherin’ you. i’ll leave if you like.”

part of him hopes you’ll tell him to leave, he wants to believe that you have some semblance of common sense.

but for some reason, your heart sinks at the thought. as wary as you were, there was something about his presence that you liked. it was dark, weighted, grounding. you didn’t even know his name, but he felt comfortable.

“n-no, you can stay,” you push the bowl of fruit to him and offer him your joint, “tradesies?”

“huh?”

“you hit mine, i hit yours?”

“oh, sure. thanks luv,” your hands swap joints, his big, tattooed hand dwarfing yours, “name’s simon, by the way.”

you smile, “hi simon,” you give him your name and hold out your hand. he takes it in his, but doesn’t shake it. just holds it. calloused thumb rubbing over your knuckles. you laugh nervously and take your hand away.

his heart thrums, you’re soft.

you hit his joint a couple times, the flavor harsh in your mouth, making you drool. you feel yourself sinking in the blanket, body glued and weightless at the same time.

“woah, this is different,” you blurt out, eyes locked on the pond in front of you.

“it’s for m’joints,” he states, taking a long drag from your spliff, the sight of the pale pink dwarfed by his hand is comical, “got old military bones.”

“oh, uhm, thank you for your service,” you say, handing his smoke back to him. he gives you yours.

“nah, luvie. nothin’ to thank me for,” his voice is low and laced with sadness, regret.

you hum, knowing you couldn’t begin to understand the horrors he’s seen and probably committed.

simon intrigues you. in any other event you would’ve made your voice low and curt, shoo’d a man away and out of your sight. but the way he approached you, calm, hesitant, no innuendo. there’s something different about the big lug.

you spread your limbs out on the blanket and turn to him, knee hiked up, making the curve of your hip pop. it’s clear you have no intentions of seducing him, you’re stretched and laid out like a cat, but simon can’t help but swallow as his eyes trail up and down your figure.

he mimics you, laying down on his side to face you. he can’t stop the hand that reaches out and trails down your hairline. you can’t stop it either, too relaxed to move.

“y’pretty,” he murmurs, reddening gaze shifting from your eyes to your lips.

you inhale sharply, startled at his advances, “thank you.”

you’re both pretty blazed, unable to stop staring at each other. his hand hasn’t quit trailing up and down the side of your cheek, occasionally pinching and pulling the fat, like a mother would do to her baby.

you both sit there for what seems like hours, breathing in each other’s new and strange presence. the sun is almost completely gone. you’re comfortable, he’s lulling you to sleep until reality sets in, making your eyes snap open.

why the hell are you letting a stranger touch and lay with you? and for so long? do you have a death wish?

you shoot up, clearing your throat, “‘m sorry simon, i just- i just realized i have to go, got something- got stuff to do at the house.”

your fear is clear to him, even if you didn’t say anything he could smell it. maybe you do have some survival instincts. he sits up with you but scoots away while doing so, putting some distance between you.

“tha’s alright, luv. didn’t mean to scare ya,” he says softly, he knows being scared while high is intense, so he’s being as gentle as possible.

“n-no it’s okay. i just, i mean, you know how it is.”

“i’m a strange man laying on your blanket n’ carressin’ you. i get it,” shit, he’s scaring you off. right when you were safe and warm under his palm.

he watches as you swiftly pack your things, scurrying like a little animal. he comes to a stand to help you fold your blanket. you reject him, “i’ve got it.”

he backs off. he notices the wall you put in front of him.

you’re all packed up when you face him again, eye contact unstable, “it was really nice meeting you, i uhm- i’ll see you around.”

simon nods, “nice talkin’ to ya,” he wants to tell you how nice it was to meet a pretty thing like you, tilt your chin up and kiss the corner of your plump lips, but he doesn’t. he can’t.

“listen, uh, before you go,” he starts as you go to turn away.

“yes?”

“go ahead and give me your number,” not a request, a command, “i got this real good plug, y’see. wouldn’t want you to miss out on the good stuff.”

you nod, pressing your lips together to keep from smiling, “y-yea..that would be nice, thank you.”

you’re unsure you’d even respond if he reached out, but you take a chance anyways, putting you number in his old phone.

“on you go now, luvie. get home safe.”

you give a shy, closed mouth smile, “thanks for, the uh, you know,” you mime a smoking motion with your hands.

simon chuckles.

“anytime.”

he watches you prance away from him, almost skipping. he smiles to himself.

he’d get through to you eventually.