#ANYTHING SHE NEEDS HE WILL COME.... SHE JUST HAS TO ASK. BUT WHAT CAN SHE POSSIBLY ASK FOR WHEN SHE'S ALREADY SO CAPABLE....... HSJAHAA

[johannestevans]

I Am Bad Representation

And I could not care less.

This post also on my website for easy sharing.

Yesterday, I went to my GP and got my testosterone injection administered. It’s an intramuscular injection generally administered to my backside, where the fattier, softer flesh makes the intramuscular penetration of the needle less painful, and also gives it space to settle in the flesh and slowly be assimilated into my endocrine system over time.

Every 12 weeks — 3 months — I get this injection administered. I have been on it for about five years. 

Prior to that, I was on Testogel, a topical form of testosterone where you slather a very strong-smelling slime over your shoulders every day and sit uncomfortably, waiting for it to dry, before you can put your shirt on, and trying not to sweat in the meantime. 

The nurse at my local GP has been administering this T-shot for about a year. 

Previously, I had been prescribed an oestrogen cream to help with the symptoms of vaginal atrophy — when you have a vulva and vagina and you, for whatever reason, have low oestrogen and progesterone, the mucous membranes that make up the inside of your vagina and your labia minora become thinner and produce less lubricant. It can make it harder to produce enough lubricant whilst having sex, make you more prone to tearing, and contribute to muscular pain and discomfort. 

As you might have surmised from how I described the Testogel, this cream was Bad for me. It was very texturally unpleasant and awkward to administer with a little syringe, and I despised it. 

So I made a mistake. I said, hey, can you guys give me a suppository version of the same cream?

The receptionist seemed surprised by how comfortable I was talking about my vagina in the waiting room, but hey. Such is life. 

I receive a phone call the following morning at a few minutes past nine. With delight, the receptionist informs me, “We’ve made a referral to the gender dysphoria clinic for you!”

And I say, “Well, you shouldn’t have done that. Why did you do that?”

And she goes, “Oh.”

“I don’t need to speak to a gender dysphoria specialist. This is for a vaginal suppository. It’s the same thing you’d give to a cisgender woman experiencing vaginal atrophy after experiencing menopause — it has nothing to do with being transgender.”

“Oh. Well. Erm. The doctor just doesn’t feel comfortable prescribing you hormones without you talking to a specialist.”

“What about the hormones you already give me?”

“… What?”

“I was literally there yesterday getting my T-shot administered. You’ve been giving me my testosterone for a year. Is the doctor suddenly going to take me off a medication I’ve been on for eight years? Is he comfortable putting me at severe health risk for no reason?”

“Oh, er, well, I’m sure, um, I don’t — I’m just a secretary, I don’t, um, I don’t know about… I’m sure he wouldn’t… But I can’t guarantee that — “

I was pissed. I made it very clear I was pissed and that I felt this was a waste of time and resources.

I know exactly what happened. Because many doctors don’t actually know anything about much of the medicine they administer unless it comes up on a Google search, they immediately react to base assumptions like “transgender” (or “woman” or “disabled” or “Black”) and attribute any issue you’re having to that. 

My doctor looked at the fact that I’m on testosterone, then saw that I’d asked for oestrogen. Aaaaah!!! That’s so confusing and weird! I must be confused about my gender identity! You can’t just mess with all this stuff and brew it all together!

The fact that I’ve been given a cream-form of the same medication in the past is irrelevant. The fact that what I’ve requested is a LOCALISED form of HRT, which will not impact my broader endocrine system, is irrelevant — he doesn’t know that. The fact that again, the same exact thing can be given to cisgender women, is irrelevant. 

He doesn’t know how any of these medications work. Hormones + transgender = ooh scary!!!!

When you have any sort of chronic health condition — which my transgenderism will be until someone makes an implant for my T — you end up having to learn how a lot of these medications work and how they work together. You have to actually pay attention.

And then you have to manage healthcare practitioners who are acting based on bias and assumptions rather than actual healthcare comprehension. 

And then, infuriatingly, after all this, I was put in the position of having to say, “Look, I’m sorry, I know you don’t know anything about this, and I’m very clearly aggravated, but it feels like I’m being targeted for poor medical care simply because I am transgender, and that my health is being put at risk at random.”

Which is what’s happening. 

But when your doctor tries to do malpractice on you because he’s anxious about the fact that you’re transgender, you’re not allowed to get angry and upset about it, because that makes you scary and intimidating and a Bad Patient. It might make you worthy of even more punishment, or being struck off. 

So that ruined my day. 

I now have to go to the endocrinologist, and hopefully, I’ll be able to say, “I’ve literally been on T for eight years. Do not fuck with me. I do not need a fucking assessment. I do not need to prove for a second time to some stranger that I’m transgender. Just give me the suppository to make my dick work better and fuck off.”

And the endo will just give me the suppository, and my doctor will go back to giving my testosterone every three months, and I won’t have to ruin anybody’s life or publicly embarrass my GP surgery into treating me like a human being. 

It’s so frustrating to have to constantly think about what damage control I’m going to have to do to just be given the basic medication I require to live my life and that I’ve already been on for the better part of a decade. 

The thing about the fact that it feels like this whole thing has put my general life at risk is that it feels like a punishment for caring about my vaginal health and wanting to be able to have comfortable, good sex — and that makes me a bad transgender person.

Cis people don’t want to think about trans men having sex or being sexual beings. That’s gross and scary and weird and uncomfortable. 

Doctors don’t want a patient advocating for their own sexual health or being empowered and knowledgeable about the ins and outs of their own healthcare, let alone contradicting them just because they very clearly not only don’t know how my healthcare works, but because they can’t be bothered to learn. 

Cis people don’t really want trans people to exist, because the concept of trans people disrupts the things they would like to believe about “biological sex” and how it contributes to the roles they choose for each other and pressure one another into.

If they’re okay with trans people existing, they only want trans people to exist in perfect theory. 

They “grieve” over the cisgender children they “lose” when they transition to their correct gender. They don’t want kids and teenagers to be given puberty blockers, but they also don’t want them to get the right hormones — and now even as an adult, I’m constantly put in the position of having to be worried about my T getting stopped at any moment in case a doctor has Feelings about having a transgender patient. 

Because it’s too scary and too hard to actually do any research about my medication. They want our healthcare to go to nebulous “specialists” who, frankly, know more about diabetes and menopause — which is what most endocrinologists study! — than they do about being trans.

Cisgender people are often very fixated on the idea and the narrative that transgender people live in fear and anxiety and self-loathing because we’re so cursed by our bodies and our lives.

But almost every negative experience I have is to do with a cisgender person choosing to make my life difficult rather than any internal issue I have with my actual life or body or gender. It’s cis people using slurs or making places inaccessible, refusing to learn or be educated on any subject, and trying to push any kind of transgender person out of their lives, their facilities, their society.

And so yeah, I’m bad representation.

I’m openly gay and fruity, and I wear sexy fun clothes, and I write erotica and I talk openly about sexual health and resources, and I’m open about being transgender. I’m not ashamed of my sexuality or my gender — or my disability and chronic illness, which I’m also open about, God forbid!

And who cares?

I could be the absolute perfect example of transgenderism — invisible, meek, silent — and I would be treated with the exact same level of disrespect and ignorance. I would just feel like it was genuinely my fault for existing instead of theirs for treating me poorly. 

At the very least I can complain loudly where other people can see and hear me, and it can make other trans people feel better about advocating for themselves and telling cis people and cis-focused systems to fuck right off. 

And I can create bad representation proudly in my own fiction work — trans people who are criminals and assholes and sluts and freaks and actual monsters, who are off-putting and autistic and disabled and weird — and let people enjoy that as well. 

[jakesimfromstatefarm]

no doubt jake and yn are WAYYY to happy together it pmo 😒 write about them breaking up‼️

— angy 💢 is just joking!!!!!! (i'm not) one has a dream about them breaking up (although it should really happen) and the other comforts them and its a whole angst/fluff fest sorry i'm feeling like a hater rn 😔

OKAY you guys are angst LOVERS because i actually also got this request from whiny anon wanting to see jake sad to the point of tears and snot LMAO😭😭😭you guys want jake to hurt i see </3 (lowkey me too bc i am an angst fein) but im not breaking up jakeyn because they are endgame🫡but i hope this amount of angst is good hehe

──── LET YOU GO 🌧️ 🤎 💤 ↳ requested // part of the no doubt series !

“It’s fine, Jake. Can we just—can we just go to bed?”

You said it quietly.

And somehow, that made it worse.

You weren’t yelling. You weren’t screaming.

You were tired.

Defeated.

Done.

And Jake?

Jake was furious.

Not at you—never at you.

But at himself.

At how everything he said tonight came out wrong.

Twisted. Bitter. Sharp—when it was never meant to be.

The argument started over something dumb. A few missed calls. A forgotten date. An offhand comment you made.

Something small that boiled under all the pressure and stress he'd been under lately—until suddenly. It exploded. Into a storm he didn't know how to stop.

And now—

Now you were walking away into the bedroom, hands clenches, lips tight, eyes rimmed red.

And Jake was watching the person he loved most in the world look at him like she didn't know what to do anymore.

But he's not finished.

“You don’t get it," Jake mutters as he follows you into the bedroom. "I'm trying so hard to be enough for you. To fix this. And you just want to go to bed?"

He runs a hand through his hair, his chest rising and falling like he can't catch a breath.

You don't say anything, just randomly fluffing up the pillows as if that can distract you from the noise.

Jake keeps going.

"I feel like I'm always trying and—and it's never—"

"I never asked you to fix things, Jake," you turn to him then, eyes shining, voice low and quiet but cracking around the edges. "I just asked you to show up. Just one dinner. One night. You missed it? Fine. We can't go back now. So yeah—I just want to sleep, okay? Can we please just do that?"

Jake shakes his head, a bitter laugh escaping him.

The pressure coils tighter in his chest. And even worse and what he won't admit because he's too stubborn for his own good—the guilt.

The guilt, and shame, and exhaustion—all of it comes crashing together into a flash of something he doesn't mean to say.

"This is exactly what your problem is, Y/N," he snaps, and the second it leaves his lips, he already wants to take it back. "You're so sensitive. You shut down, push me away, leave this entire relationship for me to carry—and I'm tired, Y/N. It's exhausting."

The silence that follows is suffocating.

You're frozen.

Like your body locked up the second you heard his words.

And then you blink—slow, blank, watery.

“…Are you done?” you whisper.

Jake stands opposite of you, still breathing hard. Still stuck in the anger he doesn't know how to get out of.

But now, underneath, there's something worse crawling in—

Regret.

Because you're not angry.

You're not fighting back.

You just look broken.

"I—" Jake swallows hard, his chest still heaving. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that."

He takes a step forward, reaches for you.

But the damage is done. You were already pulling away.

The space between you suddenly feeling too big to close.

You step back without realizing, shaking your head, avoiding eye contact as you stared down at the floor.

“Maybe—maybe we need some space, Jake,” you finally say, voice barely above a whisper. "From each other."

Jake thinks his entire life ends right then and there.

"Wait, wait—what?"

Your eyes don't meet his.

“I think we should take a break.”

The words slice through him.

Jake stumbles forward, grabbing your hands like he can stop this from unraveling, "Wait—wait, no. I'm sorry. I didn't mean what I said, I was just—"

His voice catches in his throat.

You finally look up at him.

And all Jake sees is heartbreak.

You don't say anything more.

Just shake your head once. Gently slip your hands out of his.

You walk out of the room and the door shuts behind you with a quiet click.

And then—

Darkness.

A pounding in Jake's chest as he realizes everything is over.

A weightless kind of falling.

Until—

Jake jolts awake.

Heart pounding. Face wet.

A mix of what he think is sweat and tears.

So many tears his pillowcase is damp. His hoodie clings to him from where he tossed and turned in his sleep, chest rising and falling with shallow, panicked breaths.

He sits up immediately.

Looks around.

Eyes scanning the room like it might still be part of the nightmare.

Then—

Soft footsteps.

The bedroom door creaks open.

And there you are.

Hair messy. Eyes squinting in the dark. Glass of water in hand. Wearing his shirt.

"Jakey?" you ask, voice soft, still laced with sleep. "You're up. I woke up thirsty, so I got some wa—"

You stop when you get close enough to see his face.

"Jake? What's going on—are you okay?"

He doesn't answer.

He just stares.

Like he’s seeing you for the first time.

Like he can’t believe you’re real.

You set the glass down, climbing into bed to kneel in the spot right front of him.

"Hey," you murmur, brushing his hair out of his face, both hands holding him. "I'm here, talk to me, baby."

And that’s when the dam breaks.

Jake's head drops and he just sobs.

Unfiltered. Raw. Desperate sobbing that shakes his entire frame in your hold.

Sniffling, hiccuping, trying so hard to stop but he can’t.

Because it was all over. You were gone.

And now—

Now you're here. Blinking at him. Wearing his shirt. With the softest concern and love in your eyes and it's too much.

You don't ask anything else.

You just pull him in.

Your arms wrap around him tight—one hand cradling the back of his head, the other rubbing slow, soothing circles on his back as he sobs into your shoulder.

"You're okay," you whisper again and again. "I'm here. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. I'm right here, Jakey."

Jake nods, but he can't stop crying. His face stays buried into your neck, his hands gripping onto your shirt like you might vanish right in his hands if he lets go.

"It felt so real," he eventually chokes out. "You said—you said you wanted a break."

You hold him tighter.

“Never,” you whisper. “I will never say that.”

“You walked out."

“I won’t.”

“I—I let you walk out. And I was—I was so mean.”

You pull back gently and cup his tear-streaked face, making sure he’s looking only at you.

“You didn’t,” you promise. “You didn’t let me go. And you don't have a mean bone in your body, baby, trust me. I'm not going anywhere. I love you.”

His eyes shimmer again.

But this time, there’s relief in them—a small, fragile smile breaking through the storm.

“I love you,” he whispers. “So much. I’m sorry I was mean to you in my dream. And that I cried all over you."

You let out a small giggle before you kiss his forehead, then his nose.

Then his lips.

“You can cry on me forever if it means you’ll never think I’m leaving you again.”

Jake exhales a shaky laugh.

And finally—he starts to breathe again.

tag list pt 1!:

@bluxjun @ki2rins @why-did-i-just-do-this @favoritten @lovialymisc @xylatox @vivimura @leehsngs @puma-riki @lezzleeferguson-120 @enhaprettystars @laurradoesloveu @sievenderz @somuchdard @kristynaah @hinryh @ltfirecracker @lov4hoon @taeheexx @niyzu @chunkzdeluluwife @jakeflvrz @fangirl125reader @0429jw @dreamy-carat @yuons @thestarinstarbucks @miszes @llearlert @ppeachyttae @hoomin10 @teddybeartaetae @tanisha2060 @therealmrsbahng @beomgyu-bears @ikeulove @jiyeons-closet @youngheejay @wxnderingthoughts @fuevrois @soobundle1009 @isoobie @enhypenova @zoemeltigloos @lizdevorak @deluluscenarios @bloomiize @hasuyv @ijustwannareadstuff20 @heekolazz @dreamiestay @jakeyyyjakexoxo

[mylovesstuffs]

braid your hair 🪮 choi seungcheol × fem!reader.

part of my milestone event

Sent by @nerdycheol !!!! HONEY 🍯 BABY💗 CONGRATULATIONS ON 1K🤩 YOU TOTALLY COMPLETELY DESERVE IT 🤩

can I request

💞+fluffy[9]+ cheol

maybe like mc fractured her hand and she can't do anything with her hand so cheol helps her with stuff:))

✩ ! includes :: tooth-rotting fluff, seungcheol × fem!reader. established relationship, reader got fractured hand injury, hair-braiding, domesticity, soft!cheol being a total golden retriever partner. 666 words. notes :: raeee, thank you SO much for your sweet ask and your love on my milestone! this one’s for you 💗 i hope you like itttt !! unbeta’d

“I can do it myself,” you glared at the hair tie between your fingers, frustration bubbling beneath your calm voice as your fingers wouldn’t cooperate, the fractured hand making even the simplest tasks a trial. Big warm hands gently took the hair tie from you, bicep flexed slightly, “I know, but let me do it for now,” Seungcheol told you softly.

You would rather not admit how much relief washed over you at that simple gesture. You’d always been stubborn—prideful, even—but there was something so tender about how carefully he cradled your injured hand, how the buff warmth of him seemed to chase away your frustration. Perhaps it was the irony of the situation that made you smile: here you were, the one usually so independent and strong-willed, utterly dependent on Seungcheol’s hands to get through the day. Not that it mattered, heartbeats didn’t need to be explained; they just were.

You watched him as his fingers hovered uncertainly over your long hair, like a bumble trying to solve a puzzle without the right pieces. “Make of that what you will,” you teased lightly, knowing full well that his patience would win out over your sarcasm.

He gave a sardonic grin in response, “you think this is easy? This braid may as well be a maze,” he muttered, eyes narrowed in concentration. “As if that ever worked to intimidate me.”

For a while you just sat there letting him work. You could hear the occasional matter of fact commentary: okay, so left strand over the middle... no, wait, him frowning, fingers fumbling but trying again, maybe this hand is less useful than the other, but sure—I'll manage. It wasn’t perfect, sure. The braid was a little lopsided with its strands sticking out here and there, looking more like a cozy mess of bed hair than the neat plait you usually wore. But Seungcheol’s hands were gentle with his every motion, a promise: I’m here. I got you.

“Not bad, huh?” he said, glancing up at you with a sleepy grin, eyes twinkling.

The corners of your mouth tugged upwards as you bit your lip. “The braid isn’t perfect... a little like your sleepy grin,” your voice soft. “But I digress—love doesn’t have to be perfect, does it?”

“Nope,” he answered, wrapping an arm around your shoulder. “Love’s messy, clumsy, and patient.”

You leaned into him, the warmth of his buff body a comfort that went beyond words. You felt your heart flutter, and it wasn't because the braid was flawless, but because it was made by him, and that made all the difference.

The days passed in a nice rhythm. Cheol helped you with everything from pouring your tea without spilling a drop on the table, to cutting your meals when your hand couldn’t manage the knife. You watched him in amazement; the man who could lift weights like nothing had suddenly become an expert in tiny, delicate tasks.

-

As he massaged your wrist to ease the stiffness, you caught a sardonic smile on his lips. “Buff, sure, but when it comes to braids and bandages, I’m a rookie,” he admitted to you, fingers tracing slow circles on your skin.

You laughed softly at him. “Ironic, isn’t it? The same hands that could probably bend steel now struggling with a hair tie.”

“Coital tension aside, I think this might be the most domestic challenge I’ve faced,” he said with a chuckle. “But so be it. I’m not letting you do this alone.”

You squeezed his hand, grateful for every moment and every small victory in this odd, slow dance of recovery. There was a moment that was quiet and ordinary when Seungcheol, with his imperfect braid and sleepy grin, looked at you like you were the most precious thing in the world. You may as well have been the only person alive. And in that moment, your fractured hand didn’t matter at all. He just loved you, loved to help you, loved to be with you.

⌦ 🪮 © mylovesstuffs | est. 2025. thank you for reading—your reblog means everything. until we meet again, stay cozy and keep dreaming! ◜ᴗ◝

[moonstruckme]

A continuation of this because I could not shut up

cw: vague mention of past injury

Who’s That Girl AU

roommate!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 1.2k words

The congestion in your chest keeps you from sleep. The coughing isn’t even violent; it’s pitiful, honestly, weak little puffs of air that do nothing to dislodge the mucus sticking in your throat. You lie in bed and succumb to them, doing all you can to be quiet with your head under the covers and your mouth pressed into your pillow. 

It’s not enough. A floorboard squeaks in the hall. You hope one of your flatmates has only gotten up for a glass of water—Sirius does that sometimes, he has trouble getting to sleep. If you or Remus doesn’t show up in the kitchen to chat with him, you know he’ll go to James’ room to settle down. Then there’s a knock on your door. 

You do your best to clear your throat, but still another cough punches out of you when you attempt to whisper, “Yeah?” 

Though both the room and your hall are dark, you can make out the distinct shape of Remus’ silhouette between them. If you hadn’t recognized him by that, you’d know him by the tentative way the door opens. Like he’s asking for permission a second time. 

Once it’s open, though, Remus comes to your side just like he had earlier. Incautious. Purposeful. Concerned brown eyes and a warm hand laid across your forehead. You’re holding your breath to keep from coughing on him, but you don’t think that’s what’s making your head swim. 

“Alright?” he murmurs. 

“Yeah, I—sorry,” you rasp, bringing up a hand to cover your mouth as you start coughing again. 

Remus doesn’t move. His brows draw closer together and he reaches over you to rub your back through the covers. “Hardly your fault,” he says, in a croaky sort of voice that hints he had been sleeping at some point. “Can I get you anything?” 

You shake your head. “I used all the honey. So we’re out, sorry.” Remus tsks sympathetically. “Out of cough drops, too, so. I think I just have to ride it out until the pharmacies open.” 

Your flatmate’s eyes glint humorously in the dark. “What, you still need cough drops? Didn’t James’ soup heal you completely?” 

“I don’t want to badmouth Euphemia,” you hedge. 

“Oh, you wouldn’t be. She only makes a good soup; James came up with the idea that it cures everything all on his own.” 

“Then no. But in fairness, your vitamin C didn’t work either.” 

“Well, I never claimed it was a miracle.” You’re teasing, but Remus’ voice has turned somber, his palm making slow circles on your upper back. He looks almost sorry. 

“Yeah, I know,” you murmur. “I think we’ve exhausted all avenues. Sorry I woke you.” 

“Sorry you’re being kept up,” he replies softly. 

You shrug, hapless. There’s nothing more either of you can do. You’re stuck with this, but Remus can still go back to his room and get some sleep. You expect he’ll do that now, so it surprises you when he asks, “Aren’t you hungry?” 

You cough a bit in surprise. “I had soup.” 

“So that wasn’t a piece of coriander I saw sticking out of the kitchen sink drain a bit ago?” 

You shrink. “Shit. I thought I rinsed it all down.” 

Remus smiles. It’s a lovely sight, and a rare enough treat that you relax. When Remus smiles, you always feel like you must’ve done something right to earn it. 

“I won’t tell,” he swears. “James will say it only didn’t work because you didn’t eat it all. He’ll want to go get you more.” 

“I tried to finish it,” you say weakly. “But it was a big bowl, and it wasn’t really to my taste…” 

“Careful, you’ll wake him from a dead sleep saying things like that,” Remus teases you. You smile, and watch his expression soften in the low light. “You must be hungry, though. Maybe a different soup? Something warm might calm your throat long enough for you to get to sleep.” 

Remus starts to get up before he’s even finished talking. You think your poor facial control is to blame; you probably look like he’s just offered you a spa holiday. 

“Rem.” You catch his wrist as he stands, letting go when a coughing fit takes you and you have to cover your mouth. Remus stays put anyway. “It’s the middle of the night.” 

“I know,” he says patiently. 

“You really don’t have to.” 

“Okay.” 

“So, you…” You eye him, caught between wishing for him to get a good night’s rest and really, really liking the idea of some soup. “...won’t?” 

“No, I am.” Remus straightens the rest of the way. “Do you want to come with? You can breathe the steam while the pot’s boiling.” 

You do follow him, obviously. You express your desire for one of you to get to sleep a couple more times before Remus tells you kindly to piss off, but then you’re not going to let him slave away for you in the kitchen by himself. 

Remus outright forbids you from helping him chop vegetables, because I know you think you’re steady right now, but I promise you you’ll cut off the same finger you did last time. You end up sitting on the counter beside the stove, face growing warm and dewy as you lean over a simmering pot of broth. 

“Do you really think Sirius is going to get sick now?” you ask. 

“Yes,” Remus answers, chopping carrots with a practiced rhythm. The thunk-thunk-thunk of his knife landing on the cutting board is soothing. “You can’t blame yourself for that, though. Sirius is always getting sick. He’s got the worst immune system of anyone I’ve ever met. You’d think that’d make him used to it, but no.”

“Just like hay fever?” you guess. 

Remus glances over his shoulder to give you a commiserative look. “Just like hay fever. He whines like mad the whole time.” 

You sigh, pleasantly surprised when the cough it provokes feels less painful than usual. The steam may be helping. “I’ll stay home and take care of him. It’s the least I can do, seeing as I brought it here.” 

“Maybe wait and see how well you still like him before committing to things like that. When Sirius gets really stuffed up, he turns on the shower and just steams in there. Runs out all the hot water.” 

You smile ruefully to yourself. “I hope he doesn’t get it as badly as me, then.” 

Remus turns fully now, walking over with the cutting board to dump diced vegetables into the pot. He pushes a damp piece of hair away from your temple. “Me, too,” he says sincerely. 

You look at Remus in the warm glow of the stove light. It softens his skin, blurring freckles and blemishes and melting the amber of his eyes. It feels too intimate, holding his gaze like this while you’re alone, but you can’t pull yours away. 

“Thank you for the soup,” you say. 

The corner of Remus’ mouth twitches. “It’s not finished yet.” 

“I know.” He’s teasing again, but you’re not in the mood anymore. You want him to know how much this means. “It’s just really nice of you. I appreciate it.” 

Remus sets a hand on your shoulder, steadying you both as he moves closer. You’re unwell and probably a little delirious, so you think you can easily blame the steam or your fever for how warm you get when your flatmate’s lips ghost your forehead. “Don’t mention it.”

[g00d--m0urning]

Final Destination: Your House (CH.3)

Our lovely gal, Nightmare, pays you a visit.

The dateables are arguing amongst themselves.

cw: reader gets injured this chapter and experiences a panic attack

(Also, I feel like I'm not doing Telly justice, if anyone has any tips on how to write him, I'd appreciate it)

“Hello, darling,” the familiar dulcet tones of Nightmare fills your ears, shadowy hands travelling over your body, “there’s something bothering you, I can smell it on you,” she purrs, sitting down next to you.

“Please, Nightmare, not tonight,” you plead, trying to roll away from her, but you can’t.

“What’s the matter, darling? Can’t move? Are you frozen in fear?” she asks mockingly, dragging one of her claws up your arm, “Let’s see what’s going on in that pretty mind of yours.”

Nightmare taps into your mind, travelling through the depths of your thoughts, “Oh-ho, yessss, that’s it, isn’t it, darling? You’re afraid you’ll be abducted by aliens?” she inquires, the infliction in her voice says she knows that’s not it.

“No?… Hmm… Maybe you’re afraid all of your clothes will suddenly disappear and you’ll have to live life naked,” she suggests, drawing from random anxieties you had once upon a time. You’ll need to have a chat with Diana about blabbing.

“Ahh, there it is,” her voice seems more sinister now, the room is colder, “is this what you’re afraid of? Let’s see, shall we?”

Suddenly, you’re standing in the middle of the kitchen, several of your partners out and about. Daisuke bumps into you, glancing over his shoulder to glower at you in a way that makes your skin crawl, “Watch where you’re standing, human. I don’t need you chipping the dishware.”

You open your mouth to apologize, but no sound comes out of your mouth. You stumble forward a few steps, into Abel’s wide chest, “Now what was that for? Can’t walk two steps in this house without breaking somebody, can ya?”

There’s several agreements from the others, throwing in snide comments about how clumsy you are, how you overwork them carelessly, how they only love you because it’s the only way to get you off their backs.

You stagger out of the kitchen, trying to make it up the stairs. Your pant leg gets over your foot, sending you face first onto the stairs; the taste of blood fills your mouth, but you pay it no mind, continuing up the stairs.

You fumble with the doorknob to the bedroom door, palms too sweaty to get it open, “Pathetic, can’t even open a bloody door without help,” Dorian scoffs, opening himself, sending you into the bedroom.

You choke on a sob, clawing at your throat to try and get words out, “Betty,” you manage to gasp, inching closer to the pink-haired woman.

She sidesteps when you go to hug her, staring down at you like you’re a pathetic bug, “What, sugar? Did your feelings get hurt?” she asks mockingly, bottom lip jutted out in a pout, “I know what it’s like having the one you love ignore you, to insult you. Hurts, doesn’t it?”

“I-i’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” you wail, sliding down the wall, hiding your face in your hands.

Everybody is in the room, mocking you, admitting how they hate you for what you put them through everyday, how they’d rather stay inanimate objects than have to deal with you anymore.

Koa, Mateo, Telly, Dante, and Abel are all forced to watch as you thrash around on the couch, tears streaming down your face, whimpering the same thing over and over. You won’t even be able to talk to them when you wake up and that breaks their hearts.

In the meantime, they settle for doing anything they can to help. Telly turns himself on, flipping through channels until he finds one of those lo-fi music ones you always seem to like. Mateo curls himself around you, being the best weighted blanket he possibly can.

“If I ever get my hands on that blasted horse lady,” Abel grumbles, shaking his head. He can’t do much to comfort you as a table, no matter how much he wishes he could.

“Nightmares are normal, Abel. I’m sure they’re fine, probably just dreaming about those weird face suckers,” Dante points out, giving the big man a squeeze.

“I believe you mean ‘face huggers,’” Telly corrects, hovering over you nervously. He told you watching Alien at midnight would give you nightmares.

“I believe, I don’t care,” Dante retorts, his lips curling up in a sneer at the television.

“Both of you, knock it off,” Abel orders through gritted teeth, setting his hat down, “We all know they ain’t dreaming about face sucker--or huggers--and the last thing they need is us arguing.”

“I agree, buddy,” Koa nods, clasping his hands together, pursing his lips. You might not be able to see or hear them without the glasses, but you can always feel a difference in the air.

“Let’s focus on helping them,” Mateo recommends, sniffling and wiping his nose on his puffy sleeve. He hates seeing you like this.

They all do.

You wake up with a start, tumbling off the couch. Your head knocks against the corner of the coffee table, making you cry in pain. You scramble to sit upwards, leaning against the couch; your chest heaves, unable to catch your breath.

You can taste blood in your mouth--you must’ve actually bitten your cheek--and something warm drips down your forehead. When you pull your hand back from your forehead, there's blood staining your fingertips.

Everything is overwhelming: the nightmare, the bleeding, the faint sounds of music, it’s too much. You want to curl up and die. Nightmare was right, it does scare you. The thought of your house hating you scares you. Is that why they’ve been avoiding you, because they resent you for using them?

Time seems to slow as you wake up, hitting your head on the corner of Abel. Abel’s heart is beating out of his chest, unwilling to slow down as blood drips down your forehead. He hurt you. You could have a concussion because of him. Maybe the others are right: they’re dangerous to you.

“Abel! Abel, hey!” Dante claps his hands in front of Abel’s face, trying to snap him out of hyperventilating.

“I-I… I did that,” he stammers, stepping away from the group of living room dateables.

“You didn’t mean to! They fell off the couch, if anything, it’s technically their fault,” Dante points out, which he realizes is the completely wrong thing to say at the moment, “Not that it’s their fault, you know what I mean! It’s nobody’s fault!”

“Alright, let’s take a step back,” Koa steps in between Abel and Dante, sensing the anger Abel is itching to release on Dante for blaming you.

“It ain’t their fault!” Abel shouts, jabbing a finger in Dante’s direction, seething at Dante for even daring to insinuate it’s your fault.

“That’s not what I meant,” Dante defends, throwing his hands up in surrender. Of course it’s not your fault!

“Aye! You both need to go cool off,” Telly shouts over the two of them, pointing their hands at opposite walls, “Y’all aren’t Baby, so I’m putting you both in the corner!” Both men abide, putting themselves in time out, taking time to cool off. The house is falling apart and they don’t know how to fix it.

You’ve finally calmed down enough to stand up, making your way into the kitchen, getting a glass of water to try and soothe your dry throat. Between the tremor in your hands and the seat slicking your palm, the glass didn’t stand a chance, slipping from your hands before you could even register it.

“No, no, no, please,” you sob, dropping to your knees to gather the broken glass. Daisuke is going to hate you even more now, “This can’t be happening,” you murmur, dropping the piece you picked up when it nicks your finger.

At this point you can’t tell whether the blood is from earlier or if the glass has cut up your fingertips. You don’t care either, all you can think about is how Daisuke is going to react to the fact that you broke a dish. You can already feel him staring at you with hatred.

You get the glass swept up, thankful that your broom isn’t secretly someone; you can’t hurt your broom. Your vision spots and you collapse onto the floor, bringing your knees to your chest, tears dripping onto poor Florence.

“I’m so sorry, I’m sorry,” you repeat to Florence, to Daisuke, to everybody you’ve used and upset.

[leighsartworks216]

Silly snowcrow scenario where Sylus is amicably divorced from his wife, but they had two little twins together that they share custody of. He makes sure they have all the care and support they need, and supports his ex as much as he can (financially, housing, food, in any way she needs)

But he's starting to get back into the dating scene. He misses having a partner, and honestly he doesn't have much in the way of a social life. So he starts using one of those dating apps, not really expecting to find anything lasting, but at the very least he can start meeting people

He comes across the profile of a famous cardiac surgeon, much to his surprise. He reads over the description, raising a brow at the very straight forward answers to the set questions. At the very bottom is the note, "My colleagues forced me to make this."

Sylus is intrigued. The doctor is rather hot, and he's not a patient so there's no conflicts there... Why the hell not, he thinks as he swipes right

Zayne checks his phone during his break. He's gotten several messages from the app, mostly people using really really terrible medical pickup lines, or asking legitimate health questions that he dismissively tells them to see their own doctor about. He looks at the list of people who want to match with him with little interest. Some of them are pretty, yes, but he doesn't honestly have the time for a serious relationship and most of them already sent him those crummy messages

But one profile has him stop his swiping. A handsome man with striking features who exudes confidence. Photos of him working on a motorcycle, setting up a phonograph with an old vinyl, hugging a lion (what?). The first line in his bio says he's a single father of twins, with a warning not to waste his time if they don't like the idea of kids. "Looking for a friend or a date"

He looks over the profile again and again, as though it's an important set of research data. On this whole site full of people looking for sex, maybe a friend is a good start. So he swipes right

He gets back to work and fears the message that may greet him when he returns

Fast forward to their third date

The first date was nice, if a bit awkward at first. They spoke for a while through the app beforehand, and decided on a diner near the hospital Zayne likes. He was embarrassed to buy sweets, but Sylus must have noticed him looking at the fresh display because he encouraged him to get whatever he wants. (And more - Sylus bought him extra macarons to take with him)

Their second date already saw leaps and bounds in their comfort with each other

This one promises to be just as nice as the last two, a peaceful walk around the park, until Zayne gets an apology message. "My ex needs me to look after the kids today. I'm sorry to have to cancel"

He isn't sure what possesses him to reply "Would they be able to join us?"

Sylus apologizes again when he goes to pick Zayne up; it's a reflex with his two boys. The second Zayne is in the car, he's being bombarded with questions from the back seat. Zayne can see the tension in Sylus' shoulders, the grip on the wheel, the glancing over, the worry that his boys will scare his new friend/prospective partner away before they even reach the park. With every question Zayne answers, he can see the tension melt away

Aaaaaand idk what else to say to this rn BUT the twins falling asleep on the way to drop Zayne back off at home. Sylus pulls up to the curb and whispers his gratitude for being patient with his sons. Zayne smiles and assures him it was no trouble, he's dealt with plenty young patients in his time as a surgeon

Zayne's about to climb out when a hand holds his. He watches, heat rushing to his ears, as garnet eyes lock on him, as Sylus brings his hand to his mouth and kisses his knuckles. Another thank you, a sultry "I had a nice time today", and a simple question about when next he'd like to go out

[windyremedy]

playing matchmakers

pairing: bakugou katsuki x reader

scenario: class a was off on a retreat when they decided that there was no better time to play match makers than now, for their two friends who obviously like each other very much. too bad it only ended up being a colossal of failures.

"alright girls, listen up!"

"boys let's get down to business."

“we all know those two, ahem— heartgoboom. that’s their code name, both like each other correct?"

"our bakubro needs all the help he can get. now he might not say it but everyone with a pair of eyes can see that he has the hots for a certain someone right? everybody who can attest say I—“

“for our plan I was thinking of creating a romantic atmosphere. like getting them to sit next to each other during meal time.”

“my bright idea, heh get it? is to lock them inside the storage room— whose with me?!”

“see it’s all about building up the moment in those unprecedented times making a sure fire way to get them to smooch!“

“then they can totally fuck.”

“if we do this correctly they’ll confess to each other and it’s a mission success!!”

“remember the saying, fuck if we do, fuck if we don’t— let’s fuck!”

“kaminari I don’t think that’s even a saying—“

attempt one: bus ride

maybe you should’ve clocked that a plan was admist but you just didn’t know what it could be. because really for what reason do your classmates have to be cutting you off in the line constantly. mina, tsu, uraraka actually all the girls, heck even koda quietly shuffled infront of you.

honestly you were tethering the edge of snapping so when aoyama ever so dazzlingly went ahead of you, your patience had run thin. about to call him out before you heard shouting from a distance.

“WAIT!!! WAIT BAKUGOU MAN I NEED TO TELL YOU THAT—“ kaminari screamed clinging to the pissed off boy.

“DON’T CARE! DON’T GIVE A SINGLE SHIT! I’M GONNA BE FUCKING LATE SO GET OFF MY DAMN LEG!!”

“PLEASE I HAVE FAMILY!!!!” the electric user desperately yelps.

bakugou only looked at him with a fed up expression.

“WHAT IN THE HELL DOES THAT HAVE TO DO WITH ANYTHING!!???” he yelled before flinging kaminari into the air.

surprisingly he landed near the entrance of the bus and not the stratosphere so you guessed that was good. it would be too bad if someone funny dissapeared like that but then again another person did get ahead of you so maybe not.

turning around you looked at bakugou, sarcastically asking him if he was gonna cut you off too.

“the fuck? no. I’m not gonna get worked up about fucking seats on the bus.” he snaps getting you a little bit riled up because everything was just annoying you at this point.

“well you don’t have to imply that I’m being childish about it.”

“what? I’m not even saying that. why are you so—“

“what? bitchy?”

“no! when the hell did I even say that!!?”

“you were gonna!”

“that isn’t even tru—“

then a constant stream of arguments stemmed from you two as the perpetrators watched the scene. okay maybe they shouldn’t have annoyed you two too much to the point of getting mad at each other as well.

— MISSION FAILED

attempt two: cooking in pairs? no— cooking in despair

after setting up your things in the designated room you shared with hagakure, you quickly unpacked to head outside and help make lunch. everyone got a choice whether they wanted to help cook or clean afterwards and you of course chose the former, not wanting to deal with the messy tables and plates.

“also you’re paired with bakugou by the way!” she exclaimed from where she sat outside the closet.

“really?” you murmured but didn’t question any further since you did miss the role assigning due to needing to use the bathroom.

stepping outside to the bustling kitchen you neared the cutting area. seeing the mountain of vegetables left totally untouched. where was he?

you thought maybe he’d come a little later but he ended up never coming at all which made you extremely frustrated since he was assigned with you to do the task. to y’know help each other but nooo you had to cut every carrot, every tomato, every potato and damn it the onions are making you tear up.

“heya where’s bakugou?” jiro asked nervously looking around.

“I don’t know, maybe he had better things to do than stay here with me of all people.”

before she could reply a group of steps could be heard coming out of the forest. there, were a few of the boys carrying buckets of water that included the one and only bakugou ‘you’re by yourself’ katsuki.

“well, well, well, look whose here.” you uttered with disdain as they came closer.

the blonde looked at you in confusion and the audacity of it was unreal. since you zeroed in only him you didn’t notice the others with nervous grins and doomed expressions.

“what’s wrong now?” he asked firmly but never with his typical bark even when he’s yelling, not with you.

“nothing. just thought that it could’ve nice if you came and helped me cut some of these up.” you answered sarcastically, annoyance evident in your face.

“so you need help? you could’ve said so. didn’t need to be a brat about it.” he replied in a banterly manner, going to stand next to you but that honestly only made you angrier.

“the nerve of you pisses me of— ugh! you do the rest yourself!!” you yelled before stomping away.

“the fuck just happened.” he muttered staring at your disappearing figure.

the rest could only sigh in defeat while glaring at kaminari who failed to switch with bakugou.

— MISSION FAILED

attempt three: right— no wrong!

after the warm meal what better way to cool off than to take a dip in the nice and refreshing river. putting on your school approved swimsuit you joined the others who were gearing up to play chicken fight.

“oh— whose joining?” you asked after being pulled next to Hagakure near the water.

“all the girls and a couple of the boys! here pick a stick.”

staring at the few multi colored sticks inside the cup you glanced a little longer at the orange colored one. huffing at the fact that you still picked it despite being currently mad at him.

“HOLD ON!!” screamed momo from a few steps away.

“yes?” you wondered, surprised at her unusual outburst.

“I— well ah….so…the thing is….nevermind.” she whispered not wanting to blow their scheme.

right.

turning to look for your partner you saw the boys huddled up and separating, seeming to be done choosing. from what you could see the one with the same color as you was none other than ojiro which you guess wasn’t bad. just not what you were aiming for.

on the other hand the blonde you did want— not that you would admit, who surprisingly even joined was with cheeks as he so annoyingly calls. now that you’re thinking about it everyone gets a deprecating nickname and she gets something cute?! you get it, she really is but damn it didn’t help your growing envy.

even more so when he seemed hellbent on getting your team to lose. with everyone cheering as they won in the end with him looking so smug. as if he successfully achieved his mission.

probably to show off to uraraka.

fuck.

— MISSION FAILED

attempt four: whose your crush?

still upset with him you actively avoided being near him during the night’s bonfire. choosing to sit next to mina instead who brought up playing the ever so popular game of truth or dare.

“so who wants to go first?” she asked cheerfully, glancing at two targets in particular before excitedly announcing bakugou’s name.

“truth or dare?”

“truth.” he answered not even hesitating, probably cause it was the fastest to complete than some dare.

“describe your crush in one word.” she grinned evilly, palms excitedly holding each other.

he took one deep breath, leaning his head up towards the sky. drink a few inches away from his lips that uttered words in a tone different from what they usually hear.

“real fucking cute.”

well that just about sealed your hopes, subconsciously shutting down what’s happening around, not realizing it was your turn.

you really didn’t want to play any games right now but you’re not gonna let bakugou of all people dictate your ability to have fun.

“truth.” you decided, not wanting to do anymore kind of physical labor.

the pink hero hummed as of thinking of a question but immediately bites the bullet.

“who do you like?”

silence fell upon the chatters of your classmate, fire cracking ever so softly. each person on the edge of their seats at your reply.

“I don’t know anymore.” you replied solemnly, which didn’t go unnoticed by the red eyed boy who you made quick eye contact with before looking away.

“oh, well that’s okay! why don’t you ask someone else now?”

“no it’s alright, someone else can have my turn.” you nodded getting up from the log.

“I need to take a breather for a minute.”

with that you left with a certain blonde right at your tail.

“we totally fucked up.” kaminari spoke out loud, the girls looking at him in disagreement.

“we? you were supposed to get him to swap with you on time and they were supposed to be together during the meal preparation!!”

“oh don’t pin the blame on us! whose good idea was it to get them annoyed this morning?!”

“as if it wasn’t you that didn’t tell ojiro about the plan!”

“we didn’t know orange was also his favorite color!!!!”

“that’s no excuse—“

and so a long argument ensued between everybody involved. going back and forth for most of the starry night, leaving the desired pair to deal with the mess unknowingly caused by them.

man, were they shit matchmakers.

— MISSION FAILED

final attempt: the truth

on everything you held dear you tried your best to ignore him calling your name multiple times but you were just so over it all.

“what do you want?” you asked, voice devoid of any warmth.

“tell me what I did wrong.” he spoke honestly, tone holding no kind of anger but a semblance of fear and vulnerability.

but you didn’t reply, feet digging firmly to the soft blades of the grass underneath.

“is it because I like you?”

both of your hands that was wrapped around your shoulders as well as your heart dropped— instantly beating as fast as a bullet train.

“are you sure? cause you have a weird way of showing it.” you grimaced.

his face twisted to a confused look, stepping a little closer to where you were.

“can you tell me the times on how I made you feel that way?” he asked softly, patience almost a hundred percent not given to no one else.

“well first of all this morning you were annoyed at me.”

“I wasn’t. that damned pikachu just put me in a sour mood.”

“I guess he does that often to you. but you also left me to cut most of the vegetables when you were assigned to do it with me.” you reasoned warily.

“what?” he asked, stilling in his spot.

“oh don’t act like you weren’t— hagakure told me so!”

“well she was dead wrong because I was assigned on water duty.”

“what?”

“yeah but that trio of dumbasses kept bothering me to— they kept bothering me to switch with that zappy idiot.” he answered almost like he came to a revelation.

“then what about during the water fight? you were definitely targeting me!”

“only because I didn’t want you on Tails’ shoulder as long as you already have.”

“well you described your crush just a couple minutes ago.”

“yeah.” he nodded looking at your pouty face, eyes wobbling near close to tears.

“you said they were cute.” you said sharply, eyes finally meeting his gaze that was fully set on you.

“you are.” he said as if it was a world known fact.

“what?”

“who did you think I was talking about?”

“It’s not uraraka?” you asked to confirm.

“bo dumbass. it’s always been you.” he answered pulling you in his arms.

“you’re the dummy!” you yelled sinking further in his chest.

“we can be dumb together then.” he murmured as he rest his chin on top of your head.

the moment being serene and peaceful until a soft cheer could be heard from the bushes.

“woohoo.”

“shut up—“

“can you get new friends?” bakugou asked, eyes shut firmly with a familiar frown.

“I’m sure they mean well.” you muttered, smiling slightly.

“aren’t we your friends too bakubro?!”

“NOT AFTER THE BULLSHIT YOU ALL PULLED— ALMOST MADE ME LOSE MY DAMN GIRL!! FUCK OFF!” he scowled, turning to the culprits as he aimed with his hand burning a familiar glow.

“BAKUGOU NO— WE’RE SORRY!!”

boom.

— MISSION SUCCESS

@windyremedy

[enviedear]

JASON TODD and a mean!gf…

and it’s not that she’s cruel or hateful, she’s just navigating some issues with control and disorganized attachment. she’s hot and cold—sometimes at the same time. she’s draws him in just to feel suffocated. she presses for signs of weakness in their relationship like they’re bruises.

jason, for all his flaws, does love deeply. truly. earnestly. he broods, he definitely has issues with trust, and tends to not be able to let go—he needs to talk things out, seriously—but he’s perceptive. he can see echos of himself in her, in ways. she challenges him, pushes him, brings him to his wits end…but she also loves him like so right. he feels it in his bones.

he knows she need her space from time to time. that she operates best when given ample opportunity to examine her own mind and emotions. he’s fine with that—he enjoys the restraint she exhibits in that way, making time for herself. he loves her, and he never wants her to feel or get lost in the dynamic she shares with him.

say she’s particularly stressed. a mix of everything hitting all at once. all she wants is time to indulge in herself and her own mind—divulge into her own activities, maybe see friends she hasn’t spent time with in a while, or maybe catch a movie alone—something that’s just about her, what she needs. so she brings it up to jason, “babe? can you find something to do for the evening? i need some time.”

and it’s as simple as that. jason respects when she’s up front.

only—she’s not always up front. sometimes she tries too hard to mold herself into what she assumes he wants or needs. maybe he had a bad patrol week, got hurt, and is doing that silent sulking only he can do so well around the apartment. she doesn’t voice much, but she’s there. ignoring her own issues and feelings in hopes he’ll feel better. trying to play the role of perfect—not that jason ever asked. and besides, that’s not how it works—she gets too overwhelmed—it’s just not sustainable.

it always reaches a breaking point. something boils over. a snap. she’s fine and gentle until she’s not. she suddenly feels like she’s been asked too much of—and there’s a guilt with that feeling as well. the nagging idea of, ‘he deserves peace. be that for him’.

but despite the guilt, the feeling remains, and she feels a need to test and scrutinize the relationship. to make problems before he can notice she feels like one.

like when he comes home bloodied from patrol and she’s had a day from hell. her boss was a condescending prick, her friend canceled plans last minute, and she’s running on three hours of sleep—but jason’s lip is split and there’s that look in his eyes that means someone died tonight.

so she swallows it. make him tea, starts his shower, lets him hold her while he stares at the ceiling processing whatever fresh trauma gotham served up.

three days of this. three days of being what he needs while her own shit festers.

then he has the audacity to stare at her. notice her. say, “you seem off lately.”

“off?” her voice could cut glass.

“yeah, distant. like you’re not really here.”

she slams her coffee mug down hard enough that the counter echos, “not here? i’ve been nowhere but here, jason. wiping blood off your face, pretending i don’t have my own problems because, god forbid, you have to deal with anything that isn’t your own guilty conscience.”

“baby, that’s not—”

“no, shut up. you want to know what’s off? what’s off is that i’m so tired of shrinking myself into whatever shape you need that i can’t even remember what i actually feel anymore. it’s all just you.”

his jaw ticks. the vein that appears when he’s fighting his temper mares his forehead, “nobody asked you to do that. that’s all you.”

“didn’t they? because every time i even think to bring up my own shit, suddenly there’s some new crisis. some new reason why your problems are bigger and more important than mine.”

“that’s not fair.”

“fair?” she laughs, and it’s ugly. mean, “you wanna talk about fair? fair would be dating someone who doesn’t treat me like an emotional support system with tits.”

and that’s when jason’s patience snaps. because he can take a lot—has taken worse than she could ever dish out—but that particular accusation hits every insecurity he has about being too much, too broken, too damaged, and too dependent for anyone to love.

“you know what? fuck this.” he’s off the couch, grabbing his jacket, eyes glaring into her own, “you want space so goddamn bad? have all the space you want.”

“oh, so now you’re leaving? because…what? i’m right? perfect. very mature, jason.”

“what do you want from me?” he rounds on her, shadowing her, and there’s something dangerous in his voice now, “you snap, pick a fight, tear me apart, then get mad when i don’t stick around for more. it’s fuckin’ exhausting.”

“i want you to notice before i have to snap—and stop running away the second i’m not perfect!”

he tugs at his hair, eyes rolling, legs moving toward the door, “you think this is me running? baby, when i run, you’ll know it.”

the apartment door slams hard enough to rattle the windows.

he’s gone for two days. doesn’t answer texts, doesn’t come home. her disorganized attachment goes into overdrive—half convinced he’s never coming back, half planning what cruel thing she can say if he does.

she gets through it the way she always does—detachment. short responses to everyone, cutting remarks that leave people emotionally bleeding. her coworker with no sense makes a joke about her hair, and she smiles sweetly just to ask how his divorce is going. a guy at the coffee shop tries to buy her drink and chat her up, and she looks him up and down like he’s something rancid she stepped in.

because if jason’s not coming back, she’ll be in hell—and everyone else can go to hell too.

except he does come back. walks in like nothing happened while she’s aggressively reorganizing her (their) bookshelf.

“we need to talk.” he says, tone like he’s trying to diffuse a bomb.

she doesn’t even look at him, “do we? or are you just here to grab more of your shit before you disappear again?”

“i wasn’t disappearing. i was thinking.”

“how very enlightened of you.”

“jesus christ, would you just—” he runs a hand through his hair, “look, i get it, okay? you’re pissed. you can be pissed. but we can’t keep doing this.”

now she turns around, “doing what?”

“this thing where we hurt each other just to see if the other person will stay.”

she wants to argue, but he’s right and they both know it. so instead she deflects, “maybe some of us are just too much for other people to handle.”

“maybe. but i’m still here.”

“for now.”

“no, not for now. period.” he steps closer, “you think you’re the first person to try to push me away? sweetheart, i’ve been rejected by everyone i’ve ever cared about. if i was going to leave because you’re difficult, i would’ve been gone after the first week.”

“i’m not difficult, i’m complex—”

“you’re mean as fuck when you’re scared.” his voice is matter-of-fact, “you go for the jugular. you say things specifically designed to make people give up on you. and you know what? sometimes it works.”

her throat feels tight, “even with you?”

“no. not with me.” he cups her face, forces her to look at the broken man that loves her, “i’ve been dead, baby. i’ve been tortured, betrayed, abandoned, replaced. you think a few nasty words are gonna break me?”

the thing about jason is he doesn’t just love her despite the mean streak—he loves her because of it. because he knows what it’s like to be sharp edges and defense mechanisms. because when she bares her teeth, he doesn’t just see a snarl—he sees the hurt underneath.

“you know what your problem is?” she says later, when they’re both calmer, sitting on opposite ends of the couch like fighters in neutral corners.

“enlighten me.”

“you think you deserve to be treated like shit. so when i’m awful to you, part of you thinks it’s justified.”

he’s quiet for a long moment, then shrugs, “maybe.”

“and you know what my problem is?”

“tell me.”

“i think everyone’s going to leave eventually. so i try to control when and how, even if it means burning everything down myself.”

“and how’s that working out for you?”

she gestures between them both, “jury’s still out.”

but here’s the thing about loving jason todd—he doesn’t stay because it’s easy. he stays because she’s worth it. even when she’s testing every boundary, pushing every button, daring him to prove her right about being unlovable.

especially then.

because jason knows something about being too much for people. and he’s decided—fuck those people. he’d rather have all of her—sharp edges, and mean comments, and midnight fights—than some watered-down version that fits into other people’s idea of comfort. she fits his.

“come here.” his voice is low, gentle in his own way.

“why?”

“because i love you when you’re mean. i love you when you’re scared. i love you when you’re picking fights just to see if i’ll stick around.” he holds out his arms, “and ‘cause i’m tired of sitting on opposite sides of the couch like we’re enemies. c’mere baby.”

she doesn’t take his embrace immediately. because this is the part that scares her most—not the fighting, but the making up. the moment when he proves, once again, that she’s not too much, that he can handle all of her.

“what if i’m always like this?” she huffs, burying her face into his side.

“then you’re always like this.” he shrugs, “i knew what i was signing up for.”

“i’m serious, jason. what if i never get better at this? what if i’m always going to be the girlfriend who says terrible things when she’s scared?”

“then i guess i’ll always be the boyfriend who leaves for two days instead of dealing with his feelings.” he pulls her closer, his hand at her waist. “we’re both fucked up, baby. might as well be fucked up together.”

and finally—finally—he feels her relax.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

a/n: this is my first time really giving reader a set personality or personal issue…do we hate it? also trying something a bit different for how i structure thought drabbles—idk if i like it. i may delete this LMAO, tbh i just wrote it mostly for personal comfort. but shoutout the mean!gf’s of the world and our disorganized attachment. we will prevail. love is not always scary or meant to be analyzed like a true crime case. speaking from experience.

🖇️ masterlist | askbox | recent works

[withmyloveasyourgarden]

─ HOLD ME, CARRY ME SLOWLY

BOB FLOYD x F!READER

Summary: you and bob have been best friends through everything, so when you're a little too in your head over messing up, it makes sense that he would do anything you ask to get you back out of it. To make it better. It won't change anything, right? Only it does, and Bob realises at maybe the worst possible time, exactly why...

Warnings: 18+. Friends with benefits, smut (fem recieving oral and a vague mention of piv), brief fear of ruining the friendship and unrequited feelings, reader's got a fear of failure and withdraws into herself when she makes mistakes, small bit of angst, plane crash, brief panic attack

Word Count: 3k

A/N: another re-write of an old fic just to test out writing for bob before i dive into the much bigger fics i have planned!! please let me know what you think!

It starts as a way to forget.

To forget all the suffocating things like pressure and the crushing fear that comes with it of being a failure, a let down.

To forget that those stupid little mistakes you still sometimes make during training could be the reason you or one of your teammates don't make it home one day, and there'd be no one to blame but you when it happened.

It starts because you're best friends and you can't stand to see the other in any form of distress.

That when a training exercise goes so unbelievably wrong and you feel like it's your fault and he feels like it's his, he'll do anything to try and make it better because he can't bear the way your features get all haunted.

Drowning in memories of old voices telling you that you would never be good enough and the self-hatred that lingered like a ghost, insisting that they were right.

He'll do anything even if it means catching you as you stumble out of your jet, sealing himself to your side as you endure the tense debriefing followed by the quiet journey home. Murmuring softly whilst he all but carries you through your apartment, to your room, and sets you on the bed before sinking to his knees in front of you.

Even if it means looking up into those wide, glossy eyes, the ones he swears contain more stars than he's ever seen in the sky, his usually steady hands trembling against the cold curves of your cheeks when he dares to cup them in his palms and all but begs you.

"What do you need– tell me how I can help?"

It's like the tenderness in his voice breaks you, like it snaps the last brittle piece holding your composure together as your eyes fly to his and you lunge. Your fingers curling into the collar of his flight suit, pulling until your lips are crushed against his, and his entire body burns when you moan raggedly into his mouth.

And god, it feels a little terrifying at first.

Because underneath the surprise and the heat of it all, buried under the way your kisses are making his head spin and his name being drawn out on the softest little sigh has his lungs stuttering dangerously, there's the muffled shriek of alarm bells.

A smothered warning that this all could end in awkward regret and a tense fracture in your friendship when you both have your heads screwed back on right.

But then you lure him from the floor, drag his body to slot against the warm cradle of your own as you fall back into the mattress with a breathy sigh before hooking your legs around his waist and rocking tight against him.

"Make me forget–please, Bob– make it feel good."

And like a fever dream, it all melts away.

His teeth are fastened to your flushed skin whilst he drags the zip of your flight suit down, fingers slipping past your underwear to sink inside the slick heat of you, stroking and curling like he instinctively knows exactly how to touch you just right, stretching you open whilst he licks the sweat from your neck.

Bob's more than a little addicted when you gasp his name, when you respond to his rasp of "I know, I've got you– that feel good?" with a desperate little nod as you rut into his hand. His shoulders stinging with the bite of your nails clawing for purchase, for some kind of grounding against the brutal flare of heat gathering low and fast in your belly.

Your pleasure reignites him. The praise falling in quiet gasps from your parted mouth has him flushing gold with pride, near feral with the need to please, to make you burn brighter beneath his hands and his mouth before he can even think of fucking you properly.

You nearly fly off the bed when he buries his face between your thighs, spine arching like a bow as he flicks his tongue against your clit before drawing it into his mouth.

He doesn't slow down, doesn't let you catch your breath, just pins you to the bed with one strong arm flung across your belly until you shudder apart with a choked cry, body trembling and his name cracking on your tongue like a prayer whilst he groans into you.

‘Make it feel good’, you had begged.

Yeah, he could do that.

**

It starts as a way to forget and it works a little too well on him because suddenly, Bob can't think of anything else but you.

The way you fight and the way you fly, hot-headed and reckless, like you carry death's will in your blood when you set those pretty eyes on any given target.

You're like a squadron's worth of energy and ambition, fired up to a boiling point and kept there for too long, just clawing at the chance to be aimed and let loose at whatever unlucky bastard decides to cross your path.

And where once Bob had only fretted about it slightly, more protective than fearful, a touch awed when he watched you despite his occasional reminders to reign when you got too heated, he now worries constantly about it getting you killed.

Worries enough that he can never settle until you're back with him, until that adrenaline and cut-throat desire to prove yourself dims in your veins and you go all soft and sweet beneath the cage of his body and the weight of him buried deep within you.

He doesn't get it at first.

Sure, he worried about you before but not like this.

There was always this deeply embedded trust in his gut that you would return. That nothing could ever stop either of you from flying at the other's side but now he can't fully reassure himself, his ability to concentrate on something other than the potential danger you're in is almost completely non-existent.

And it doesn't click until there's a mission that goes south before he can blink.

When there's tone blaring through the cockpit and he barely has time to bark a warning at Phoenix, let alone search for you, before everything explodes into chaos.

It doesn't make sense until there's multiple bandits and the squad is locked in combat everywhere he looks, gunfire and flame filling the sky, missiles that are sent careening towards their targets and jets dropping out of the air like flies when they collide, and suddenly he sees you there in the thick of it.

He'd recognise you anywhere.

Wreaking the kind of havoc that only you're capable of with such elegant brutality and making his heart bunch up with pride and fear behind his ribs. All wrapped up tight in what feels a lot like the one thing he swore he would never allow himself to be stupid enough to feel when what was between you wasn't anything more than a friend helping a friend.

But there it was anyway.

Swelling inside his chest like it had its own pulse, its own breath. A living, breathing thing that refused to be killed or at least quieted.

And before he can swallow the realisation, or even feel the rush of it through his veins, his world becomes a nightmare.

Everything he fears in the dead of night, that wakes him up shaking in a cold sweat and choking on a hoarse cry of your name, now coming to life directly in front of him.

He sees the bandit rear up behind you whilst your too preoccupied to notice, when your too blind with protective fury because Fanboy's calling for help and Bob knows that the second you hear it, that vengeful focus you get won't let you see any other danger but the one your friends are in.

Not even your own.

And if Bob screams, he doesn't hear it.

His ears are ringing too loud but he can taste your name in his mouth, the fear that warps and bites at it until it's something unrecognisable, he can feel the rawness of his throat like its shredding and bleeding and maybe he'll drown in his own blood before the agonising pressure of grief tightening around his chest can burst him apart entirely.

Because although Hangman is suddenly right there to back you up, he fires just a moment too late.

There is the bright flare of flames and the thick billow of smoke that eats along the enemy aircraft until it's impossible to see, but not before they manage to fire off a missile at you that tears apart a wing as if it was made of nothing more than paper.

And then you're spiralling, spinning out before his very eyes whilst an invisible hand thrusts itself violently into his chest and yanks the air from his lungs.

He can't even follow to make sure that you've ejected, he can't even demand it of Phoenix, though he knows by the devastated noise that is wrenched from her, she's debating it herself.

But the comms are still frantic, the hostile's fire hasn't relented anywhere near close enough that a search and rescue wouldn't cause more casualties and he knows you would be so fucking disappointed in him if he abandoned the squad to chase after someone who might be gone already.

Bob can't do anything except watch as you disappear from sight, eyes burning behind his glasses as he prays harder than he ever has in his life before Phoenix leads them back into the fight with his heart breaking and a sense of despair and helplessness that threatens to swallow him whole.

**

He can't land quick enough when it's all over.

Phoenix, at his insistence and already encouraged by her own concern, definitely comes in way too hot for the comfort of the people on the carrier but he just can't bring himself to care.

Not when his boots are hitting tarmac in record speed, helmet flung on the ground so he can frantically search through the endless sea of faces.

There's too much going on, too many voices, too many hands trying to stop him and check in, and just too many questions slamming against the walls of his skull.

Is she here? Is she still out there? Is she alive? Is she, is she, is she–

It's like the world goes in slow motion, the images all edged in fuzz and the sound of his quickening breaths roaring in his ear whilst his heart pounds and pounds. His stomach rolls violently all of a sudden, the sting of bile collecting in his throat and he's just about to fall to his knees, screw his eyes shut tight and beg for it all to stop when he hears it.

His name.

It's weak, strained and a little crackly, but he hears it. Snatches it tight to his heaving chest like it's his only lifeline, a solitary beacon in the darkness threatening to devour his vision and sink him into nothingness.

He lifts his head almost torturously slow, a little too scared to hope, a little terrified that it's only his imagination as shaky fingers shove his glasses up the bridge of his nose but no, there you are.

You're covered in grime and blood, hair limp around your face, and your flight suit hanging from your body in tatters whilst you prop yourself up between a grinning Hangman and an overly exasperated looking medic.

You're gorgeous. The most beautiful thing he's ever seen because god, you're right there.

Alive.

Only a few metres away and eyes so wide with concern for him as he stumbles forward in a daze before breaking out into a run.

"Lieutenant." The medic stammers as Bob barrels in your direction. "I tried to tell her she needs to be properly seen to, but she refused to move until you returned. Can you please–"

He doesn't hear the rest. He's too busy crashing into the open circle of your arms, folding you into himself as his hands sweep up your back and his nose buries into your hair to inhale the scent of you.

Here, safe with him.

There is a low, rumbling laugh then. Not mocking or teasing as he often hears it but knowing. Gentled by relief for not only you but Bob as well, and when the medic continues to huff about stubborn headed pilots, Hangman is quick to shoo them off, to follow behind and yell at anyone who dares to try and interrupt the moment you both so clearly need.

"Bob–" You're a little stunned by the intensity of his reaction he thinks, your voice slipping to something calm and quiet as you stroke a comforting hand through his hair and he shudders against you. "Bob–hey–it's okay, I'm okay."

"I thought I'd lost you." He manages to croak out, his hands searching blindly for your jaw, thumbs stroking the soot streaked skin, and then he's kissing you.

His mouth moving, fierce and desperate, against yours and he's pulling you closer, closer, closer whilst you cling to him and kiss him back just as hungrily, like you thought you'd never get the chance to again.

"I thought you were dead." He breathes into you, voice rough like he's still too wrecked to even say the words without breaking. "That you were gone just like that before I even got the chance to figure out– before I got the chance to tell you–"

"Tell me what?" You murmur.

You sound softer than he's ever heard you, breathless, a little kiss drunk, and it makes his chest swell with something impossibly tender. Warmth blooming like wildflowers behind his ribs.

It smothers the fear he expected to feel when this moment came, softening its jagged edges beneath the weight of everything that has led you here. The sheer emotion that grips his throat tight when he pulls back to be faced with the way your gaze shines at him, the gentle curve of your smile, sweet and adoring.

"That I'm in love with you."

You inhale sharply and if there's some nerves prickling beneath his skin, if he lets himself believe for even a moment that you'll withdraw, that you'll tell him this isn't what this thing between you is, then he's delighted to be proven wrong so soon.

Because you're suddenly looking at him in a way that makes him ache. Eyes sparkling in the steadily dimming light of evening, fingers touching his face like he’s something precious you've spent a lifetime longing for before a teasing smile tugs at the corners of your mouth.

"So all it takes is me nearly dying for you to admit it, huh?" You muse, and Bob blinks, once, twice, in stunned confusion before his jaw goes slack.

"You knew?" He blurts, incredulous.

"No, I'm not a mind reader." You laugh, shaking your head, eyes gleaming with mischief before you shrug like you haven't just sent his mind reeling. "I had wondered though."

His brow creases at that, still-trembling hands dropping from your face whilst he levels you with a sharp glare. "What, so you thought you'd go and get yourself blown to fucking pieces to prove a theory? Are you ki–"

You kiss him before he can finish. Brush a hand down his arm until your fingers tangle with his, raising them entwined to rest against the rapid thud of your heart whilst your other slides tenderly over his jaw.

It's supposed to be a quick, soft thing.

Reassuring.

A mere graze of your lips against his, sugar sweet with apology.

But there's still the wild burn of all that adrenaline tearing through your chests, the fear, the shadows of death still hooked into your skin and suddenly it's like neither of you know how to stop. Like it would rip open a fatal wound somewhere vital if you were to even try.

So you don't.

You let Bob wind his other arm around you and press you close like he's trying to fuse you together permanently. Like if he folds you in tight enough, maybe you'd sink through his skin and between his ribs to nestle right up against his heart where he could keep you safe.

You let him kiss you until you feel flayed raw by the ache of it all, the reverence and the yearning and the sheer overwhelming enormity of love that he takes from you and pours back in turn. An endless loop of devotion that leaves you breathless and clinging to him.

"That was definitely not the plan, I swear." You gasp softly as his lips trail your jaw and the warm path of your throat. “But I can't say I'm too upset about it.”

He groans then. Buries his face deep into the crook of your neck and sags his weight against you, defeated as he huffs. “You're insane– you're going to be the death of me.”

You snort, grinning far easier than anyone who had almost died within the last hour probably should. "Would it make it better if I told you that I'm in love with you too?"

It does.

It makes his heart flare up, makes it go all giddy and chaotic in his chest between his stuttering lungs, and he's pretty sure he's all flushed cheeks and the world's most lovesick smile on his face that he can't hide no matter how hard he tries.

The kind that doesn't even dim when he kisses you again and again and again before pressing his forehead to yours.

"You could have just started with that, you know." He snarks lightly, barely any bite to it as you roll your eyes, sinking your hands into his hair to press him closer.

"Fine, let me try again. Bob Floyd?"

He's not sure how it's possible, but his smile splits even wider. "Yeah?"

"I love you too."

[peasack]

following the supersoldier!teen reader request, could they also have regeneration? apologies on not including that in the first ask

Don't worry that's toats okay, and I just know Alexei would love you.

Thunderbolts x Gn!Teen!Reader

✦ Thunderbolts Handling a Super-Soldier Reader Headcanons ✦

∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

✦ John Walker

Instant protector mode.

You’re like a mini him and he lowkey feels responsible for you.

He’s a bit torn because he knows the pressure, the expectations, the violence you’re going to face.

Will spar with you, but always carefully. Always teaching, never trying to dominate.

“You gotta learn to control it, kid. Healing doesn’t mean you’re invincible. You still feel pain, right?”

He’s proud though. Especially when you hold your own in a fight. He always acts like it’s no big deal, but he’s bragging to the others when you’re not around.

Always watching your back, making sure you don’t throw yourself into danger just because you can heal.

✦ Bucky Barnes

He’s the quietest about it, but probably the one who understands you the most.

He’s seen super soldier kids before (Hydra didn’t just stop with him), and he knows what that can do to someone.

He’s the first to tell you, “Don’t let them turn you into a weapon.”

Trains you, but never pushes you past your limit. He’s the type to toss you a knife and just say, “Show me what you’ve got.”

Gives you quiet, solid advice like: “The pain still counts. Even if it goes away.”

He never questions your abilities, never doubts you, but he also never lets you carry the weight alone.

✦ Alexei Shostakov

SO EXCITED.

“We are the same! You have super strength! You heal fast! You are unstoppable! I will train you!”

He’s all over the place, absolutely thrilled to have a super soldier kid around. He treats you like his protégé immediately.

Tells outrageous stories about his own past, some true, most not.

Becomes super invested in your training but constantly has to be reminded by the others not to go too hard.

He brags about you constantly. "My kid? Very strong. Very brave. They beat three grown men yesterday, I saw it with my own eyes.”

He’s like a chaotic but loving dad who will absolutely wrestle with you in the living room and accidentally break the couch.

✦ Yelena Belova

Deadpan: “So you’re like Walker. Gross.”

She’s kidding. Mostly.

Yelena respects you immediately. She knows that being a super soldier isn’t about the power, it’s about survival.

Teases you, calls you “little tank” sometimes.

She’s lowkey very protective, though she pretends she’s not.

She’ll always have your back in a fight, and she’s the first to drag you to medical even if you’re healing just fine.

“Regeneration does not mean you get to bleed everywhere like it’s nothing. You will sit still and get cleaned up.”

She gives you practical advice like how to fight dirty and where to hit people when you don’t want to kill them.

✦ Ava Starr

Immediately worried about you.

She knows what it’s like to have your body out of your control, even if it’s different.

She’s always checking if you’re in pain, if you’re pushing yourself too hard.

Ava’s one of the few who really understands the mental side of super soldier stuff, especially the trauma that can come with being used.

She teaches you how to phase in and out of attention, how to keep people from knowing you’re hurt until you want them to.

She quietly admires your strength, but she never lets you think you have to prove anything.

“Just because you can heal doesn’t mean you need to break yourself.”

✦ Bob Reynolds

Sweetest with you.

He’s both amazed and worried.

Bob’s always nervous about his own strength and the Void, so he’s extra cautious around you.

He’s probably the best at comforting you when you get overwhelmed by your abilities or by other people’s expectations.

Super supportive, always tells you how well you’re doing.

“It’s okay if you’re tired. Even super soldiers get tired.”

Will always, always be in your corner. He’s the one who understands what it’s like to feel out of control and helps you find ways to feel safe.

He’s not afraid of your powers, but he respects them. He treats you like a real person, not just a super soldier.

∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

This was such a fun thing to write, hope yall enjoyed and requests are always open<33

[gothicpaperback]

THE ART OF THE DEAL | PART SIX

<<< PART FIVE: AT RISK | MASTERLIST | PART SEVEN: COMING SOON >>>

wc: 4,5k | rating: 18+ for eventual smut | Harry Castillo x You | FALSE RELATIONSHIP

summary: you don’t believe in love. neither does he. that’s the only thing you agree on. after swearing off romance, you’ve built a quiet life in art preservation and avoiding anything resembling vulnerability. but when Harry Castillo, arrogant, infuriating, and stupidly rich, proposes you pretend to be his fiancée for the sake of getting his overbearing mother off his back, you’re thrown. but the money is good and with your detached views on romance and love, you make the perfect polished, commitment-free partner. It’s just a deal; cold, clean and temporary. but pretending to be in love with a man you can’t stand has a way of making you feel things you promised yourself you’d never feel again. especially when he starts looking at you like you're more than just a line item in a contract. And worst of all? You start looking back

the MC female character is YOU. she is not named and barely described physically aside from being able bodied and having hair long enough to grab.

tags/warnings: false relationship, mentions of materialists film spoilers, smut, enemies to lovers. i will add more tags as they become relevant.

taglist: @chasingthepoguelife | @tnsmara | @sarahhxx03 | @taehyungxjungkookistaekook | @bluenightmarepost | @kakiki3 | @pascal-mynightlyobsession | @immyowndefender | @dedicatedfangirl2001 | @dotyoureyez | @decadent-hag1 | @madmelz | @sarahhxx03 | @orcasoul | @papapappapapapa | @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 | @greenwitchfromthewoods | @insertclevernamehereplease | @titlee78 | @thedisagreeablegirl | @millersgirll | @brinapedroswife | @15christyxoxo | @brinapedroswife | @magicxmiller

PART SIX | Mutually Beneficial

The knock comes early the next morning, a light tapping that causes you to stir. You give a groan, twisting in bed to find the other side empty. 

This isn't a shock, after George came over for "dessert" last night it was made clear by both parties that this was a one and done. He was decent actually, and he had some good dirty talk up his sleeve. 

So then who is that still knocking at the door to your apartment? 

You pull on your robe, tying the sash as you shuffle to the door. The peephole is foggy with age but you can see enough to know that it's Harry in the hallway. 

Irritation flares in your chest when you remember what he said last night and the dismissive way he treated you. 

You whip the door open with a flat expression. 

"Why are you here, Castillo?" 

Harry is taken aback by your tone and your appearance. For the most part he's only seen you polished. Even at the baseball game you were put together. 

But it's obvious he's caught you just waking up because your hair is askew, flat on the side you favor sleeping on. Your robe is tied loosely and if he were less of a gentleman he'd glance down and see the top of your breasts, hitching on those tantalizing curves. 

"Good morning." 

"I asked why you're here," you repeat. "Last time I checked we aren't actually dating so why am I seeing you two days in a row?"

Harry blinks, warm eyes surveying your face. You wish you knew what he was thinking. 

"We need to get you a dress for the benefit."

You can't actually believe what you're hearing. 

"I'm not going shopping with you for some benefit that I never actually agreed to. This is my one day off this weekend. I have plans."  

"What can I do to change your mind?" Harry asks, only now extending a coffee your way. 

The sight of it softens your rough morning edges. You take it, yawning. 

He watches you take a sip of the coffee he brought you; a flat white with almond. He took a guess at what you may like.  

"It's very bitter,"' you say making a sour face. 

You place the coffee inside on the counter and Harry feels himself deflate just a little bit. 

"And in answer to your question you can't do anything,' you reply. "Today I'm busy. Just pick something for me to wear and send it over. We both know that's what you want to do anyway." 

"I thought it would be a good opportunity to talk about things." Harry shifts on his feet. 

Harry glances at the floor, a bit embarrassed. "About what I said in the car yesterday. It was inappropriate and unkind, especially when you've been so accommodating."

Your eyes widen in shock. 

"I was hoping we could find you a dress and talk through the logistics going forward. The expectations have changed and you have every right to discuss how things are going on you end." 

He finishes softly, eyes on you. You weren't expecting Harry to be so gentle and reasonable. And yet, you shouldn't be surprised. His family is warm and kind, save for Ada. 

"Okay," you finally murmur. "I'll come."

"Thank you."

You can't seem to look away from him, hypnotized by chocolate brown eyes that seem to melt. 

"You like your coffee iced, right?"

The connection breaks suddenly when Harry hears a rustling from behind him. 

A handsome man with glasses and sandy brown hair is coming up the stairs, calling to you.  

"They didn't have- oh bollocks, have I interrupted something?"

You cringe as George wanders towards the door casting a curious look Harry's way. It's so clear what's happened with his rumpled shirt haphazardly buttoned and your ruffled hair. 

You watch Harry make the connection eyes going from George to you.

"Uh, George this is Harry. I forgot I have a breakfast meeting with him," you say motioning to Harry. "I need to get going right away."

"Say no more," George says holding up his hands before disappearing into the bedroom. 'I'll just drop this with you."

He hands you the iced coffee and Harry watches as George kisses your cheek, murmuring a thank you for last night. You smile prettily, almost bashful. 

George shoots Harry a smiling goodbye as he slides past him out the door and back down the stairs. 

The two of you stand in an awkward silence. Harry takes in the flustered way you can't look at him and he straightens to his full height. 

"I'll meet you at the car. Please don't be long."

He moves stiffly away from you, long legs carrying him around the corner and out of your sight. Your heart is pounding as you quickly finish getting ready. 

Why do you feel so guilty? 

Harry can't understand why he feels so irritated as he crawls into the backseat of his town car. 

You agreed to come to purchase a dress. The two of you are going to talk about things. This should be a positive. But all he can think about is that English loser and his stupid floppy hair kissing you. 

Before he can mull on it any longer, the door is tugged open and you slide in next to him, your purse in one hand, iced coffee from George in the other. 

"Morning Raj."

Raj makes a vague noise that could be a greeting from the front seat before Harry gives him the address of the boutique. 

You both ride in silence, shoulders booming against each other when the car goes over a sewer grate. 

Harry feels an ugly sickening feeling low in his belly. One that expands when he watches you pull out your phone and compose a text to George.

Thank you for the coffee it's delicious!

His response is immediate, Harry notes. Eager.

not a problem beautiful. hope we can see each other again soon

Harry scowls as you take a sip through the colourful striped straw. 

"I believe I requested that any of your companionships be discreet."

You glance over at him in surprise. 

"You never would have known about him if you didn't just show up at my door unannounced." 

There it is; the old spiky relationship that you two can't seem to stop falling into. Harry grits his teeth, confused that you seen to pull this out of him. He's normally so composed, so relaxed. 

"You wanted to talk about stuff, so let's talk," you say.

Harry makes financial decisions for breakfast, but something about your sharp look has him on edge.

"I wanted to know what your thoughts were on increasing the amount of events per month and thought in return a bonus payment for each additional event would be reasonable. What are your thoughts?"

He watches you mull this over. “How much of a bonus?” 

.He mentions the amount he was thinking, amuses when your eyebrows jump to your hairline. 

"That's for each event? Even if it's a short one like... Lunch with your mom?"

"Yes." 

You don’t even hesitate. "Deal." 

You lean back in your seat, cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling. This is the kind of money that means no scrimping after your dad's stuff. You almost want there to be more activities just so you'll get this monetary top up.

Harry watches you from the corner of his eyes, pleased with your agreement but puzzled when you suddenly frown. 

"Wait, I don't think any of the shops are even open this early," you tell him as the car winds downtown.

Harry just smiles, pointing to the approaching shop. “This one is.”

The store you pull up to it multi level, gold sign, valet parking. It boasts all the expensive brands that you've never been able to afford before. The two of you walk up the steps to the door and you notice the hours on the gold plaque posted on the door.

 It's closed for several more hours. You frown up at Harry, irritated you were woken up for a fruitless trip.

"Harry, it's not open."

"It is for us."

A woman is there at the door dressed in a sensible blouse and finely tailored skirt. She’s young and she gives Harry a wide grin as she opens the large double doors for you both.

“Mr. Castillo,” she beams, “what a pleasure.”

“Thank you for accommodating us.”

He’s already stepping further into the enormous space, his voice echoing softly off polished marble. The young moves quickly, headed for one of the upper levels. You don’t miss the swish of her hips and suspect they have little to do with you and everything with the handsome man who is turned to face you.

You’ve never been somewhere this quiet and this expensive at the same time.

You blink. You’re still near the doorway, surrounded by glass displays filled with designer accessories that could probably pay off your student loans. “Wait, so you rented the entire store?”

He glances back at you, amused.  "I shop better without distractions."

Of course he does.

You’re suddenly very aware of your outfit; your favourite jeans and a perfectly good button-down that has never felt more Target clearance than it does right now. You dress well enough, when the occasion calls for it. 

You’re not clueless, but you’ve never stood under the soft spotlights of a designer boutique that smells like fig trees and wealth with not a single price tag in sight. You’ve certainly never been the kind of woman a man rents an entire store for.

The anxiety must show on your face, because Harry steps closer and lowers his voice. “All you have to do is try on some dresses, pretend we're engaged and then I'll drop you at home. Try to have fun."

You want to say that you’re wildly under qualified to be trying on gowns that probably cost more than your car. But he’s already looking over your shoulder, smiling warmly. 

"Stella."

From behind you the sound of high heels clicking against marble emerges.

She’s barely five feet tall, maybe sixty-something, with a coif of steel-gray curls, gold-rimmed glasses, and a silk scarf knotted perfectly around her neck. Her presence is instant and commanding, like a warm front sweeping through.

“Ah, eccola!” she cries, beaming at you. “This is the fiancée?”

Fake fiancée, you think, but smile anyway introducing yourself.

"We need something appropriate for a gala, a wedding and a handful of other events of the same caliber,” Harry says from beside you. “I thought you could work your trademark magic?”

“But of course.”

She nods, scurrying away to grab the rack she says she organized earlier. You watch her go before leaning towards his shoulder, voice lowered.

"Wedding?"

"My cousin Sophia," Harry explains quickly. "Early August." 

"That's coming up quickly," you comment as you see the dresses being brought to the room. 

"Yes, I RSVP'd for myself and a guest months ago. I was with Lucy at the time," he explains.

Stella comes to stand in front of you, measuring tape around her neck and Harry's phone rings, shrill in the quiet space. Harry's hand rests light on your lower back, eyes on Stella.

“Take care of her? I need to take this."

Stella makes a dismissive noise, already advancing toward you. “Of course. Go, go. Make your calls. I’ll have her looking like a Botticelli painting in an hour.”

Harry gives you a brief, unreadable flicker of a look; a reminder that you can do this and then nods once before raising his phone to his ear and closing the door to the dressing rooms behind him.

 Just like that, he’s gone.

Stella turns to you, eyes twinkling behind her glasses. “Do you have any brands you favour? Chanel? Prada? Dior?”

“I'm not very familiar with brands,” you admit. "My fiancé is more experienced with that. I just wear what is comfortable." 

“It's a good thing he brought you to me then,” she says briskly, looping a measuring tape around your waist before you can even blink. “I've been dressing the Castillo family for decades. Now, turn, shoulders back, bene. Don’t worry about designers or labels, that’s my job. You just tell me what feels like you, si?”

You nod, still a little frozen. She's an overwhelming figure despite her small stature. She pats your cheek, not unkindly.

"You trust me?”

“I think I have to.”

“Brava. Let’s begin.”

The first dress is terrifying.

It’s sleek, black, cut on the bias. Stella hands it to you without a hanger, just drapes it into your arms like it’s something alive. The silk is impossibly cool and fluid in your hands. You stare at it for a second before ducking into the curtained changing area and pulling the curtain shut with a sound like a guillotine.

Once it’s on, you face the mirror and blink.

You don’t look like you. You look like the version of you someone might draw if they’d only ever heard rumours; someone mysterious and vaguely French. You smooth the silk down your hips, breath shallow.

“Come out, bella,” Stella calls.

You hesitate, then draw the curtain back. She stares for one long moment, then makes a hmph sound. “Too cold. Too sharp. He’ll think you’re about to sue him for custody of the yacht.”

You snort despite yourself, turning this way and that. “It doesn’t feel like me.”

“I know,” she says, already disappearing into the racks.

Dress after dress comes at you like waves. A pale champagne number that clings to every curve (“Bella figura, but no mystery”), a blue chiffon with embroidered stars (“Too sweet, his teeth will ache”), a red velvet with a high slit (“Dio mio, we’re not going to a casino opening”).

And slowly, despite yourself, the energy in the room changes. It’s not just the dresses, it’s the way Stella watches you, the way she hums and nods and frowns and points, always encouraging but never placating. It’s the way the store is so empty, so quiet, that it feels like a private dream.

It’s the way you start to feel less like you’re playing dress-up and more like you’re discovering things about yourself. Long hours at the gallery, long nights alone, long days with your father, you've been shrouded, isolated from the world. You forgot it could be fun to dress up and go somewhere new. 

And all the while Stella surveys, tapping her tiny mouth and nodding or frowning and shaking her head as you try on more and more items.

You in dark green silk (this will do for the wedding"). You in ivory crepe with cap sleeves (a good dress for a business dinner"). You in a backless midnight-blue gown with tiny buttons running all the way down your spine (perfect for a small fundraiser, stellina).

Stella returns with something slung over her arm and a rare, serious expression. “I saved this one,” she says. “It’s quiet. But powerful.”

The dress is dove gray and matte silk. Off the shoulder sleeves, a neckline that draws attention subtly and it fits like water. No sparkle, no embellishment. Just perfect tailoring. When you slide it over your head and smooth it down, it feels like stepping into air.

When you step out, Stella doesn’t say anything at first. Then she exhales, hands clasped in front of her chest.

"Finalmente. That’s you. Perfect for a gala.”

You smile, really smile, and look in the mirror, taken aback by the figure that stares back at you. She looks confident and regal and... Expensive.  Stella reappears from the back room, arms full of shoes, clapping her hands.

“Okay, pupetta,” she says, eyes twinkling. “We’ve got heels and you must be careful not to twist your ankle.”

Stella is like a mother hen as you sit on the plush bench and try on shoes.

“Such a beautiful face,” she tuts, handing you another pair of shoes. “You take after your mama or papa?”

“Both I think.” You pause. “I think I look more like my mom though.”

You flush and look down at your feet clad in a pair of silver slingbacks, realizing that you haven't spoken to your mother in months. That this stranger is giving you more maternal care than she ever did. 

Your mother isn’t a bad woman, she’s simply human. A person who would rather start new somewhere else than think about her old family. The family she walked away from.

"I thought you might wish to look at lingerie as well," Stella asks, the picture of innocence as she brings you another pair of shoes for the blue dress. "Mr Castillo has been coming here for years and I know his tastes." 

Lingerie? Never! Why would you need lingerie for.... Wait. This could be beneficial to you. She doesn't know that this lingerie won't be for Harry. You could just sneak it in with the rest of the clothes. 

You think of George's face when he comes by for another taste of dessert. Of how he's going to react when you answer the door dressed in something scandalous.  Besides, when else will you find yourself in a high-end store, finding lingerie perfectly tailored for your body?

"Okay, Stella. Show me what you've got." 

“Turns out the capital return terms were tied to a secondary escrow account nobody disclosed in Q1. They’re scrambling to unwind it.”

Pauls voice drones on and on in Harry’s ears as he paces the marble floors. Paul has been working at Harry’s office for years, so this fuck up is out of character. He can hear the anxiety in the man’s voice and pinches the bridge of his nose.

 “Zurich again. How much exposure?”

“Seven million, give or take. Soft liability, so there’s wiggle room.”

“Have Imani dig through the original contract. Harry wants to know if collapsing the escrow triggers taxable events.”

 “Got it. Also, partner call’s been moved to tomorrow. Munich’s pushing for more involvement in their climate innovation panel, even after last year’s pass.”

Harry considers. “No more dodging. Push the internal review deadline a week. Tell Munich we’ll join if they prep the materials properly.”

 “Wyndham’s pressing for a lunch Thursday. Wants a carve-out from the next fund.”

“Confirm it. But no preferred terms.”

Paul chuckles nervously. “Thanks for being reasonable. I know it’s a lot.”

Harry softens slightly. “It’s part of the job. Just no guessing next time.”

Paul ends the call and Harry exhales, still catching his breath, when the screen lights again. The name on the screen makes his chest tighten.

Grandmother.

Harry’s thumb hovers over the phone before he answers. 

“Harrison.”

Ada’s voice is crisp, regal, full of that cold steel Harry has known all his life. It has the power to both command and chastise, like the snap of a fine silk scarf in a stiff wind.

"Grandmother." 

“You sound rushed,” she says immediately, no greeting, no pleasantries. “Where are you?”

Harry lets a breath out slowly, steadying himself. “I’m at the office.”

“You’re at the office early. I expected as much. That life suits you better than the frivolity of social calls and distractions.”

Harry leans back in the chair, fingers tapping absently against the armrest. “Yes, grandmother. There’s a lot to do.”

“I know.” Her voice sharpens, and he can almost picture the pinched, disapproving look that accompanies it. “But I have been waiting for your call all day."

All day? It's barely past eight am. 

"Waiting to discuss the engagement," she adds coolly. "The engagement you seem determined to dance around.”

Harry sighs quietly. “I thought we covered this.”

“You did not.” Ada’s tone tightens. “Not properly. Not with the seriousness it demands.”

Harry sighs softly, mindful of his tone. “We’re moving at our own pace. It’s important to get things right.”

“Moving at your own pace is a luxury for the idle or the inexperienced. You have a name, a family, a legacy. You do not get to decide when and how those things matter.”

He suppresses a frown. He loves her, even when her words sting like cold iron. “I am not disregarding that. I just want to plan it quietly. Intimately. With care.”

“A plan does not mean secrecy.” Her voice hardens. “You have not announced your engagement. No invitations. No celebrations.”

Harry closes his eyes for a moment, thinking of the delicate balance he and you are attempting to maintain.  “It’s not secrecy. It’s discretion.”

“There is a difference,” Ada says sharply. “You confuse the two.”

He exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair. “It’s complicated.”

“Nothing worth doing is simple. Your grandfather’s family never did things simply. Neither should you.”

“I know.” Harry’s voice is quieter now, more thoughtful. “I want to honour the family and its traditions, but I also want to protect my relationship. I want something more private. More meaningful. Not just a grand show.”

Ada’s laugh is low, dry, and sharp. “Meaningful? You mean you want to avoid the rules. The order. The responsibilities.”

“It’s not avoidance,” Harry replies, steady but firm. “It’s consideration.”

Ada’s sigh is heavy, carrying the weight of decades. “You are your father’s son. Reckless and determined. I should have known.”

“That’s unfair.”

“No. It’s truth.” Her voice softens again, the cold edge giving way to something almost tender. "I want to celebrate you, Harrison. You know you are my favourite grandchild, I've made no secret of that." 

Harry cringes, because that's very true. It's a wonder Mason doesn't resend him about it. 

"I appreciate it, grandmother," Harry insists. "But I need you to trust me to do things at my own pace. Now, I need to finish my work.”

“You will call me back.”

Harry smiles faintly. “Yes, Grandmother.”

She ends the call.

Harry remains seated for a moment, staring at the phone in his hand. The weight of family expectation pressing down even amid the softness of silk and lace. Then, steadying himself, he stands and heads back to check on you.

He can hear you through the door. You're laughing at something Stella has said and he presses the door open quietly, curious to see what she has picked for you so far. 

He isn’t expecting you in front of the ornate, triple-panel mirror in Stella’s dressing room, back arched slightly as you adjust one of the delicate garter straps clinging to your upper thigh. 

Harry feels his mouth go dry.

The fabric is soft against your skin, obscenely soft, like clouds spun into silk and it clings in all the right places. 

Harry watches your reflection glance down the length of your body, then to Stella, who’s fussing over a swatch of ivory lace draped across her forearm like a trophy.

"Is it too much?" you ask Stella, one hand smoothing down the sheer bodice of the corset.

No. Harry thinks. It’s perfect. 

He thinks you should wear it every day. That you should never wear clothes again if this is what you look like without them.  

The corset is boned and structured, but whisper-thin—a blush shade, just shy of scandalous, with tiny pearl buttons tracing the centre seam.

Embroidered floral wind along the cups and down the bodice, catching the light every time you shift. The cups are transparent, the edges a delicate pattern of sewn navy blue. He can see your nipples there, hard in the soft looking fabric. 

Matching high cut lace panties sit scandalously low on your hips. There’s a delicate little satin bow at the front that feels almost indecent. The garter belt wraps around your waist like a secret promise, all narrow satin straps and shining gold clasps.

From it, sheer thigh-high stockings trail down your legs, soft, smoky, with lace tops that grip your thighs gently, as though they know they’ll be seen. You’re just biting your bottom lip, smoothing your palm over the front panel of the corset again. 

You look so fucking good. 

You're turning in the mirror, looking at yourself critically.  

"It seems a bit much," you're saying to Stella. "I think maybe I need something more modest-"

Your voice hitches as you suddenly notice Harry standing at the door. He catches your eyes in the mirror, sees how they go wide and owlish as you cover your body with your hands. 

Fuck. 

You see him in the mirror before you hear him. A flicker of motion, his reflection just over your shoulder, leaning there in the doorway, like some cursed Greek statue: caught mid-step, jaw slack, eyes unapologetically locked on you.

Your breath catches. Your entire body stiffens, instinctively trying to fold in on itself, which is impossible when you're laced into this much boned satin and sheer lace. 

Harry doesn’t move. His gaze drops heavily from your eyes to the corset, to the garters, to the tops of your thighs. His throat bobs in a swallow. He looks… stunned.  

You give a yelp of surprise when you see Harry's slack face in the reflection of the mirror and cover yourself with your hands.

"Oh shit," Harry says raising a hand to his eyes. "I'm sorry, I didn't-"

He stumbles backwards out of the room, eyes half closed as you try to hold in an embarrassed laugh. The door is firmly shut this time. You hear his shoes squeak against the polished wood floors as he retreats.

You're mortified but when you see Stella's curious look a part of you is concerned at your mutual reactions. This isn't how an engaged couple acts is it? You lower your hands.

"I come from a very old fashioned family,” you explain to Stella anxiously. "We haven't been... Intimate yet. He hasn’t seen me…like this."

Your skin still glows with residual embarrassment, heat pooling in your chest and sinking low into your belly like honey stirred into tea.

"You do not need to explain," Stella says raising her hand as if this is an everyday occurrence.  When people have money like this, you presume that a lot of things are just brushed under the rug. 

But this doesn’t feel casual because Harry hadn’t joked or sneered or treated you like some inconvenient part of this whole ridiculous fake-fiancée charade. He’d looked hungry.

You tug the silk robe from the hook and slip it over your shoulders, tying the sash a little too tight, as if that could cinch the whole moment shut. You shouldn’t be warm from it. You shouldn’t feel this flutter behind your ribs. 

The two of you barely tolerate each other outside of this arrangement; polite, distant, occasionally sharp. He’s aloof, you’re defensive, and this isn’t real.  But he’d looked at you like it was. Like he couldn’t breathe for a second. And the worst part?

You liked it. 

"It seemed your fiancé approved," Stella says with a small smirk as she watches your far off expression.  "He couldn't take his eyes off of you."

You feel your face heat up though you can't quite pinpoint why.  

“So,” she says with a wry grin on her wizened face. “Will you be taking this?”

You grin widely.  "I'll take it.”

i think we need to thank George for bringing the drama

xx

💋💋💋💋

[adult-kinda]

Anything for a Scooby Snack?

Warnings: idol! Jake (although no references to him being one), gf! fem! Reader, short drabble, suggestive, smut references but no outright descriptions of sex, inspired by a TikTok from Shits And Gigs podcast, yes all the lines I came up with myself because I too am a munch

In which Jake has fun with a new trend…

You first saw the trend on TikTok. Well it wasn’t much of a trend but the podcast ShitsXGigs was doing it for fun and the clip had gone viral. So when you looked at your boyfriend Jake who was in the kitchen grabbing a drink, you knew he would be the perfect candidate for your curiosity.

“Jakey!” You called.

He turned around and looked at you with that typical resting golden retriever expression. “Yeah baby?” He answered before taking a gulp of water.

“What would you do for this cookie?”

Water spat right out. He had to have misheard you. Like seriously. There was no way he saw that question coming! You could’ve asked anything like for a snack or a drink but no.

“I’m sorry what?” He exclaimed.

You giggled. “What would you do for-“No I heard you, I just don’t think I understood you!” He interrupted while grabbing a towel to wipe the mess in the counter.

“So what would you do? Like is there a limit for this cookie?” You asked further.

Jake shook his head in disbelief. “Like your cookie specifically? Because baby you taste too damn good you can ruin me with that pussy. There’s no limit and it’s scary.”

You nodded and replayed the video like you didn’t just ask such a one-off question.

“Where is this even coming from?” Jake asked.

You shrugged. “I saw this video on TikTok of James and Fuhad. They’re from that podcast I like. Well anyways they did this segment where they came up with poetry about what they’d do for that cookie.”

Jake walked over to you with a confused look. “And what does that have to do with me?”

“Well you’re a certified munch so I thought you should get on the trend.”

That made your boyfriend chuckle and sit on the couch. Sure, he didn’t mind entertaining you for a bit.

“Okay lemme see.”

You showed him the video and Jake laughed at some of them. Other analogies he was just impressed by. It wasn’t a long video but Jake was already coming up with things in his head.

“Okay so you want me to come up with analogies for what I would do for that pussy?” He clarified.

You nodded and waited for Jake to give you his best shot.

“Okay, call me Bruce Wayne I’ll save Gotham for that pussy.” Jake waited for your approval.

Stunned. Wow. He was a natural at this already.

“Well shit! Baby that’s good!” You cheered.

Jake smiled. “Really? You think so?”

“Yeah! Gimme another one.”

Oh okay, you were really into this! But so was Jake. Something about the rhyming scheme and your enthusiasm egged him on.

“Uh… I’ll pull all nighters, get a 1600, and go to college for that pussy.”

You nodded but not as impressed as the first one. “Okay I see what you tried to do there, but needs more work. Here try another one!”

He took a second to think of something. “Make me a vet I’ll go to war for that pussy.”

Okay! He was getting the hang of it now! “What the fuck? Double entendres in this bitch! That’s your best one!”

While the two of you were laughing Jay walked in to grab something.

“What are you two on about this time?” He mumbled.

“Bro she found this video of guys making references and shit to say what they’d do for the pussy. Apparently I’m good at it.” Jake explained.

You nodded at Jay. “Like actually really good, Jay! Here Jakey, come up with another one.”

Jake chuckled before saying something that came to mind. “I’m Aussie I’ll go down under for that pussy!”

The two of you made sounds of approval. The synchronized “aye” that’s left your lips concerned Jay. You guys were practically one person.

“I don’t get it?” Jay said.

Jake rolled his eyes at that. “Bro just try saying something! It’s actually kinda fun once you’re in the rhythm of it!”

Jay groaned and tried his best to commit to the bit. “I don’t know… call me T’Challa I’ll go black panther for that pussy?”

The phrase made Jake grimace. That just wasn’t correct.

“Nah that didn’t sound right.” You said with a disapproving head shake.

“Yeah it’s more like… idk it comes naturally to me. You just need it to make sense. Like here, call me psychic I see my future in that pussy.”

You gasped and squealed at the creativity. “Jakey please! You’re literally so hot for this!”

When Jake laughed Jay rolled his eyes. He muttered something about you guys being weird before grabbing what he needed and leaving.

“I’m on a roll, huh?” Jake commented.

You nodded and took out your phone to record. “I gotta get at least one for the camera.”

That made Jake smirk. “Oh yeah? Call me Wes Anderson I’ll make a film for that pussy.”

“Aye!” You exclaimed. Yeah, he was just that good at this. “Okay one more!”

“Hm… lost my glasses now I’m Velma, imma search for that pussy.” He said.

Another sound of approval. This would do numbers on TikTok you just knew it. Once the camera cut off unfortunately Jake said one of the best one liners.

“That’s a snack call me Scooby, I’ll do anything for that pussy.”

To say your jaw was on the floor was an understatement. Because it wasn’t just about what he was saying, it was the way he said it with so much confidence. Like he was listing off a grocery list. And the way he looked too. He looked like he believed what he said. Like he would really do anything for that pussy. Jake was truly a munch in every sense of the word. The only person who could rival him was Tyler, the Creator.

“Too much?” He asked sheepishly.

You shook your head. “Enough to make me wanna open my legs right now.”

Jake looked hopeful at that. “Really? You’ll let me right now?”

With one nod Jake was already moving to the floor on his knees. He truly didn’t care where he was, if you offered him your cunt he would take it without hesitation. Zero questions asked. Because truly, who was he to argue? Yeah. Jake really was Scooby Doo. He’d do anything for that pussy.

Liked this one? Further reading here!

[makeyuomine]

the paramedic

Summary: You and your friend partied a little too hard, your friend more so. When things take a turn and the paramedics arrive, that’s when you see a calm, focused paramedic who immediately catches your eye.

Type: Blurb

Photo Credit: Pinterest

Author’s Note:

♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡

Rebecca and I may have gone a little overboard at the party. We dared each other to take a shot every time a Pitbull song came on—Rebecca’s idea.

We hit five songs before one of us had to tap out. Rebecca didn’t. She was the life of the party, still going strong. But the mix of different liquors and nonstop dancing eventually caught up with her. It became clear she was showing signs of alcohol poisoning.

Drunk myself, I’m caught off guard by how quickly things turn serious.

“Call 911. Call 911,” I mutter under my breath.

The paramedics arrive within minutes.

While one checks on Rebecca, the other starts asking me questions.

“What is your name? What is your relationship to the patient?”

“How much has she had to drink?” “Did she eat or drink anything else recently?”

As he explains that Rebecca needs to be taken to the hospital for a full evaluation and treatment, I finally take a good look at him.

He’s stunning.

Tall. Green eyes. Curly brown hair. Tattoos. A deep voice. And a perfect smile.

Those were all the things I noticed as he spoke to me about Rebecca.

He mentioned the hospital we’d be going to, but I completely missed it—I was too distracted, watching his hands as he talked. Everything about him radiated this quiet, rugged confidence. It was incredibly attractive.

“You’re beautiful,” I blurted.

He paused mid-sentence, his eyes widening just slightly.

Heat rushed to my face. Being drunk always came with a sudden burst of courage I couldn’t quite control.

“Sorry—I didn’t mean to say that out loud—”

“That’s alright,” he said, unfazed, then smoothly picked up where he’d left off, explaining Rebecca’s next steps.

Even that was sexy. Unshaken. Calm. Professional. So grown. So sexy. Mature.

“Harry! I’ll ride in the back with her—her friend can sit up front.”

Harry nods and walks over to the passenger side of the ambulance. Without missing a beat, he opens the door and steps aside, gesturing for me to climb in.

I blink, surprised. I hadn’t expected that.

The ambulance is higher off the ground than I thought, but Harry quickly offers his hand to help me up. I take it without hesitation.

Once I’m in, he makes sure I’m buckled in properly, then checks in with his partner.

“All good?” he asks. With a nod from the back, he says, “Alright, let’s roll.”

It was mesmerizing to watch how traffic responded to the ambulance—cars effortlessly pulling aside as we flew through the streets.

I glanced to my left at Harry. The flashing red and blue lights danced across his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw. His focus was intense, eyes locked on the road ahead.

“Come on, move,” he muttered, voice low, almost to himself.

He looked so effortlessly masculine—like he was built for this. Every inch of me ached for him.

In the quiet, I finally spoke. “Is Rebecca going to be okay?”

“I think so,” he said. “We see this kind of thing a lot. She’ll just need to rest and take it easy for a while.”

I didn’t want to feel relieved just yet. Not until Rebecca was out of the hospital.

Meanwhile, Harry being outrageously attractive was just… a lot to process.

“Did you call the ambulance?” he asked.

“I did. Yeah.”

“In your drunken state? That’s impressive,” he chuckled softly.

The buzz I had earlier was long gone. Between the shock of Rebecca’s condition, the adrenaline of the ride, and the fact that I was sitting next to a stupidly handsome paramedic I desperately wanted to climb like a tree—it all sobered me up fast.

A few more minutes passed before we pulled up to the nearest hospital. Harry’s partner jumped out, relaying Rebecca’s vitals and details to the ER staff.

Since I couldn’t go with her, I was left at the entrance, watching her disappear behind the sliding doors.

“Did anyone check you out?” Harry asked, turning to me.

“N-No?” I stammered, caught off guard again.

“Take a seat,” he said, motioning to a nearby chair.

I sat, and he knelt slightly to begin a quick assessment. As he leaned in to check my vision and take my pulse, a shiver ran through me. I could hear his steady breath—each inhale and exhale—and smell his clean, faintly spicy cologne.

His lashes were long, too.

He was absolutely, unfairly perfect.

His fingers lingered a second longer than necessary against the inside of my wrist as he checked my pulse. He cleared his throat and glanced down at his watch, jaw tightening like he was trying to shake something off.

“Pulse is elevated,” he murmured. I swallowed. “I wonder why.”

His eyes flicked up to meet mine—sharp, intense, electric. For a moment, neither of us said anything. The weight of the silence was suffocating, but not in a bad way. In the kind that makes your skin prickle and your stomach twist into heat.

He straightened, stepping back like he needed distance to breathe. “You’re okay. No signs of dehydration or shock, but I’d still take it easy.”

I nodded, even though I wasn’t listening to a word. My eyes were on the way his forearms flexed as he adjusted his gloves. Veins visible. Tattoos peeking beneath the edge of his sleeve. It was maddening.

“You’re very... attentive,” I said, unable to stop myself.

“I’m just doing my job,” he said, but his voice had that edge again—low and tight, like he was holding something back.

I stood slowly, trying to find my balance, but when I did, I was closer to him than I meant to be. Inches away. I could see the flecks of gold in his green eyes, the slight parting of his lips as his breath caught.

He didn’t move. Neither did I.

We held each other’s gaze for a few seconds, neither one of us speaking. Something settled in the quiet—a kind of charged stillness. Not quite flirtation, not quite professional. Just… something.

Then, almost like he needed to break the moment, his eyes flicked toward the ambulance. “Wait here,” he said, voice lower now. Rougher.

He turned abruptly and headed back toward the ambulance. I watched him, confused at first, until he reached into the front seat and came back with a spare bottle of water.

When he returned, he pressed it into my hand—not roughly, but firmly. Like he didn’t trust himself to linger.

“Drink it,” he said.

I nodded, taking it from him, the plastic cool against my fingers.

“Thanks,” I said, my voice quieter than before.

He gave a small nod, but his eyes lingered on me just a second longer than necessary before glancing away.

I hadn’t expected him to stay.

After checking me over, I thought Harry would head out—back to the rig, back to his job, back to a life that had nothing to do with mine. But instead, he sat in one of the uncomfortable ER waiting room chairs across from me, his jacket shrugged off and resting on the seat beside him.

“I thought you’d be gone by now,” I said after a few minutes of quiet, eyes flicking toward him.

He looked up from his phone and gave a small shrug. “Shift’s pretty much over anyway. Figured I’d wait until there’s an update.”

"What about your partner?" I suddenly remembered.

"Clocked out the second medical staff took Rebecca. Left me the vehicle,"

Oh.

I didn’t know what to say to that. It was a kind gesture for him to stay, but it was not something I was used to. Especially not from someone who didn’t know me, who had no real reason to stay.

“Thanks,” I said finally, tucking my knees up in the chair. “You didn’t have to.”

“Yeah,” he replied, voice casual, “but it felt weird just leaving.”

We sat in companionable silence for a while after that. The waiting room was a blend of fluorescent lighting, low murmurs, and the occasional overhead announcement. I hadn’t realized how tired I was until I started to come down from the adrenaline.

I sat back in the stiff chair, exhaustion pulling at my eyelids heavier than I expected. Before I knew it, sleep was creeping in.

I felt the chair shift beside me, a warmth settling over my shoulders. I blinked open my eyes to find Harry draping his paramedic jacket over me.

The fabric was cool at first, then softened, wrapping around me like a shield. My short black dress left me exposed to the chill of the sterile room, but the jacket covered me comfortably—warm and just loose enough to keep me modest.

I looked up at him, still half-drowsy. He caught my gaze and offered a quiet, reassuring smile before settling back into his seat.

Eventually, a physician assistant came out and called for Rebecca's party.

Harry walks alongside me as we head to meet the physician assistant.

“She’s stable,” she said, smiling gently.

I glanced over at Harry as he stood next to me in relief, but his full attention was fixed on the physician assistant. His expression was serious, eyes narrowing slightly as he absorbed every word. There was something quietly reassuring about the way he listened—focused and calm—like he was ready to step in if needed.

“Granted, she is still a little out of it, but she’s doing okay. We’re going to keep her overnight for observation just to be safe.”

Rebecca was going to be okay.

When the physician assistant left, I turned to Harry. “So... I guess that’s it. She’s staying overnight.” I paused, the weight of logistics slowly settling in. “And I have no ride home.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t come in your own car?”

“No, we Ubered to the party... and, well, clearly didn’t think the night would end here.” I looked around the room, trying to figure out what my next step even was.

Harry stood up and stretched a little. “I’ve gotta bring the ambulance back to the station anyway, grab my car from the lot—it’s only a few blocks from here.”

I looked at him, surprised again. “Are you saying you’ll drop me off?”

“If you want,” he said with a small, easy grin. “I don’t mind.”

There was a brief moment where I hesitated, not because I didn’t trust him, but because I did.

I nodded. “Yeah... yeah, okay. Thanks. That’d help a lot.”

He picked up his jacket and gestured for me to follow. “Let’s get out of here.”

Outside the hospital, the night air was cool, a gentle contrast to the stale fluorescent lights inside. We made the short walk to the ambulance, and he opened the door for me, just like before.

“Hop in,” he said softly, holding the door wide.

I smiled, grateful for the familiar gesture. The ambulance was still higher than I recalled, but he was quick to offer his hand again, steady and sure.

Once I was settled inside, Harry leaned over and clicked my seatbelt into place. The small motion felt intimate in a way words couldn’t capture.

“All set?” he asked, his eyes meeting mine.

I nodded.

We pulled away from the hospital and drove the few blocks to the ambulance station. Harry parked and grabbed the keys, then led me toward his car—a large black SUV waiting in the lot.

As he started the engine and pulled away, I couldn’t help but notice the ease with which he handled the wheel—steady, confident.

The city lights blurred past as we drove through the quiet streets, the silence between us comfortable but charged, filled with everything neither of us had said yet.

We pulled up to my apartment complex, the familiar building coming into view under the soft glow of the streetlights. Harry stopped the engine, and the quiet hum of the city settled around us.

I turned to him, a small smile tugging at my lips. “Thanks for the ride.. and for staying with me tonight.”

He met my gaze, his eyes steady and unreadable for a moment. Then, just as I was about to open the door, he reached out and gently took my hand.

I froze, surprised by the sudden contact.

His eyes searched mine, like he was weighing something heavy in his mind.

Before I could say anything, he leaned in and kissed me.

The kiss was slow, deliberate—nothing rushed. At first, I was caught off guard, but then I melted into it, the tension between us finally unraveling.

When we pulled apart, his breath was warm against my skin, and his eyes were dark with something unspoken.

“I’ve wanted to do that all night,” he said quietly.

I smiled, heart pounding. “Me too.”

“I’d like to see you again,” he said.

My heart skipped. “I’d like that.”

Without breaking eye contact, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, going to the dial pad. He held it out toward me.

“Put your number in,” he said, a small, genuine smile tugging at his lips.

I took the phone carefully, my fingers hovering over the screen before I started typing my digits. The phone felt warm in my hands, like it was somehow already charged with possibility.

When I finished, I handed it back to him. He glanced down, then tapped the call button.

The phone rang once—then twice—before I heard it ring softly in my pocket.

He looked up at me, that same easy smile playing on his lips. “Now you have my number too.”

I looked forward to seeing him again. I had a good feeling about him.

♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡

[favoritesupernova]

smarty pants!

⋆⭒˚.⋆ math nerd!satoru x secretly smart fem!reader

chapter 2: missing variables

series masterlist

genre/tags/cw: non-sorcerer au, university au, nerdjo and his math problems, secretly smart fem!reader that has her struggles, nerdjo stuttering, angst, reader being mean to gojo but secretly has a soft spot, cussing, yelling

⭑.ᐟ - after the second session left gojo thinking, he decides to take matters into his own hands. asking your teacher and his mentor, professor yaga, he learns that still, nothing is adds up. when will the secrets come to light?

TW: there are mentions of reader having slurred words, stumbling, and overall disorientation towards the end. please read at your own discretion.

even after a few days have past, gojo could not stop thinking about you. every time you cross his mind, his thoughts start racing, asking himself a million questions at the speed of light. it was all based off of pure confusion.

and because gojo has a natural need to problem solve, he decided he’s going to figure it out. he knows you’re not going to open up, or at least not any time soon, so he goes to the next best thing. professor yaga.

his relationship with yaga wasn’t anything other than a mentorship. being in his third year and have taken multiple classes with him, the two have grown a little bit closer. although, yaga hates when he gets corrected by a prodigal student. what do you mean a first year tested out of third year calculus and passed with a perfect grade in advanced theory?

walking into yaga’s office, long legs striding to the chair in front of his desk, he plops down. yaga’s typing comes to a halt, talking off his glasses with a deep sigh. “what do you want, gojo. i told you about dropping into my office unannounced.”

gojo’s eyes pop like a kid who got caught stealing candy. “s-sorry sir! i just need to ask you a few questions about y/n. it seems li-,” yaga quickly interjects. “you know i can’t tell you personal information about a student. if you want her number that badly, ask her.” and with that, gojo turns red in the face.

“no-. i-. i don’t want her number!” he shouts, trying to quickly divert the subject. “i just wanted to ask why i’m tutoring her in the first place.”

yaga looks at him like he’s stupid. “why else would i ask you to tutor her? because she’s failing my class horrifically!” yaga shouts, startling gojo. it still doesn’t make sense. if you could solve these equations like it’s breathing, why are you failing?

“i don’t understand! during our sessions, she’s solving these problems not only quickly, but accurately. complex equations, sequences, and series. i’ve never seen anything like it before!” gojo rambles. yaga tilts his head, equally in confusion with the boy sitting in front of him.

then, yaga opens a drawer of files, the name on it is yours. in there were past quizzes and tests from earlier in the semester. yaga starts talking again. “i’m not sure if you have the right student, because the student in this file has not answered a single thing right, but her name. even that, it’s still questionable,” yaga says coldly.

gojo opens the folder and the first thing he sees is a big fat ‘F’ circled in red marker. he’s in utter disbelief. the writing doesn’t even look like yours, the pen is scribbled and he can barely read it. the numbers look fuzzy and messy. what the fuck? this can’t be you.

he starts combing through the papers, hoping for some explanation. though, he’s quickly let down. ‘F’, ‘F’, ‘F’, one ‘D’, because you answered at least 2 problems correctly. red danced across the sheet, every problem having at least has 5 corrections. yaga sees the look on his face.

“on top of that. she has been to maybe 3 classes all semester. you of all people know that attendance is a huge part of my grade. even at that she still doesn’t pay attention,” he tells gojo. he finally meets yaga’s eyes and shakes his head in disbelief. “no i don’t believe it,” gojo refutes, “she’s a g-genius! how is she failing?”

yaga takes a deep breath and shuts his eyes for a few seconds. “i don’t know. but if she doesn’t pass these next exams, she’s going to not only fail my class, but possibly fail out of the university.” he says sighing out.

gojo sets your file down on yaga’s desk and quickly stands up. he’s looks at his professor like he wants to say something, but instead, he just grabs his backpack and makes a b-line out of the office.

fail the class and out of the university? no. if he could do one thing, he’s going to make sure you stay. you’re brain is not something worth losing.

just as his thoughts started to whirl, he hears a familiar voice. you. but it sounds different. it’s so…warbled. he takes a peak around the hallway corner and sees you on the phone. not wanting for him to see you, he hides behind the wall.

your phone is so loud that he could hear mumbling on the other side of the phone even though it wasn’t on speaker. “i don’t care if you spent a lot of money!” you slurred out, “stop fucking talking to me!”

gojo’s eyes widen. who were you talking to like that? an ex? a controlling boyfriend? next, he hears a deep voice screaming at you, “get yourself under control! you dumb b-,” then the yelling goes silent.

he looks around the corner and sees you with your head down. gojo swears he heard a sniffle come out from you. for some reason, he just wanted to go up to you and make sure you were okay. but he didn’t.

instead, he watches as you stumbled through the hall, your feet falling out of a straight line. before you walk out of his view, you slightly tumble over yourself, making gojo react by taking a step toward the hallway. he quickly retracted, but you were quick to look back.

“who’s there,” you quavered out, words echoing. he hopes you don’t hear him breathing and he hopes that you don’t start walking towards him.

not getting an answer back, you turn around and continue your crooked walk down the empty hall. his eyes never leaving your back, as you stagger through.

“what was that,” he whispers to himself. that didn’t look or sound like you. the energy didn’t feel like you. now, he’s more confused than ever.

who really are you? will you ever tell him? will you ever let him help you? these are questions that cross his mind, but he will never ask them.

until you tell your story, he will just hope and waits for the best, if it ever comes.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

< previous chapter l series masterlist l next chapter >

oooo…things are starting to unravel a bit! i’m still a little iffy about writing dialogue so any tips would be appreciated :)

i hope you enjoyed! please like, comment, follow, and reblog to stay updated!

art by @ leimiruu on x

divider by @uzmacchiato

taglist: @nanamineedstherapy

[kawhh]

Oh my God, I really need to read about Dark! Quinn when the reader finally gets pregnant. I need to know what he would be like during the pregnancy process, feeling like she would be his forever now, even though he wished she wouldn't just focus on the baby that would be coming but on him too.

Going through the ask pile and I'm truly realising how many people I made feral with all the baby trapping and pregnancy then lmao. I fear I may have just tripled down on his paranoia. Warnings: dark!Quinn. Talk of forced pregnancy through tampering. Past manipulation. Camera stalking mention.

It's like he's drugged for a while after you confess the results of the panicked pregnancy test you took while he was hovering outside of the door, his face pressed against the cool sensation of the wood, the cold sensation grounding him, keeping him calm. Keeping him from storming in and watching you pee on the stick in impatience.

His vision hazy when you open the door, his eyes unfocused like his brain is racing, like he can't keep up with the thoughts in his head.

Crowding against you with your every step, obliterating your personal space even when you beg and plead for him to give you air. It's a brutal, unexpected shock for you. It wasn't planned for you like it was for him.

All of the condoms he slipped off, reassuring you that you were making up the different sensation of his cock in your head. All of the supplements he was sneaking you in the daily smoothie made out of the kindness of his own heart.

He's been mentally preparing for what feels like months, even if everything is hitting him hard— he's good at masking. Even if masking means he almost looks checked out. His gaze focused on you, his hands holding you the minute you stray too far from him. You're fragile. It's happening.

He doesn't know if you realise what he was doing now— surely you must look back and realise how he removed alcohol from your diet, surely you must realise all the holes in the web of lies he's spun for months.

He doesn't fully care if you do, it's not like you can do anything now. He won't let you out of his sight enough for you to get any ideas. He can see you wearing down, the realisation forming. Submitting to your fate. The way the disdain is slowly scrubbed from your gaze when you look at the growing bump. You're on different levels— you're getting more attached over time, he's getting more paranoid.

You're more apathetic to him and it bothers him. You stop glaring at him when he hovers. The fight inside you dimmed by the day, the focus more on your child— his child. He should be happy that you're accepting this, that you're on board with birthing and raising his child. He acknowledges that you're binding yourself to him further by the day, he understands. But it's changing your relationship and he needs control. He doesn't feel like you're his in the way he thought you would be.

You're not being more submissive like he planned, you're just detatched. Like a doll. Like you're just existing in the same space as him now instead of him having you. You don't even listen to him when he argues with you, it's like he's talking to a brick wall. He's losing you while having you. You can't leave him when you have the baby, but he's losing his mind.

You don't care about the cameras you know he's watching you through when he has to leave. You aren't trying to hide things between the cones of their vision range now. You just sit there, your arm wrapped protectively around your bump.

He doesn't know how to regain control. He's just watching you go through the motions. Months and months. He's just a passenger and he's going to have to do something drastic.

[kittydruthers]

Freshman pre-med student Mel who’s never been away from home before even if she’s planning on going home most weekends. College is daunting and she picked a school that’s maybe a bit too big for a small town girl like her. She’s not having the easiest time making friends and sorority life seems a bit too daunting. So used to taking care of herself and solving her own problems, Mel finds campus resources she can utilize and one of them is a peer mentor program she eagerly applies for looking to get some advice from an upperclassman. Lo and behold and the student resource admins pair her up with second year med school hotshot Frank Langdon (the school is really looking to up their pre-med to med school retention rate). It’s crush at first sight for her. That only gets bigger and more embarrassing the more she gets to know him.

He excitedly walks her through the program answering her endless questions with laughs and jokes and nudges as he guides her around the bio labs by his large hand. He sneaks her into lectures she shouldn’t be in because it’ll give her an edge down the line and she’s just so cute and excited about getting to learn actual medicine practically vibrating, bouncing on the balls of her feet. She’s his favorite mentee he’s ever had, he can’t help going a little over the line. They have study sessions together. Frank particularly likes to quiz her on anatomy, makes her point out each part on her body or on his. He makes sure she knows she can ask him about anything, not just academics or medicine. He’s the person she comes crying to when the organic chemistry professor, a hardass old school woman who looks down on young girls that aren’t up to her standards of toughness, tells Mel she isn’t cut out for medicine if she can’t control her emotions. When she’s struggling to fit in with the seemingly vicious clique in her science classes who’ve decided the competition starts now, and with the more laid back unfocused kids in her pre-requisite classes, he reminds her she has him, that he adores her as is and other people will see that too.

As much as he wants to keep her all to himself, because it’s Mel he can’t quite do that so come spring semester he does encourage her to go out for rush. If anything it’ll keep her busy when he ends up doing rotations next year, until he can get back to her. He tells her to flash his name, make it known she’s close with Frank Langdon, yes those Langdons, whose mother and sister were both chapter presidents on this very campus.

After Mel gets her bid and can get away to run off and tell Frank after his lab, she kisses him right on the lips, inexperienced and messy but full of excited devotion until she ends up pinned against the wall and he has to pull away before he does something that will scare her. Still, he’s so, so proud of her for making it through the process, for sticking with it even when she thought she was failing her way through and no one would pick her, because now she was on the other side with a houseful of sisters to stick by her when Frank couldn’t. It was what she needed, and he’d decided the very first day he met her that he would give her what she needed.

Mel is deliriously happy by the time she finishes her first year. She has friends, she made the dean’s list, and she has the best boyfriend she couldn’t have dreamed up.