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piastriprincess · 3 days ago

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caught up in circles ⸻ oscar piastri x reader .

featuring oscar piastri , time loop , f1 med staff!reader , strangers to lovers , slow burn . tw one crash , z*k br*wn and chr*stian h*rner mentions lol word count 9.9k author’s note this one is for my piastri princesses ! aka it’s all about oscar and entirely self - indulgent but i hope you all like it too ! inspired by palm springs - one of my favorite movies which for some reason made me think of osc the last time i was watching it <3 this is lowkey long as hell but in my opinion it’s worth it . as always let me know what you think , and my inbox is open for requests ! i’m hoping to have an event up in the next couple of days too . love you all MWAH ! title is from time after time by cyndi lauper .

Oscar always wakes up before his alarm goes off.

He doesn’t bother checking the date anymore. Sunday, May 25, 2025 — the 82nd annual Monaco Grand Prix. It’s sunny outside, a cloudless blue sky stretching endlessly over the glittering harbor. It seems like the perfect day for racing, though it will grow overcast around the 32nd lap and rain will cover the Fairmont Hairpin by lap 41. Lance Stroll always hits the turn going too fast on his inters and skids into the barriers. Oscar knows everything about the day, down to his bones. After all, today will be the 57th time he’s lived it.

By now, his morning routine doesn’t run on instinct so much as muscle memory. He brushes his teeth, calls his mum and tells her he loves her, listens to her tell him you’ve got this, Osc (which is entirely ironic to him now, because he affirmatively does not “got this.” In fact, he thinks this might be the first time he’s ever done anything 56 times without improving at it even an ounce). He shaves, not because he needs to, but because he knows his stubble will start itching by the time he gets to the media pen. He puts on the team kit that’s always neatly folded on his chair when he wakes, even when he leaves it crumpled on his bedroom floor the night before. At least reliving the same day over and over means he never has to do his laundry.

Here’s what he knows so far (a list, meticulously kept in one of his McLaren notebooks). He’s tentatively titled it Oscar Piastri’s Guide to the Time Loop.

Number one: the loop resets every day when he falls asleep.

It doesn’t matter if he makes it past midnight; doesn’t matter if he drinks an absurd and frankly dangerous amount of Red Bulls and drives from Monaco to Woking in one caffeine-crazed night; doesn’t matter if he flies home to Australia after the race, pinching himself to stay awake for the entire twenty-hour flight. The second his eyes close, he wakes up back in Monte Carlo, the sunlight streaming through his curtains.

Number two: he can alter the day.

There are some things that are always the same, of course. The team polo on his chair. The rain on the hairpin. The offhand crack Lando makes about him having no social life — a joke that was funny the first time, but gets increasingly cruel every time it repeats. But things can change, too. He can walk a different way through the paddock. He can have different conversations, though nobody remembers them when the day resets. He can drive the race differently, drive it better. Although, even in 55 races (his gearbox crapped out before the start of the race on Day 16), he hasn’t won yet.

Number three: he can’t die.

Can’t even get injured, really. He’d gotten a couple bruises and scrapes that seemed to heal overnight, but he’d actually confirmed the theory just a couple loops ago. He made a desperate push to pass Charles on the Nouvelle Chicane, and the back end of the car just… slid out from underneath him. There was a moment, brief and terrifying and calm all at once, that he thought that might be it. The only way out. Then he slammed into the barrier, and the carbon fiber crumpled like paper around him. It’s all bits and pieces, what he can remember after that — fire licking up the back wing, the frantic radio messages in his ears, the flashing lights of the safety car, the med staff swarming the track. Someone he’d never seen before pulling him out of the car, speaking to him in a slightly panicked voice. Blinking up at their face through the haze of pain before he lost consciousness. When he opened his eyes again, he was back in his bed on Sunday morning, not a scratch on him.

The analytical conclusion Oscar has come to, after 56 days of testing, note-taking, and driving in circles both literal and existential, is that he’s trapped. Inexplicably, inescapably trapped in a day that never really changes, and he can’t for the life of him figure his way out.

When he gets to the paddock on Day 57, everything is the same. He takes pictures with a few fans as he walks in, jogs slightly to catch up with Lando up ahead, who throws an arm around him like it’s second nature and claps him on the back. They qualified P2-P3, a solid result for the team. (In the first grand prix, on what Oscar’s now calling Day 1, Lando surprised him, pipping him to second place after an absolutely vicious overtake at the first corner. Oscar hasn’t let him pull that move again for 56 days.)

Today, he just chats idly to Lando as they walk about the upcoming race, about team strategy, about the stupid TikTok that marketing is forcing them to do later in the day. Then they round the corner towards the team hub, and Oscar nearly trips over thin air, because someone is standing there.

No one is supposed to be standing there. Oscar’s learned to control variables, gotten used to experimenting and predicting what’s coming next, because nothing ever changes until he changes it. And never, not once in the fifty-six Sundays that came before this one, has a stranger been standing in front of his driver’s room, spinning their lanyard around their fingers with their eyes fixed on him like they’ve been waiting for him.

“Hey, Piastri,” the stranger says, voice tight but polite in the way that his own gets when he’s trying not to freak out in public. He walks closer, and panic slices cleanly through him. Because you’re not a stranger. He knows your voice, your face. You’re the person who pulled him out of the car after the crash. The last thing he saw before the loop reset.

“Can I ask you a weird question?” you continue, voice pitching higher, teetering on the razor’s edge of fear.

He thinks he might forget how to breathe. “Shoot.”

“You crashed two days ago,” you say, and his pulse spikes under his skin. “Pretty spectacularly, actually. I pulled you out of the car, but you were already going under. I was—I was sure you were dead.” You pause, running a hand through your hair. “Cried about it twice. It was, like, the worst day at work ever. And now…” You trail off, like you’re afraid to say it, like you think Oscar is going to laugh and call you ridiculous. “I think I’m going insane, or else I’m having the worst recorded case of deja vu in human history, because this is the third day in a row I’ve woken up on Monaco race day, and no one remembers anything that happened the day before.”

“That’s not a question,” Oscar says, dumbly, heart hammering beneath his ribs.

You look up at him, eyes wide like he holds the keys to the universe. “Yeah. My question is: what the hell did you do to me? And how do I make it stop?”

For once, Oscar’s got no answer. Just a cold, creeping realization settling into his chest.

Number four: He can pull people into the loop?

DAY 58

Oscar’s rational. He’s reasonable. He doesn’t believe in magical thinking: he believes in statistics, logic, in systems that can be measured and tested and solved. Oscar works hard for what he achieves. He doesn’t ever let himself hope, doesn’t think there’s a need for it when you have skill and diligence on your side.

But when he wakes up the next morning before his alarm, staring up at the ceiling like he has every day for the past 58 days, he really hopes you’ll be at the paddock.

Which, statistically speaking, is not likely. The rest of your conversation yesterday had… not gone well, to say the least. He’d tried to ease you into it quietly, carefully, like a doctor delivering bad news to a patient. He’d pulled the small McLaren notebook from his back pocket, frayed at the corners now, dog-eared from overuse. He’d held it out to you, as if it might bridge the gap. “Here. I started this on Day 3. It explains everything.”

You hadn’t taken it. You’d just stared at him like he’d sprouted three heads.

“It’s not just you,” Oscar had said, as gently as he could. “It’s the same Sunday for me, too. This is the 57th time I’ve lived it.”

You’d let out a laugh, shaky and high-pitched. “That’s—that’s not possible. You’re joking.”

“I assure you, I’m very much not,” he’d said dryly. “The first time I ever saw you was Day 55, after the crash. And this morning, you’re here. That’s never happened before.”

You’d blinked, color draining from your cheeks, fingers tightening around your badge like you were about to bolt. “So you think it’s my fault?”

“No,” he’d assured you, instantly. “No. I don’t know why it’s happening. We’re just both… stuck. That’s all.”

“You sound like you’ve made peace with that,” you’d said, crossing your arms over your fireproof scrubs, and something in Oscar’s chest had ached at the way your voice trembled around the words.

“Not made peace with it,” he’d shrugged, pasting on a smile that didn’t quite fit on his face. “Just ran out of ideas.” Just haven’t won yet. Haven’t proven myself yet.

“This can’t be happening,” you’d muttered, knuckles going white where you clutched at your medical badge. “This isn’t real. I’m dreaming. Or we’re both concussed, or something.”

“I get it. I freaked out at first too,” Oscar had replied.

“No, you don’t get it!” you’d snapped, eyes all wildfire. “We’re trapped in time, and you’re acting like it’s another day at the office?”

He’d had to bite back his smile. “Well, it sort of is another day at the office. For both of us.”

“I’m going to fix this,” you’d said, ignoring him. “I’m going to get myself out of this.”

“I’ve tried everything. Tested everything,” Oscar had started to explain, but his voice died in his throat when you looked at him. Really looked — bottom lip stuck out slightly, color high in your cheeks, gaze shaky but defiant. The sight of you made his brain go still.

“No way can you test your way out of this. You might have started this, but I’m going to finish it,” you’d said, and stormed off without waiting for another word.

So. The chances don’t seem great that he’ll see you today. But when he gets to the paddock, he still walks past the medical centre to see if he can catch a glimpse of you, scans every face, just in case — the team members, the med staff, the engineers, every person in the paddock holding a camera or a clipboard or a latte. He even searches the grandstands, is almost late for the driver’s parade. He’s halfway through making up some stupid excuse to Lando before he realizes it doesn’t matter, he won’t remember it anyway.

You’re not here.

It’s to be expected, really. Oscar tried to break out of the loop by force when he first figured it out, too — stayed up for a full 24 hours after the race, drove as far as he could out of Monaco, wrote down every little detail he could remember about Day 1 and tweaked it as much as he possibly could over the next few days. None of it works, but you don’t know that yet. He gets it. It’s fine.

Except there’s something about your absence that makes his chest ache.

The lack of you unsettles him in a way he’s not used to. It’s an odd reaction, Oscar can admit to himself. He doesn’t actually know you. But he’d gotten used to being the only one stuck, found a way to exist in the repetition. Until yesterday, for the first time in nearly two months, when the world suddenly cracked open just enough to let someone else in, to remind Oscar what it was like to be seen. And now, just as suddenly, you’re gone again, and the loneliness feels so much worse than it did before.

He races like shit, somehow gets passed by drivers who have no business overtaking him on a circuit that makes it nearly impossible to drop places. Not that any of it matters.

Not without the only other person who might remember it.

DAY 60

“Osc, where are you going?” Lando asks when he turns right toward the team hub and Oscar starts walking to the left. They’re leaving the morning strategy briefing, which has quickly become Oscar’s least favorite unskippable part of the day (and he’s tried — the team always tracks him down, explaining that it’s crucial he attends. He doesn’t know how to tell them strategy is somewhat pointless when you’ve done the actual race every single day for two months.)

“Med centre,” he answers without thinking. It’s become part of his routine over the past few days. Brush teeth, call mum, shave, drive to the paddock, look for you. But of course, no one else knows that.

“Med centre? Oscar? Are you okay?” Zak’s voice rises about an octave, behind them, and Oscar has to resist the urge to roll his eyes.

“He’s fine, he’s just aura farming,” Lando giggles, and Oscar’s mouth twists into a grin instead. In a day that loops over and over again, he has to find moments that aren’t completely monotonous. He’s taken to setting up jokes for Lando, letting him hit the punchline. Oscar always laughs, even though he knows exactly what his teammate is going to say half the time. Seeing the pleased smile on Lando’s face is good enough for him to keep doing it.

“Thinks if he walks around the paddock locked in, it’ll add to the whole vibe,” Lando continues, egged on by the grin on Oscar’s face. “Mate, you know the only reason people think you’re mysterious is because you never actually go anywhere.”

The smile fades. Well. It’s nice to know that even when Oscar’s acting weirder than normal, the joke about how he’s the most boring guy in Monaco sticks around.

“Whatever, man. See you later, yeah?” Oscar mutters, hopefully sounding good-natured enough as he goes. He’s got more important shit to do anyway — namely, tracking you down.

He walks by the med centre exactly six times, nearly trips over himself when he sees someone swinging their paddock pass around their fingers. But it’s still not you. He’s starting to worry you’re not coming back. Or maybe, he thinks as he walks dejectedly back across the paddock, you figured out how to get out. And now he’s stuck and alone. By the time he opens the door to his driver’s room, shutting it behind him and leaving himself in the darkness, the surroundings are the perfect fit for his blackened mood.

“So, that didn’t work,” you say from somewhere inside, and Oscar nearly jumps out of his own skin.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes, flipping the lights on to see you sitting cross-legged on the small bed he uses for mid-practice naps, eating Tim Tams. The absolute audacity you have to invade his space, sit on his bed, eat his snacks — he should be annoyed. But for some reason, the sight of you makes just relief spread through his body. “You came back,” he says breathlessly, immediately regretting how stupidly eager the words sound coming out of his mouth.

“I’m back,” you confirm, grinning up at him unfazed as you pop another biscuit in your mouth. “And I think I owe you an apology for how I spoke to you last time. I may have overreacted a little.”

“S’alright,” he says affably. “I did the same thing at the beginning.”

“You drove a moped off the cliff at Pointe-Saint-Martin to see if you could hit the water hard enough to shake yourself out of the loop?” you ask.

Oscar just stares. “You did that?”

“Kind of a mix of Groundhog Day and Palm Springs,” you shrug. “Thought if it worked for them, it might work for me, but I just ended up half-flooding a boat and seriously pissing off a fisherman.”

“Probably needed to drive faster then,” he replies. You roll your eyes in response, but you’re smiling. He can’t quite tell how to read you. It leaves him feeling off-kilter, like when the car snaps around a corner in a way he’s not expecting.

“Clearly taking lessons from time-travel movies didn’t work. But you’re still stuck here too, and I don’t think either of us can do this alone. Time to compare notes, Piastri.” You waggle your fingers in the space between you. “Hand over the book.”

He pulls the notebook out of his pocket automatically, passes it to you. Watches quietly from the doorway as your eyes scan over the pages. He doesn’t mean to stare, he really doesn’t. But your hair keeps falling in your face, and you keep tucking it behind your ear impatiently, and something about the sight makes Oscar’s heart stutter in his chest a little bit.

You look up suddenly, and Oscar goes pink to the tips of his ears, shaking his head slightly as if to clear the thought from his brain. “You weren’t kidding,” you say. “This is extensive. Borderline obsessive.”

“Borderline?” he deadpans, and you laugh. It’s a light sound, almost musical. Oscar can’t remember the last time he made someone laugh without planning for it in advance.

“Okay, completely obsessive,” you agree cheerfully. “But also kind of impressive.” He doesn’t quite know what to say to that; he settles for sitting carefully next to you on the bed as you flip through a few more pages. “You really think winning is the way out?”

Oscar shrugs. “It’s the only thing that makes sense. The only goal I haven’t managed yet. Once I get it perfect, it’ll have to end.”

You grin. “That’s such a driver answer.”

“I do happen to be a driver,” he replies dryly, and you bump your shoulder against his.

“Yeah, but not everything’s about the checkered flag, Piastri,” you say, handing the notebook back to him. He clutches it in his lap, hands curling around it like a lifeline. “What if it’s about… changing? Growing? Something that matters more than racing, at least.”

Nothing matters more than racing, Oscar wants to say. But you’re looking at him like you’re trying to figure him out, running over what you know of him in your mind like he’s a puzzle you’re desperate to solve, and he wants to say something that will make you realize you’ve been looking at the pieces all wrong. To unbalance you the way you do to him.

“Here’s what I’m thinking,” you say, leaning forward, elbows on your knees, and Oscar realizes he’s been silent far too long. “You keep trying to win the race, and I’ll help however I can. But only if you agree to try things my way too. Half careful, half chaos. Deal?”

Oscar hesitates, and you raise your eyebrows like you’re daring him to say no. “Okay,” he says, pretending it’s a reluctant confession. “Deal.”

You grin, and Oscar has the distinct feeling he’s lost ground that he didn’t know was up for grabs until you extend your hand out to meet his. “Shake on it.”

When he takes your hand, your fingers are warm against his, and something shifts in the air. Nothing big. Probably no one else would feel it.

If Oscar believed in things like that, he’d almost say the loop was taking notice.

DAY 63

Oscar walks away as quickly as he can. Behind him, Lewis Hamilton is yelling, because someone has dyed Roscoe a shocking papaya orange. Non-toxic, pet-safe, temporary fur dye, of course — the bulldog will be completely back to normal in a few days, no worse for the wear.

Not that Oscar has anything to do with it.

His phone buzzes in his pocket as he picks up his pace, and he pulls it out to see a notification from you: well done agent 081. come to the pit wall to receive your reward :)

The two of you text, now. You’d scrawled your number on a fresh page of his notebook in a glitter gel pen before you left his driver’s room the other day. The messy cursive, the careless heart drawn next to it, stood out against Oscar’s cramped, boyish handwriting. “So we can talk strategy,” you’d said, easy as pie. “Scientific purposes only, of course.”

He’d traced his fingers over the numbers later, at home after the race (P4, nothing to write home about. His lines were perfect, but his front right tyre got stuck on the car during his pit stop, and it all unraveled from there). Spent a little bit too long trying to think of something to say, ended up just sending Hi, this is Oscar Piastri.

You’d responded immediately: i figured lol. u dont need to be so formal oscar!!!

Then another, before he could overthink again: meet me tomorrow at medtent before the race. time for chaosssss >:)

When you said chaos, you meant it. That first day, you’d convinced him to hang signs reading CAUTION: VENOMOUS SNAKES all over the Red Bull garage. (“It’s a metaphor, Oscar,” you’d insisted. He had to admit, seeing Christian Horner scream into his phone until he turned purple was kind of worth it.) The next day, it was reprogramming the Alpine coffee machine so it only dispensed hot water. Oscar had told you it was stupid, but watching Pierre get increasingly frustrated, his accent getting thicker and thicker as he tried to explain the problem to any mechanic who would listen, he’d laughed so hard he’d doubled over, tears pricking mercilessly at his eyes.

You’d leaned against him, wheezing like you couldn’t catch your breath from how hard you were giggling, and that was the moment, Oscar thinks. The moment he knew you were friends.

He doesn’t remember the last time he’s made a friend.

When he gets to the McLaren pit wall, you’re sitting on the base of it, head tipped back, soaking in the Monaco sun. You place a hand on your brow, squinting slightly like you’re trying to make him out, and then you wave him over.

“So. Now that we’ve done my idea, what’s your plan today?” you say, pulling two sandwiches wrapped in Ferrari-red napkins out of your bag and tossing the larger one to him. You’ve started sneaking into the different hospitality suites before lunch, figuring out which garage has the best to offer and forcing Oscar to rank them with you. “It’s caprese, by the way,” you add as he catches it. “Scuderia knows what’s up.”

“It’s gonna be a clean start. Pit stop at lap 39 to switch to wets. Overtake Leclerc late,” he repeats automatically as he unwraps the sandwich, taking a bite. It’s good — fresh mozzarella, a perfectly ripe slice of tomato. Miles better than the chicken salad bites McLaren insists on.

You hum around a mouthful of your own. “You tried that already,” you point out as you swallow. “Like, four times now.”

“Five,” he corrects, and you shake your head fondly. Something about the gesture makes his breath catch in his chest. “But, uh, I’ll tweak the timing a bit. Try an overtake in the tunnel, or something.”

“You know it’s okay if you don’t figure it out right away, right?” you say, taking a sip from your water bottle.

Oscar sighs, running a hand through his hair. “That’s the problem. We have all the time in the world.”

You scoot closer to him, knee settling against his. “Well then… play the long game. Maybe don’t drive yourself crazy over the race before you even start, okay?” Oscar huffs a laugh under his breath. But he doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t pull away from you, either.

“Well, well, what’s this?” someone drawls very poshly from above. Oscar looks up, and there’s George Russell towering over them both. He’s wearing that stupid Mercedes cooling jacket, a deeply self-satisfied smirk on his face. Oscar knows George thinks he looks sick in the jacket. Oscar thinks he looks like an oversized alien. “Don’t tell me you’re making friends with the med staff, now.”

You smile sweetly up at George, despite the fact that he’s essentially just referred to you as the help. “Russell, right? Nice to meet you. What time does the mothership leave?”

Oscar snorts, nearly choking on his water.

George, to his credit, doesn’t miss a beat. “Toto usually beams me up around midnight,” he replies, deadpan.

You laugh at that, bright and unguarded, and something twists uncomfortably in Oscar’s chest. It’s not jealousy. He’s not jealous. It’s just that he’s supposed to be the one who makes you laugh. Not George Russell, with his perfect hair and dimples and ridiculously plummy accent.

George notices Oscar’s scowl, and the smile on his face stretches even wider, if that’s possible. “Not friends, then,” he sings teasingly. Oscar goes red up to his ears, staring into the middle distance and taking another aggressive bite of his sandwich. “See you at the driver’s parade, Piastri.”

As George saunters off, you turn your head to watch him go. “He’s kind of funny,” you muse. “In a weird, wax-figure-come-to-life sort of way.”

“Debatable,” Oscar mutters.

“Relax, Osc,” you grin, leaning back on your elbows and letting the sun stream down on your face. You nudge your knee against his, and he feels it everywhere. “You’re still my favorite.”

The pit stop goes off without a hitch, but even with the perfect weather strategy he can’t seem to get past Charles in the back half of the race. He’s P2, again. After the race, you text him a YouTube compilation of all of Charles’ angsty radio messages from seasons past set to sad violin music.

Somehow, the loss doesn’t sting as bad as it usually does.

DAY 71

Someone is pounding at his door when Oscar’s eyes open. It’s so different that for a minute he thinks he broke out of the loop, somehow. But when he checks his phone, it’s still May 25, just about an hour and a half earlier than normal. He drags himself out of bed to the door, pulls it open, and there you are standing on the other side, sunglasses pushed to holding a white paper bag filled with pastries and two cups of coffee. You’re not dressed in your usual race gear, switching it for a filmy black sleeveless top and denim cutoff shorts that expose miles of your bare skin.

Oscar is suddenly, painfully aware that he’s only wearing boxers. You seem to be realizing that fact, too, if the way your eyes drag torturously down his bare chest is anything to go by.

“Hey,” he croaks, cheeks flushed as he takes you in. “What are you doing here?”

You clear your throat, looking back up at him. Your eyes meet, and for a moment the air sparks between you, electric. Then you just smile mysteriously before you push your way inside, handing him one of the coffee cups as you go. “New pre-race hypothesis. Get dressed and come with me.”

Ten minutes later, Oscar’s sitting in the passenger seat of your tiny, beat-up car, watching the sun rise through the windshield. You’re an unexpectedly cautious driver, too slow around the corners, hands planted firmly at 10 and 2, eyes fixed on the road. It’s nice to know that even after weeks of spending May 25 together, you can still surprise him. (Even if his hands are itching to take the wheel from you, see just how hard he can push the Mini Cooper down these famous streets).

You pull to a stop near the harbor, the car’s brakes squealing at the effort. Oscar makes a mental note that when you both get out of the loop, he needs to take you to a mechanic. Or maybe a dealership.

“C’mon,” you say, getting out of the car and walking towards the dock. You’re moving in that sort of effortless way you do when you have a really ridiculous idea, the kind of way that makes Oscar follow you against his better judgment because he just wants to see what you’ll do next. He’s jogging slightly to catch up, sipping at his coffee, when you slow ahead of him, touching your pockets like you’re looking for something.

“Hold this for me?” you ask as he catches up to you, passing him your cup. At the moment he takes it with his free hand, almost reflexively, you pluck his phone out of his hoodie pocket and toss it over the railing.

“What the fuck,” Oscar says flatly, watching it land with a soft plop! in the azure water.

You toss your own phone in after his. Oscar grabs the railing, watches the twin black mirrors swirl around each other, sinking deep into the harbor. “So I might’ve lied a little,” you say sheepishly. “This isn’t a pre-race hypothesis. This is an instead-of-race hypothesis.”

“You’re not serious,” he says, and you just grin, wild and unapologetic.

“Oscar Piastri’s first-ever DNS,” you sing, turning and walking down the dock towards a frankly massive boat, waving off the dockhand like you own the fucking thing and starting to untie the knots holding it to the dock. “You coming or not?”

Unleash The Lion, the stern reads in script as big as his head.

You’re going to commandeer Max Verstappen’s fucking yacht.

“Max will kill us, you know,” he says as you step onto the back of the boat, pulling yourself up to the deck.

“Max won’t remember this tomorrow,” you reply over your shoulder as you rifle through the boat’s glove compartment.

“He could,” Oscar protests, mostly just to argue, because he likes the way your eyes flash when he challenges you. “Who knows? This could be the day the loop resets. Then I’ll get fired, and we’ll both go to jail.”

You grin down at him, wicked light gleaming in your gaze as you dangle the keys over the side of the boat. “Monaco prison is probably pretty nice. D’you think they’ll let us be cell mates?”

He sighs, looking up at you. The morning light kisses off your cheekbones, your skin glowing golden and sun-warmed. How is he meant to say no to you, looking at him like that? “I hate how persuasive you are,” he grumbles halfheartedly, taking your hand and climbing up the back until he lands ungracefully on the deck.

“No, you don’t,” you reply cheerfully, turning the key in the ignition. The yacht roars to life, and you pilot it out of the harbor with confidence that feels somewhat unearned, given you’ve basically stolen the thing.

That’s the problem, Oscar thinks. He really, really doesn’t.

An hour or so later, you’ve lowered the anchor, far enough out that no one will catch you for the day. Monaco is a distant speck behind you, though if Oscar squints he swears he can still see the paddock. You’ve pulled him to the bow of the boat, laying next to each other on deck chairs with a pilfered bottle of champagne between you. Your sunglasses are sliding down your nose, the boat rocking gently in the waves. It might be the bubbles talking, might be the fact that his edges have been softened by sun and champagne and you, but Oscar can’t remember a better day in a long time.

“Not bad for our first grand theft yacht,” you say, and Oscar laughs in spite of himself. “Although next time, we should probably bring sunscreen.” You look over at him with such fondness that it makes his heart squeeze in his chest, and touch your finger to the tip of his nose, gently. “You’re gonna be scorched.”

He’s warm, but it’s definitely not from the sun. “I’ll be fine,” he says, aiming for a light tone. You touched his nose, and he’s melting down like a complete weirdo. Get it together, Piastri, he tells himself. You’re a Formula One driver, for god’s sake.

You don’t seem to notice. You just hum, unconvinced, then go quiet for a beat. Too quiet. The kind of quiet Oscar’s learned to recognize as very dangerous when it’s coming from you.

“I’m bored,” you say, finally. “New plan.”

Oscar sits up so fast he nearly knocks over the champagne bottle. “This isn’t enough for today?”

You just smile mischievously at him. “Wanna go for a swim?”

“We don’t have bathing suits,” he says, dumbly. But you’re already peeling your shirt over your head, stripping to your underwear, and racing barefoot on the hot wood, your laugh trailing in the air like the kind of song he wants to learn every word to.

Oscar’s brain short-circuits somewhere around seeing your bare shoulders. He has to stare at the sky and think about Zak Brown for a minute before he can strip off his joggers and follow you.

When he climbs the ladder to the top, you’re already at the edge, toes curled over the lip of the roof, the sea breeze teasing at the ends of your hair. You look over your shoulder at him, eyes dancing, and then you leap.

It’s not graceful by any means, but you look glorious — arms thrown wide, a yell of pure exhilaration tearing out of your lungs as you plunge feet-first into the sparkling ocean below. Oscar scrambles to the side, watching for you to come up. For a second, there’s silence. Then, you resurface with a whoop that seems to echo to the horizon, and you’re smiling so wide it makes his chest ache.

“Come on!” you yell, treading water fifty feet beneath him. “Don’t make me swim all the way back to push you off.”

“You’re insane,” he calls back, but there’s no heat in it. Just that strange, subtle warmth still blooming in his chest. He steps to the edge, glances over his shoulder once at Monaco sparkling like a jewel on the coastline, at the tiny smudge that might be the paddock, that might be his real life.

And then he jumps.

For one perfect moment, he’s airborne — weightless, untethered. Free. The wind rushes by him, salt air biting at his sunburnt skin, and then the sea swallows him whole. The water is cool, soothing around him, and when he surfaces, gasping for air, you’re already swimming towards him with a smile on your face.

“I didn’t think you’d actually do it,” you say breathlessly.

“More to me than meets the eye, I guess,” he replies, steadying his eyes on you, and your cheeks flush under his gaze.

The rest of the day passes in a haze of warmth and motion. The two of you let your skin dry in the sun, pass another bottle of champagne back and forth until there’s nothing left, talk about everything and nothing. He tells you about his first karting race, how he was older than all the other kids when he started and cried because he still didn’t think he was ready. You tell him about a trip you took to Japan when you were younger, how you took pictures of the temples on your digital camera and still dream of the scent of the cherry blossoms in the air.

Later, as the sun starts to sink over the horizon, blue bleeding into soft pinks and golds, you sit together on the bow, your legs dangling over the edge, shoulders touching. Oscar’s tongue feels looser than usual, whether it’s the champagne or whether it’s you to blame, so he doesn’t think, just asks the question that’s been playing on his mind all day. “Why do you think you’re in the loop?”

You turn to look at him, like it’s the last thing you expected him to say. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I have to win the race,” he says, and you roll your eyes fondly. “But — what do you have to do? Why are you here?”

You’re quiet for a moment. “I suppose there’s something I have to learn, too.”

“Like what?” Oscar asks, pressing his shoulder against yours.

You sigh, staring out at the horizon. You don’t look at him when you speak. Oscar wonders if you won’t, or you can’t. “I’ve always been good at a lot of things,” you say. “But I never committed to anything. I just kept bouncing from place to place, from project to project. Now, I love working here, but it just feels like I figured it out too late, and now I’m stuck. To get a permanent job with the team, I’d have to go to med school, and…” you pause, teeth sinking into your lip. “What if I try and fail? What if I’m average?”

Oscar opens his mouth to respond, but no words come. Instead, he watches the way the fading light reflects in your eyes, golden catching on the edge of something tender and raw. He wants to tell you you’re not average, you’re brilliant. That the past few weeks with you in the loop has been the most alive he’s felt in months, maybe ever.

But he doesn’t.

“Today is the first time I’ve ever done anything like this,” he says, the words falling ungracefully off his tongue. “Taken a risk like this. Everything in my life has been planned out. I made it to Formula One off of being consistent, composed, controlled. I’m perfect because everyone expects it. But — racing used to be fun. I used to love it.”

You tilt your head toward him slightly, enough that he can see the pout of your bottom lip. “You don’t love it anymore?” you ask softly, like he’s a scared animal you’re trying not to spook.

Oscar shrugs, chest tightening. “Feels like I’ve been trying to win for so long that I forgot why I wanted to in the first place.”

“Maybe that’s what the loop’s for,” you say, leaning back on the cushions. “Not to win. To find the joy again.”

There’s a long pause where neither of you speak. The silence feels suspended, like the whole world is holding its breath along with you both. Oscar lies back next to you, his heart thudding a little too hard in his chest for such a quiet moment.

You both lay there for a while as the stars slowly reveal themselves one by one, scattered like glitter across the indigo sky. You start pointing out constellations, making up ridiculous stories that make him laugh lowly, helplessly. He’s lying close enough to you that your arms are pressed together, breath syncing in the quiet.

When he turns to look at you, you’re already looking at him, eyes half-lidded, and you’re so beautiful in the moonlight that it almost makes him lean in to kiss you. But something holds him back. Fear, maybe, or uncertainty — not knowing if you feel it too, or if it’s the champagne, or the loop, living another borrowed day that doesn’t quite feel like his own.

He looks back at the sky. You sigh next to him, shifting closer so that your head rests on his shoulder, and his heart stutters in his chest.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just watches the pale moon reflect off the waves until he drifts off into the blackness.

When he opens his eyes next, he’s in his apartment, sunlight streaming through his curtains. Oscar swears under his breath, picks up the phone that should be sitting at the bottom of the harbor. Sunday, May 25. Just like always.

He flops back onto his bed, pressing a pillow over his face. His skin is still sticky from the salt water. It’s not even the fact that he didn’t break the loop that hurts today.

It’s waking up without you.

DAY 80

Oscar’s nervous, which is completely irrational. He’s lived this day eighty times now. Done press completely hungover, slipped past Charles Leclerc on his home track, crashed full-speed into a barrier and nearly died. But none of that made his palms sweat the way they’re sweating now.

You’re in his apartment. You’re having dinner in his apartment.

The race had gone fairly spectacularly for him, all things considered. He’d made a few mistakes, taken the chicane a little too wide, and still Charles barely beat him. Oscar’s about to figure it out, the perfect race so close he can almost taste it.

You, on the other hand, had quite the busy day. Stroll’s crash started it, but in lap 60 there’d been a major pileup at the back of the race — one of the rookies hitting the brakes just a little too late, slamming into another driver. By the time he found you after the race, you looked exhausted, muttered something about how you wished this particular loop was over already, couldn’t fathom the idea of driving home, cooking dinner for yourself, going to sleep alone.

Oscar invited you over before he could think too hard about it.

He drove you back to his place, cooked dinner while you showered — some pasta dish his mum had taught him ages ago, surely worried that he’d try to survive in Monaco solely off of frozen dinners and takeout. He’s dug up some candles from a dusty box in the closet, uncorked a bottle of wine he thinks Charles gave him for Secret Santa last year, and is just putting the plates on the table when you emerge from his room, fresh-faced and hair damp. You’re wearing one of his McLaren hoodies and a pair of bike shorts, and for a moment Oscar forgets how to form sentences.

“Smells amazing,” you say, sitting on the floor across from him. “Thanks.”

You chat idly for a while, but Oscar can’t shake the feeling that the air between you feels different tonight. It’s in the way your laugh sticks in his brain longer than usual, the way he can feel his gaze searching your face like he’s trying to memorize it. It’s almost simmering, like there’s some invisible boundary you’re about to break through. Things have been different since the day on Max’s boat — the glances between the two of you weightier, the touches softer, gentler. But there’s something about tonight that feels inevitable, like the weeks of being together are all pinpointing into a logical, tidy conclusion.

“You’ve barely touched your pasta,” you point out, nudging your knee against his under the table.

Oscar just shrugs, a smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. “Not hungry.” He is actually, the feeling turning to a pleasant ache in his stomach. If he’s honest with himself, he’s just too busy looking at you to bother with the food.

You raise your eyebrow, slurping up a noodle. It leaves a small smudge of sauce on the edge of your mouth. “You okay?”

“Hold on,” he says, leaning over the table. “You’ve got —”

You flush, hand flying to your cheek, but Oscar’s already there, leaning over the table and brushing his thumb against your lip carefully. You blink up at him, breath catching slightly, and then, unmistakably, your eyes flick to his lips. The moment stretches, fragile and loaded like the night Oscar stargazed with you, and he’ll be damned if he’s going to make the same mistake twice.

And then — because he’s been thinking about it for hours, days, weeks — he kisses you.

Your lips are soft, warm against his, and you taste like vanilla lip balm and red wine. His hand comes up to cup your jaw, and you let out the tiniest sigh against his mouth before kissing him back. It’s slow, soft at first, then deeper, like the buildup of all the days circling each other has finally burned down to this single point of gravity, rooting you both to the spot. Your hand tangles in the hair at the nape of his neck, like you’re trying to pull him closer to you.

It’s perfect. And then you break away, foreheads pressed together, and Oscar opens his mouth.

“Well, that’s a new variable,” he breathes, dazed, and you flinch away from him like you’ve been slapped.

“Oscar,” you say, voice sharp, and for someone with world-class reflexes and awareness he’s definitely caught the shift in your tone too late. “You just kissed me, and your first thought was fucking data?”

“No, I —” he stops, runs a hand through his hair like he’s trying to reset his brain. “That’s not what I meant.”

You breathe out disbelievingly, the sound shaky as it leaves your lungs. “Yes, it was,” you say flatly, standing up, and Oscar scrambles to his feet after you.

“No,” he pleads, but you’re already heading towards his bedroom, throwing your things back in your bag. “I just thought, if the loop’s trigger is emotional…”

“Don’t,” you spit, words like venom. “Don’t reduce this to numbers and logic. Don’t treat it like it’s another page in your stupid fucking notebook.”

He opens his mouth to try to fix things, but nothing comes out. Even from across the room, he can see the tears slipping down your cheek, and he knows the damage is already done.

“I thought it was real,” you whisper. “I thought we were real. And the first time you actually let yourself feel something, you turn around and treat it like evidence to be catalogued.”

“It was real,” he blurts desperately, and you scoff. “Please,” he begs. “I’m trying, I’m just — I don’t know how to do this. It’s — it’s never mattered like this.”

Your lips press together, jaw tight, and Oscar can still taste the red wine against his mouth. “Well, maybe don’t kiss me again until you figure it out.”

You don’t wait for him to reply. You turn on your heel, slamming the door behind you and storming down the hall like you’re leading an army of one to battle against his stupid, broken heart.

Oscar doesn’t know how long he stands there staring at the door, the silence ringing in his ears, before he blows out the candles. He leaves the dishes on the table, crawls into his bed and stares at the ceiling. The notebook sits on his dresser, taunting him, but he doesn’t reach for it.

Nothing about this day is worth remembering anymore.

DAY 81

Oscar doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he wakes up to sunlight through the curtains and silence and the distinct feeling that his chest has been scraped hollow.

He’s never felt more stupid in his life. He had you, in his apartment, lips pressed to his, the thing he’s been dreaming about doing for weeks, and he completely fucking bottled it.

But if there’s anything to learn from being in a time loop, it’s that he’s got a chance to fix things. To learn from his own mistakes, and do something better. He sits up in bed, watching the boats in the harbor for a long moment. Then he gets up, gets dressed. Leaves the notebook sitting on his dresser, untouched. And goes to find you.

Except, clearly, you don’t want to be found. He searches the entire paddock, but you’re like a ghost. Your station at the med centre is empty, half-cleared out like you came to work before deciding seeing Oscar would hurt too much. You’re not in his driver’s room, stealing his snacks, or by the pit wall watching the team principals flit around with a scary kind of efficiency. He even tries going to the med centre HR to ask for your address, but the woman behind the desk is very particular about her employees’ privacy, won’t give him your contact information no matter how many times he drops that he’s a driver, just hands him a pamphlet about respecting workplace boundaries.

The day wears on, sun arcing high in the sky, and Oscar has to accept he’s not going to see you before the race. Maybe he’ll crash on the first lap, he thinks. Knock himself unconscious, reset the loop. He doesn’t care what it takes. He just has to find you.

Like a vision, or some sort of twisted prophecy, he turns the corner to the garage, and you’re standing there. Always standing where you’re not supposed to be, he thinks for a moment, mind racing wildly. The thought feels hysterical in his head. You’re wearing your fireproof scrubs, eyes red-rimmed, arms crossed over your chest, and you look like fate. Or his future. He’s not sure which. Oscar doesn’t waste another second before he runs to you.

“It was real,” he blurts, before you can open your mouth to speak. “I think it’s been real for me since the minute you pulled me out of that car. I’m shit at feelings, and I’m sorry, because I’m about to be even worse at—” he gestures between the two of you, the confession he’s word-vomiting into the space between you. “—this, but... I’ve spent my whole life being cool, calm, collected, trying to perfect things, trying to keep everything under control, but I can’t control love, and you fucking — you turn me in circles, and I don’t want to live another day, of the loop or anything else, without you around.”

You just stare at him, and he runs a hand over his face. Out of all the ways he’d been thinking up to profess his love while he was looking for you, this had to be one of his worst. Did he even say it? He thinks back, unsure.

“I love you,” he adds, sighing. “In case that wasn’t clear. I’m really fucking in love with you.”

“You’re an idiot,” you say to him in response, voice trembling.

“I know,” he says, helplessly. “But I’m yours. If you’ll have me.”

You shake your head, but there’s a ghost of a smile on your face. “Of course I’ll have you,” you say, eyes bright with tears. “I’m really fucking in love with you too.”

Oscar files the sound of your voice saying those words somewhere deep in his chest. Closes the distance between you and smashes his lips to yours. It’s not sweet, not soft — it’s raw, wanting, hot with need. You squeak against his mouth, your hands flying up to cup his face, and when your tongue slides against his, his knees actually buckle.

You’re both giggling when you come up for air, dazed and giddy. “Wow,” you say, fingers resting against your lips, like you can’t believe it’s real. “Glad I came back in time for that.”

“Yeah,” Oscar breathes. “What took you so long?”

You look up at him, a ghost of a smile on your lips. “Well, I wasn’t gonna show up because I was still pissed at you,” you crack, and he laughs. “But then I decided I couldn’t let you drive alone. And I was late,” you say slowly, “because I just applied to med school.”

His heart skips a beat in his chest. “You did what?”

“You were right,” you say simply. “I’m not stuck. And maybe I’ll fail spectacularly, but I’ll never know if I don’t try.”

“I’m so proud of you,” Oscar says, and you just smile. Someone from inside the garage is calling for him. He’s running out of time.

“It’ll be a colossal waste of time if we don’t break out, though,” you huff out a laugh. “So now it’s on you.” You pause for a moment, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“You got this,” you say, and for once Oscar believes it. “Go have fun out there.”

Ten minutes later, he sits P2 on the grid, heart beating hard in his chest. For the past 80 days, he’s been in this exact same position, obsessing over the perfect line, how to time the pit stop, where he can shave a tenth of a second off his time.

Today, when the lights go out, Oscar’s thinking about you.

He lets Lando pass him on the first lap again, for the first time in eighty days. Drives like a maniac to pass him back three laps later, waving to him as he goes. It’s a risky move; Tom is half-screaming, half-laughing at him through the radio, and Oscar’s cheeks hurt from smiling underneath his helmet. He nearly takes it on two wheels around the Tabac corner, back skidding out from underneath him. The car is responsive as he pushes to the limit; the drive feels messy, imperfect, alive. He’s never had so much fun in a Formula One car.

When the last lap starts, he’s leading the race. The sun’s starting to come back out again, the rain drying on the track. Oscar’s cruising.

By the time he gets to the hairpin, Charles Leclerc is in his mirrors.

It’s an all-out battle to the finish, red car and orange dueling side by side. Oscar presses his foot to the pedal as hard as he can, thinks if this race is the one that breaks the loop, it’ll probably go down in history as the most exciting Monaco GP of all time.

They get to the Nouvelle Chicane, and Charles slices around it with the elegance of a ballerina, the power of a heavyweight fighter. Oscar’s in his dust before he even knows what’s happened.

He finishes behind the Ferrari by a half second, and he’s never been so happy to lose.

He pulls into parc ferme, rips off his helmet, searches the crowd wildly. The paddock is bustling. It takes him a minute to spot you running towards him, your scrubs unzipped to your waist, smiling and crying all at once.

This time, Oscar doesn’t wait. He jumps off the car, reaches you in three strides, and kisses you like he’ll never get the chance again. It’s all adrenaline and aching sweetness, teeth knocking, the taste of tears on both your lips like you’re both tumbling toward something you can’t name.

You break away first, pressing your forehead against his, chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. “You were amazing,” you say, voice hoarse. “I’m sorry you lost.”

“I don’t care,” Oscar laughs wetly, because it’s true, and because eighty Sundays ago he would have died before he said something like that. “That was the best drive I’ve ever had.”

“You found the joy,” you say, a giggle bubbling out of you.

The sound nearly coaxes a laugh out of him too, but he shakes his head instead, smiling at you softly. “I found that a long time ago. Standing outside my driver’s room spinning their med badge like a weapon.”

You make a noise at that, somewhere in between a sigh and a sob, and he pulls you into his chest, holding you like you’re the first-place trophy. “I love you, you know,” he says into your hair, and he can hear you mumbling the exact same thing into his race suit.

You walk back to Oscar’s apartment together, a silent agreement that he’ll skip the post-race interviews, just this once. You sit on the balcony he never uses, watch the sunset over the harbor. He doesn’t let go of your hand for a single moment, like he needs to feel your touch under his fingertips to remind himself he’s still here.

“D’you think we did it?” you mumble later when you’ve both found your way to his bed, voice slurring around the edges from exhaustion. “Broke the loop, I mean.”

“Dunno,” Oscar says, his fingers brushing through your hair slowly. “I’ve thought we did, before, and obviously we hadn’t.”

“Me too,” you say, but there’s something hanging in the air between you. An unspoken confession, like you’re both afraid to jinx it. This time feels different.

You yawn gently, burrow tighter into his side, and his heart feels like it might crack open in his chest. “M’getting pretty tired,” you say. “So I think whatever the answer is, we’ll know pretty soon.”

There’s silence, for a moment. What do you say when your entire universe hangs in the balance?

“If this was the last day, if we really figured it out,” Oscar says finally, breath catching in his throat as he stares at the ceiling, “I really liked spending forever with you.”

DAY 82 DAY 1

Oscar wakes up to the beep of his alarm and the sound of rain on his roof.

You’re there, too. Curled against his body, still asleep. Oscar watches the steady rise and fall of your chest, listens to the soft sounds of your breathing. You smell like that jasmine perfume you started wearing around Day 68 and you’re snuggled in one of his old McLaren hoodies and you’re so real that he thinks he might die of happiness.

It is Monday, May 26, 2025, and Oscar Piastri is so in love with you that he’s stooped to watching you sleep like a total weirdo and using ridiculous hyperbole to describe his feelings instead of waking you up to tell you the news. He nudges you gently, and you stir.

“Osc?” you mumble disbelievingly as your eyes flutter open, like you’re not sure if you’re still dreaming or not.

“We did it,” he whispers back to you, and the smile on his face is starting to hurt his cheeks. “We’re out.”

You don’t even respond — well, with words, anyway. You just drag his face to yours, kiss him like you’re making up for 81 days of lost time. You still taste like vanilla, and your mouth, your tongue work against his in a way that makes it hard to think of anything else.

“We’re out,” you repeat as you pull away from each other. You’re looking at him like he hung the stars in the sky, and Oscar can’t resist kissing you again. Small pecks this time, scattered from your lips to your cheekbones, each one like a drop of water for a man dying of thirst. He thinks absentmindedly that kissing you might be his new favorite thing.

“God, I can’t believe this is real,” you giggle as his lips brush down your collarbones, and Oscar laughs, because he was just thinking the same thing about you.

“I love you,” he murmurs against your skin, and you sigh it back sweetly, your pulse thrumming beneath his lips.

Forever isn’t an easy concept to swallow for a man who’s just been stuck in a time loop. But Oscar thinks if you’re by his side, he could definitely get used to it.

#f1 #f1 x reader #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri imagine #oscar piastri fluff #f1 imagine #oscar piastri #f1 driver x reader #f1 driver x you #oscar piastri x you #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 imagine #❀ my work .

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vanilleandclove · 2 days ago

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carried away; jack abbot x f!trauma surgeon!reader

fourth of july always has always dampened a stain on your relationship, for the betterment of it, it helps you both understand each other a little bit differently.

warnings: ptsd episode. mass casualty event (mce), pregnancy & pregnancy issues, samira deserves a boy/girlfriend outside of the ed THE GIRL NEEDS NORMALITY AND CARE, aggressive patients, a damn bomb, whole lotta robby yap, langdon goes to rehab but is that really a warning, jack is halfway codependent (man has trauma), there will be a fluffy chapter maybe word count: 4.2k notes: had to search up bizarre stories from the emergency room & ask my immigrant, can do no wrong, dad his crazy stories (radiologist in the emergency department), only for him to ask if i was going to give up film school. if you're unfamilar with emergency depts in america, fourth of july is the peak holiday for injurys and chaos, happy summer for me.

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“Hey can I use you during the briefing, the Fourth is always a hectic day here, got some new faces and these kids aren’t familiar with how we run things during the summer” Robby asked you as you walked out of the lounge, seeing you lightly waddle as you needed to pee.

“Robby, these kids survived Pitfest- they can handle an independence day- but, sure, let me just handle this real quick” you grunted, feeling your bladder overwhelming full. This time around the life growing inside of you decided to fill and harass your bladder rather than morning sickness. Week 13, you couldn’t wait to get to at least the second trimester.

You and Jack decided to tell Dana, Bridget, Robby, and Heather. They were the only ones allowed to know, even though it killed Jack to not tell his mom, slowly hurt you to not tell your sister or mom. Heather was ready to throw you a baby shower by the first day, Dana already bought clothes for your little bean. But Jack, Jack was a nervous wreck. Monitoring you closely while you slept and ate, helped you shower as if it was strenuous. He loved seeing your belly grow as small as it did from week 1 to 13. It felt like a year, to him it felt like time slowed just to spare him any worries.

From babe;

How’s work? Anything yet? I just fully clocked in lmao, you coming in today? Probably gonna get called in you know how it is every year Not really, this is the first time we didn’t go on vacation Dr. Abbot Way too early for the teasing honey. I’ll pick you up if I don’t get called in. I love you and bug. We love you too- would love you more if I got lucky tonight. Depends on if you’re a good girl or not doesn’t it?

The most intimate time you’ve both had in 5 weeks was him giving you a foot rub, other than that nothing. You were either too tired and slept in- the pregnancy pillow he got you works wonders, woke up in the middle of the night with indigestion, or you put the lingerie on and then got emotional seeing him- sometimes all the three. You missed your fiancé more than anything.

Upon exiting the bathroom there was Robby grilling into everybody, “Doctor L/n will give you the rundown on how things go surgical wise on today”.

“Surgery is usually bombarded- it’s a peak day for the entire ED, night shift comes and helps out when they phase in about two to three hours earlier” you announced, you ran this shit as if it were the Navy- courtesy of your man back at home who taught you how his C.O.s talked to him, “We deal with the stroke & heart related issues- I get the more severe cases therefore I am not always going to be down here”.

You made your way to the board, “Trauma gets a designated 4 operating rooms today, we have three surgeons on call, all trained under me or my predecessor Doctor Greene- bless our lucky asses, Greene comes in to help every Fourth of July” looking directly into everyone’s eyes, Jack’s habit directly rubbed off on you, “Worst we’ve had was Fourth of July 2022, I was up a near 24 hours. We’ve had someone be given a bomb instead of an illegal firework- didn’t detonate, had to call the bomb squad when we were in the OR”.

“20 year old male, Mark Coleman, mom said he bought fireworks in Texas last week only for the fireworks to be an actual bomb- didn’t detonate in the field, bomb squad is already on the way” The EMT ran over to you keeping his voice lowered in order to not panic the crowd, supplying oxygen from the kids intubation, you nodded and ran over to change your gloves as you saw Jack in a woman’s chest cavity trying to stimulate her heart.

“What do you got?” he asked, thinking it would be more interesting, only to be given a concerned and almost scared look from you, “Doctor Shen, take over” John didn’t hesitate to replace Abbot, “Stimulate for another three, if no response send her up with Walsh and Greene”.

He discarded his gloves and placed a hand on your elbow to follow you to Mark, “Have bomb squad come in through the helipad, we can’t afford freaking out anyone down here, we have to operate on the west surgical wing anyway” you told Dana as she nodded.

“Wait, you're operating?” Jack questioned.

“Bomb squad’s going to be in there with me the entire time, I’m the only surgeon available and willing” you looked into his eyes almost as if you were being stern and for your selfish reasons of looking at him, “This is my department Doctor Abbot, don’t question my job, I won’t question yours”.

“I will question it if you’re putting yourself in immediate danger” he told you, searching for the exact feeling you were hiding, fear.

“It’s my job Jack” you whispered to him before walking off.

It was a three hour surgery with no one other than your surgical team and the bomb squad on the floor, Greene came in to help if something were to happen to you. Truth was Jack yelled at him over the phone when he told him that you “had it under control”- which you did, Jack barely built up the courage to open up about his war PTSD since he just started going to therapy, you weren’t exactly someone he wanted to handle a bomb extraction.

When you went back down, he could breathe again, you took your losses as Mark may not be able to speak again as the bomb landed just in the right spot to strain his larynx.

“There are also a lot of worried parents with children who are the spawns of satan. I had a mom that same year scream in both mine and Doctor Mohan’s face about her son falling into their active fire pit with soot all over his body, minor burns, earned a beautiful punch in the chest” you told them, seeing the smile on Samira’s face as she recalled the memory on the first year of her residency.

“I don’t give a fuck! He is screaming, just take him!” she screamed at you and Samira as you did the exam while explaining to Samira in passing.

“Ma’am there are no burns on your son, enough for it to be surgical or an emergency, we are currently swamped here. We are going to give you three cold compresses and some cream to help, only use Tylenol to control the pain because NSAIDs can be dangerous if he hit his head while falling in” you told her, giving her son a pat on the back as he shook from the bass of her voice as she screamed.

“You fucking bitch, I pay your fucking wages through all of those fuckass taxes just for you to dismiss my fucking son?”.

You formed a barrier between you and her, making sure Samira wouldn’t be spat on or hit if the mom became even more aggressive.

“Ma’am I can assure you, you do not pay my wage or my coworkers wage, now please take your leave before I have security come and hold you in front of your son- now would you prefer that or the care we just gave you to handle this at home?” you responded, she got in your face only to take a step back and aim directly for your chest, Samira swore she heard a light crack before she screamed for security.

You were fine, winded, but fine none of the less. Jack spent the whole night back at your home kissing the middle of your chest as it began to bruise. You insisted it was because it gave him free reign to play with and admire your tits.

“It’s a hectic day for everyone, best advice I can give to you is phase your main patient load out of here by 4 or 5 pm, firework shows start around that time, by 8 pm you’re hopefully already home and night shift is here, we get all the road accidents here” you told them, “Just like Pitfest, if you cannot find Doctor Robinavitch, Doctor Collins, Doctor Abbot, or myself, the next level of command is to get approval from Doctor Mohan or- Doctor Langdon. Robby, Abbot, and I run things down here, we’ve been doing this together for the past 6 years, today is just one of those days that gets convoluted, now eat and hydrate, good luck”.

When Frank got back from rehab, Abbot was impressed he put in the work. Heather and you knew he was going to be given his position back immediately and by May Heather had finally completed her residency program- Frank having to make up for the time lost.

You all had a calm morning, taking a half day to resort for an oncall schedule. By 4 pm you were at home, resting on the couch as Jack made you the lunch you didn’t have time for at work.

“So far nothing, might just be a quiet Fourth of July” you shouted at him from the living room.

“Some of my old buddies from the VA invited us down to grill with them at 6, I told them maybe- depends on my wife” Jack said as he brought your food to you on a tray.

“Baby all of them are your age, so old?” you joked, giving him a kiss as he set down your food on the coffee table, “Also wife, Mrs. Abbot hasn’t even been engraved on my social security or Facebook”.

“Last time I checked you have an Abbot in you”.

“Unfortunately not in bed” you teased yet again.

“Eat. Y’Might just pass out if I ravage you before eating” with every dirty joke you gave, Jack’s stoicism would top it. Made for good laughs over the years. Jack made you pass out once from overstimulation, scared the shit out of him, you found it quite sexy that made you feel that good- ever since then, he makes sure you’re hydrated.

You and him were no strangers to calmness in the cusp of afternoons to evenings, especially since you became pregnant, all you both wanted were quiet times like these. By 5:30, you both had showered and got ready for the barbecue Jack promised to attend. Only before you both got the call from Robby and Gloria to come in as there was a shooting at the Fourth of July firework show. Normally, you admired your fiancés punctuality, but he stood there pondering while staring into your soul.

“You’re going?”.

“It’s a MCE, of course I’m going” you responded, grabbing your spare scrubs you kept hung up and sneakers, you were on your feet all day.

The reality of it was Jack was worried about another miscarriage, worried about you overworking yourself. He put limits where he knew you misconstrued them.

“You’re being reckless” he blurted out as you packed your bag, you froze from the words that left his mouth, “I’m sorry honey but-“.

You swallowed the heartbreak that came with your fiancé questioning if you had the strength to get through this while pregnant. Swallowed the doubt that he put on you because he was worried, the doubt that only shined to you where he thought you couldn’t do your job while pregnant. The same doubt men put other women through because they think it’s not their place or they don’t belong.

“We’ll talk about this later” you told him, shrugging him off as you walked away. Jack knew your limits under the guise of understanding you, though as much as it prided you both it had its repercussions such as right now.

The car ride was quiet and tense, the air thick and both of your throats dry. You wouldn’t argue before work, everything stayed at home. As much as you knew where his concern came from, you knew if something were to happen, he’d silently blame you in the deepest part of him even if his body rejected that fact.

You took your leave ahead of Jack, feeling the light jerks of your stomach, there’s a version of you and Jack and you’re carrying it. You felt the weight of your chest as your breasts were sore from the bra and hormones. You saw both Javadi and Langdon outside as they handled triage, giving them the best of luck.

“What happened?” you asked Dana at her desk.

“Shooting at the park, we’re expecting 67 patients in the ambulances, maybe more depending on transport. You okay honey?” she questioned, seeing the tiredness in your eyes.

“Yeah, some jerks but at least bean is moving” you lowered your voice. Normally, you wouldn’t feel your baby moving until a few more weeks, with your hyper vigilance and rotations to OB during residency, you knew the movement, the little soft jerks. You also knew you couldn’t wait for your womb to move away from your bladder and for the light aches of your hips to stop. “No sign of Greene? He never misses a year”.

Dana shrugged as she called her family, everyone around you called their loved ones as you just shrugged yours off. When Jack came in, it was your instinct to lean into his close proximity, your own way of telling him “I love you” while on the clock. His breath against the skin of your neck and the squeeze he gave your hand, it was going to be a long night.

“Okay, this is not the first MCE you all have gone through, I hope we all are familiar with the protocol for tonight. Doctor Abbot, Shen, Collins, and myself are going to stay down here at all times. Your number one determinant for surgical cases will go to Doctor L/n, can’t find her? Go to Walsh, we have three fellows courtesy of Doctor L/n on standby in the ORs, send your patients up immediately, they know you’re coming” Robby announced, “SWAT and the police haven’t identified a shooter therefore they will be collecting any and all fragments of evidence taken from patients, upon extraction give it to an attending. Unfortunately, we are the only trauma center nearby, we are putting ourselves at risk for the shooter to arrive here”.

Jack felt your body tense from behind him, his knuckles finding their way to rolling against your spine to ease tension. You waited a few seconds before speaking up.

“Any and all cardio, neuro, pediatric, and advanced traumas go to me. Lower grade trauma, general, ophthalmic, and ortho will be split between Garcia and Walsh. Nipples to navel is no-man’s land if you for any reason believe your patient cannot get the most adequate standard of care for the situation, send them to surgery immediately” you told all of them, “If I am not available or are already in an OR, I can work on up to three patients per OR, I’ve done it before, I can do it again”.

“You’re authorized for neuro?” Whitaker and Santos both questioned you, slowly being tempted to swap to surgery.

“Neurosurgeons are hard to come by, no one ever wants to hire more because of pay grade. Therefore everyone else has to pick up the slack” you answered, “Doctor Rios is our attending Neurosurgeon, he taught me everything I need to know”.

“Doctor Mohan and McKay, you’ll be with me and Walsh” you told both of them, “It’s going to be a long night”.

After dismissal you heard the distant sirens from the ambulances, giving Jack enough time to check up on you.

“He’ll come by, he never misses a Fourth” Jack reassured you as you rapidly typed on your phone to Greene’s wife.

“His daughter’s family was over there, pretty sure they all went” you told him, shaking your head slightly before putting your phone away, “You sure you’re ready for this?”.

“Nothing we haven’t seen”.

You looked at him once more, you saw the apprehension. Last Fourth of July he worked, a firework went off in the halls and sent him into a frenzy the rest of the night. You were a senior resident, just before you and Jack decided to finally take things seriously.

“Doctor Abbot we ran out of chest tubes Princess told me-“ you walked into a room filled with blood all over the floor and no one else but Jack who was sunk down to the floor, prosthetic to the side of him. “Jack?”.

He remained quiet as he picked at his cuticles, blood trickling from his hand, there was a deep gash in the palm of his hand, blood flowing more as he flexed his hand.

“Jack” you took a step closer just before he fixed his eyes on you, bloodshot and pupils blown. His hair was caked in blood, “Baby let me stitch-“.

“No” he spoke up, eyes never leaving yours. Luckily, it was cooled down outside, nothing too serious to begin with minus the car collisions that sent three families here. Jack had worked on one of the moms, the mom whose blood now coated the floor and him. “I couldn’t save him,” he muttered.

Your eyebrows furrowed, taking a look at the leftover chart to see if the mom was accidentally misplaced. Only to realize Jack wasn’t thinking coherently, “Baby, the Jamison’s mom is with Greene. She’s okay, he does thank you for stabilizing her”.

“I couldn’t save him” a sob wrecked through his throat. You took your chances and got down on your knees, the blood on the floor staining your scrubs, making yourself be at eye level to him.

You cautiously snapped your sterile gloves off to cup his face with your hands, only after you placed his spare hand on your chest where your heart was beating- erratically from the subsiding adrenaline. The blood from his hand coated your scrubs.

“Breathe with and repeat after me” you instructed, “Your name is Jack Abbot, you are currently in Pittsburgh as an attending emergency physician, in a trauma room with Y/n”.

He lightly breathed, his breath shuddered as he opened his mouth, “My name is Jack Abbot. I am currently in Pittsburgh and an attending emergency physician, in trauma room 3 with Y/n L/n”.

“I am not overseas in war”.

He calmed down as you tested it another three times. Upon the third he got up and let you clean and dress his gash. “What are you thinking?” you asked, silently giving him stitches.

“I’m lucky to be with you”.

You smiled lightly, “You’re lucky it wasn’t Langdon who came in” chortling quietly, “three more stitches and you should be good cowboy”.

“70 year old male, multiple GSWs to the chest, wife helped stabilize him on the field”.

“Mrs. Greene?” you called out as you walked away from Jack.

Doctor Peter Greene was the 70 year old male with the 7 gunshot wounds to his chest. His wife, Lisa, was an anesthesiologist up until last year, she was barely 65.

“Oh my god Y/n” she sobbed before engulfing you into a hug, “Please help him” you nodded as you pulled away running off to the trauma bay they held him.

“Send him to the OR now, Samira you’re scrubbing in with me” you directed, “Cassie, Lisa Greene is out there, she’s bleeding from her legs I think she was shot can you check up on her?” both the girls nodded as you wheeled Greene to the elevator.

“Are you sure you want me to scrub in?” Samira asked as you reached the elevator, it was just you two- well three.

“Samira, I’m pregnant” you confessed as the elevator doors closed on the two of you, “I’ve already miscarried once, I don’t plan on that again, I’m hoping his stubborn ass pulls through so my baby isn’t distressed from me being stressed, you being there is more than enough”.

She looked stunned from the confession, smiling in the light of the situation, “Do you want me to get an OB down after just to see where things are?”.

“I may need you to sub in so I can sit down once or twice, I’ll be with you the entire time” you told her, just as you reached the third floor. The surgical wing was scattered as you made it to OR 4, your body stiffened up with worry as you realized it was the same OR.

4 hours, it took you and Samira 4 hours to get every bullet, repair any tissue. You stood standing the entire time, your heels ached, knees slightly wobbly. Luckily, Greene was stable and okay, the ED only lost 2 patients that day, most non-surgical minus laparotomies split between your fellows and Walsh. You gave your graces to Samira as she beamed with joy, her job was her life, but luckily, you convinced her to finally go on a date every once and awhile.

The most important part, you still felt the light jerks. Peeing finally felt like liberation, what you really wanted was a bath and maybe a soda to substitute the craving for wine. You wanted to talk.

“Abbot?” you asked Bridget as her and Dana contacted the hospital officials to open the emergency department again. Bridget pointed up and you gave her a thumbs up.

There on the roof, Jack was admiring the skyline with Robby. As the elevator dinged, Robby took his leave, giving you a smile and a nod.

“How’s Greene?”.

“Good, he almost woke up from the anesthesia, but other than that, stubborn bastard is asleep in post-op. His daughter came to drop off some clothes and food” you filled him in, the silence found the both of you in an unwelcoming way, “You doubted me today”.

“I did”.

“I became a surgeon at 22, by 27 I was already an attending” you started, “I’ve also was lucky enough to have Greene and Adamson as mentors, you and Robby as colleagues” you boasted, feeling the wind blow through your hair, “But, you walk into a room and patients don’t doubt you for a singular second. I walk in and it’s always a question of if I belong here- it’s not an age thing, that I learned a long time ago” you licked your lips before continuing, “I can feel our baby moving, at 13 weeks, I can feel it, I didn’t before. I think it’s because I’m a doctor, I am aware of the feeling. Let me put the limit on what I can and can’t do”.

Jack finally looked over at you, “I’m sorry” he started, sighing gently, “I feel you walk away and it scares the living shit out of me” raking his hand through his curls, “I feel selfish a bit, knowing you’re out of reach, that you’re upstairs operating and I don’t know what’s happening”.

You smiled at the sentiment of care, “I’m working” you told him, “I’m doing the job I fell in love with when I was a kid. Now my knees and back hurt both from age and the fact that there is a little Abbot in me” you took a second for him to smile, “This job gave me you, gave me some of the best memories I could imagine, I’d bargain the recklessness every single day if it meant I’m ending up with you”.

He chuckled, moving away from his spot and climbing over the bars to hold you in his arms. He goes on the roof to admire the city, rather than the want to leave it.

“Sometimes I feel like I’m back out there, fighting”.

“I know. You talk in your sleep a lot” you told him.

You saved him as much as he saved you.

dividers by @cafekitsune

#jack abbot #jack abbot x reader #jack abbot smut #jack abbot angst #the pitt #michael robinavitch #the pitt x reader #x reader #shawn hatosy #vanilleandclove

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angel-writes-skz-here · 2 days ago

Text

Mother's Day

Dad! Bang Chan x AFAB! Reader Synopsis: Chan makes sure Mother's Day is great! Warnings: SMUT, unprotected p in v, creampie, fingering, oral (both receiving), pet names, bit of a breeding kink, tooth rotting fluff. A/N: Mother's Day is not my favorite holiday, however I did enjoy writing this. Thinking of all those who struggle on days like today. You aren't alone! Comment if you'd like to be apart of my taglist. Sweet nonnie, i hope this is what you wanted! Requests are OPEN- just bare with me.

Chan woke up early in the morning, making sure Hwan didn’t wake you, he got him to help him in the kitchen for a sweet breakfast in bed, pancakes, orange juice, and bacon. Chan smiles as your son places the fruit on the pancakes making a smiley face of chocolate chips and strawberries Hwan cut himself with his little kid friendly strawberry cutter.

“Do you think she wants whip cream?” Chan asks and your sons eyes light up.

“Yeah!” He shouts and your son smiles reaching for the can. Chan helps him make a nose for your pancakes. Then tips up the can filling his mouth with some. Hwan opens his automatically and Chan smirks with a playful eyeroll as he puts some of the whip cream into his son’s mouth.

“Mmmm, yummy!” He says with a mouthful making Chan laugh.

“Let’s go see if she’s up!” Hwan hops down running down to your room.

Chan grabs the tray, and the homemade card Hwan had made the night before, and follows after him.

You’re sound asleep when you feel a tiny weight bounce onto the bed.

“Eomma!” He shouts, “Happy Mother’s Day!” he squeals and jumps on top of you. You groan lightly as you get acclimated to the room. You smile at your sweet boy just before seeing Chan walk in, a sheepish smile on his face and a tray full of food.

“What’s this?” you ask eyeing your son.

“Breakfast!” Hwan cheers.

“Look, I even cut the strawberries all by myself!” Hwan’s smile is proud and you hug him to your side.

“You did excellent! I’m so proud of you!”

Chan sets the food down in front of you, and you look up at him longingly.

“To the best Eomma in the world. I love you- Hwan” You note the drawing of your little family on the front of the card and you can’t control the wide smile on your face.

“Thank you,” you pull your son to your side and kiss the top of his head. He smiles, a light blush painting his cheeks. Chan smiles as the two of you.

“Happy Mother’s Day, baby,” he kisses your lips quickly before he’s tries to shoo himself and Hwan out.

“I wanna stay,” he pouts.

“That’s fine, baby. You and Daddy can both stay.” Chan bites a back smile. Calling him daddy was definitely something you knew you could do to tease him. He comes over sitting beside you, your son nestled between the two you.

“Can we watch Bluey?” Your son asks and you hand him the remote.

“Buddy, we watch Bluey all the time, what about one of Eomma’s shows?” You smirk waving your hand.

“I don’t mind Bluey.” You say. The smile on your son’s face is brighter than the sun.

The rest of the day Chan makes sure you’re pampered. Promptly after breakfast he takes the dishes and washes them, before coming back to inform you he booked you a nail appointment at your favorite salon- manicure and pedicure.

“You know how to spoil a girl,” you tease as you kiss him goodbye.

“I wanna go too,” Hwan starts to pout and you kiss his forehead.

“Baby I’ll be back soon, besides, there’s nothing for you to do there but sit and be bored.” You smile down at him despite the sadden look on his face.

“What if I let you help me with a special surprise for Eomma?” Chan asks and this gets his attention quickly.

“OK!” he runs back to his dad, letting you leave peacefully.

“Christopher Bahng what do you have planned?” You smirk before he just smiles at you.

“You’ll see.”

Coming home from the nail place, and the delicious lunch Chan practically paid for, you come to a clean house.

You gasp, the sight completely unexpected. Laundry done and folded, dishes clean and put away, the floor clean, clutter and trash free.

Spotless.

“Chan, this place looks amazing,” you put your hand to your chest as he walks out of the bedroom.

“Thank you,” he smiles at you.

“I have another surprise for you.” He smiles.

“Where’s Hwan?”

“Napping,” he chuckles, “Running the vacuum tuckered him out.” He informs you. You can feel the nervous excited anticipation fill your veins.

“Come on, he pulls you to the bedroom, opening the door for you to see a familiar dress. You gasp, it’s the one you mentioned two months ago in passing while out shopping together.

“Chris, you- you remembered?” You turn to him, a knowing smile on his face.

“Of course I did. I couldn’t stop thinking about how beautiful it would look on you.” He says before kissing your shoulder.

“And you’re wearing it tonight.” He smiles.

“Tonight?” He nods, wordless.

You and Chan are in the bedroom getting dressed, your little boy Hwan sitting on the bed watching Bluey. You cast a glance to Chan in the mirror of your vanity only to find him already staring-smirking- at you. You blush under his gaze, heartrate slowly accelerating. The dress fit like a glove, and Chan couldn’t take his eyes off you. You’re even more beautiful in it than he could have imagined.

“What time are you going to be home?” He asks.

“Late, so make sure you listen to grandma and grandpa, ok?”

“Meaning he’ll be up when we get home and hyped up on sugar,” Chan smirks and you give him a half smile.

“It’ll be fine.” You whisper to him.

There’s a knock at your door, and Chan answers it as you finish your make up.

“Halmeoni!” He squeals when he hear’s Chan’s mother in the kitchen. His little legs carry him out of the room as fast as they can. You chuckle as you finish the blush on your cheeks before closing the compact and standing up. You look over your outfit one last time before sighing and nodding once to yourself.

“You ready to,” Chan stops as he see’s the reflection of you in the mirror.

“On second thought,” he charms as he puts his arms around your waist and rests his chin on your shoulder, “Let’s cancel dinner,” he says lowly with a kiss to the side of your neck, “And go straight to desert. All tastey,” he hums, “and sweet,” another kiss just below your ear, “and wet.” His lips brush your ear and you shiver a slight blush appearing under your make up clad face.

“No, we are not skipping dinner,” you chuckle as you rest in his arms. His arms are what eternity must feel like, strong, safe, and exactly where you’re meant to be.

The two of you say goodbye to Hwan and arrive at the restaurant, the place feeling warm and intimate.

Chan had requested a private booth for the two of you in the corner of the building.

“This is so beautiful,” you smile as you notice the bouquet of red roses on the table. You smile at him and kiss his cheek before smelling the beautiful flowers.

“Baby, thank you,” you smile as your heart swells in your chest.

“Only the best for my girl,” he smiles as he watches you dote over the flowers, the petals smooth as silk against your fingertips.

Both of you order, Chan sparing no expense. Your favorite meal, fancy champagne, even a live violinist playing soft music for you in the corner.

“Happy Mother’s Day,” He smiles as he takes your hand. You couldn’t be happier. The dinner is perfect, something out of a fairytale.

“So, change of plans,” Chan says as he opens the car door for you.

“Hmm?” You answer, a quirked brow prominently displayed on your face.

“Hwan’s staying the night at my parent’s place.” You smirk at him and nod your head.

“So, you know what that means?” You smile at him and he turns his face slightly with his brow raised.

“We get to be in bed by 10!” You sigh in relief as Chan smiles, a small laugh escaping him.

Pulling up to the house, your breath hitches, the sidewalk is lined with candles and flowers, all the way up the steps to the front door.

You look over to your man who’s doing everything he can to act casual.

“Christopher,” you say barely above a whisper but he doesn’t pay you any attention- not yet.

He opens your car door taking your hand, kissing the back of it making eye contact as he does, and leads you inside. He puts your roses on the counter while you take in the sight before you; candles light the living room just enough to see, the faint golden glow romantic and sweet, and he leads you to the bedroom. Entering the room, candles are littered throughout it, rose petals on the floor, the bed made, but ready to be destroyed. You gasp as the intimate atmosphere causes goosebumps to be pulled onto your skin.

“Better than an early bedtime, right?” Chan whispers in your ear and you instinctively lean into his touch, his arms coming around your waist, lips attaching to your neck in soft, sensual kisses.

“Come on, there’s more,” he smirks as he places one final kiss below your ear. He unzips your dress slowly and you let it fall to the floor. He grabs you a blanket and has you lay on the bed on your stomach.

He grabs the oils, ridding himself of his shirt, and changing his pants so he doesn’t ruin his nice ones. You feel the mattress dip beneath you.

“Happy Mother’s Day to me,” you mumble, staring at his defined chest and abs. He chuckles squirting some of the oil into his hands.

“Lay back and relax, baby girl. I’ve got you.” He smiles as you lay your head down on your arms. His hands start to massage your back, slowly applying pressure first to your neck, then down your shoulders. Soft moans and gasps escaping you. His thumbs applying the right pressure to your shoulders.

“Mmm, feels good,” you encourage as he moves down your thighs. The amount of non-sexual pleasure causes heat to pool between your legs; a slight tinge of embarrassment hits you as you realize you’re getting off to this. You hide your face to hide the blush as you feel Chan start to massage your feet, your moans unable to be stopped.

Chan bites his lip, the noises are turning him on more than he expected, but tonight was about you, what you wanted to happen and if sex wasn’t apart of the deal, he would be ok with that. But if it was, he’d be elated all the same.

He notices your body arch into his touch as he comes back up, massaging in the back of your thighs again and he smirks, testing the waters, he dips his hand dangerously close to bare core. The tiniest whimper escapes you as his fingers brush your folds and your ass lifts slightly up into the air, causing the blanket to slide down onto your back some, exposing you to him. Chan takes a deep breath, his pants becoming tighter by the minute.

His hands move away from your core, massaging your back once more, his hands dipping down to your sides, briefly ghosting over the side of your breast.

“Chan,” you whine quietly.

“Yes, my love?” His voice drips with a cockiness you’re all too familiar with. All you do is whimper in response.

“Use your words, dear, I don’t know what a whimper means,” he mocks.

He knows.

All too well.

Your hips lift off the bed again. He looks down at you.

“Touch,” you breathe out, your mind already trying to go.

“All ready losing it and I haven’t even touched you properly.” He chuckles to himself. All you can do is slide your ass up into the air more, creating a beautiful arch, one that Chan quietly releases a groan at. He wipes his hands of the oil, coming up behind you, your folds already wet.

“Please,” you whine as you feel his hands go to either of your thighs. His fingers spread you open, his tongue teases you at first, tasting your arousal and he moans at the salty sweet taste.

“So good,” he whispers to himself before diving in, tongue circling your sensitive bundle of nerves. Your eyes flutter closed as your mouth drops open, a moan leaving your throat.

“Fuck,” you whisper as your rest your forehead against the mattress. His tongue circles and flicks, pleasure building in your body with every little bit of stimulation. He sticks his tongue into your entrance, and you push back onto his face as you pant.

“Chris, I’m- oh fuck,” you gasp as he goes back to your growing clit, replacing his tongue with his finger. Your walls clench around his finger, squelching already audible from how wet you are. Normally you would hate hearing it, but tonight, you’re so relaxed and pleased you don’t have it in you to care.

“Fuck, keep doing that,” you squeeze your eyes tighter as he curls his finger down, directly stimulating your sweet spot as his tongue continues mercilessly circling your clit.

He can feel how close you are, how your cunt keeps sucking his fingers in and how you’re trying desperately to rock your hips against him. His tongue moves hard and fast, adding a second finger to your tight pussy as he hits it harder, sending shockwaves through your body as your orgasm builds more and more.

“Fuck, Chris I’m gonna cum,” you whimper as your muscles are locking up, heart rate speeds up and your breathing becomes desperate pants.

“Come on, cum for me baby. Let me taste you,” he tells you. That’s all it takes, your walls clamp down around his fingers, your face twists in pleasure as your body shakes and toes curl; your orgasm wrecking you.

Chris moans against you as he cleans you up, tasting your juices on his tongue.

“So fucking good for me,” he praises as he places kisses on your lower back, kneading your ass just a little. He allows you a second to come back to earth before helping you roll over.

“More,” you grab at him, pulling him down so your lips finally meet in a hot, messy- slightly salty- kiss. Teeth knocking ever so slightly, tongues gliding against one another, both of you tasting the other and exploring your mouths. For a brief moment you go back to when you were younger, a memory of a similar make out session happening on his couch, one that was interrupted by his parents coming home. You smile against his mouth at the flashback. Two young innocent kids, little did you know the future that laid before you.

“That good huh?” he pants against your lips. You moan in response, hands going from his neck to his broad shoulders, down his chest.

“Lay back,” you whisper to him and he obliges. You watch him lay down, his eyes are on your chest, your breasts bouncing ever so slightly as you position yourself, chest to chest. You kiss him once, before moving down to his jawline, a hand running up and down his taut stomach, soft moans escaping you as the passion in you continues to burn bright.

“Fuck I want you so bad,” you whisper into his ear.

“Wanna taste you, feel you, own you.”

This earns a straight up whimper from him as his hips lift into the air at your words.

“I’m yours, baby.” He breathes out, eyes closed and head slightly turned giving you better access to neck. His hand finds its way into your hair, cradling it your head.

You kiss down his chest, your freshly manicured hands touching his sensitive nipples, making him shudder before you gently lap at each one, his head tipping in back in pleasure. You glance down at his crotch, noticing a damp spot where the head of his cock should be. You softly groan at the sight, but decide to take your time, worshiping his body. You leave open mouthed kisses down his stomach, taking your time, tracing a few of his muscles with your tongue on your way down.

The feeling of your wet tongue on his skin makes him gasp, goosebumps popping up on his skin. He grinds his hips against the air, desperate for friction.

“M on fire,” he whimpers out as you place kisses along his happy trail, just above his waist band. Your index finger playfully runs up the bulge in his pants, and he hisses at the contact, a slight twitch being seen underneath the clothing. You grin as you place one last kiss to his pelvis before sliding his pants off, his cock springing free.

“Oh god,” you whisper as you see how hard he is. You squeeze your thighs together, the feeling of his cock like a ghost in your hole. You tease his slit, earning a groan from him, smearing the precum over his shaft as his head tips back, a growl coming from his throat.

“Fuck, please, I want your mouth,” he pants. You take a moment to really drink in the image, his body is putty in your hands, yours to use and play with, his eyes are screwed shut, mouth hanging open, muscles tense under your touch.

You wrap your lips around him, Chan having to do everything he can to not buck his hips up into you. He watches you slowly sink down, then back up, sucking his cock like it’s going out of style.

“Ah,” he gasps, panting, hand finding its way to the back of your head, not to push or even guide, but to ground himself. To keep him from losing all control right now. The way your cheeks hollow out feel like heaven, the way his cock almost touches the back of your throat is euphoric, and you can feel how the twitches inside your mouth.

“Baby- ah fuck - baby, s-stop.” He pleads breathlessly. You oblige immediately, looking up at him to see if he’s ok.

“Did I do something wrong?”

He laughs breathlessly and pulls you up to him, flipping you on your back.

“No, you’re perfect, jus wanna be inside you when I cum. Fill you up all nice and pretty.” He murmurs, practically babbling at his point with how bad he wants to please and fill you. He lines himself up at your entrance.

“Could make you a mommy again, yeah? See you filled up with me, all swollen and beautiful,” he moans at the thought.

“Shh, Chris, Chris,” he’s so far gone when he looks at you, you can see the way he snaps back.

“’m sorry,” he mumbles before kissing your lips as he slides in. You gasp, the motion unexpected, and he takes his time to explore your mouth once more.

“Fuck,” you choke out. He stays still for a moment, bracing himself on one hand besides your head, the other stroking your cheek.

“What do you think though, about having another someday?” You look up at him, his eyes communicating he isn’t kidding.

“Someday, yeah.” Your hand cups his cheek, his brown eyes sparkle ever so slightly against the candle light. He dips his head down, capturing your lips as he slowly rocks his hips into yours; both of you moaning at how good it feels to be connected as one.

“Fuck, go faster,” you plead as your lips separate, but your foreheads stay together, both covered in a thin layer of sweat.

“Ah, fuck,” he moans, dropping his head to your shoulder, placing kisses and a few love bites every now and again. Your chests are pressed together, bodies rocking together at the movement of his hips. Your legs wrap around his torso, heels slightly digging into his back.

“I love you,” he whispers in your ear. You’re holding onto his shoulder’s, nails beginning to bite into the flesh underneath.

“Ah,” he hisses at the sting.

“Sorry,” you whimper and he shakes his head bringing his face back to yours.

“No, no feels good,” he screws his eyes shut as he feels it again, a low growl leaving him.

“I love you too,” you whisper and he brings his forehead back down to yours again.

His thrusts are sloppier now; he brings a hand down between you and furiously rubs circles on your clit.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum, keep going, keep going, keep -oh shit,” your body starts to tense, nails scratching at his back, leaving behind thin red lines.

“Come on baby, cum for me. Make a mess on my cock,” he pants. That sends you over the edge, a loud cry echoes in the room as your body locks up, Chan fucking you through it, helping you ride the wave of your toe-curling orgasm. Chan’s hits as the after shocks hit you, his face buried in your neck as he cries out, sloppily pumping into you as you feel it warmth between your legs.

“Oh fuck,” he whimpers as he stills, his orgasm just as intense and heavy. His heart thuds against his chest as he takes a moment to come back to reality, the aftershocks wearing off. He places a single longing kiss to your lips before slowly pulling out and laying down beside you. You look at each other, you share pink dusted cheeks, sweaty bodies and you’re totally fucked out.

“You are the most amazing woman,” he breathes as he looks at you like you’re the only woman in the world. You smile and lean over kissing his forehead. He grabs a wash cloth, dampens it with warm water and starts to clean you up, murmuring apologies as the cloth swipes across your sensitive center as gasps along with hip jerks flow from you.

The two of you crawl under the covers, snuggling each other, limbs tangled.

“Thank you,” you say quietly, the sound of the now apparent rain beating against the window for background noise.

“For what?” He mumbles.

“For an amazing day, for being an amazing dad and just everything you do for us,” You look up at him nostalgically, thankfully, and smile. He cups your cheek with his left hand.

“I’d do anything for you, y/n.” he whispers before placing a kiss on your forehead. Chan watches as you slowly fall asleep, quietly getting up blowing out each candle, saving the clean up for the morning before you have to go pick up your son.

Tags: @breakmeoff @thelovelybireader

Please do not repost my work

Love notes, comments and requests are appreciated!

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hisui555 · 2 days ago

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I was 14 when I got my wise teeth removed, the whole thing was a clusterfuck rollercoaster of absurdity. First of all it started with the doc wanting me to take a betadine shower and THEN go to school while looking as if I ruled Hell, to say nothing about the trouble I'd get for not eating at the cafeteria since I was supposed to be fasting. I just stayed at home the whole morning, looking like a tomato. A foul one - my hair is brown, not green, and I have the stinking temper to match.

Then I arrived at the clinic, and the trouble went further when the guy planting the IV in stabbed me repeatidly and directly in the nerves - 10 times over, five each side of the vein. How do I know ? Well I fucking felt it for starters but since this isn't gonna convince people because we're on the Internet, my wrist had a knee-jerk unvoluntary reaction everytime and Blindy O'Sightless went "Oh, sorry, I hit the nerve." like it was just the most bewildering thing ever and nerves shouldn't be in a human body. I just ended up contracting my muscles to make the veins pop so he could finally get at least ONE - that guy wouldn't be able to hit a cow's arse with a banjo.

Then the fun kept piling up, because by the anaesthesia, they told me to count up to 10, expecting me to be under by 6 or 7. I was up to 15 when the anaesthesic dude looked at me weird, doubled the dose, and I decided to fall asleep to help the process go along because I wanted it over with - sensation also isn't the best : it's like someone's pulling you by the hair backwards to fall headfirst. I know my last conscious thought was "oh hey, maybe that's what babies feel when they're born and pulled out, hence why we're instantly awake when feeling that while asleep. It's like the 'kick' to wake up in Inception." and I don't remember dreaming during the processus afterwards.

Then I woke up, and by waking up I mean getting jolted from slumber by the nurse ripping out the breathing tube from my nose with all the patience, grace and mercy of an excavating bulldozer. I'm already a snap-awake person with immediate lucidity when waking up from normal sleep, so I was sadly VERY AWARE of the pain and my environment - the nurse was very surprised to find me immediately sitting up, look around, nod at the "You're in the wake-up waiting room" banner above, and shoot her a glare while rubbing my nose. She didn't ask me the "are you okay what's your name" questions, funnily enough, unlike the others - I think we both knew the answer to "How are you feeling" was "mighty pissed off."

The positive in that was that I was the first awake, or at least lucid, and I could see the others emerge - apparently they didn't had the same luck of being insta-awake, and this is where I could witness that consciousness was more of a spectrum in others than the binary it is for me. Best part was when I waved to one guy next to me, who also got his wise teeth pulled out, and he apparently decided it was too weird for him, because he went right back down to sleep.

THEN the worst started : I was driven to my room, got onto the bed, and someone asked me what I wanted for breakfast tomorrow. I wordlessly pointed at my cheeks, beginning to swell and changing colors, and the woman nodded in understanding. "Okay, not chewy stuff, got it." (the morning after, it was hardass cereals and bread croutons). One doctor came up to me and told me the IV would stay for the night, in case complications happened - okay, no problem, sounds fair. Cue another one entering five minutes later and pulling it out, congratulating me that, unlike my teen Wise-Tooth-Hell peers, I didn't ripped it out myself. I remember thinking something along the lines of "?????"

Then they gave me cortisone to help with the pain and swelling or whatever, and an ice-pack, telling me the button to call for help was over there, okay, noted... 15 minutes later I had to rush to the sink to barf very fine powdered black sand up - it was the cortisone. I check the meds box : they gave me a dose for adults, while I was 14, 1m50, around 45-50kg. I decided to not use the emergency button EVER lest these clowns rub aloe vera on my feet to "help" me with an upset stomach or a dental infection and ask where the IV went, like a bunch of double-taking goldfish having no clue what their neighbor is doing.

THEN the pain hit, and I spent my night sleeping 3 hours total, 10 minutes by 10 minutes. Tom&Jerry was on a rerun on TV, but past two in the morning it was me, myself and OW. I got picked up by my mom looking like a hamster with cheeks drenched in blueberry juice and stuck in barbed wire, she asked if I didn't wanted to stay another night because I didn't look that good, but since things were already ten shades of wrong I just proved I was feeling very, very fine with not staying one more second in there by doing a cartwheel, and we racked off the fastest possible.

Think it's the end ? Nnnnope ! 'Cause the swelling didn't die down for three whole weeks, I went by all the colors of the rainbow in terms of bruises, and the doctor gave me a mouthwash to use for said 3 weeks... when the notice specified in bold letters to not use more than 1 week, max, because of how strong it was. Results ? Dental enamel took quite a bad hit. We went back and pointed this out, to which he replied with another mouthwash... stronger than the previous and to not be used for more than 3 consecutive DAYS. Oh and also I just pulled out the stitches myself, because they came loose on day 4 after I was out of the hospital.

So somehow, I wanna give that person shoving an entire fist in their mouth and then bawling afterwards (good thing they didn't damage anything) for 20 minutes a very sympathetic pat.

We sharing anaesthetic stories?? I had to have dental surgery when i was in middle school.

According to my mom and sister the very first thing i did upon waking up was BOLT upright and proceed to try and shove my ENTIRE fist in my mouth as fast as possible.

I had to be physically stopped, and i proceeded to sob my eyes out for the next 20 minutes. Somehow, i didnt damage anything 🤣

sorry that imagery is so vivid i just..

?????LOL

#dental surgery #dental care #my generally absurd and wtf life #don't panic it doesn't happen to everyone #just like everything in my childhood I got surrounded by people having an acute case of incompetentitis #things are normally better now #somehow it's not the most twilight zone-esque situation I lived through #but well. Yeah.

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rafesbabygirlx · 2 days ago

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ONLINE LOVE | 𝙵𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗

𝚂𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚎𝚍𝚊𝚍!𝚁𝚊𝚏𝚎 𝚡 𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑!𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝙰𝚄

✧ 𝙼𝙰𝚂𝚃𝙴𝚁𝙻𝙸𝚂𝚃 | 𝙰𝚄 𝙼𝙰𝚂𝚃𝙴𝚁𝙻𝙸𝚂𝚃 | 𝚃𝙰𝙶𝙻𝙸𝚂𝚃

✧ Summary- Rafe Cameron used to avoid love, only having flings and never getting close to anyone. Now 27 and raising his 3-year-old daughter Harper alone, he wants something more, a real connection. Tired of being judged on the island, he tries Hinge and sets his location to the mainland. After days of no matches, he finds your profile and is instantly drawn to you.

✧ Prompt- for hingematch!rafe could you do one where hes been busy with his daughter and doesnt realise hes left her on delivered and she thinks hes ghosted her?

✧ Prompted here

It had been a month. A month of back and forth texting, FaceTime calls, and learning more about each other. Rafe surprisingly opened up about a lot to you, other than the fact that he had his daughter. He still didn’t know how to bring this up. Now worried it would ruin everything.

You had off today so you and Rafe had spent all night on the phone. You had fallen asleep first so when you woke up you wanted to make it a point to text him.

9:29am: Hi, how pathetic am I fallen asleep on you like that?

9:30am: My first year residency is kicking my ass, I’m shocked that I even stayed up as late as I did.

9:31am: I’m free all day today, finally have a day off, so don’t be shy in texting me! 🥰

9:44am: I’m sure you’re at work and busy. Like I said I’m free all day. I just can’t wait to hear your voice again.

You hadn’t mean to sound desperate. This past month you and Rafe had been on top getting back to each other the second with of you had texted. You had both shared your schedules, you knew when he’d be in meetings and he knew when you’d be working at your internship. The second either was over, one of you was immediately sending a text. Unless there was an emergency meeting he got pulled in to, this was a bit of a strange break in the pattern.

You busied yourself as best as you could. You made yourself a nice breakfast, something you barely get to do anymore. Then, you caught up on some of your tv shows and when they were done you began a new book. You took a full pamper shower, cleaned up your nails, did your hair routine, your skincare, and applied some makeup.

It had been 4 hours and when you finally picked back up your phone it was still radio silence from Rafe. You let out a sigh of defeat. Mind racing that something that seemed so precious could already be over. He hadn’t even read the texts. You don’t mean to jump to conclusions, but no matter how well this seemed to be going, he was only just an online dating match who ended up living 5 hours away from you.

On the other side of North Carolina, Rafe was a mess. Harper had claimed she had a stomach ache and refused to go to school, meanwhile he caught the toddler in the pantry sneaking cookies and gummies 3 times this morning. He told her the only thing she was allowed to do was lay in bed and get rest if she was that sick. This lead to full blown tantrums and Rafe wanting to pull out the short hair of his buzzcut.

Between Harper fighting him all morning and having to rearrange his business schedule, this glued Rafe to his office desk. His personal phone was forgotten on his nightstand and he didn’t get a chance to think about it. He left the office door open, which gave him a perfect view of Harper’s and the hundreds of times he caught her sneaking out of it.

“Harper get back here!”

“No daddy, I want more snacks.”

“You said your tummy hurt, were you lying to me?”

“No.”

“Don’t lie to daddy, Harper.”

“Yes.”

Harper bowed her head in defeat. A cute way of defeat only a 3 year old could get away with. This caused Rafe to kneel in front of his daughter, lifting her chin delicately with his fingers.

“Why’d you lie Harper?”

“I don’t like school, I wanted to be with you. You mwake me safe.”

“Why would you need me to keep you safe baby?”

“Cause kids are mean and I don’t like ‘em.”

“Oh baby, I’m sorry. How about this, we spend the rest of the day doing anything you want? Snacks, movies, tea party. How’s that sound?”

Harper’s face lit up and she threw herself into her dad’s arms, wrapping hers around his neck and hugging him tightly.

“Yes daddy! Come!”

Rafe laughed as he allowed the toddler to drag him into the kitchen. She pulled out the tea set from the lower cabinet that was designated for all her stuff. Rafe put on some water to boil, then she went to pantry to pull out snacks she wanted for tea time.

They brought up everything to her room. Harper knew exactly how to set everything up. A setting for her, a setting for Rafe, and two other settings for her stuffed elephant and American Girl doll Sarah had gotten her.

They spent the entire day doing what Harper wanted. Rafe let his assistant know he would be unreachable as he just wanted to focus on his daughter. This was the first she brought up having problems at preschool. How the hell were 3 year olds already having issues. He got her to open up about it and it was 2 boys that would take her crayons and break them when she’d color or steal her gummies at lunch time.

Rafe took offense to that personally because he was always proud of himself for making her lunches every morning. But he quickly shook off the feeling of being pissed off at a 3 year old. Heloved being a dad and making Harper happy. He didn’t want to be sad or afraid to go to school. So to just do this little thing for her to see her smile, he was more than ok to do it.

When the time came around for Harper’s bedtime, he brushed through her now dried hair from the bath and tucked her into bed.

“You’re gonna have to go to school tomorrow Princess. I know it’s scary, but you’re a tough girl, I’ll come in with you tomorrow and talk with your teachers. We’ll figure this out together. Ok?”

Harper gave a soft sigh and looked like she wanted to plead with her dad to not go in another day. “Ok. Ima tough girl.”

“That’s right. I love you little one.”

“I love you daddy.”

Rafe had given her one final kiss before making his way to his bedroom and plopping down onto his sheets. He had forgotten about his phone all day and had decided to pick it up. There were notifications from Sarah, Topper, Kelce and all the way at the bottom there were four missed messages from you.

He ran his hand over his face. He never missed a text from you. He always had Do Not Disturb on and you’ve been the only one this past month that could still get through to him. He was stuck on what to say. His entire day was spent making sure his daughter had been happy. His daughter, you had no idea about. What could he even say?

It was now 8:30 at night. You had just cleaned up the kitchen from cooking dinner earlier. Mind finally at ease from the doubt and wary feeling about being ignored. You knew you shouldn’t have gotten attached, no matter how good it felt. He probably found someone closer to him and forgot all about you. Online dating has never turned out great for you. This was just another disappointing failure.

You sat on the couch, trying to push aside your thoughts as you engulfed yourself in your favorite movie. Your phone is next to you laying face down. It was almost 9 and even with a relaxing day of doing what you loved you were already feeling tired again. You rested your head in the palm of your hand as you our eyes began to close, a ping from your phone shot them right back open.

Embarrassingly, you reached for it quicker than you’d like to admit. You look at the notification and see it’s Rafe. You hold back a smile, not ready for what it says.

8:55pm: Hi. I’m really sorry about today. From the second I woke up chaos was erupting at the office. I had to get up and ready and rush out the door. I completely forget my personal phone at home and just got back. I missed you today. 🩵

You let out a breath that you didn’t even realize you were holding and smile warmly at the message. You were scared of rejection and know he feels this way you reply instantly not caring how it makes you look anymore.

8:57PM: No need to apologize Mr. CEO. Some things are unpredictable, it’s easy to get caught up, I’m still here for you.

Rafe took a sigh of relief at your response. He didn’t want to ruin this. But the gnawing guilt of lying to you about Harper made him terrified of what was yet to come. You said you loved kids. But would you love him when you found out he had a daughter?

For now the only thing to do was to continue to talk to you. Learn more about you. Hopefully you would understand why he was doing what he was doing. It was to protect Harper. You’d understand, right?

Tags + some moots: @rafestoothbrush @weluvwbb @itsforeverandalwayz @butterfly-ibuki @megiiite @siredbtches @bigenergy777 @aupernatural-teenwolflover @rafegf-real @skywalker0809 @snowtargaryen @kieeslove @leather-n-velvet @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @diasnohibng @slurpdew @alphabetically-deranged @whydoesthemirrorhateme @currentresidentinhell @slut-4-rafey @akobx @rafesheaven @laniirackssss @jjmaybankmylovee @slut4you @larema121 @tul1preads @wuluhwuhmaster @inthelibrarybtw @littlelamy @bellaballerina111 @pogueprincesa @daddyrafeslittleslut @nemesyaaa @papercranesandinkstains @frankoceanluvr11 @drewsephrry @zyafics @rafeysvenicebitch @rowdydevs @maybankslover @rafesgreasycurtainbangs

I think I have everyone tagged <3

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izzih22 · 2 days ago

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Don’t Marry Him

Note: thank you anon for asking for this and all the kinds words you said. It wouldn’t let me answer your thing directly but I hope you like this one. I think I got everything in there. It took me awhile but anyway I think it’s pretty good so enjoy y’all.

The white satin of Azzi’s wedding dress rustled as she paced the dressing room, palms sweating, heart pounding like it had something to say. She was minutes away five to be exact from walking down the aisle. Her makeup was perfect. Her hair was elegant. Her bouquet lay neatly on the vanity. Everything about her looked like a dream.

But it didn’t feel like one.

The door creaked.

She turned fast. Her breath caught in her throat.

“How did you get in here?” Her voice cracked before it sharpened. “You’re not supposed to be here. Leave.”

Paige stood in the doorway in a black suit, hair slicked back, face unreadable except for the storm in her eyes. She should’ve been in Dallas—hell, she was supposed to be in Dallas. WNBA season didn’t stop for weddings. Paige had a game tomorrow.

But she was here.

And Azzi’s heart? It didn’t know what to do with that.

“I had to see you,” Paige said quietly, stepping inside and shutting the door behind her like she wasn’t about to detonate Azzi’s entire life.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Azzi repeated, her voice weaker this time. “If someone sees you—”

“They won’t.”

“Paige.”

“I know,” she said softly. “I know I’m not supposed to be here. But screw ‘supposed to.’ We’ve done everything ‘right’ and it still feels wrong, doesn’t it?”

Azzi turned away, facing the mirror. She didn’t recognize herself. The dress, the earrings, the diamond engagement ring. This wasn’t her. Not the her that Paige had known. Loved. Still loved.

Paige’s voice grew louder, closer. “You think I wanted to come here today? You think I wanted to see you with him?” She shook her head, breath catching. “I didn’t. I fought not to come. But I woke up this morning and couldn’t breathe, Z. I couldn’t let you do this without saying it.”

Azzi closed her eyes. Her hands were trembling.

“I love you,” Paige said, finally. Fully. “God, I love you so much it makes me stupid. And I know—I know—you still love me too.”

Azzi’s jaw clenched. Her heart screamed yes, but her pride, her walls, her years of trying to move on—they all said no.

“You don’t know what you’re saying.”

Paige laughed bitterly. “I know exactly what I’m saying. We’ve been in love since we were seventeen, Az. Since that first Team USA camp. Since you used to sneak into my room after lights out and we’d talk about the future like we’d never lose each other.” Her voice broke. “And we did, but not because we stopped loving each other. Just because we got scared.”

Azzi swallowed hard. Her knees felt like they might give out.

“You still wear the necklace I gave you,” Paige said, nodding toward the delicate chain hidden beneath the sweetheart neckline of the dress. “You never take it off. Don’t tell me you don’t feel it too.”

“Paige, everyone’s out there,” Azzi whispered, desperate, trying to hold herself together. “They’re waiting for me.”

“So let them wait,” Paige snapped. “Just for a second. Look at me.”

Azzi did.

And that’s when Paige said it.

Soft. Barely a whisper. But it was everything.

“Don’t marry him.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Azzi’s breath caught. Her heart thudded so loud she was sure Paige could hear it.

But her walls—the same ones that had held her up for years—rose like armor.

“I can’t,” she whispered. “I—I have to go.”

“No,” Paige stepped forward. “You don’t.”

Azzi shook her head. Her hands were clenched into fists now, her whole body taut with something between devastation and denial.

“I’m sorry,” she choked out, turning away before Paige could see the tears brimming in her eyes. “I’m sorry, but I can’t do this with you right now.”

And then she left.

⸻

The music swelled as Azzi walked down the aisle. Every step felt heavier than the last.

Her groom waited at the altar, beaming. Family and friends stood on either side, all of them smiling, none of them knowing her heart was breaking in real time.

She made it to the front. Somehow.

The officiant nodded. “Azzi, you may begin your vows.”

She took a shaky breath.

“I used to think love was supposed to be simple,” she began, eyes locked on her groom—but her mind miles away. “But then I met someone who made everything feel big. Complicated. Intense in a way that scared me, but also made me feel more alive than I ever thought possible.”

The groom’s smile faltered. He blinked. Subtle, but there.

“I’ve never felt more seen than when they looked at me,” Azzi continued, voice thick with emotion. “They knew me when I didn’t even know myself. Knew how to calm me down when I couldn’t breathe. Knew how to make me laugh when I swore I’d never smile again. They made the ordinary feel like magic.”

She paused. Her fingers clenched tighter around the bouquet.

“I used to think love was something you grew into,” she whispered. “But with them, it was instant. Like the universe had been waiting for us to collide.”

The groom looked… confused. Hurt. Because he knew.

None of those things were about him.

And then—

“Azzi,” the officiant said gently, sensing the tremble in her voice. “Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

Her breath hitched.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw movement.

Paige. Standing up in the back. Shoulders stiff, jaw clenched, turning toward the door.

Azzi didn’t think.

“No,” she said, loud. Clear. Final.

Gasps echoed through the crowd.

The groom stepped back, stunned. “Wait—what?”

But Azzi wasn’t looking at him anymore. She was already turning—running—down the aisle, the long train of her dress trailing behind her like a banner.

She caught up to Paige just as she was reaching the door.

Without a word, she grabbed her hand.

Paige froze.

And Azzi looked up at her, eyes full of everything she hadn’t said in years. “Don’t walk away.”

Paige blinked, stunned. “You sure?”

Azzi smiled—small, tearful, glowing.

“I’ve never been more sure.”

They didn’t say another word.

They just ran—out the doors, past the confused guests, through the chaos. Azzi’s heels came off somewhere near the steps. Paige didn’t let go of her hand once.

And when they reached the car—someone’s car, it didn’t matter—it just so happened to have a “JUST MARRIED” sign already tied to the bumper, leftover from a different wedding earlier that day.

Fate? Maybe.

They didn’t question it.

They just drove.

And as the city blurred behind them, Azzi turned to Paige and laughed through tears.

“God, you’re such a homewrecker.”

Paige smirked, eyes still on the road. “Please. That home was already falling apart.”

Azzi leaned over. “Well… I guess we’re rebuilding, huh?”

Paige reached over, laced their fingers together.

“From the ground up.”

And somewhere between the sunset and the second chances, they kissed.

This time for real.

This time forever.

#pazzi fics #paige x azzi #pazzi #paige and azzi #paige bueckers #uconn wbb #azzi fudd

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silverheartlugia2000 · 2 days ago

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Here I go again.. op if I were to post this on ao3 may I have permission to use parts of your opening with credit?

It's been almost a year since Danny remembered. He hasn't taken the shot. He dosent have a reason to open that can of worms yet. But he has figured out that he can still use a pinch of intangibility. Just enough to get him out of cuffs or rope if needed. The needle is locked in a safe only he, or Cujo technically, can get to.

The whistle, though? He used it right away. Cujo busts into the cave and knocks him to the ground, slobbering all over his face in the way only a happy puppy can manage. It also helped Damian let go of whatever doubts he still held onto.

Cujo, with the code name Hellhound, was a lot of help. With Danny still behind the chair. He could send Cujo out to deliver things when needed. Extra batches of antidotes for Joker Venom. Files or equipment to other teams. When Tim forgets lunch again, Alfred sends him off with a lunchbox. He even sent the pup to fetch his brothers home when they got knocked out for stupid reasons.

Danny woke up one morning to a pile of presents and Cujo yiping excitedly while wearing a little party hat. Looks like his original Death Day still applies to this life. He needs to remember to introduce the tradition on Jason's Death Day this year.

Hellhound trails behind him as he wanders the Watchtower. Danny may have never gone in the field, but he still has his own Codename and mask so he can sneak into big meetings and handle repair jobs in a pinch.

He didn't know why at the time, but he was determined to use something from the corvid family. A joke on his 'death curse' he reasoned. Raven was active already, vulture sounded too villainy, crow was overrated and dull.

He settled on Magpie. Tim always teased him of hoarding trinkets for his building projects. And something about the combo of black and white with a sheen of greenish blue when the light hits their feathers right caught his eye and wouldn't let go.

He's distracted by the windows a few times, Cujo nudging him back on task gently. He's been hungrier more often now that he's aware of his Core again. Maybe he can ask Dad for an overnight stay up here when he's done, snack on the view of stars for a while.

"Hey Casper! Whatcha doing all the way up here today?"

Danny turns away from the window again, (Yeah he needs that snack fest..) to see Zatanna walking over.

He smiles under his mask, "Ah, just the usual. Got bored and decided to look for something to fix. And uh.." he glanced to the window again. "Guess I'm getting peckish.."

She laughs, reaching out to pet Cujo. "Who's the cutest widdle green bean in the whole afterlife~" Cujo, of course, yips happily and flips over for tummy rubs. "Hahaha! How is that glamor charm working?"

"It's great, thanks! Looks just like a normal living puggle. Don't need to worry about him staying invisible in public. He can have playtime in the park just fine. Even got him registered as a support dog for my episodes."

Having a sickly human body with a sleeping Core had drawbacks. When his heart shut down on occasion, his Core strained to keep him going till it started up again. It was getting better now that he was actively feeding it again, but fainting spells are something he might never be rid of even if he did take the shot.

Not long after the medallion incident, Team Dark had barged in the Cave following the spike in the veil from their trip to Clockwork. They noticed the shift in Danny's Core and the vial in his hands right away.

He couldn't hide it, so he told them the truth. Or half of it, just so they didn't banish him. Danny remembered his previous 'afterlife' of being a Realms ghost, and an Ancient decided he deserved to be reincarnated but couldn't completely get rid of his Core in the process.

They took to it well considering, even tossed in trinkets when Cujo bugged them to contribute to his Death Day, they'll come over to help break in Jason's next month.

(That's it for now.. it's 3 am.. I'm seepy..)

I was thinking of those prompts where Danny is placed (most of the time by Clockwork) into the Batfam. Danny believes he’s been there the whole time and it’s after Bruce comes back from being trapped in time so they chalk it up to time shenanigans. Also, Danny is now Tim’s twin.

Warnings: some language

Danny skips down the stairs leisurely, headphones in to some rock song Damian would hate.

The Cave is damp and cold, as usual. The music blares out the sound of his sneakers tapping as he walks. He waves to B’s back as he continues on to the work bench. The project he had started the day before was still there.

One of the grapple hooks was lagging so he was fixing it up and added a few more safety measures on the device. His brothers were using this, he wanted it as safe as he can make it.

Behind him he hears a voice over the music, interrupting his work after only about half an hour. He turns and sees Bruce looking at him with a raised brow.

Danny pulls out an earbud.

“Huh?”

“I thought you were going to visit your friends?”

Danny thinks back to the last conversation he had with his dad. It had nothing to do with his friends actually, it was about his stupid English test and how he was going to call Jason if he could help tutor him since he was so hopeless.

“No, I’ll see them on Monday.”

“Monday?”

Danny pauses halfway to putting the earbud back in his ear.

“Yea? At school?”

“School?”

Bruce stands to step closer to him but still at a distance.

Danny rolls his eyes and chuckles.

“Are you just going to keep repeating what I say?”

His dad looks him over critically. Danny pauses his music and takes out the other earbud.

“Did you change your hair?”

Danny reaches up reflexively to pat down his bangs. If anything he probably needed a haircut soon.

“Um, no? Are you okay? When’s the last time you slept?”

He tosses his headphones on the workbench but keeps his phone in his hand in case he needs to call someone.

“I’ve recovered,” Bruce dismisses. Like his year long trip in the time stream could be easily forgotten after a few months.

“Sure,” Danny agrees anyway when they both know he doesn’t agree.

“Tim,” Bruce sighs.

Danny immediately presses the button on his ring three times to alert the others. The computer beeps and the man turns to look at the screen. Danny grabs the closest weapon — a screwdriver — and holds it behind him.

Only Alfred, Damian, and Duke were at the manor. Hopefully backup would arrive soon.

“What were you doing, Dad?”

Not-Bruce freezes and then relaxes. It was only a second but Danny noticed. Any of the Bats would have, they’re trained for it.

“Just going over reports,” Not-Bruce replies with a smile. A smile.

His grip on the tool tightens.

“Which reports?” He tests.

What was he doing? There’s no telling the kind of information this imposter got a hold of.

“The Bennet case.”

Danny moves. Casually, he takes a step to the left, where the more heavy duty weapons were stored. The man matches him threateningly. Danny stills.

“That was solved over a month ago.”

There was no reason to look at a case from a month ago that was solved and closed. Bruce would have no reason to look at something like that, especially since it was Tim who solved it and submitted the report.

“By you,” Not-Bruce says in an odd tone.

He was getting Tim and Danny mixed up. Nobody in the family gets them confused anymore. That only applies to outsiders.

Danny tenses, ready to bolt toward the weapons. Not-Bruce is fast to intercept, but Danny is smaller and more agile.

He dodges and goes to stab the man in the leg when there is a prick to his neck that makes him stumble. Not-Bruce uses that opportunity to disarm him and slam him into the floor. It’s jarring, but the sedative is already working its way through him.

He blinks twice before everything is forced to black.

He knows he’s tied to a chair before he’s even fully awake. There’s been numerous kidnappings and training exercises that had his hands and feet tied down to know exactly in what position he’s in and for how long depending on how numb his limbs are.

He’s still in the Cave because he can feel the damp chill and hear the faint chattering of the bats. There’s a barrier though. Along with how hard the chair was he knew exactly where he was.

The containment cell is tucked away in a separate cavern. It had thick microfiber see through walls and a single chair with restraints.

The imposter put him in their own cell.

Danny is positively livid with the disrespect.

“You’re awake.”

Danny jerks his head up.

Oh thank the Ancients, his twin is here.

“Tim,” he breathes. “Okay, I know this looks bad, but trust me. It’s Bruce. He couldn’t tell us apart. Something’s wrong. He’s not himself.”

Tim is silent for much too long, just staring at him. He’s in his uniform like he just got back from patrol when Danny knew he had been in California with his team.

“Just talk to me,” he demands. “What’s going on? Where’s B?”

Tim’s mask narrows.

“Why should I trust you?”

Danny blinks wide.

“Why should- okay, first of all, screw you. Second, now is so not the time to be petty with me. I already apologized for messing up your photo shoot. I even made up for it, so legally you can’t be mad at me anymore.”

“My photo shoot?”

Danny rolls his eyes. This seat was getting uncomfortable.

“Don’t pretend like you don’t know what I’m talking about. Stop being such a jerk. This is serious. I’m telling you something is off with B. Did you guys check him? I hit the emergency button.”

Danny can tell his twin raises a brow at him.

“You hit the emergency button?”

“I literally just said that. Do you listen at all?”

“I was just confirming,” Tim shrugs it off.

“Whatever. Tim, I think there’s someone else here. I got hit with a tranq. Someone is in on this. And can someone please get me out of these? I’m not the problem here.”

Unfortunately, Tim does not get him out of his bonds. He just stands there watching him until he turns on his heel and leaves the cavern where Danny can’t see.

“What the- Tim! What the hell, dude?!”

Danny wiggles in his seat, but the more thrashing the more it hurt. Instead he sits there for a while, just tracing the rock and counting, until someone comes back in.

It’s Dick. The one big brother who he can always count on to at least be there.

“Hey there,” he smiles through the glass.

“Dick, what is happening? Tim isn’t listening. Did you find Bruce? Why am I in here?”

“Yea, Bruce is here. He’s safe. I saw the tapes. It looked like you were going to attack him,” he reasons gently.

“Yea because something is wrong with him. Maybe he’s compromised or mind controlled or something. You need to investigate. He needs to be cleared,” Danny insists.

“Okay,” Dick nods. He squats down to get comfortable outside the barrier instead of going to find Bruce though. “What made you think he’s compromised?”

“He kept confusing me with Tim!” He emphasizes because just the thought is outrageous. “He hasn’t done that in years. Yea maybe a mix up when he’s not paying attention but he was looking right at me and called me Tim. And he kept asking me these weird questions, like he had no idea who I was. Something is wrong.”

Dick puts a hand over his lips in thought, clearly going over something in his head.

“I’ll be right back,” Dick rushes out the door in a flash.

Danny’s jaw drops in protest but no words come out. He yells in frustration instead.

No one was listening to him! They were all freaking him out.

Maybe this was training. Like on their sixteenth birthday. It’s similar to what happened then. So what is his next course of action?

“You make it sound like we should know you.”

Danny finds his little brother in the shadows, lurking by the entrance. He’s also dressed in his vigilante attire, just like Tim and Dick.

“Damian, could you stop being a little gremlin for two seconds?” He glares at the younger boy.

“Answer the question.”

“It wasn’t a question,” he snarks back.

Damian grinds his teeth and Danny smirks nastily. He wasn’t in the mood for sibling rivalry right now.

“Who are you?”

Danny’s expression twists.

“That isn’t funny.”

“I’m not laughing.”

A cold dread settles in his chest. What if it wasn’t a training exercise?

“You know who I am. Stop playing games.”

“You say you’re not Tim. Claim you’ve known Father for years.”

“Damian.”

Bruce steps out followed closely by Dick and Tim.

There is a cold sweat on his brow now. Danny’s heart is beating loudly in his ears. He can feel the panic in his chest.

He wasn’t like the others. He didn’t go out to fight crime. He just trained with them because they all knew he needed to know those things to live in their life.

He wasn’t prepared for something like this.

“Guys, you’re really freaking me out.”

“Answer the question.”

No one defends him from Damian’s demand. They all look at him with caution, like he was the enemy. A stranger.

“You know me. What are you guys talking about?”

When no one answers he’s close to a damn panic attack.

“It’s me. Danny. You know? Tim’s twin. I’ve lived here since me and Tim moved in when we were twelve. Please tell me this is just training. You guys didn’t- didn’t forget me or something, right?”

Something in Dick’s expression looks unsure, but they all are withdrawn and completely in their roles. They weren’t acting like family.

“Prove it,” Tim commands.

Danny can’t believe his ears.

“AN-4729,” he recites the emergency code to prove authenticity they all know.

He can tell they recognize it, but wait for more.

“The sun shines in the east,” is the next security code to show safety.

Danny can tell it’s still not enough.

“There’s a file of me on the computer. Tim has pictures of us since childhood hidden under the floorboard under his dresser. My room is to the left of Tim’s. Inside the closet, in the ceiling, is a box. Inside the box is a medallion. It holds my entire life. You could also call Mr. Fox. I work with him often. I’m his favorite. I’m even on the payroll. Or you could just Google Daniel Drake-Wayne. I’m sure I’d pop up. Or call Gotham Academy since I’m enrolled there and everyone has seen Alfred pick me up and drop me off. I have a Christmas stocking with my name on it. My picture is literally all over the manor. I know the ins and outs of all your equipment and tech. The password to the Bat computer is 35G4s@2b-“

“Okay,” Dick gently interrupts. “I think that’s enough for now.”

Danny can feel how wet his eyes are. He stiffens his upper lip as Alfred would say so he doesn’t show how much of a disappointment he is to fail this test. Because this has to be a test. It has to be.

“Tim, you and I could always tell when we’re lying. We call ourselves our own personal lie detectors. So… am I lying?”

Tim studies him hard. His twin looks into his eyes for longer than it should take.

“I don’t know.”

And Danny breaks.

#danny is reincarnated as tims twin #dp x dc #silverlugia responds to prompts #also danny could always see deadman and gets weird ghost urges sometimes #he just didnt have context behind it #death days are celebrated things this time #full of happy memories #deaths arent triggers to talk about either #they're dramatic stories

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hibiscus-whore · 2 days ago

Text

His Eyes…

WARNING: This man is fucking you the second your eyes flutter open— SUN IS UP but the blinds are closed. A bit gorey because it’s SINNERS, we have vampires who kill people. Also, read this first. This is the part 2 people have been waiting for.

CONTAINS: 🍋 Somnophilia?, teasing/edging, praising (towards Remmick), mf is still “submissive” don’t worry, 1st POV, slight PIV, oral (reader receiving), fem!reader, dead dove(? but no noncon), no use of Y/N

Word count: 1421

Tags: @horror-moviehoe @margueriteayg @shadow-78 @korizzybee @graphiiic-nature @haintblueheifer

I woke up the next morning, the man who was once next to me was in between my thighs. Legs over his shoulders and my lower half was lifted above the bed. Remmick’s eyes had a red glint to them as he laughed, making my legs tingle.

“Good morning, baby,” he began to play with my folds, “you’re just starting to get wet for me.”

My brows furrowed in confusion, “nigga, what the hell are you talking about.” Looking up at the man as he kissed my thigh before going back to dive in. My head went back, biting the back of my hand while my other hand gripped the bed sheets. The man didn’t even try to use his fingers like he usually did, just lapping up all the wetness from my pussy. Giggling into me as he continued.

“R-Remmick? Ain’t it a bit early for all t-this— fuck!”

He made an ‘mhh mhh�� sound, what the hell is up with him. Remmick held me closer with his tongue inside me every so often. Backing away to spit in my pussy before going back in to lap up my juices. Tongue circling around my clit like a shark with bait. Kissing my labias as if they were the best damn gift known to him besides Irish jigging and blood. Then his right arm wrapped around my thigh more so his thumb could reach my clit. Gently playing with it as Remmick divulged in me.

I began to grip on his hair, tightening my thighs around his head. Back arching against the bed whilst my moans filled the room. Hips bucking into him, ready to cum until he backed away. Forcing my legs open before wiping his mouth. Though it was dark, I could see that cheeky smile. My back began to settle back into the bed. Using the back of my hand to wipe my tears away…tears?

“W-why?”

Remmick looked down at me, “thank you, for trusting me. I hear a certain somebody. I gotta go deal with that, so give me a moment. You always keep your blind shut, correct?”

I nodded, then he gently let me down. Getting up off the and grabbing some random pants from the drawers, probably one of my husband’s. Remmick went into the kitchen area. I shakily got up from the bed, wobbling as I went over to the door, watching as Remmick greeted my husband….what.

THIS NIGGA IS SMILING AT MY HUSBAND?

“Well hello, we have yet to meet. I’m Remmick. Nice to meet you,” he extended his hand out.

Of course, the other man got defensive, “who the fuck let you in my house— where is my wife? What did you do to her?”

Remmick put his hand over his heart, walking up to him slowly, “nothing that she don’t like. You, however, did many things that I don’t agree with. How’s that other family? Y’all got kids or what?”

Other family? Yea, that was expected. How did Remmick know though?

“Fuck is you talkin’ bout? I have been working.”

“First you don’t shake my hand, then you lie about mistreating that beautiful- I mean beautiful— wife of yours. Why…bless your heart,” was the last words the other man heard before Remmick launched at him. Biting his neck. I bit my lips in fear. All I could hear was the disgusting sound of slurping up the blood and my practically dead husband’s screams of terror. Calling out for my name as I silently sobbed. Grabbing a piece of wood and broke it off, turning it into a stake.

Walking up to Remmick with it before he grabbed my arm and forced me to stake the man’s heart. My hands— body was trembling. Slowly looking at the vampire, light illuminating around the man. He chuckled.

“I had to protect you, baby. You know I did. He don’t ever have to bother you ever again. Never gotta lie ever again. You’re here as my first choice, forever.”

He noticed my tears, shushing me. Wiping his hand on my late husband’s pants so they were clean enough to wipe my tears away, “don’t cry, we’ll be together now comfortable now. Connected fully. Our bond can be completed soon enough.”

Remmick then got up to wash his face. I was stunned in my spot. Suddenly, I was pulled off. Now lying on the cold floor, looking up at the man with the red reflection in his eyes as if he were a cat. Our lips instantly connected, he whimpered against mine. As we were doing that, the vampire’s fingers reached my pussy.

“Still wet,” Remmick’s mouth went down to my neck, “with a little surprise. All for me?”

I could feel his drool, but I wasn’t scared. The terror of him biting me to turn me never crossed my mind. Hips grinding against his fingers as I gripped his hair, “why didn’t you let him turn? You wanted a familial connection with others. Why would you let me kill that for you?”

Remmick took his fingers out, beginning to grind his erection against me, “ ‘cause you weren’t treated right. A-all for you.” I noticed him not wanting to fuck me, or maybe he did and just waited for my permission.

“You wanna fuck me? Thought you would take charge because you killed somebody.”

The Irishman shrugged, “you killed someone, it’s hot, and I’m not in the mood to even try and control you.”

“I didn’t—“

“I’m givin’ you a chance, take it…please?”

I rolled my eyes, “you may fuck me.”

Fabric rustled around for a few moments before you felt his weight on your pelvis. The tip felt wet, meaning he had been seeping precum. My hand was already stroking it gently but it twitched against my hand. He bit down a bit harder at my touch before whimpering.

“You can put your cock inside me, Remi.”

I felt him nod against my neck. Repositioning himself, centering at the entrance before slowly letting me absorb him. He moaned shakily as he began to thrust inside me. My legs wrapped around Remmick again, holding him close while his head was still on my neck.

“You’re so good to me,” I said as I began to grip on his hair again.

Remmick sucked on my skin, his thrusts was gaining momentum. Feeling his drool on me. Mumbling incoherent and whimpering in my ear as I divulged in the pleasure. The shivers that crawl up my back every time he hits that certain spot. I forced his head up so I could look at him.

“Good boy, huh? Make me cum. L-let’s cum together, Remi,” looking into the red dots in the primarily dark room. Only a small candle illuminating it all. Remmick held onto my hips, his nail print imbedded, as his thrusts became deeper then he began to pull out. I squirmed and he pulled my legs apart once more. Pulling my bottom half up to be met with his mouth. The way he was lapping up my juices was animalistic. His hand went down to his cock, stroking it as he continued to pleasure me.

My head tilted back as I spoke, “this isn’t what we agreed on— mhhh, fuck!”

“I fucked you a bit, now I’m gonna finish my meal,” his words sounded muffled but made my thighs shake.

“Q-quit!”

He ignored me. Continuing his main mission. Body unwillingly bucking towards him, one hand playing with my clit while the other grabbed on his hair. I forced his head down. Thighs tightening around his head like I did earlier until he finally let me cum in his mouth. Steadying my breathing, legs shakily letting Remmick go while he laughed. Slowly putting me down onto a wet puddle. I looked at him with a confused look. The vampire bright his palm to my mouth, allowing me to lick his hand.

“Good…how do we taste?”

I nodded in response, attempting to sit up but he laid me back down. Laying down next to me with a smile on his face.

“You’re beautiful, baby. Did you know you started your menstrual?”

My brows furrowed, “excuse me?”

“Let me draw you a bath so you’ll feel better.”

“You fucked me knowin’ I was starting to bleed?”

Then I thought to myself for a moment as he winked at me, “yea, you’re a vampire. That sounds about right.”

Remmick looked at the corpse before looking back at me, “I’ll handle that, my family will help too.”

#remmick #remmick x black reader #remmick x black!reader #remmick x reader #sinners #sinners fanfiction #jack o'connell #sinners fanfic #Remmick sinners #sinners Remmick #lemon

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postgamevibes · 2 days ago

Text

Summary: You convinced Will to film one silly TikTok trend. Now he’s viral. Sharks Twitter has made memes. His teammates won’t let him live. And honestly? You’re loving it.

*********************************************************

You didn’t mean for it to go viral.

Truthfully.

It was just supposed to be a dumb little TikTok, a 15-second clip with your boyfriend and a trending audio that made you laugh. Something for your private account, your close friends, maybe a few likes from people who didn’t even know who Will was.

You definitely didn’t expect the Sharks official Twitter to repost it.

Or for the clip to hit 2.3 million views overnight.

Or for Will to become a meme.

But we’ll get to that.

It started on a slow Tuesday, the kind of day where Will was in sweats, lying upside down on the couch with his legs over the back cushions and a protein bar balanced precariously on his chest.

He’d had a morning skate, then an afternoon nap that bled into a mid-afternoon zone-out session. You were stretched out on the rug, scrolling TikTok with a mischievous grin tugging at your lips.

“Babe?” you said.

Will hummed without looking away from the ceiling.

“Do you love me?”

That got his attention. His head popped up like a gopher. “What kind of question is that?”

“A serious one.”

He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “…yes?”

You grinned. “Perfect. I need you to help me film something.”

“Nope.” He immediately flopped back down. “Not happening. I know that voice.”

“Will.”

“Last time you said that, I ended up dancing to Beyoncé in my boxers.”

“And it was iconic.”

“It was character assassination.”

“Come on. It’s just a trend. You barely have to do anything.”

He groaned but tilted his head to look at you again. “What’s the trend?”

You held up your phone. The video played: one partner is recording while the other one walks into the room, unsuspecting, and the person behind the camera hits them with a cheesy pick-up line or embarrassing confession. The hook? Their reaction.

Will watched three of them. Laughed at one. Gave a slow side-eye during another.

“Okay,” he finally said. “But if I end up a GIF, I’m holding you personally responsible.”

“You already are a GIF,” you teased. “The Sharks fanbase is unhinged.”

Will raised a brow. “And you’re making it worse.”

“Damn right.”

You waited until he was in the kitchen, humming quietly to himself while making his post-nap smoothie. He was in his go-to gray joggers and a Sharks hoodie, hair a mess, but you didn’t think he’d ever looked more dateable in his life.

You propped your phone against the salt shaker.

Started recording.

Walked up behind him, trying to keep a straight face.

“Hey Will,” you said sweetly.

He didn’t even turn around. “Yeah?”

“If you were a fruit, you’d be a fineapple.”

There was a beat of silence. Then another.

Will slowly turned his head toward the camera, blinked twice, and deadpanned, “I regret everything.”

You couldn’t stop laughing.

He reached for your phone, but you snatched it away before he could stop the recording. “Nope! It’s perfect. That face? Oscar-worthy.”

“I will end you.”

“You love me.”

“That doesn’t mean I want to be TikTok famous.”

Famous, no.

But viral?

Absolutely.

You posted it an hour later with the caption: he’s gonna kill me for this later 🍍 #finapple #nhlboyfriend #hockeysoftie

You didn’t even tag his name.

But the internet has ways.

By the time you woke up the next morning, the video had exploded.

Sharks Twitter had reposted it.

Will’s deadpan expression was a meme.

Someone had edited him in a Hawaiian shirt holding a pineapple smoothie with the text: “San Jose’s finest fruit.”

And your phone?

Blowing up.

You rolled over in bed and opened your notifications.

“Oh no.”

Will was still asleep, one arm thrown over your waist, mouth slightly open. Completely unaware that the internet had crowned him the NHL’s newest reluctant heartthrob.

You snorted and scrolled through the top comments:

“why is this the most boyfriend behavior i’ve ever seen”

“the way he didn’t even blink. iconic.”

“petition to start calling him fineapple smith”

“sharks players dating people with tiktok accounts should be ILLEGAL. my heart.”

You nudged Will gently. “Babe. Wake up.”

“Five more minutes,” he mumbled.

“Nope. You’re famous.”

His eyes cracked open. “What?”

You flipped the phone around.

He blinked at the video. Then the comments. Then the tweet from the Sharks’ official account.

Then he groaned and buried his face in the pillow. “This is my villain origin story.”

By the time Will got to practice, it was already too late.

The boys knew.

They all knew.

“Yo Fineapple,” Bordy chirped the second Will walked into the locker room. “Where’s your tropical smoothie?”

Will glared. “I will drop you in warmups.”

“Oh my god,” Eklund laughed. “Are you blushing?”

“You’re dead to me.”

Zetterlund poked his head around the corner, holding up his phone. “You really said ‘I regret everything.’ Bro, that delivery was Emmy level.”

Will walked straight to his stall, sat down, and sighed so dramatically you could hear it over the music.

Someone changed the locker room playlist to “Escape (The Piña Colada Song).”

He didn’t talk to you for twenty minutes after practice.

You were waiting outside, leaned against your car, sipping your coffee with a smug little smile.

“You think this is funny?” he asked, squinting into the sunlight.

“I think you’re trending on Twitter. Sharks fans are obsessed. They’re calling me ‘pineapple girl’ in the replies.”

He opened the passenger door and slid in. “I hate everything.”

“You love me.”

“I like you less today.”

“You’re grinning.”

He tried to stop, but a little smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. “Shut up.”

That night, you sat on the couch with Will’s head in your lap as the Sharks game recap played in the background.

You ran your fingers through his hair, scrolling through the comment section of the video for the hundredth time.

“Someone just posted fanart,” you said, showing him.

Will squinted. “Why do I have sunglasses and a lei?”

“Because you’re Fineapple Smith now. It’s canon.”

He groaned but didn’t move. “You’re never letting this go, are you?”

“Never.”

He tilted his head, looking up at you. “Fine. Then I get to post the next one.”

Your hand paused in his hair. “Wait. Really?”

“You started this. I’m finishing it.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes.”

Two days later, Will posted a video with the caption: revenge is sweet 🍍

The audio was from some dramatic soap opera moment, and the video was him walking into frame shirtless with a pineapple in one hand and your bathrobe over his shoulders.

He winked at the camera.

It got 5 million views.

You were toast.

But at least you were his toast.

And if being TikTok’s favorite hockey couple meant living in a world where people made fruit puns about your boyfriend on the daily?

Well, you figured there were worse kinds of trouble to be in.

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reiderwriter · 2 days ago

Text

A Dream, A Kiss, A Wire

A (very late) submission for @imagining-in-the-margins Undercover challenge!!

Prompts: Character is surprised when their undercover partner is *very* good at pretending to be in love with them. “It’s just acting.” / “So you can make your heart race like that on command?”

Warnings: mentions of case details (bombing/ arson), mainly fluff

A/N: I don't know when the last time I posted fluff was, but I had a lot of fun writing this, so I hope you all enjoy it! I'm trying to post more regularly once a week now, so hopefully, I'll have something else for you next Sunday~

Masterlist

Two months of undercover work was probably standard in the FBI. You hadn't exactly been in the FBI that long, obviously, or in any job too long for that matter, being pretty fresh from a decade in academics, but you were a hard worker, and you got work done.

But your undercover work with the BAU wasn't exactly what you would call work.

You woke up in the morning, cooked breakfast for your fake husband, went to your pilates class with the other neighborhood wives, went to your fake job, and then went back to your fake home where you publicans flirted with your fake husband outside for an hour or two to make your real neighbors believe in your fake relationship.

So that hopefully, one of them would attempt to blow you up.

With three “accidental” house fires in the neighborhood in the last year, and insurance company who'd been investigating potential fraud in the area had tipped off the BAU of a possible undiscovered arsonist, though you'd quickly deduced as a team that your unsub was likely a bomber instead.

A few months of surveillance, and then the gradual introduction of pairs of agents into the neighborhood under heavy cover, and here you were.

Making your fake husband pancakes.

Spencer emerged into the kitchen to one of his favorite views in recent months. You'd been the first pair put in, the one most likely to get attention quickly, the team had said. He watched as you hummed along to the morning radio, stacking up piles of pancakes and dancing along as you cooked.

You looked happy.

The concept of pretending to be married hadn't sat well with Spencer at first. He was never the greatest actor, and his last attempt at cover with Cat Adams hadn't exactly lasted too long. He was two months in now, sure, but he owed most of that to you.

Every time he'd blundered, you'd been there to help him out.

You'd suggested working on the garden together at the weekend to show off your effective communication as a couple. He'd let you feed him strawberries and sprayed you with the water hose, causing a water fight the neighborhood kids had politely asked to be included in.

You'd also been the one to request weekly flower bouquets, preferable from the local florist, just so everyone could see how dedicated he was to his wife. You'd sneezed heavily into the first few bouquets, and he'd requested mainly tulips, roses, and carnations after that when your nose looked a little red.

You'd also been the one to hook your legs around his waist in the swimming pool in your back yard - in clear view of at least 5 neighbors houses - and angle your head just so, inspiring pats on the back from a few heavy handed husbands at the neighborhood barbecue the week after.

That was all to say, Spencer thought you were an incredible actor.

Until that morning, when you'd rolled over in the bed you shared after waking up and kissed him full on the lips as you groggily said good morning, before padding off to the bathroom to take your morning shower.

If Spencer hadn't been awake before then, he definitely was after. It was like every cell in his body jolted at the touch of your lips. You'd zapped him with a lightning bolt, then walked off so casually he didn't even have the time to question you.

By the time he stood to follow, the sounds of the shower were already pronounced alongside his own heartbeat.

It took the best part of the morning to remind himself that this was just work. You were just acting, and you'd gotten into the role.

“And don't forget to head to the dry cleaner today in your way home from work, I dropped off some summer dresses last week and your other work blazer and they called twice yesterday to say they were done-”

He listened to you happily telling him what to do as he ate his pancakes, responding where you wanted him to respond, and being a generally agreeing husband, all the while thinking about how your lips felt pressed against his.

He thought as well about the way your body felt against his. You'd been sharing a bed for two months, and obviously, you'd ended up tangled in one another more than once. He'd never let himself think about it as any more than an extension of work before that morning, though. Part of the cover.

And now he felt the contours of your body matched his in a way that made the tips of his ears pink.

His eyes - and attention - must've slipped away from where you thought they'd ought to briand you looked at him with a questioning glance.

“Spencer?”

“Hmm? Yes, dry cleaning and visit Tara at the bank. Anything else?” he asked, begging you to say nothing about where he'd just been caught looking.

“No. You got everything. Well, just make sure you wash up the breakfast pots on the way out, I'm leaving for pilates now.”

Without another word, Spencer watched you grab your car keys from the basket in the foyer, directly down the hall from his seat at your kitchen island, and felt a sense of dread.

He couldn't let you go again without asking you about the kiss, his body screamed at him, though his mind begged him to be rational.

His body seemed to win out rather quickly, as he called after you just as you opened the front door.

“Wait,” he said, jogging to catch up with you before he pulled you into his arms. The memory of the pool filled his thoughts to the point where he could almost smell the chlorine, the tips of his ears aflame with the sensation of your breath against his skin.

You tried to relax into his hug, knowing that a few of your neighbors were already outside, getting their cars ready to go to work. “Spencer,” you whispered, “What are you doing?”

His eyes flicked to your lips as he thought about just kissing you then and there. But the almost worried look on your face had him loosening his grip slightly, losing his resolve.

Luckily, the shame at his loss of self-control made his head drop slightly, just enough to catch the translucent wire centimetres from your foot glare in the sunlight.

At the worst possible time for Spencer Reid, you'd had your biggest break in the case in months.

...

A week later, you were you again and on the jet with colleagues you hadn't fully been able to interact with in months. Of course, you'd seen them all about the neighborhood, and you laughed and joked about it now that you were going back to your real lives.

“I swear to the almighty himself, if Joy ever suggests putting me in one of those old people's homes really, I want you to just take me out back and shoot me,” Rossi complained, swearing off slippers and bingo for the foreseeable future.

“You had company at least,” Luke muttered, having been confined to a small apartment on the upper side of the neighborhood that coincidentally housed all their surveillance equipment.

“Speaking of company, how was married life?” Emily joked, elbowing Spencer in the side from her seat next to him.

“It was… it was good,” he said, taking a sip of water from his bottle and avoiding all eye contact from everyone.

“Okay…. Y/N, what about you? What was Spencer like as a husband?”

You looked nervous as Spencer finally found it in himself to look at someone else again, desperately avoiding Emily's probing gaze.

“It was…. Nice. To switch off for a while. Not think too much, just…. Pretend?”

“Really? It was hard for me to get into character, and I lived alone. You and Spencer had to keep up a double act,” Luke laughed and shook his head, and Spencer found the ensuing silence more than a little awkward.

“I don't know, I just think it was kind of nice,” you said after too long of a pause. “Living with someone again. Less lonely, you know?”

Some sad smiles flicked your way in sympathy, then out the window, and you found yourself looking up at Spencer directly across from you and smiling shyly.

“Maybe I should start dating again,” you sighed under your breath when no one else was listening. But Spencer was listening. Spencer was always listening to you.

Two days in the office working late on paperwork and research was all Spencer could handle before he started asking questions.

Two hours into overtime, the moon was out, and the light in the office had dimmed just enough for the majority of the light in the room to be coming from your computer screen and desk lamp.

Spencer watched you casually, quick to look away any time you looked up at him, the feeling of his eyes burning into you, alerting you to his attention.

After a few minutes of looking up just as he looked away, you sighed in resignation and confronted him.

“What is it, Spencer?”

“Hmm? No, um… nothing,” he said, fumbling his pencil so it fell to the ground. He stood and retrieved it before hesitating and taking a step closer to your desk.

“You're really good at your undercover work, you know?” He said with a cute smile, leaning on the side of your desk as you looked up at him.

“What does that mean?” you asked, suddenly on edge. Spencer didn't usually pay you compliments, and you'd hoped to completely drop the topic of the cover completely after you'd landed and closed the case.

“I don't know, it's just… it seemed like you put a lot of yourself into it.”

“It was work. I put a lot of myself into everything I do. Work is included in that.”

“Work…” he said, nodding. He almost turned around and walked away. Almost.

“You kissed me that morning, you know?”

It didn't come out loud, but it resonated around the empty room anyway as you felt your heartbeat faster.

“You were awake?” You squeaked out before you could stop yourself, suddenly looking up Spencer with pleading eyes as you willed him to tell you he was joking.

“Yes, I was- hold on, you thought I was asleep? You kissed me because you thought I was asleep?” he asked, genuinely confused.

“It was just something… I didn't think, and-”

“Y/N, I kissed you back. Why did you think I was asleep?”

“Well, you didn't kiss back hard enough if I hardly noticed, did you?” you pouted, trying to go back to your work, but finding yourself with a brain so blank you couldn't even pretend to type. “I was acting, Spencer. I just.. got too into it, I suppose.”

“Y/N, look at me please,” Spencer pleaded, but you kept your head stubbornly turned away.

You felt his eyes on you, heard him take a step closer. Then another. You felt him loom over you, saw his hand come to rest beside yours on your desk.

Finally, you cracked.

“Spencer, I really don't think-” you stood and faced him, and immediately regretted both actions.

You'd shared a bed for two months, but this was definitely the closest you'd ever gotten. You could practically taste Spencer. You stood almost attached at the hip, his mouth not even inches from your own, but centimetres.

His forehead practically rest against your own, and he clutched your waist for balance, bringing you in closer.

You were stunned into silence, and when he grabbed your wrist in his hand and looked down at it in silence for a minute, you stood with baited breath for him to do something, anything else.

“The average resting heart rate for someone your age and activity level is around 75 beats per minute. I estimate yours is currently between 112 and 115. Are you acting now, too?”

You almost wanted to pull away and pout, but before you could do anything with your bottom lip, he'd claimed it with his own. His kiss was soft and delicate but intentional. His second was bolder, harder, and invasion of all your senses as he cupped your chin in his hand and lifted it just a little higher, pressing his tongue between your lips as he begged for permission.

A small moan granted him everything he wanted, as his hands sparked up your skin.

When he finally pulled away, not far enough to be out of your reach yet, your pants filled the air, syncopated as you breathed each other in and out.

“Let's keep acting. Just for now,” he gasped, whispering in your ear as he stroked your cheeks.

“Please,” he whispered as he once again claimed your lips.

#spencer reid #criminal minds #spencer reid x reader #reiderslibrary #spencer reid fanfic #mgg #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fandom #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid criminal minds #dr spencer reid #spencer reid x reader fluff #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #criminal minds fluff

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cowboybeepboop · 16 hours ago

Text

Delight

"Fuck, you’re so beautiful… My pretty baby."

Pairing: Robert “Bob” Reynolds x fem! Reader

Genre: Smut

Word count: 2.5k

Summary: Pampering Bob turns into much more.

a/n: As always, send me any requests you might have!! I love writing them, also, if anyone would like to be tagged in anymore of my Bob/Lewis Pullman fics let me know!!

For the past 14 months you've been acting as sort of Bucky's assistant, helping him to keep track of the new avengers and keep Bob company when the team goes out for missions/training. This being one of the days where just you and Bob occupy the tower.

When the rest of the team has left for training or other missions, the tower always feels a bit different. There's a certain tranquility, but there's also an underlying sense of loneliness that lingers in the air. And that's exactly how it feels today.

Bob, who spent most of the morning in his room meditating, walks downstairs to the main area, rubbing his tired eyes. He notices you sitting on the couch, and for a moment, there's a shyness in his gaze that betrays his otherwise soft-spoken nature.

"Good morning, Bob!" you greet him with a friendly yet sleepy smile. Bob gives you a small smile back, the tiredness in his eyes still evident.

"Mornin'... you’re up early," he replies in his soft, slightly timid voice. He walks over to the couch and sits down next to you. It's clear he's a little disheveled, his hair sticking up in odd directions and his clothes slightly rumpled.

"Bucky woke me up when they left," you groan, stretching your arms in front of you slightly. "He's so loud." Bob chuckles lightly, nodding his head in understanding.

"Yeah, he can be a bit... enthusiastic first thing in the morning," he says, a hint of amusement in his voice. He then looks at you, his eyes still tired but a little bit of curiosity now in them. "And how about you? Did you sleep well?" he asks, tilting his head slightly, the gesture almost making him look puppy-like.

"I could've used some more sleep but that's okay," you turn to face him, a mischievous smile on your face. "Hey Bob, I've got an idea.." Bob raises one eyebrow, a little glint of intrigue in his eyes.

"An idea, huh?" he says, his voice still soft and somewhat timid. "What kind of idea? Should I be worried?" He gives you a half smile, clearly curious but also a bit nervous at the same time.

"Oh most definitely!" your grin only grows, "Stay right here, I'll be back in a second." you pat his shoulder before scurrying off to your room. Bob watches you go with a mixture of confusion and amusement in his eyes. He stays seated on the couch, his tired gaze fixed on the spot where you disappeared. Quickly you grab things you can use to pamper the man; face masks, razors, tweezers, etc.

When you return with your supply of 'pampering' items, Bob raises both eyebrows, a hint of surprise in his expression. "What's all this for?" he asks, eyeing the items you've laid out in front of him. There's a touch of apprehension in his voice, as if he's both curious and a bit wary of what you've got planned.

"I'm gonna pamper you today," you grab the fluffy headband and slip it over his head, brushing his hair back and revealing his handsome face. "Just trust me and relax," Bob's eyes widen slightly as you slip the headband onto his head, and he looks a bit taken aback by your sudden desire to pamper him.

"Pamper... me?" he says, the word sounding a bit foreign on his tongue. There's a mix of uncertainty and curiosity in his expression, but he trusts you enough to go along with it. "Alright..." he says softly, attempting to relax his tensed shoulders, "I'll try to relax. Just... don't go full makeover on me, okay?"

"You're too pretty for makeup, Bob," you giggle, slowly putting a mask on his face, fixing it to fit his features. "Now we'll let this sit for the next 15 minutes," you slip one on your face to match, relaxing back into the couch as you flip through movie options on the tv.

Bob looks a bit self-conscious when you compliment his looks, a hint of a shy smile playing at the corner of his lips. He tentatively touches the mask on his face, feeling its unfamiliar coolness against his skin.

"So, what kind of movies are we looking at here?" he asks softly, his eyes darting to the Tv and then back to you.

"Lets see..." you murmur, spending all of the 15 minutes trying to find a movie with Bob. "Okay, is this one alright?" After a long and arduous browsing session, you finally settle on a movie. Bob leans back on the couch, making himself comfortable, his mask still on his face.

"Yeah, that one looks fine," he replies softly. There's a hint of excitement in his eyes, a break in his usual tired expression.

As the movie begins to play, he looks over at you, his gaze betraying a mix of gratitude and a hint of unease. "Thanks for... this," he says, gesturing to the mask on his face.

"Thanks for letting me do it," once both of your masks are off to the side you begin to mess with his eyebrows. "This is gonna hurt a little bit," you tweeze a couple hairs earning a small hiss from Bob.

Bob winces a bit as you start to work on his eyebrows. He's not used to physical pampering, but he can't deny the fact that it feels kinda nice.

"Okay, ow, ow, ow," he mutters softly, flinching a little with each pluck of a hair. Despite the pain, he tries to keep still, a mixture of discomfort and resignation on his face. After a few moments of tweezing, he lets out a soft sigh. "Are you almost done?"

"Just a few more minutes.." you murmur, moving to straddle him, your ass softly resting against his thighs as you continue focusing on his face.

At first, Bob's eyes widen in surprise when you straddle his thighs, clearly not expecting the sudden proximity. A hint of pink appears on his cheeks, and he gazes up at you, his expression a mixture of flustered and confused.

"Uh... okay," he mutters softly, trying to keep his composure even as his heart rate quickens just a bit. Bob takes a deep breath and tries to focus on anything but the way your body feels on his, the close proximity making him slightly flustered.

Bob's breath hitches slightly as your hand grips his cheek, turning his face from side to side. He's clearly unused to being handled so gently, and the closeness of your face to his sends a shiver down his spine.

"Um... uh.." he stutters, words failing him as his gaze flicks from your eyes to your lips. The contact between your body and his, the way you so confidently invade his personal space, it's both unsettling and exciting to him.

"Is something wrong?" you shift slightly on his lap, looking at him concerned. Your hand gently caresses his face. Bob's heart races at your gentle touch, his pale cheeks flushing a pinkish hue. He looks up at you, the closeness of your face bringing a mixture of tension and vulnerability in his expression.

"No... nothing's wrong," he mutters softly, his tone betraying a hint of nervousness. He's clearly overwhelmed by your proximity, the feeling of your body on his lap, the way your hand gently caresses his face. His eyes dart to your lips, then back to your eyes, and he swallows hard.

As you shift on his lap, Bob's hands instinctively find their way to your waist, gently gripping it as if to steady you. His touch is tentative, almost reverent, as if he's touching something precious and fragile.

Heat pools in your stomach as Bob holds onto you, your hips mindlessly moving down on his ever so slightly before you catch yourself in the act. "Oh, uh, sorry I'm slightly restless." you try to awkwardly brush it off.

Bob doesn't miss the way your hips move down on his ever so slightly, his grip on your waist involuntarily tightening a bit in response. The action sends a jolt through his body, and he swallows hard, his gaze fixed on you.

"It's... it's alright," he mutters softly, his voice slightly huskier than usual. He tries to hide the effect your closeness has on him, but there's a hint of desire in his eyes that betrays his composure.

Bob's eyes darted to yours, searching for any signs of objection, his own eyes filled with a tentative hunger. He starts to grind his hips upward, almost sneakily at first, as if testing the waters. His erection grows with each subtle movement, pressing against you through his sweatpants. His breathing becomes shallower, his hands on your waist guiding you in a rhythm that matches his own.

The atmosphere in the room changes, growing thick with unspoken desire.

Your head falls onto his shoulder, your breath hot against his neck, small gentle moans leaving your parted lips. “Fuck, Bob.” You quickly stand up, taking a few steadying breath as your set your stuff onto the table.

Bob's eyes widen at your sudden decision to stand, disappointment and confusion clear on his face. "Wait, what's wrong?" he asks, his voice a mix of concern and curiosity.

He's still a bit flustered, his cheeks flushed and his arousal clearly visible through his sweatpants, but he's more confused by your sudden change in demeanor. He reaches out to grab your wrist, his touch tentative, "What are you doing?"

“I’m just cleaning up a bit,” you slide out of your shorts and underwear, biting your lip as you move back between his legs, fumbling with the waistband of his pants.

You take a deep breath, your eyes darkened with lust, and lean down to kiss Bob deeply. His hands move from your waist to cup your ass, pulling you closer to him. He kisses you back with a passion that surprises you, his tongue exploring your mouth eagerly.

You feel his hands begin to slide down your thighs, urging you to straddle him once more. You oblige, settling over his lap, aligning your body with his. He pulls your shirt over your head, exposing your whole body to the chill air.

With a grind of your hips, you feel the head of his cock nudge against your entrance, still covered by the fabric of his pants. The anticipation is agonizingly delicious. Bob's hands move to the waistband of his sweatpants, pushing them down just enough to free his erection.

You sink back down onto his lap, the tip of his cock teasing your wetness. He groans into your mouth as you take him in, inch by inch, feeling him stretch and fill you completely. Your hands grip his shoulders tightly as you adjust to the feeling of his length inside you.

With a needy whine, you rock your hips back and forth, savoring the feeling of him stretching you open. Bob's grip tightens on your ass, guiding your movements as he thrusts up to meet you, his eyes never leaving yours.

The sound of your skin slapping against his fills the air, along with your increasingly desperate moans. You lean back, placing your hands on the couch cushions for support, and grind down on him, taking his entire length with a shuddering gasp.

The new angle hits your g-spot, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your body. Bob's eyes glaze over as he watches your breasts bounce with each movement, and he can't help but reach up to fondle them, his thumbs brushing over your hardened nipples.

His hips buck upwards, driving into you with a fervor that matches your own, your wetness making each stroke smoother, each thrust more urgent. With a surprising surge of strength, Bob stands up with you still impaled on his cock, his arms wrapping around your waist to support you.

He carries you over to the nearby armchair and gently lowers you down into it, your legs draping over the sides. He positions himself in front of you, his muscular frame towering above as he takes over the pace of your lovemaking.

Your eyes widen in a mix of awe and arousal at the display of his power, feeling utterly dominated yet cherished in his arms. You wrap your legs around his waist, urging him closer as he begins to thrust into you with a gentle yet firm force.

Bob's movements are calculated, each one hitting the perfect spot within you, as if he's reading your body like a map of pleasure. You lean back, arching your neck, and he takes the opportunity to kiss and suck along the delicate skin, leaving a trail of love bites in his wake.

Your nails dig into his back, leaving faint marks as you scratch him in your passion. The sensation sends a thrill through his body, spurring him on as he continues to fuck you with increasing vigor.

The sound of your moans and the wet slap of your bodies echo in the quiet room, the intensity of your connection growing with each passing second. You take one of his hands and bring it to your mouth, sucking on his fingers before tracing them down to your clit, guiding him to give it the attention it craves.

His touch sends waves of pleasure through you, and you feel your orgasm building, threatening to overtake you at any moment. Bob's eyes never leave yours, watching every expression of ecstasy that flits across your face. He adjusts his angle slightly, and you gasp as he hits that spot again and again.

Your breath comes in pants and gasps, your eyes glazed with lust. His own need is palpable, his body trembling with the effort to hold back. But he's determined to bring you to the edge first, to hear you scream his name in pleasure.

As you ride the wave of your climax, you can't help but bite down on his neck, leaving your own mark on his skin. His groans of pleasure only serve to push you higher, your body clenching around him as you come.

The sensation of your tightening pussy is too much for Bob to handle, and with a final, powerful thrust, he joins you in release, his hot cum filling you up as he spills over the edge. For a moment, the two of you stay like that, panting and trembling in the aftermath of your shared passion, before he gently pulls out and sits down beside you.

You lean into him, your bodies sticky with sweat, and he wraps his arms around you, holding you close. Bob's heart is racing and his breathing is ragged as he holds you close to his chest. He's completely dazed by the intensity of what just happened, the room still filled with the evidence of their passion.

He gently brushes some sweaty strands of hair out of your face, his touch now tender and loving, a stark contrast to the heated passion of moments ago. "Fuck, you’re so beautiful… My pretty baby." he whispers, his voice a soft, reverent tone.

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gay-dorito-dust · 19 hours ago

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Hello dear author, hope your day is going well. This is my first time requesting, so please bear with me. I was wondering if you can perhaps write about bob with a reader who likes to paint/draw. It can be like general headcanons or an actual fic where the reader likes to draw him because she likes him but is scared of rejection so she resorts to admiring from afar, until he comes across an opened sketchbook and he can’t help but glance at it and freezes when he sees himself and a whole lot of fluffy cuteness ensues. Sorry if it’s too specific, you can do whatever you want with this. I love your writing and hope you have a nice rest of your day :D

Art was a talent you had honed out when your mind got too loud, you drew or painted things or people that brought you joy or you felt a companionship with, which was why your walls were littlered in skteches of cute puppies and kittens along with drawings of your fellow teammates: John on his phone, Yelena with Fanny and her guinea pig Houdini, Ava phasing through a wall, Alexei and his 'Avengerz' outfit in responce to Sam's copyright claim.

but the one person you seemingly skteched the most was Bob Reynolds, the man you seemingly felt the need to capture every single movement as though you'll never see him read a book, wash the dishes or just do domestic tasks within the Watchtower. He was at peace when doing all these things, his brow wasn't furrowed, his bottom lip wasn't bitten to death, his hands weren't raw from his wringing of them.

you even drew his messy mop of hair as it falls infront of his eyes, his small smiles as he watched the rest of your team squable over who's turn it was for movie night. You even drew his interactions with the stray kittens and alleyway dogs that he often feed and kept hydrated whenever they were at the doorstep of the Watchtower. His heart was kind and knew no end of it either as no matter what Bob was presented with, he was gentle and kind with it.

He was so beautiful that you feared that you could only ever view such a beauty like him from afar, he was a sacred treasure that should be seen but never touched. You couldn't help yourself when you fell for him, he was light and warmth within invinsible but very human skin, he was like a gentle breeze that ruffled your clothes and the tops of trees, the birdsong that woke you up every morning with his sweet voice greeting you as you walked into the kitchen only to see him there with two mugs already prepared.

He had remembered how you took your drink, how you like your sandwhitches cut and which bowl you prefered to eat ceral out of. It seemed as though his mind was a massive memory bank of small things that he had taken notice about everyone and kept it within himself to honour those small thing he noticed about everyone on the team.

so you dedicated an entire sketchbook to him, every single last page was filled to the brim with him falling asleep in his book nook chair, him sat at the very end of the sofa during movie nights, hands on his lap as though he didn't want to intrude on anyone else's personal space amongst many more. Bob was and is your muse who you could never stop drawing and or painting as you felt it would be a dishonour to him for he was the man who should have sketches and stories made about him.

at least you thought so but you were someone that saw through the eyes of an artist and Bob oh so happened to be the apple of your eye. It was as though your heart was telling you to immortalise this man however you could and make him look the most beautiful man in existance, which you thought was impossible inicially as in your eyes Bob was already the most beautiful man you've ever met.

if anything Bob ruined all men for you for they could never compare to a man who only wanted to be more, to be useful in whatever way he could. They could never compare to a man who's smile warmed you immeditely, who's voice brought a sense of calm to your mind and who's presence was enough to reassure you that everything was okay.

The man was made to have art of him drawn even he might not think so, you couldn't confess your feelings to him in fear of putting him in an situation he wasn't ready for, and instead channel your feelings for Bob by drawing him as the man you saw daily; a gentle man who had immense strength that could easily crush anything with ease, yet he chose to be soft with everyone and everything. He would carfeully dog ear his books, put away the plates, cups and bowls with such cautiousness as though he feared the sound of ceraminc would disturb everyone in the tower.

you felt as though you could easily describe Bob within a few sentences or less, yet also feel as though that those very same sentences wouldn't do much justice for the man he actually was, he was everything you wish you could have and everything you knew you might never have as your feelings might not be reciprocated and you didn't want to disctract him when he was getting himself back on track.

so you kept silence and kept your heart drawn out on the pages of your sketchbook when your feelings became stronger, finding the blonde that lingered at the ends of Bob's hair just as beautiful as the rest of him as they glowed like gold in the light. Even when he fiddles with it between his fingers it looked like he was toying with strands of gold, looking at them with indifference and a sence of regret. You wish you could tell him how you saw him, but felt as though you were overstepping a line somehow, so once again you remained silent.

You thought you had concealed your feelings well enough with your drawings, yet when you went out of the room to grab something to eat and drink after realising how long you've went without. Yet what you didn't know was that Bob had come to your room to do just that, having noticed your absense for a good majority of the day and having grown concerned when he remembered just how little you had to eat since this morning.

you both missed each other by at least a millisecond, like two shooting stars with totally different locations to be, barely getting to see one another by anything other then a short lived glance.

By the time Bob got to your room it was clear to him that he had missed you somewhere, but something told him to still go into your room as he gazed at the sketches, drawings and paintings that littered your walls, giving your room life and an insight to your creativity as he admired each one of your works, wishing he could have as much talent as you did.

there were sketches of john, Ava, Alexei, Yelena doing their own thing but what caught Bob's attention the most was the sketchbook that lied upon your bed, open to an unfinshed sketch of...him? Bob didn't mean to pry into your personal belongings but he didn't think he was worth being drawn, being immortalised by your hands and the closer he got to the book, the feeling of becoming breathless worsened within his chest as he got to glimpse at what you saw when you looked at him.

there were sketches of him reading in his book nook, caring for the strays that came to the tower, just Bob doing Bob things but the way you made him seem ehtreal, like there was no possible way that he could exist in a life so shitty. you made him look at peace, at calm and so normal, you made him with the intention of drawing him as just Bob, not sentry nor void but just bob and only bob.

Bob wondered how long you've been drawing him for to know about the whole feeding the strays thing, but the further he looked into the book, the anwser became clearer, you've always known as there were drawings for when after the void inncident months ago, his hair blonde in some parts but mainly his natural brown nonetheless. you made a man like him look like both a god and yet have the manerisms of a simple man, you made him look as though he held all the light in existance within his very being.

You made him look nothing like who he saw himself as, nothing like the person he despised when looking in the mirror every day, you made him look like someone who was proud and happy to get to be alive and to be the embodiment of something he never really thought of himself as. It made Bob wonder if this is truly how you saw him, seeing as he always second guessed himself and lacking confidence in some aspects of life, so seeing someone like you view him the way you did through an artists standpoint as though you couldn’t stop drawing him no matter what he did, as if you would rather waste every single bit of paper drawing him in his baggy sweater and lounge pants a million times over then ever leave it empty.

You’d rather have a filled sketchbook of him then an empty and devoid of life one, always feeling the need to keep reminding yourself that he existed and he was seeing joy the perfect muse for you, seeing as there were more sketches of him then the rest of the team combined and that was enough to have his cheeks flushed and his heart rate a little elevated. Bob might not see himself the way you do just yet but by god he hopes he does because the way you see him makes him feel beautiful, seen and heard in a multitude of ways.

He had read how people wished they were the muse to an artist as it meant being immortalised by them, to be seen in a light that they never could, and Bob didn’t know he needed the same thing until he saw your drawings of him taking care of Fanny and Houdini when Yelena was off on a mission, putting away dishes, bowls and cutlery, or even when he had found himself fighting sleep with the way you’ve captured him teetering between sleep and staying awake. Bob now understood why being seeing as a muse, seen by an artist was something so heavily desired because now he got to be the muse, he got to have what others always wanted and he genuinely didn’t want you to stop even if his emote body felt like it was on fire but in the best way, the only way he ever wanted.

He felt wanted, he felt needed and most of all he felt loved by every single sketch you’ve drew of him.

He alters thought you didn’t like him like that, at least not that he could tell seeing as you were seemingly always drawing whenever he was near, now he knew that wasn’t true. For even if he was just simply standing there you’d draw him with the light shining his body in a way that he would’ve never taken notice to before, you’d draw him with a halo and angel wings for all he cared and still he’d felt like his heart was somehow getting even faster then before as his hands eagerly flipped to the next sketch of him as the dark thoughts within his head dissipated.

If you saw him like this then you must like him, there’s no other explanation to it, but Bob didn’t want to pressure you into confessing nor did he want to admit that he went through your things without permission, yet he couldn’t help the way the sketchbook called to him into having a nosy, into having a look until he was practically absorbing everything the sketchbook had to offer. Bob had a little book of his own that he wrote things in, whether it’d be his thoughts or how his day went or his general views on the likes of Yelena -whom he saw as a surrogate sister- Ava, John and Alexei. Yet when it came to you Bob could write paragraph after paragraph of words and still feel like it wasn’t enough to describe you and how you made him feel.

So looking at your sketches made him realise there was a common ground between the two of you, both indulgence in the art of expression through different mediums, both having a good chunk of a book dedicated to the other as if you’ll die if you stopped, destined to only ever keep the other on your mind and no body else. Bob didn’t think his writing was all that good, most of it was how he felt during that time so there was scribbles and rushed writing that looked unintelligible, almost as if he was on a time limit but in reality he was unable to properly write down or formulate coherent sentences whenever you were the subject. He couldn’t help it and from the looks of your sketchbook you couldn’t help it either.

So when Bob heard that you were heading back to your room, he was quick to put the sketchbook where he found it and leave as quickly as he could in hopes of preventing you from getting skeptical that someone had rummaged through your room, looking through your things like a lovesick puppy wanting to know if his crush felt the same or not. He would find the strength to tell you one day but it was clear that wasn’t today.

When you got back to your room, you knew something was amiss for your sketchbook looked about as though it was hastily put back in place, like whoever or whatever was in here didn’t want you to know about their escapades.

And not only that but one of your sketches of Bob was taken, the sketch where you had drew him when the light from the massive glass windows hit his back, making him take your breath away upon gazing at him never less looking at him fully.

You knew you would soon find out who did it, because you didn’t know what you’d do if you were to find out that it might’ve been bob, even though you highly didn’t think he’d ever do such a thing as he was respectful and didn’t cross any boundaries much as he didn’t want anyone to cross his. You’ll get your answer soon enough, even if it means interrogating the group to find out who had taken your sketch.

Meanwhile Bob in his room was staring at the aforementioned sketch, holding it to his chest as a weight lifted from his chest, glad to know that the person who he liked liked him just as much back, but he knew you’d knew soon enough and come looking but he wasn’t exactly going to hide. No. He wasn’t going to as he was going to wait until you figured it out that it was indeed him who took the sketch and finally get what he’s been wanting to say off of his chest once and for all.

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amirawrah · 3 days ago

Text

⭐︎Blocked Love

with JUDE BELLINGHAM⭐︎

synopsis: A heart that ran from love finally comes back, but is it too late to fix what was broken?

amirah: here is a little draft, hope yall like it!

You were never quite sure what to call it—what you and Jude had.

It wasn’t just sex, though that part came easy. It was the way he looked at you when you were mid-rant about something stupid. The way his hand always found yours. The quiet dinners. The sleepy good mornings. The comfortable silences and the teasing touches. It was something. It just wasn’t… defined.

And you didn’t ask. Maybe because deep down, you already knew the answer you didn’t want to hear.

Still, it was enough for a while. Enough to keep letting him in, emotionally and physically, while pretending your heart didn’t ache every time he left without saying, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Until one day—he didn’t come back.

No message. No call. No voice note saying he was swamped. Just nothing.

You’d stared at your screen for far too long, thumb hovering over his name, until you finally tapped to open the chat and realized… you were blocked.

Blocked.

Like you were some casual fling he needed to erase. Like you didn’t know his favorite way to fall asleep. Like he hadn’t once kissed you in the middle of a grocery store aisle for no reason.

The worst part? You never even got the dignity of a goodbye.

The silence stretched for days.

Then weeks.

Every ding of your phone made your chest tighten. Every tagged post, every blurry party video, you watched with narrowed eyes—scanning for a glimpse of him.

And then you saw it. Jude. At some lounge in Madrid. Leaning in, whispering something to a girl with slicked-back hair and a red dress that hugged her like skin.

You didn’t cry. You refused to cry. You closed the app. You curled up under

Time dragged.

People who knew asked about him. Mutual friends danced around his name like it might bite. You smiled through it all, made jokes, told them you were good.

You weren’t.

And yet, life didn’t stop. You still went on your walks. Still worked. Still listened to the playlists he made you, because torturing yourself seemed easier than deleting him entirely.

A week after seeing him on someone’s story, you woke up and couldn’t shake the urge to leave the house. It was too stuffy. Too quiet. You needed air.

You slipped on your sneakers, hoodie pulled up, ready to escape the weight of your apartment. As you opened the door—

There he was.

Jude.

Standing on your front step. Holding a bouquet, like some tragic rom-com cliché. His curls were slightly messy, eyes tired, but his smile was soft and hopeful.

“Hey.”

Your body froze. For a second, you wondered if this was some sick hallucination brought on by three hours of sleep and half a protein bar.

But it was him. Real and breathing. Looking at you like the sun rose with you and not over Madrid.

You didn’t smile back. How could you.

You didn’t say anything.

You just stared—arms crossed, heart slamming against your ribs.

“I know,” he said, dropping his gaze. “You probably wanna slam the door in my face.”

You raised your brow.

“That crossed my mind,” you murmured.

He let out a breathy laugh, but it faded quickly. “Can I come in? Please.”

You hesitated. Not because you didn’t want to hear what he had to say—but because you weren’t sure your heart could take it.

Eventually, you stepped aside.

He stepped inside quietly, like he didn’t want to disturb the air between you, even though it was already thick with everything unsaid.

You closed the door behind him. The click echoed.

He held the flowers awkwardly, like he’d forgotten what to do with his hands. You didn’t offer a vase.

Jude looked around the room he hadn’t been in for weeks. Everything was the same. Everything was different.

You stood by the counter, arms crossed again.

“Say what you came to say,” you said, your voice soft, but not kind.

He looked down at the flowers. “These are for you.”

You didn’t move.

He swallowed hard. “I’ve been an idiot. I know. I know what it looks like—what I did, what I didn’t say.”

You tilted your head slightly. “You blocked me, Jude.”

His jaw clenched. “I know.”

“You ghosted me like I meant nothing.”

He shook his head quickly, taking a step toward you. “No. Don’t—don’t say that. You meant everything. That’s the problem.”

You blinked. “Well fucking elaborate jude.”

He ran a hand down his face. “I started falling in love with you, and it scared the hell out of me. We aren’t even together—we aren’t calling it anything, and I keet telling myself that its fine, that its just casual.”

“It wasn’t casual,” you said sharply. “At least not for me.”

“I know,” he said, pain pinching in his voice. “It wasn’t for me either. But I didn’t know how to do it. I didn’t know how to ask for more without losing what we had. So I did the stupidest thing imaginable. I tried to rip it off.”

You were quiet for a moment. “So you blocked me.”

He nodded. “Because seeing you—talking to you—was making it worse. I was already in too deep. And I thought maybe, if I created space, it’d go. That I’d forget the way you talk in your sleep, or how you make fun of me when I’m losing at Uno. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.”

Your heart twisted painfully.

“And then I saw you weren’t reaching out anymore,” he continued, “And I thought, maybe she’s moved on. Maybe she’s okay. So I tried to be okay too. Went on dates. Smiled in the photos.”

You clenched your jaw. “So I was just a phase you had to shake off?”

“No,” he said immediately. “You were the best thing that ever happened to me. And I ran from it like a coward.”

Silence settled between you again. He took a careful step closer.

“I never meant to hurt you,” he said. “But I did. And I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

You stared at him, arms still wrapped around yourself like armor.

“I waited, you know,” you whispered. “I waited for a call. A text. Anything. I checked your name every day like an idiot.”

Jude’s shoulders dropped like your words physically hit him.

“I never stopped thinking about you,” he said. “I blocked you to ease the pain, but it only made it worse. I thought I could force myself to stop loving you.”

Your breath caught.

He looked you in the eye, finally stepping close enough that you could feel the warmth of him.

“But I do,” he said softly. “I love you. I’m in love with you. I never stopped.”

Your arms slowly dropped to your sides.

You didn’t say anything.

He held the flowers out again—an awkward, pleading gesture. “I don’t expect you to forgive me. But I needed to tell you. Even if it’s too late.”

There was a long beat. And then you exhaled the breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

“I hate that I still love you,” you said, voice cracking.

His eyes flickered with hope.

“But I do,” you added, blinking back emotion. “I love you. And I hated you for making me feel like I wasn’t enough.”

He stepped closer again, setting the flowers down on the table so he could gently, cautiously touch your cheek.

“You’ve always been more than enough,” he said.

Your lips trembled.

And then—finally—you let yourself fall forward. Into his chest. Into the arms you missed every night. You felt his breath stutter as he held you tight, one hand at the back of your head like he was afraid you’d disappear.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, over and over, into your hair.

You pulled back just enough to look up at him, face inches from his.

“You don’t get to run again,” you said. “If we do this… we do it for real.”

His eyes were glassy. “I want that. I’ve always wanted that.”

Then he kissed you.

Not rushed. Not hungry.

Just soft. Real. Like a promise made with lips instead of words.

The kiss deepened slowly.

There was no urgency, no hunger to make up for lost time. Just warmth, like breathing after holding your breath too long. His hands cupped your face gently, and your fingertips curled into the soft cotton of his hoodie, grounding yourself in something real. Him.

When you finally pulled apart, your foreheads rested together.

You both smiled. Small. Tired. Safe.

“I missed you,” you whispered.

He kissed your cheek. “I missed us.”

You stepped back, finally picking up the forgotten flowers and walking to the kitchen to find a vase. Jude followed silently, like he didn’t want to be more than two steps away from you ever again.

As you filled the vase, you asked softly, “Are you staying tonight?”

“Do you want me to?”

You gave him a look. “Jude.”

He grinned a little. “Yeah. I want to stay. Not just tonight. Every night, if you’ll let me.”

You tried to hide the way your heart soared. “Let’s just start with one.”

The night was quiet after that. You reheated leftovers. He sat at your kitchen island watching you like he couldn’t believe he was here again, like he didn’t deserve this peace but was grateful for it anyway.

You both curled up on the couch afterward, half-watching a film neither of you really cared about. His arm wrapped around you, your legs over his, your head on his chest. His heartbeat was steady beneath your ear.

At one point, you looked up at him and whispered, “Why now?”

He blinked. “What do you mean?”

“Why come back tonight?”

He took a breath. “Because I saw a photo of you yesterday. Just walking. Headphones on. Laughing about something on your phone. And I realized that I could spend the rest of my life going on fake dates, trying to forget you—but I’d never be happy.”

You stared at him.

“And if you’d already moved on,” he added softly, “I was ready to let you go. But if there was even the smallest chance you still loved me… I had to try.”

Your eyes welled up.

You pressed your lips to his again, this time slower, more certain. Like something sacred. He pulled you closer, your bodies flush together, not out of lust—but because there was no other way to be close enough.

One kiss turned into two.

Two into more.

His hands slid up your waist, careful, familiar, patient.

He lifted you into his lap, your mouths still moving together, it wasn’t a firestorm—it was warmth. Home.

That night, you made love like it meant something. Like it always had.

No more confusion. No more blurred lines. Just you and him, rediscovering each other with whispered apologies and soft touches. His lips murmuring your name like a prayer. Yours tracing his shoulder like you were mapping your way back to something you never truly left.

He said “I love you” again. You said it back.

And when you finally collapsed together, tangled in sheets and each other, he kissed your forehead and smiled.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

You believed him this time.

#mirahsworks🦫#jude bellingham #jude bellingham x reader #jude bellingham smut #jude bellingham imagine #jude bellingham oneshot #jude bellingham x black reader #jude bellingham x you #footballer x black reader #footballer x reader #footballer x you #footballer x y/n

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emeraldserenade · 2 days ago

Note

As a request, Reader finds out she’s expecting a baby with Joaquin but is scared to tell him. She hides the pregnancy from everyone but his sister until something happens that can’t keep it hidden anymore (angsty but ultimately happy)

Only if you’re comfortable with writing it 🩷

Baby Baby ~ Joaquín Torres

synopsis: You hide your pregnancy from Joaquín

tw: fem!reader, morning sickness, reader has longer hair, abortion is mentioned (not considered), bombing, barely edited.

fic, ficlet, drabble, request

This was a nice challenge to write, I've never been around someone pregnant before (or at least at a time I can remember) so I only know what I've learned from school, movies, and some articles I've read.

➽──────────────❥

You knew Joaquín had a breeding kink but as you stared at the word, pregnant, you were washed with a sudden fear. You weren't sure if Joaquín saying those things were true or his aroused brain speaking. You shoved the test back in it's box and the box into your bag, you would hide everything.

You called Joaquín to tell him you were headed out for some errands and probably wouldn't be home when he got home. You had to lie to lie to him, you could't bring yourself to tell him, not yet. You ended up at his sister's house, she moved to DC not long ago and you had become very close.

"Y/n, I wasn't expecting you," Cassandra let you in right away. You didn't say anything, you just made your way to her couch and sat down. "Is everything ok? Do I need to talk to Joaquín?"

"No!" You rushed out and reached into your bag. "I'm," you couldn't bring yourself to say it, you just handed her the test.

"Oh my," she gasped but stopped when she saw your face. "You aren't happy?"

"I am, I am," you clarified. "It's just, Joaquín and I haven't actually talked about having kids. What if Joaquín doesn't want this baby or isn't ready?"

"Oh," she breathed out. "I want to help but I actually don't know what Joaquín's stance on kids is," she told you and you solemnly nodded.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

You threw the box away at Cassandra's house but kept the test in your purse. You had the morning sickness since before you took the test, it's why you took it. You had been lucky enough that Joaquín has been at work or stayed asleep every time you threw up. Joaquín caught you this time though, he woke up at a particularly loud retch.

"Sweetheart, what's wrong?" Joaquín held your hair back for you.

"I think I ate something that didn't agree with me," you lied smoothly, having this lie planned out for weeks.

"Do you think it was the food from the truck yesterday?"

"Could be," you retched at the end of your sentence but nothing more happened. You blindly reached for the bottle of perfume that you could smell, you felt that it was plastic and threw it out the bathroom. Joaquín said nothing and you were glad, you didn't have a lie for that one.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

Joaquín started to suspect you being pregnant, you were wearing bagger clothes and turned down all his advancements. You kept throwing up in the morning and you were more sensitive to smells. Joaquín didn't want to say anything, he believed that you would tell him if you were.

You, on the other hand, cried almost everyday at the fact that you were going through it alone by your own doing. You were absolutely terrified about what Joaquín would say, especially since you were past the point of abortion. You took away Joaquín's choice to choose if he wanted the kid and you felt horrible. You didn't want to baby trap him, but you wanted your baby. Even if that meant you lost Joaquín fully.

Cassandra had been going to all your prenatal appointments with you, holding your hand and taking photos and videos for when Joaquín does know. It was another thing you felt horrible about, if he did want your child, he wouldn't be there for all of this.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

Sam and Joaquín were at work when the phone rang and a security guard came rushing. "I'm sorry, but you should really look at the news," he rushed out before leaving. Sam and Joaquín turned on the TV and both rushed to grab their suits.

"The downtown plaza today was the target of the newest supervillain. The unnamed villain placed a bomb that went off at noon, there has been at least three confirmed casualties and twelve injured," the news anchor spoke. Joaquín's personal phone went off as he waited for Sam to finish.

"Joaquín, y/n and I were at the plaza. I'm ok but y/n, she's in the hospital," Cassandra told him and Joaquín's heart stopped.

"What? How bad is it?" Joaquín questioned and Sam looked over.

"I don't know, they won't tell me since I'm not family," Cassandra rushed out, the sounds of the hospital could be heard in the back.

"Joaquín, go, I'll go handle this myself," Sam put together what happened.

"Ok," Joaquín nodded at Sam. "I'll be right there," Joaquín told Cassandra.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

You were in the room alone, Joaquín was out in the hallway with a doctor. Your heart rate picked up and alerted both of them, they came running in to sooth you.

"Y/n, you were in an accident," the doctor told you. "You luckily didn't get any to severe injuries," he looked down at the chart in his hand. "And your baby girl is perfectly ok, a healthy nineteen week baby," he told you and you sobbed.

"It's a girl?" You questioned, hands landing on your stomach. It was definitely bigger than it was before.

"Did I just ruin a gender reveal?"

"No, I haven't had my gender appointment yet," you assured him and he nodded before leaving. You refused to look at Joaquín yet, you were sure he was mad at you.

"Angel," Joaquín called for your attention. "Please look at me, I'm not mad," he assured you and you finally looked over at him.

"I'm sorry," you sobbed as you looked over at him. "I was worried you wouldn't want her and I didn't want to lose you. Then it became too late and Cassandra kept telling me to tell you but I'm just so scared. I am so sorry," you sobbed even harder as you spoke.

"Sweetheart, I'm not mad. I'm a little disappointed that I missed everything so far," Joaquín gently ran his thumbs over your cheeks as he spoke.

"Cassandra has lot of videos and photos," you informed him. "You're happy?"

"I am more than happy," he assured you, kissing your forehead.

"Then when we get out of here, will you stand behind me and hold my stomach up?" You tried to make a joke to stop crying.

"I'll do anything you want and more," he kissed your forehead again.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

"Hi, you must be the father, Joaquín. Y/n here talks about you every time," your prenatal doctor, Jenny, shook Joaquín's hand.

"Hi, I am," Joaquín affirmed and took the seat next to you.

"Well, let's find out what your baby's gender is," she smiled and you grimaced slightly.

"We already know," you broke the fact to her. "I was in the plaza bombing, the doctor at the hospital said that she was fine," you said.

"Well then, let's take a look at your baby girl," Jenny took her seat and you took Joaquín's hand. You smiled when he kissed your knuckles, you finally felt better about this whole thing.

➽──────────────❥

Masterlist | Requests

#joaquin torres #joaquin torres x reader #joaquin torres x you #mcu #cabnw #cabnw spoilers #marvel mcu

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goldentoshi · 1 day ago

Text

𝙀𝙣𝙫𝙮

𝘊𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘦 𝘚𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘹 𝘉𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘬！𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴：𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨， 𝘴𝘮𝘶𝘵， 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨

𝘵𝘦𝘯 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘣𝘪𝘥𝘥𝘦𝘯 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 @merakidoll ♥︎

𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘺 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘢 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘨 𝘳𝘦𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘥！ 𝘪’𝘮 𝘴𝘶𝘱𝘦𝘳 𝘦𝘹𝘤𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘬 𝘣𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨！

𝘷𝘪𝘴𝘶𝘢𝘭𝘴（𝘵𝘸𝘵）：𝘰𝘯𝘦 | 𝘵𝘸𝘰 | 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘦 | 𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘳 | 𝘧𝘪𝘷𝘦

connie really prided himself on the values and morals he was taught. he knew that it wasn't that common for someone in his age group to have the same level of emotional maturity that he did. with that being said, he really tried to keep his cool and talk most things out.

this was not something he could just talk it out.

his best friend and roommate, jean, recently got himself a girlfriend. not just any girlfriend, he got the baddest bitch connie had ever laid his eyes on. connie wanted her so bad, for so long - something that jean knew when he pursued you - and he was in awe everytime he saw you. he would give you his firsts, lasts and everything in between.

connie knew something you didn't know though. you were jean's rebound, if you could even call it that.

jean was still actively in love with mikasa ackerman. he would sell his soul to dave her over you anyday. however, jean being jean, he kept his feelings inside and tried to suppress them. if jean was with you and mikasa needed him, he would drop everything to go to her. & connie could start to see you getting more and more fed up.

connie (and his other two roommates, eren and armin) noticed how often mikasa was over their house late at night, sneaking out in the early mornings. it pissed connie off, he was so envious of jean and jeans's dumbass didn't even know what he has.

connie woke up to the smell of food being cooked and he immediatly knew who it was. he walked into his bathroom, brushed his teeth and made sure he looked presentable. he didn’t bother changing out his sleep pants, and he definitely didn’t out a shirt in. he wanted you to see him just like this. he passed the staircase where he could see your shoes, and he made his way to the kitchen. you were wearing a moomoo with your bonnet, and with every movement you made, connie could see verying move. everything. "g'morning pretty girl."

you turned around and smiled at him before looking him up and down. "good morning connie! i'm almost finished. i'm making pancakes, and i make yours crispy around the edges, just how you like them."

"you ain't have to do all that mama." he said. he walked over to you, towering over you a bit. you looked up at him, his hazel eyes pulling you into a trance. his stubble and piercings really pulling his already perfect face together. you guys looked at each other in silence for a bit before a voice broke the trance. you thought to yoursled, why did you give up on connie and settle with his homeboy?

“w’sup y/n. where's jean?" eren asked as he and armin walked from upstairs.

"mmcht." you kissed your teeth, looking down at the pancakes you were flipping. "that nigga went to go help mikasa go shopping. who goes shopping at 10am as soon as the mall open? mind you, he neva ever asked me if i wanted to go with them or nothing. he left while i was still sleep and texted me to see when i woke up."

"he what?" eren said, making his distaste known, "i can't even cap that's crazy."

"yea. why do you even put up with that?" armin asked. "i wish my girl would sneak off with her guy friends while i'm sleep."

"i really don't know y'all." you said, plating three plates for them. "i'm really fed up with this at this point. he lucky i ain't tell my brother cause ony would've beat his ass by now."

"tch. he ain't the only one." connie mumbled, grabbing some juice from the fridge for everyone. you went to take it from him to pur drink, before he moved out the way. "you need help? let me do it."

"thanks connie." you smiled at him. you guys ate the food you prepared and laughed as you talked. it felt god being around them. "i'm gonna go home. i think i'm just tired of being his second choice. i'm done."

“what? why?” armin asked.

“i know y’all know he’s fucking around with her. i mean, i get i wasn’t his top choice but damn. he wasn’t mines either but here i am being loyal.”

“who was?” eren chuckled. he and jean had a back and forth friendship so this was amusing to him.

“not saying.” you winked before rolling your eyes at the thought of jean. “this was the last straw, this was so disrespectful.”

"m’sorry mama. want me to drive you? i didn't see your car." connie asked.

"jean drove me here. i can uber or something-"

"let me drive you." connie said. you nodded, not trying to fight it anymore. "go get dressed, i'll be waiting."

"thank you, con. seriously. gimmie like 45 minutes." you hugged him before walking downstairs, where the basement was. jean's room was there with the game room that all the boys shared.

as connie watched you walk downstairs, armin and eren sickered. "you're so whipped."

"man, he doesn't evne know what to do with allat. got me fucked up, she should be my lady, for real." connie finally vented. "i'm so pissed he treats her like that, that's a good damn woman."

"look. he fuck up, you can slide in and he can't be mad cause clearly she isn't his prioirty."

connie went and threw on a fit before going back to the living room. all the boys chilled in the living room, hitting a few blunts connie rolled the night before. by the time he checked his watch, it was already 12:45pm. “damn, he been gone a while.” armin pointed out.

as that was said, the front door opened and jean and mikasa walked in. he was holding her shopping bags as she held onto a milkshake. "hey guys." she said. he and jean had matching hoodies on, and she took off her shiny new shoes to get comfortable.

eren and armin acknowledged her, and connie said nothing. he just wanted to get you out of that house.

"y/n still here?" jean asked softly, not trying to be too loud.

"yeah. your girlfriend is still here." connie spoke, his voice laced with anger.

"okay well, mika and i were gonna go downstairs and shoot some pool." jean responded. he grabbed her wrist to walk her downstairs, before connie stopped them

"mhm." connie rolled his eyes. "y/n, you ready?" he called down. you responded by walking up the stairs, bags in hand. you looked like an angel to connie. your outfit fit you perfectly, and you looked so good. your makeup looked flawless as well.

"where you going?" jean asked, walking up to you. he tried wrapping his arms around you, but you nudged him off. "damn, that's how you doing me, y'n?"

"leave me alone, you clearly her nigga not mines." you responded. connie grabbed the duffle out your hands as y'all started toawrds the door before something caght your eye. "oh i know you're fucking lying. i just know."

"what?" connie asked before his eyes looked at what you were pointing at. two bags sat in the back of the pile: victoria secret and savagexfenty.

"jean. i'ma try to remain calm when i ask this question." you said, in an scarily calm voice, "you too this bitch lingerie shopping?"

"what did you call me?" mikasa asked.

"jean. hello??” you snapped in his face, “i'm talking to you. you better calm this ho down, cause she don't want no hands with me on my soul."

"you don't have to call her names, y/n." he said. before you could respond you saw red. you walked over to him and slapped him.

"you gone take this heffa shopping to get some lingerie and then wanna tell me not to call her names. knowing she knows we go together? yeah, i'm done. fuck you." you chucked, trying to calm down. you turned to her. "he single now bookie, he's all yours." you walked toawrds the door and opened it. "delete my number jean, dead ass. and don’t make me tell ony, he finna be on you like white on rice." you could hear him calling your name as you walked to connie's car. he walked in front of you, opening the passenger door for you. you gave him a smile of appreciation before sitting down. jean walked out the house in irritation.

“baby, come back let’s talk.”

“no., i didn't deserve that shit. go be with your girl, jean.” you said, slamming the car door closed. he walked over, knocking on the window. connie shoved jean away

"connie, you gonna do this to me bro."

"nah, you did this to yourself bro. you knew how i felt before you got with her anyway, and then you cheat and mistreat her. you’re a fucking loser and i should beat your ass." connie said before getting in the driver’s seat and driving off.

you were noticeably silent, except for a few sniffles here and there. connie just kept driving, not wanting to upset you further. “where you wanna go?”

“can you just take me home?” you asked. connie nodded, turning up the soft music that played. your legs were shaking as you tried holding yourself together. i mean, your boyfriend was cheating on you the whole time, even if y'all were together for a few months. "y'know what hurts the most? it's the betrayal. i don't know, it's just so shady."

"i mean, the person you loved did you dirt. sleeping with the same person that someone else has is not fun. i get it." connie said, his voice dripping with envy.

"i didn't love him, though," you admitted. "i loved the idea of having a real man, but he never stepped up to that plate. and i damn sure didn't fuck him." he tried to hide the growing smile on his fave by coughing. "maybe that's why? because i didn't give myself to him."

"don't blame yourself. hee was going to do what he wanted regardlss." he said as he turned into your apartment's parking garage. he looked over at you. your eyes met and your heart almost fluttered. was it connie all along? "you need help getting inside?" he asked. i nodded and we both got out the car. connie grabbed your bag from his trunk and you both walked up to your crib. in the elevator, you had to go to the 17th floor. you grabbed onto his arm and laid your head on your shoulder. the scent of his cologne filled your nose as you went up. he laid his head on yours in a comforting way. it was a feeling your now ex never gave you.

once you guys got off the elevator and into your apartment, connie helped drop your things in their designated areas. there was a difference in energy between you guys. "hey con?" you started.

"what's up ma?" he responded, coming to stand next to you.

"do you want to know who i wanted before him?" his chest tightened as he waited for your answer. "i still do, i think i was scared of rejection."

"who?"

"you." you whispered to him. his heart started racing. scared of rejection? he would have to be dumb as fuck.

“what made you think that?”

“well i was going to hit you up until jean told me you weren’t interested and then i was like damn but then he was all on my body but-“

“he said what?” connie asked, his voice slightly raised.

“it’s okay if you don’t feel the same connie. even though i still do.” you admitted. you’ve been around when he’s flirted with random girls at the parties thrown at their house. you’ve always paid attention, enviously wanting that attention from him.

“no, you don’t understand. he knew i wanted you-want you.” he corrected, “you’re all i’ve ever wanted since freshman year.” you looked up at him into his eyes.

“promise?” you said.

“mama i wouldn’t lie to you.” he responded, using his hand to lift your chin. you stood up on your toes and kissed him. finally. it felt like you guys were pieces of a puzzle, coming together.

the kiss between you two got hungrier and more passionate as he lifted you up onto your kitchen island. you wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him closer, if that was even possible.

your hands roamed all around his body. they slid down his chest and abs before stoping at his pants. his right hand crept up and onto your neck, holding it with dominance. he pulled away slightly before smiling down at you. “do you want this, do you want me?”

all i took was a small yes for connie to lift you up and walk towards your bedroom. you squealed as he walked across your crib and into your room before gently tossing you onto the bed and pulling his shirt off. he leaned back over you and kissed you once again. his hands ran down your body as you guys melted into each other. he grabbed your legs and moved them apart so he could rub your panties from under your skirt. as soon as he touched you, it felt like that’s all he was made to do. connie was in shock, how could be let this much time pass without doing this? “you gonna let me fuck you princess?”

“please connie.” you whimpered to him. he tubbed your clit through your panties, causing you to moan out. “mm. fuck papa.”

“i know, i got you baby. keep calling me that okay, i’ll give you everything you need don’t worry.” he whispered, kissing your forehead as he applied more pressure. “ima give you all this dick baby.”

“please con-“

“that’s not my name, princess.” he cut you off, removing his hand. “maybe you don’t want it—“

“no! papa, please. please, im sorry.” you spilled out. “please i need you.” you’ve never felt to feral in your life.

“yeah? you sorry?” he mocked you as he bent down and pulled your panties off. they stuck to you ever so slightly because you were so wet for him. “fuck baby, tell me what you want.”

"i just want yo-fuck!" you exclaimed as he shoved his face into your pussy. his stubble rubbed against your thighs as he ate you out like there was no tomorrow. for connie, this was all he wanted, he could die happy. his tongue immediately went to your clit, swirling it and flicking at it.

“fuck, you taste so good mama.” he whispered before locking in and sucking at it. your eyes rolled back and your jaw dropped. “look so fucking pretty.”

“oh my god , papa.” you moaned out. your thighs starting closing at the sheer amount of pleasure you were feeling. his hands pried them open and grabbed the underside of them, forcing your knees to touch your chest. “fuck fuck you gonna make me cum already.”

“yeah baby? the fucking loser never made you feel this good?” he asked. you shook your head no and he rolled his eyes. “of course he didn’t.” he pulled his mouth away, replacing his tongue with his fingers. “cum all over my hand baby.” he bent down and kissed you as he fingered you. he could feel you getting close, so he used his thumb to rub your clit as he curled his fingers slightly.

“oh my—papa im cumming.” you practically yelled out, squirting on his hand. you were so shocked but you didn’t have time to complain about it as connie flipped you over onto your knees and gave you a love tap. you arched your back teasingly as he took his clothing off. “you gonna come fuck me baby?”

“oh you already know. you gonna take it like a big girl.” your eyes wandered down and widened slightly as you saw how thick and long connie was. i mean you peaked at it when he walked around in those gray sweats you loved.

“i’ll try.” you said, “if you make me.” connie chuckled as he got onto the bed behind you.

“i’ve been waiting for this forever mama.” he kissed your back. “if you need me to slowdown or stop, just say the word and i got you. i know it’s been a while.”

“m’kay baby.” you replied. you looked back at him and bit your lip at the sight. “i know you’re gonna take care of me.”

“damn straight.” he said before rubbing his tip on your clit. you gasped as he slowly pushed in, stretching you out.

“oh my fucking god, you’re so wet baby.” he moaned out, before pushing deeper.

“ your s’big papa.” you said. you clawed at the sheets as he pushed more of his dick into you. you felt him in what felt like your stomach as he bottomed out. “oh, fuck!”

“yeah. you feel allat baby?” he smiled down at your shaking figure. he slowly pulled out before pushing back in. you moaned out again, feeling every inch of dick he was giving you. “you okay baby?”

“yeah, i want it.” you begged. “please.”

“you sure mama, i can go slow?” he asked, kissing your back again. he pulled back some and gave you a test thrust. you moaned out, pushing back on him with need. he took that as a yes before he pulled put completely and slid in, sinking all the way in.

“oh baby.” you moaned out as he started fucking you deeply. your hand reach back and grabbed onto his as you took everything. “you’re so fucking big pa, fuck!”

“you got it baby. take your dick.” he said before he moaned in bliss. with each thrust, a huff fell from his lips. he spanked out as he changed his angle slightly, causing him to hit your spot head on. you got tighter around him (somehow) as you dripped all over your sheets.

“connie, that’s my spot papa.” you moaned out. you fell onto the bed into a arch as he pressed into your back and got to work. each slap of skin drove you closer and closer before your phone rang. he kept moving as he looked over and saw the man of the hour: jean was calling you.

“you want him to see who’s pussy this is baby?” he asked for your consent before answering the face time.

“show him baby. show him i’m yours.” you moaned out, fucked out. connie slapped your ass once before hitting answer. he turned the camera off before jean could notice.

“baby. i sent mika home, just let me make this right.” jean said as soon as the call connected. “you know i wouldn’t do you like—the fuck is that noise y/n?” he asked, as he heard you moan out.

connie grabbed the phone and turned the camera on. jean could now see you sprawled out in a crazy arch, taking whatever connie was giving you. drool covered your pillow as you fuck back on to connie. “she busy man.” connie said, slowing down. the string of cum the connected you two was visible and it sent jean into a rage.

“fuck you connie. you’re such a fucking bitch y/n.” he spat at you. you flipped him off before throwing back onto connie with more force. before jean could respond connie hung up, matching your movements.

“mm, papa i’m close.” you said. instead of moving faster (like you expected) he pulled out and flipped out over. he looked you in the eye as he folded your knees towards your chest, allowing for them to touch. he bent down and planted a kiss on your lips before pushing back into you as deep as he could. he watched your face as you melted with pleasure, a proud smile on his. "f-fuck."

"feel good mama?" he asked, giving slow, deep, and rough thrusts.

"i-mm-i love you." you moaned out.

connie looked at you, his heart filling up at your confession. "say it again baby." his thrust now had a bit more force behind it as he looked into your eyes.

"i love y-you connie." you said once again. this time, connie knew he wasn't dreaming.

"i love you so much baby." he said, speeding up his thrusts. he was once again hitting the spot you needed the most. "cum for me baby. i want my princess to feel good."

"mm, fuck im boutta cum." you whined out. his hand moved at lightning speed, his thumb rubbing your clit spot on. he felt you clamp down as you squirted on your sheets once again.

"good fucking girl baby." he grinned down at the mess you made. a few more thrusts and connie pulled out, cumming on your thighs. he moaned out as he came, the sight of you making his nut even harder.

you laid there, trying to regulate your breathing while connie quickly got into action, grabbing a warm towel from your bathroom and wiping you clean before going over with a baby wipe. he then went to your kitchen and grabbed you some water. "i meant what i said, y/n." he said, opening the water bottle and rubbing your legsas you drank it. "this wasn't just sex for me. i have loved you since freshman year. you bring my life so much joy."

i meant it too, con." you reassured him. "you're not just a rebound to me. i've always known that i felt deeply for you. if i had known earlier, you would have been the one i spent my time with." he jumped on the bed with you and you guys laughed as he pulled you into a tight squeeze. "i wanna be yours, con."

"oh trust me mama, you are. i'm going to take you out to ask officially. you know, when we not butt ass naked and sitting in cum." he laughed. you hid your face in his chest and slapped his arm.

"gross baby." you giggled. "nah but these needs be changed asap." you said. you guys got up and as you went to pee, he threw the sheets into the washer.

"come take a picture with me!" you called out to him. he walked into the bathroom and stood behind you. he slappedyour ass on him before posing and taking the pic. "can i post this?"

"oh i'm ig official alreaady? hell yeah, you can post it. tag me too." he said, kissing your forehead. you captioned it and posted. as you were scrolling, you saw armin had sent you over a post jean made. you clicked on the link to see him posting about you and connie.

"jean is talking about us on his twitter." you called out to connie. "he made i posted you. nigga must have my post notifications on or something."

"i'll check him, don't worry your pretty little head about that. he's envious that he can't have access to you no more." he called back. "get dressed, I'm finna take you to get some eats and then we can hit up a few malls, spoil yo ass."

this is what you were waiting for. to be treated right by a man you loved. and you hit the jackpot.

꧁꧂

𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘨𝘶𝘺𝘴． 𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘪𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘵 𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘯𝘥， 𝘪 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘉𝘌𝘌𝘕 𝘴𝘶𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘵𝘴 😭

𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘴！ 𝘪 𝘢𝘮 𝘵𝘳𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘺 𝘳𝘦𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘥．

𝙢𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩

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