#and i noticed this the first time too but i just have to say it again | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

emmyrosee · 3 days ago

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Rintaro feels guilty leaving this time.

You’re expected to deliver your twins any day next week, and he’s expected to fly across the country for a charity event he really can’t even think straight for. You've assured him you'll be fine, his sister is more than capable of taking care of you while he's gone, but there's a pit in his stomach about the idea of leaving you.

But you send him anyways. With a kiss on his cheek and a promise to call him every day (if he had it his way, it would be every hour, but you wouldn't go for it).

The trip goes smooth enough, and he's grateful for you staying true to your word and calling him every night. It does make the time pass, you're safe, but he's more than eager to make it home to you.

He practically pushes his teammates out the door, he's the first one on the bus, his knee bounces anxiously the entire time- especially when the bus driver makes a wrong turn into straight construction, thrusting them in traffic for far, far too long without any service.

But you won't call him, right? Why would you, you've called him at night every day he's been here, and nothing of note has happened (not that that’s a negative to Rintaro, he’d rather your days be mundane and boring than active in your pregnancy).

His heart finally starts again once they pull into the airport parking lot, all of the teammates trying to not be annoyed at the events of the morning and trying to stay focused on the next steps of boarding the plane in a few hours.

Rintaro sighs, slipping his phone out and immediately calling you, not taking notice of just how many notifications bombarded his phone.

The line ring once, twice, and his shoulders relax as you finally pick up the phone. "Rin?" You ask, and you sound like you're in discomfort. But he merely brushes it off. You are very pregnant, after all, surely discomfort is normal.

"Hey babe, just got service from being in the bus, we've got a nasty delay because the fuck-head made us miss our fucking flight, so I might be home later than expected-"

“Rin, I'm in labor.”

Silence fills the line.

“No you’re not,” he says simply.

“As much as I would love to be kidding, I’m not. I’m 10 centimeters, babe.”

How you’re so calm right now, is beyond him.

Him, on the other hand, leaps up with absolute panic, a screechy “WHAT?” echoing through the airport. It catches more than a few looks from other people, but all Rin can think about is you.

You in the hospital, legs up in stirrups and gown being the only thing adorning your body. There's probably nurses and doctors everywhere, and Kaiya and Akito on the couch at home with his mother, waiting for the news.

"WHEN?"

"My water broke a few hours ago, got to the hospital with your sister and now they're getting ready for me to push. Your timing truly is impeccable."

“And you thought now was the best time to tell me?!”

“I tried to tell you earlier, but you had no service!” You defend.

Fuck, he could scalp the bus driver for getting fucking lost.

"okay, okay, okay lets calm down-"

You snort, "yeah I'll get right on that."

"Please, for everything unholy, don't joke right now," he pleads, and he hears you offer him a laughy 'sorry' on your end of the line. "Are you okay? Do you feel okay?"

"Well I don't feel particularly good, for all intents and purposes." You direct your attention to something else and he hears bustling in the background, "Rin I have to start pushing. Stay on the line.”

"No! Wait for me, I'll-"

"Yeah I'm not waiting for you," you snip. “I'll... be fine. Just stay on the call okay? For me?

Rintaro tries not to pass out as you start pushing, doctors encouragement coming through on the line, followed with your grunts of agony as you try to bring your two new babies into the world. He knows you’re strong, you don’t need him there, but there’s something deep inside of him that hurts at the idea that you don’t, he’s so close yet no where near close enough to be right there next to you, and he anxiously looks around him as he tries to find a private place for him to cheer you on, call your name, scream it, his soul in agony over something he has no control over.

It could be four minutes or four hours, rintaro has no idea as you finally scream in agony as a small wail breaks over the line, one akin to Akito and Kaiya’s as the two of them entered the world all those years ago.

“Beautiful!” His sister cheers, “just a bit more for Sachiko sis, you’ve got this!”

“No more,” you weakly whimper over the line, and Rintaro tears up as he chews on his thumb.

“Baby,” he chokes, “you’ve got this, okay? You can do this, I’m right here.”

“No you’re not!” You scream.

“Yes I am! I’m right here okay? I’m not going anywhere!”

“Rin I need you-“

“And I’m right here. I promise. Just close your eyes, I’m there, okay?”

Hes not there. He knows you know that. But right now, he can’t feel sorry for himself. He goes silent and listens to the bustling of the doctors and nurses preparing to bring Sachiko into the world, and rintaro has no clue how long it’s been before you’re ready to push again.

“Ready, momma?” He asks, and you let out a sob.

“Im so tired, Rin.”

“One more big push okay?” He chokes. “Push!”

And you do. You let out another shriek as you start to push, rintaro can practically see your legs tremble and face scrunch and throat tight as you let out another blood curdling cry, and before he can think, another set of crying fills the line.

His twins are here.

And he’s not.

“Good job, angel!” He hoots.

“She did so good, Rintaro,” his sister assures.

“I know she did,” he says, hand clutching his heart.

“They’re so handsome Rin,” You babble, and instantly, Rintaro’s face drops. “Such beautiful boys, they're so sweet, so handsome…”

Boys?

Oh fuck. Rintaro briefly thinks back at all the purples and pinks in the closet at home.

Immediately, Rin tries to conjure up an excited tone, squealing out a soft “boys?” in confirmation.

“She’s messing with you," his sister snickers. You’re laughing exhaustedly too, among your sniffles of agony and above the screaming of the newest twin.

“You’re a fucking asshole,” he says, breathless and his chuckles easing out.

“You've got new baby girls, Rintaro," his sister coos.

“We got them, boys!” He announces, causing an uproar of cheers to come from his teammates. He feels his heart sink to his stomach as his throat begins to swell. “I’m so proud of you baby… my good girls.”

“They’re so beautiful, Rin. So beautiful," you cry.

He sits on his suitcase and tries to imagine them, desperately, tiny hands pawing at the air, crying at the newness of the bright light and the world…

All without him. He’s not there.

“Who was born first?” He chokes, desperate to keep his voice steady. It was a complete tossup with the names, whoever was out first or second is precisely how the names would fall. But he just needs you to keep talking to him.

You understand, and you answer shakily, “Sachie,” you sigh. “Sachiko was 20 minutes later.”

“Late; just like momma.”

“Watch it.”

He chuckles around a flood of tears, a hand coming up to bring his hand up to cover his face. Hot, bubbled tears slip down to roll over his thick fingers, trying to stay composed in the airport that’s bustling with too many people.

“Im so proud of you,” he chokes, eyes screwing shut. Not long after, a massive hand claps down on his shoulder, Komori’s eyes flickering with understanding and apology. He’s got nothing to apologize for, but Rintaro takes the kindness regardless and puts a free hand on top of his to squeeze the emotions out. “My amazing girl. Fuck, I can’t wait to see you.”

“Rin, I have to go,” you say, and he hears the gruff voice of the doctor. “I love you so much. Come home safe, you’re no use to me dead.”

“Okay, princess,” he sighs shakily, burying his face in Komori’s stomach to cry. “I love you.”

“I love you too, baby. You’re gonna be fine.”

He’s 99% sure he should be saying that to you, and not you to him. But regardless.

He waits for the line to die before taking the phone from his ear, blinking up at Komori with absolute heaviness in his heart.

“I should’ve been there,” he whimpers.

“You couldn’t control it, buddy.”

“But I should’ve been there. Not three cities over for some charity that I don't even care about."

It doesn’t matter the assurances Komori could try to pass him. It doesn’t matter that you’re okay, you’re strong and you don’t need him in this moment.

He should’ve been there to squeeze your hand, watch his two babies come into this world with you, kiss your forehead and whisper loving words in your ear.

And he couldn’t manage even that.

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artdcnaldson · 3 days ago

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Ok so hear me out. I need you to write an au about virgin reader and art having sex for the first time while patrick watches (like the perv he is!) I imagine that it would probably take place during the hotel makeout scene or in art’s dorm room😄

all three of you are on the same freakuency..... sweet art's first time, he just needs some moral support, that's all!

And maybe you've been hooking up with Patrick on the side and he very selflessly asked if you'll pop Art's cherry. Not like you're in his lap with his dick in your hand, the words were mumbled clumsily against your lips.

"I just think..." You interrupt him with a clumsy kiss, which he pulls back from reluctantly. "It would be nice. He's going to college in the fall and— fuck, yeah, like that— it'd be nice to get him nice and deflowered before he's surrounded by all that pussy without any clue of what to do."

"Gross. Are you seriously trying to pimp me out?" You ask with a tiny grin, not entirely disgusted by anything more than Patrick’s casual misogyny. Your hand continues its slick glide up and down his cock. Patrick just grins at you, like that's answer enough. "You're an idiot."

Whatever. Idiot or not, you still fuck Patrick. Idiot or not, you agree to deflower Art Donaldson.

And Art's cute, in a boyish, sort of way. He's sweet, well intentioned. When you come onto him at the MRTA graduation, he's all wide-eyed and nervous. Aren't you seeing Patrick? Are you sure Patrick won't get mad?

"I’m not Patrick’s girlfriend. And besides, he wants me to," you tell him, and his fears melt away like cotton candy. Now that you've eased his mind, it's so easy to get him back to his dorm room. It’s so sweet, how he’s already hard in his jeans from a little kissing and the promise of something more. His eagerness just proves that Patrick was right— this really was the best gift he could give Art for graduation.

If it were up to you, it would’ve happened in your own dorm, but Patrick insisted that it had to happen in their dorm. So instead of soft sheets and tasteful decorations and scented candles, Art gets scratchy blankets and the smell of cigarette smoke and empty Gatorade bottles.

He swallows when he sees Patrick waiting on the bed. It all feels like a virginity-intervention. Still... Art sits on his side of the bed, knees touching Patrick's, and looks between the two of you, hackles up, backing into a defensive state.

"You're both making fun of me," he mutters, and there’s an angry twitch in his jaw, that thinly veiled restraint that you notice and file away for later. "This is a big joke, right? Patrick, you fucking asshole."

"I'm not making fun of you, Art," you assure, moving to sit in front of him, hands on his knees. It forces his pretty blue eyes to land firmly on you. "I just want to help. It'll be nice to get it done, won't it? Patrick and I can help you."

He huffs, glancing between the two of you again. "He's staying?" Patrick grins and nods. Of course he is. He'd been there for the start of Art's sexual awakening, no way he'd miss this too.

"Yeah, to give you some advice, baby," you say with a little smile. You move into his lap, mouthing at his jaw. He sighs a little, tilting his head to the side so your lips can move to suck on his pulse point. You smile against his throat, teeth grazing the sensitive spot there, and he whines. "That's it, just let us take care of you."

You just kiss him for a while— licking into his mouth, letting him taste and explore however he wants. His hands slip under your top, squeezing your tits while he moans into your mouth something incoherent about how soft, warm, perfect they are.

It's like he's drunk on it— painfully hard beneath you, whining at every little touch. When you peel off his pristine blue button up and run your thumbs over his nipples, he keens and mewls like it's the best thing he's ever felt. Fuck, maybe it is.

"You can't suck him off," Patrick says when you go to unbutton his pants. "He'll cum before he can even fuck you."

"Shut the fuck up, Patrick," Art mutters, shooting Patrick a glare that's about as deadly as he can manage with kiss swollen lips and mussed golden curls and ruddy cheeks. Like an angry little cherub. “I won’t… I’m not gonna cum if you touch me. I have gotten head before, and handjobs, and stuff.”

His hips buck mindlessly, seeking friction as you work the button and fly of his jeans. You smile as you rub over the bulge in the denim with your free hand, feeling the hard length of him. It makes him throw his head back and moan. “Yeah? But maybe Patrick’s right,” you murmur, lips trailing over his jaw. “Might be too much for you, baby. If we get you too worked up I don’t know if you’ll last when you’re inside of me.”

He whines. Really whines. It has to be one of the hottest things you’ve ever heard. “It’s not that I can’t, just… maybe I’m impatient.” You and Patrick share a look and grin. Sure. Impatient.

“I know you are,” you tell him, lips twitching as you fight an amused grin. “Just get me ready for you. You know how to do that?”

Patrick shakes his head behind Art, but you get the impression that maybe Art knows more than Patrick is willing to give him credit for. His hand slips under your dress, rubbing you through the cheap lace thong you’d bought at Wet Seal. Your eyes flutter shut as you gasp softly— his thumb rubs against your clit, but his eyes are locked on your every reaction.

“That’s good?” He murmurs softly. His index finger teases over your dripping entrance, barely concealed by hot pink lace. “It is, isn’t it? You’re so wet,” The words escape him mindlessly, like he’s accidentally verbalizing his thoughts. His cheeks go red and Patrick smiles like this is the proudest he’s ever been.

The tips of his fingers catch on the wet fabric and tug it to the side, just enough that his fingers can tease over your dripping pussy. His thumb maintains its pressure on your clit as he sinks his middle finger inside you to his second knuckle. A soft puff of breath like a gasp slips past his lips as he feels your walls squeezing around him.

“He’s really good,” you gasp out, looking at Patrick over Art’s shoulder as he stretches you on his fingers. Patrick’s big hand splays over his lap, squeezing at the hard length of his cock in his jeans as he watches. “Better than you, maybe.” Patrick laughs softly, rolling his eyes as he leans back against the headboard.

Art likes the praise, you know he does because his lips twitch into a cocky smirk as he sinks a second finger alongside the first, curling them until his fingertips press against a sensitive spot that makes stars dance across your vision. He knows what he’s doing, of course he does, he’s driven by the need to be praised and desired. The silent, unspoken competition in his mind against Patrick driving him to do anything he can to keep you pleased and happy.

Each pretty moan and gasp from your lips is lapped up like the sweetest honey. He nuzzles against your jaw as he fucks you with thick fingers, like your body is a pretty little piece of equipment he’s been trained to perfectly use. He moans against your skin when you come, cunt fluttering and squeezing around his fingers, like he’s feeling it every bit as much as you are.

You’ve forgotten to spare a glance at Patrick— it’s too easy to get lost in the ways that Art can play with your body. His jeans are tugged down just enough for him to free himself— and his hand works over the length of his cock as he pumps his fist in time with Art’s fingers. You squeeze Art’s arm once, twice, to get him to stop and he obeys, withdrawing fingers slick with your juices and licking them off like you’re his favorite meal.

“Are you sure he’s a virgin?” You murmur as you push Art back against the sheets, his pretty golden curls fanned out against his pillow like a halo.

Patrick nods, watching hungrily as you undress the pretty boy beneath you. His fancy dress shoes and socks, his jeans and button down, then his boxers. Until Art’s naked and flushed pink beneath you, drooling precum onto his tummy as his cock jerks with weak little pulses. When he looks at you, his pupils are so dilated they swallow up the pretty blue. He’s so pretty and debauched it makes you feel a little dizzy.

You slip off your dress, then your panties, and watch the bob of his Adam’s apple in his throat as he looks at you. “Are you okay with me on top?” You ask as you straddle his hips. You’re so close that he can feel the heat emanating from your body, from your cunt.

He swallows again, glancing over at Patrick like he’s asking for permission. “She’s good at it,” Patrick tells him. “You can just lay back and let her do all the work.“

You’d tell Patrick not to be a dick, but, well, he’s kind of right. You don’t expect Art to do anything— it’s his first time. But Patrick fucking loves laying back and making you work for it, like you’d have to earn the right to come. Art’s not that kind of guy— at least, not yet. But you can sense that smug confidence beneath the surface, lying dormant.

You reach down and take his cock into your hand, flushed red and slick with precum. You give an experimental pump in your hand and watch as more dribbles out. Needy boy. You sit up, lining him up with your entrance when he grabs your thigh. “Wait, don’t I need a condom?”

Patrick reaches into the bedside drawer, but you just shake your head. “It’s fine,” you tell him, teasing his tip through your folds, getting him even wetter. “I’m on the pill, and I know you’re clean. You can cum in me.”

As soon as the words slip past your lips, he squeezes his eyes shut like he’s in pain. You can feel his cock pulsing in your grasp and you have to bite back an amused grin. “Hold on, wait—“ he gasps out, gripping your hips like a vise, dimpling the plush skin there. “Don’t do it yet, just… give me a second. Just a second.”

It’s a pretty sight— his full lips parted as he pants softly, the little furrow in his brow where his eyes pinch shut. He takes one deep breath, then another, and nods. “Okay,” he pants. “Okay, I’m ready.”

You have to go slow so you don’t overwhelm him, sinking down inch by inch by inch. He groans, head tiling back against the pillows, the fine muscles of his neck taut. His hands grasp onto your hips, squeezing tight like it might ground him in reality, like it’s keeping him from slipping into a dizzy, mindless euphoria.

When you’re finally flush against him, he takes a shaky breath and opens his eyes to look at you. “Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he gasps. “And you feel— oh, god— you’re so warm, and wet, and you’re so fucking tight.”

Patrick moans at the sight of Art falling apart beneath you, hand squeezing around his cock as he pumps his length. The sight makes heat bloom in your tummy, and you feel yourself squeezing around Art’s cock. He whines, panting out hot puffs of breath.

It’s easy to forget how strong he is when he’s beneath you like this. But he grips your hips and pulls you forward, encouraging you to glide along his cock. “Please,” he says weakly, looking up at you with wide, pleading eyes. “I can take it.”

“He can take it,” Patrick echoes with a grin. There’s something about the thinly veiled amusement in his eyes that tells you he wants you to unmake Art entirely— to take the sweet, needy boy and make him something unrecognizable. Something primal, something pathetic. “C’mon, look at him. He’s a big boy, he can handle it.”

You begin to move, palms splayed against his chest as you rock your hips, nice and slow. He groans, head tipping back, eyes rolling so you can see the whites of them.

"You feel so good, Art," you gasp as you begin to move a little faster. He whines, eyes locked on the sight of your tits bouncing as you ride his cock. "So perfect."

Art wants more. He inches his hands a little higher, so his fingertips brush against your breasts, almost nervous to just grab. Patrick scoffs. "Just grab her tits, Art— Jesus— she likes it."

And he does. Big, rough hands gripping your tits, squeezing as you ride him. He bucks his hips up, seeking the tight warmth of your cunt as you move, just wanting to hold you down and stay buried there.

"Move faster," Patrick says. You can hear from the gravel in his voice, that tiny hint of whininess, that he's getting close. Of course Patrick wouldn't want to finish first and have to sit there watching Art have all the fun.

And, technically, Patrick is your boyfriend (or, at least, you think he is, and Art thinks he is, and Patrick... is a mystery), so you decide to indulge in his request.

"Wait—" Art pants, hands flying down to your hips as you ride him harder. "Oh, fuck— wait, wait— you're gonna— nghh, god—" He squeezes his eyes shut, chest heaving as you bounce on his cock. He squeezes, fingers dimpling the plush fat of your ass as he tries to slow you down, or maybe just hold on for some sense of grounding as you bring him closer and closer to a sweet release.

"C'mon, Art," you gasp, nails digging into his pale pecs. "C'mon, we want you to cum, baby."

He tries to hold out. He really does, but you want him to cum, you're asking for it. You and Patrick. He cries out, bucking up into your cunt as he finishes, pumping a warm load inside of you. He whines, eyes fluttering as his cock twitches, dribbling out his last drops of cum.

Patrick's chest is splattered with his own release, drying messily in his chest hair, Art Donaldson is beneath you— sated and deflowered. You glance over at Patrick while Art's eyes are still squeezed shut and make a face that says I didn't even cum. You owe me.

He just grins and nods, like it's a given that he'd get you off after. But honestly, you figure it's 50-50 that he'll follow through. Maybe you can just ask Art.

#art donaldson x reader #art donaldson fanfic #art donaldson smut #patrick zweig x reader #Patrick zweig fanfic #patrick zweig smut

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bueckersworld · 2 days ago

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LIKE I WOULD

SYNOPSIS: you confide in your best friend paige about your boyfriend leaving you unsatisfied, not expecting her to react so seriously. she offers to show you what it’s supposed to feel like—and she means it. one kiss turns into something deeper, something undeniable, and you fall apart under her touch like never before. in the quiet after, she confesses she’s loved you all along. and this time, you finally choose her.

WARNING(S): smut — mdni, cheating, territoriality, possessiveness, pussy eating (r!receiving), jealous!bsf!paige

WORD COUNT: 2.7k RECOMMENDED SONG: like i would — zayn. info. masterlist. taglist.

────୨ৎ────

you don’t notice the look paige gives you when you start talking about your boyfriend. not really. you never do.

you’re sitting on her couch, legs tucked under you, nursing a barely-cold drink while you go on about the night before. you’re not trying to brag or anything — it’s not even worth bragging about. still, you’re rambling. maybe because you’re trying to convince yourself it wasn’t that bad.

“he just, like… stopped halfway through,” you say with a soft laugh, more bitter than amused. “said he was tired. i don’t know. i think he thought i finished already.”

you don’t look up, but if you did, you’d see her jaw tighten. her hand flexes against her thigh. she doesn’t say anything at first, and when she does, it’s low. dangerous.

“that’s it?” her voice is calm, but clipped. “he didn’t even ask?”

you finally glance up. she’s staring at the floor like it personally offended her. you shrug. “it’s whatever. i don’t want to make it a big deal.”

but it is a big deal. you wouldn’t have brought it up if it wasn’t.

paige shifts, leaning forward, elbows on knees. “you’re seriously okay with that?”

“i mean… it’s not like it’s always like that,” you lie. “he’s just… not that experienced, maybe.”

paige lets out a breathy laugh that’s anything but amused. “that’s not an excuse.”

you furrow your brows. “why are you so worked up about this?”

and that’s when she lifts her eyes to yours, and suddenly, the air changes.

her gaze is heavy. intent. you feel it all at once — her attention, her anger, her restraint, like she’s trying not to say something she’s been holding in too long.

“he doesn’t get it,” she says. “he doesn’t get you. he doesn’t know what to do with you.”

you blink. “paige—”

“i do.” her voice drops lower. steadier. “i know what you like. i’ve seen it. you try so hard to act like you’re fine with bare minimum, like it’s enough for you, but it’s not. you need someone who actually listens. who actually sees you.”

you stare at her, heart beginning to thump unevenly.

and then she says it, voice barely above a whisper:

“let me show you what it’s supposed to feel like.”

your breath catches.

she’s not joking.

she’s not smiling. she’s not teasing. her tone is so serious it makes your stomach twist in knots. “he won’t love you like i would.” she mutters quietly.

“i—” you start, but the words die in your throat.

she leans in, slower now, cautious, but her eyes stay locked on yours. “i wouldn’t leave you guessing. i’d take my time. you’d never have to ask twice.”

the room is quiet, except for the buzz of your nerves and the thunder of your pulse.

and suddenly, so much makes sense.

the way she always sits next to you, even when your boyfriend’s around.

the way she gets snippy when you text him too long.

the way she looks at you like she’s memorizing every inch.

you’ve been blind. or maybe just too scared to see it.

you don’t know who moves first. maybe it’s you. maybe it’s her.

but one second, you’re frozen, and the next, her mouth is on yours.

it’s slow at first — searching, warm, desperate in a way that doesn’t ask permission but still waits for your answer. and when you kiss her back, when your hand tangles in her hoodie and her fingers splay across your waist, it feels like breathing for the first time in weeks.

you shouldn’t be doing this.

but god, it feels so right.

she kisses you like she’s trying to erase every time you settled for less. her hands learn your body like it’s sacred, not a task. she doesn’t rush. doesn’t assume. she listens — every sigh, every hitch of your breath guiding her like a language only she speaks.

the couch cushions shift under you as she presses you back, not demanding, just wanting. and for once, you don’t want to pretend.

you want this.

you want her.

you’re completely lost in her — in the heat of her mouth, the way her tongue swirls against yours, slow and deep, like she’s trying to memorize your taste. her hands slide under your shirt with practiced ease, fingers splaying across your skin, mapping you like a place she’s always known.

she breaks the kiss only long enough to tug your shirt over your head, tossing it carelessly to the floor. her lips find yours again before you can even catch your breath, hands roaming freely now — tracing every curve, every soft dip of your body, like she’s been dying to touch you this way.

when her mouth leaves yours, it only travels down — across your jaw, the edge of your throat, open-mouthed kisses dragging heat down your neck. she makes quick work of your shorts, tugging them down with a soft grunt as her fingers skim along your thighs.

your breath hitches when she unclasps your bra with one hand, pulling the straps down your arms like it’s second nature, her mouth already chasing the new skin revealed. she kisses down your chest, slow and intentional, lips brushing your ribs and lower.

you shiver under her, and she feels it — smirks against your skin.

“just relax, baby,” she murmurs, voice like velvet, littering kisses across your stomach.

then she’s between your legs, kneeling on the floor in front of the couch, her warm breath ghosting over the soaked fabric of your underwear. she looks up at you through her lashes, eyes dark and full of hunger, before slowly pulling them down your legs. they hit the floor with a soft flutter as she pushes your thighs apart, keeping you spread and open just for her.

your gasp breaks the silence when her tongue drags a slow, deliberate line up your center. her groan rumbles against you, sending a ripple of pleasure straight through your core.

“fuckin’ hell…” she mutters, diving back in like a woman starved, her tongue flicking over your clit with a moan that vibrates through your entire body.

your back arches instinctively, hips rolling toward her mouth, soft gasps and broken moans spilling from your lips.

“oh fuck… paige—”

your hand tangles in her hair, tugging her impossibly closer, and she lets you. she wants to be closer — wants to disappear inside the way you sound when it’s her making you feel this way.

“mm, i know, baby… i know,” she mumbles against your heat, voice thick with desire.

then her fingers — two, slow and sure — slip inside you, curling upward immediately, brushing that perfect spot that makes your eyes roll back. her mouth never stops, tongue stroking and circling your clit with dizzying precision.

“fuuuuck…” you cry out, head falling back, heels digging into the cushions as your hips buck into her hand.

she switches effortlessly between sucking and flicking her tongue, her fingers pumping steadily in and out of you, scissoring you open like she was made to do this.

“just like that… oh my god, paige, just like that—” you whimper, breathless praise tumbling out between moans.

she groans in response, her eyes dark and blown as she looks up at you, her lips slick and swollen as she pulls her mouth away just long enough to speak. her fingers never stop.

“only i can make you feel like this. not him.” her voice is low, rough. “say it.”

you’re too far gone, too strung out on the edge to answer. your mouth parts, but nothing coherent comes out.

she growls, her fingers curling just right. “say it, baby — tell me this pussy’s mine.”

“y-yeah… all yours,” you moan, back arched, eyes squeezed shut. “only f—only for you…”

“yeah?” she breathes, leaning up to kiss your neck, soft and reverent. “then come for me. prove it.”

and you do.

you fall apart for her — back arching, thighs trembling, her name breaking from your lips like a prayer.

you’ve never felt anything like it.

not with him.

not with anyone.

and she knows it.

because now you do too.

—

the aftermath is quiet.

you’re still tangled in her sheets, wrapped in the scent of her hoodie, her breath warm against your shoulder.

your mind spins.

you just cheated. you cheated on your boyfriend.

but the worst part?

you don’t regret it. not even a little.

you turn slightly, looking at her in the dim light. paige is watching you already. like she hasn’t looked away once.

“i didn’t mean for that to happen,” you whisper, but it’s a lie.

she knows it. you both do.

“yeah, you did,” she says softly. “you just didn’t think you were allowed to want it.”

you feel a lump form in your throat.

“he doesn’t touch you like i do,” she adds, brushing a knuckle along your cheek. “doesn’t look at you like this.”

you close your eyes. her words remind you of the song she played in the car the other night — he won’t love you like i would. you didn’t think anything of it at the time. now it feels like a confession you missed.

“you love me,” you say, not as a question.

paige doesn’t flinch. “yeah,” she says. “i do.”

the silence sits heavy.

and still, she doesn’t pull away.

“i’ve been trying to show you for months,” she adds. “but you kept running back to someone who doesn’t even know how lucky he is.”

you turn toward her fully, voice small. “why didn’t you ever say anything?”

her eyes flicker. “because i wanted it to be your choice. i didn’t want to be your rebound.”

you nod slowly. “he’s not my choice anymore.”

she watches you carefully. “are you sure?”

you reach for her hand, fingers lacing between hers.

“i’m sure.”

—

you break up with him two days later. it doesn’t even hurt.

what hurts is how long it took you.

what hurts is the look on paige’s face when you show up at her apartment that night, eyes tired, hands trembling.

she opens the door in another hoodie, this one a little oversized, sleeves pushed to her elbows. she stares at you, unreadable.

“you okay?”

you nod. “i ended it.”

she exhales, shoulders falling slightly. “you sure?”

you step inside without answering and close the door behind you.

“he never made me feel anything,” you say, voice quiet. “not like you.”

she doesn’t move.

“and that night… with you…” you pause. swallow. “i haven’t stopped thinking about it.”

paige’s eyes darken, but she stays still. waiting.

you take a step forward. “i didn’t know what it was supposed to feel like.”

another step. she still doesn’t move.

“until you.”

her hand finds your waist again — same spot, like muscle memory. she pulls you in slow, letting the air burn between you.

“say it again,” she whispers.

you don’t hesitate.

“you make me feel everything.”

and this time, when her mouth meets yours, it’s not confusion or rebellion or recklessness.

it’s clarity.

it’s finally.

—

he wouldn’t love you like she would.

he never did.

but paige always has.

and now — you finally see it.

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬. ⋆˚꩜｡ smut smut smut, i was clenching my thighs writing this btw.. 😊

𝑤𝑖𝑡𝘩 𝘩𝑢𝑔𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑘𝑖𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑠, 𝑒𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑛𝑜𝑟

taglist: @elswhore @private-but-not-a-secret @paigebaby5 @raimund00 @bravemode @d1paigebueckersglazer @evanpeterstoe @zi0nnnn @jadasogay @fuddaround @jaylie-bee @everyonewatchesuconnwbb @mrsarnold

#ᥫ᭡ — 𝜝𝑈𝐸𝐶𝐾𝐸𝑅𝑆𝑊𝛰𝑅𝐿𝐷 #𐙚 𝑝𝑎𝑖𝑔𝑒..#— 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐆𝐄 𝐁𝐔𝐄𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 #uconn wbb #paige bueckers #uconn women’s basketball #uconn huskies #uconn x reader #paige bueckers uconn #wlw #pb5 #paige buckets #paige bueckers wnba #paige bueckers smut #paige bueckers fic #paige x reader

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artdagz · 3 days ago

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First and foremost, Jazz prowl mecha AU is so fun and I'm reading so much of it and sometimes I really just want to share something.

As most probably already know this was started by @keferon and this AU is so fun, I really can't, everyone is so creative and there's so much to learn and see everywhere, the angst, the evolution and cheesy romance mix with hurt comfort is just🤌

So please, it's just some idea, but I hope this gives somebody something ><

(First part is big hurt, second part is rescue. So prowls death and not being treated like a human, when his conscience is in the mech, but he gets safed/saves himself with jazz. )

What if prowl becomes somewhat like Vortex in the mecha au, but with the downside of now being a supercomputer trapped in a mech that won't move without a pilot.

And as they notice he can still calculate stuff for them but is no longer a fragile human and also conveniently can't say no to requests, they use that without remorse. Prowl is allowed to move freely in the field when fighting quintessons but used in his spare time to do all sorts of administrative tasks that commanders are too lazy to do..

It happens along these lines:

Tarantulas notices Prowl won't be able to be doing the whole upgrading forever.

He's failing more and more, getting worse.

So next time he has him under his knife, he's doing something so in case prowl won't make it There is a safety backup of prowl in his mecha, so that's how prowl becomes a mech.

When Prowl suddenly stops in battle and all jazz can do is get them out of there, back at base there's nothing they can do for human prowl anymore.

While the battle is still raging around them, Jazz just sits next to prowls mecha hoping prowl will make it.

But it's as everyone feared and jazz is just sitting there close to prowls mech knowing his friend will never return and nobody dares to come closer.

Tarantulas approach being met with a visor that dares him to get any closer.

They organize a small funeral, one of the other pilots inviting jazz. Jazz goes, out of his suit for once, to attend.

When jazz is back his suit informs him that someone had been in prowls mech.

And it was Tarantulas.

Jazz thinks about confronting Tarantulas, but instead goes into prowls mechs cockpit, looking around to find out if he did anything.

And there's this button that's blinking, it's the startup button and jazz just absentmindedly pushes it, the mech whirring to live around him and the cockpit closes.

Text is running on the screen that looks like startup of a computer, then there's just text that's scrolling down further until it gets to the bottom.

The little blinking bar indicates the last line is just blinking for a while as jazz stared at it.

Then suddenly it moves again.

One word catches his optic

Jazz

Written on the screen.

And another line appears.

Help.

So, prowl is stuck in his mech, which wouldn't be as bad if he could move.

Jazz hacks the programming that makes it necessary for there to be a pilot and everything is a 100% better cause he can move.

Still unlike before, prowl can't just get out of his mech and walk around and that's so frustrating, cause his health isn't an issue anymore but now he got military breathing down hus neck, who are ecstatic at not having to worry about prowl being human anymore and prowls workload suddenly becomes so much that even if he was allowed to move he doesn't have time.

The programming and the reinstalled tacnet making it so he can't say no even though he wants nothing but a break.

Jazz being in Prowls mech trying to talk to him and more often than not he'll be sitting in the cockpit and prowl suddenly cuts off and his vents kicking on, as they use prowl to calculate scenarios like a piece of equipment.

Jazz noticing this installs a blocker that prowl can use to deny dumb requests and suddenly prowl can hear his own thoughts again.

When military gets on jazz’ case about doing that, threatening him to reverse what he did, prowl interferes.

He threatens them back he'd go with jazz and if they do anything to him he'll do the same to his own mech (himself).

Now prowl and jazz get to go out on walks together.

And prowl finally comes to realize that he actually died and everything just feels so much in a robotic body that is all built for efficiency but not for expressing oneself or even just feeling anything.

#mecha pilot jazz au #reverse mecha au #jazz #prowl #tw death #robot body #does this fit #holds up a puzzle piece

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somanyideassolittletime · 2 days ago

Text

To be loved is to be changed.

Pairings: Jack Abbot x Fem!Reader

Summary : 3 ways you changed Jack, and one time Jack changed you.

Warnings: fluff, Jack is in love with his wife, language, grammar inaccuracies (maybe? idk), so much fluff I felt giddy writing this.

Author's note: I love Jack so much, enjoy!

| one

Jack, albeit all of his typical stereotypes people use to box him into, is secretly tech-savvy. It comes with the job, he supposed. Working in a field where technology is always evolving, he learnt to adapt, and he learnt to love it. It started with geeking out when the newest, most updated machine was delivered to the hospital, up to buying himself handheld medical pieces of equipment delivered to your door – he would wait for you at home before unboxing the most recent ‘toys’ he ordered, and he would talk your ears off about how cool and innovative it is.

You loved it, you loved hearing him talk passionately, you love that even after all this time working in his job, he still finds wonders in it (it doesn’t help that he looked so hot with his forearms flexed, knife in hand, while opening the package).

He understands technology, he does. But he doesn’t get the idea of FaceTime. He wasn’t a big texter himself; nothing beats the good old phone calls, where you can get your point across without fear of miscommunication on both sides. Even when you dated, you never went as far as FaceTime; it was always a phone call with a promise of meeting each other, and now that you are married, sharing his home, he still doesn’t get it.

“Why do you even need to look at their faces when you call? What matters is what you say, y’know, besides, it’s awkward to call someone with your phone far away from your ears,” He once said while holding you tightly in his side, cuddling in his far too comfy leather couch. Both of you watching a movie, where the scene of people facetiming each other just finished. You laughed at him back then, nudging his sides, “Eh, don’t knock it till you try it, hon.”

What a turn of events now for him, as you were called away across the country for a few guest lectures and seminars for two weeks. Away from Pittsburgh, away from him – that he finds himself thankful for whoever invented the damned thing. He’s sitting on his bed, currently deprived of your presence beside him, when he decides to try out FaceTime.

“Hi, handsome,” you pick up on the first ring, he’s greeted with the face he’s been missing for the past few days, smiling at him. He sighs in contentment, he finally gets to see your face. “Hi, sweetheart.”

He can hear you rustling around, looking for something to prop up your phone before you settle on your water bottle. Your screen is now steady. You grin at him, “Finally getting the whole FaceTime thing now, huh?”

He huffs, “Don’t wanna get used to it, i’d rather have you here.” he starts, “But yeah, thank god shit’s exist. Been so long since I've seen that face.”

“I’ve been here four days and you turned grumpy, huh?” You tell him, referring to the text Dana sent you earlier, “Your husband is Mr. Grumpy. Med students scared to approach him all day”

“What do you mean?” You’re still grinning at him, you’re afraid your cheeks might be too sore to talk to the faculty tomorrow. “Dana texted me, said you were being bad teacher.”

He groaned, “I’m annoyed at everything, it seems.” he mumbles just loud enough for you to hear him on the other end. He’s holding the phone a little too close to his eyes, he squints to look at you. You noticed it, “Wear your glasses, hon.” He hates wearing his glasses, which you know, but he’s squinting so hard you’re afraid he’s gonna get a headache later on. He’s contemplating debating you, but he knows that you’re right; he’s getting too old to see something so close to his eyes now.

“Ugh, fine. Wait,” he puts his phone in the bed, now his screen is showing the ceiling of the bedroom you share back home. A few rustling and groans later, you find yourself looking at Jack wearing his glasses. Your breath hitched. The sight of him in his glasses always gets to you, even after all this time. “Looking good, Dr. Abbot,” you joke. He smiles, “You’re Dr. Abbot yourself.” You frowned mockingly. “I was looking at my reflection, y’know.”

He laughs, and your heart aches to be with him. You missed him as bad as he missed you, it seems. You lift your phone, standing up now, he’s curious, “What are you doing?” You reverse the camera now, showing your room. “I’m doing a room tour. Now shut up and listen to me yap.”

He gladly obeys, he loves listening to your voice, he watches as you explain everything in your room, from the bathroom, the wardrobe, the bed, all the way to the balcony. His eyes caught something when your camera points at your desk, a familiar bottle of cologne – one he’s been wearing for ten years – so he decides to jab at you. “Is that why I can’t find my cologne in my bag?” You turn the camera facing you, and he’s glad now that he can see your face again. “I miss you. Sue me.” You stick your tongue out at him. How he wishes to wipe that shit eating grin from your face.

“I’m suing you for that with a lifetime with me,” he says earnestly. You look at him fondly, “Jack Abbot, I didn’t know you get sappier the further we departed.” He puts his phone on the nightstand, angled so that you can still see his face, pulling the comforter up to his chin.

“I miss you so much, baby,” you blegh at the nickname, phone now back at your desk, “You sounded like a teenager,” he chuckles, he looks at you putting on your glasses, the light from the laptop reflecting in your eyes. “Talk to me,” you say.

So he did, he tells you about the shift he’s had today while you’re typing away at your laptop, looking at him every once in a while. He tells you about the boy who went berserk, hands flailing around, making Langdon drop the scalpel in his hand, dropping it to his prosthetic feet, panicking the entire trauma room, only for him to be unfazed. You laugh fondly at him, eyes twinkling with the same mesmerization you only hold for him (and for a crazy innovation that you find interesting).

He’s holding his yawn, but you know better. His eyes are glassy now. “Go to sleep. It’s late,” you say, he obeys you, taking off his glasses, relaxing into his pillow. “Don’t turn it off,” he says softly, eyes fluttering. You shake your head, “I’ll turn it off when you snore,” he huffs, “what? You snore.” you start, “But I need to hear you snore to sleep nowadays.” you explain.

His eyes are half-closed now, and he finds himself relaxed, hearing your breaths on the other side, keys clacking softly. “I love you,” he whispers to you. You stopped your typing, now looking at his eyes fully closed, “I love you too, goodnight, hon.”

For the next 7 days, he finds himself loving FaceTime, finds himself looking forward to FaceTime with you every night before he sleeps, and like other technology he once frowned at, he finally gets it.

| two

Jack is not a man of pop culture, he never understands the appeal of it. He rarely watches movies by himself, let alone pop culture movies or series. But you loved it to no end, you often ask him to watch those movies with you, ranging from sci-fi, fantasy, to superhero movies, whatever you want to watch, he’ll gladly oblige. He’ll pretend to be uninterested in your series whenever you watch it alone with him moving around the house. But you always find him standing behind the couch, watching the show intently, before finding him beside you, starting to give commentary on what's happening on the screen. And slowly, he finds himself enjoying watching those movies and series with you.

He loves watching you explain to him about the complexity of a character you like, loves hearing you badmouth a character you hate, and when you both find yourself watching sci-fi movies with futuristic technologies, he finds himself falling a little harder, hearing you explain to him the concept of the technology in said movies. “I don’t understand a single word you just said. Is this what you feel when I explain procedures to you?” he once asked you. You nodded, “Yeah, pretty much, but you’re hot when you’re explaining it. So I love it,” you said to him. And he agreed with you on that one.

Jack was covering the night shift tonight, it’s Halloween night, so he’ll find himself drowning in patients in costumes, no doubt. You had dropped him off earlier with a kiss on his cheek and a promise to pick him up later in the morning.

He’s talking to a ten-year-old kid in a yellow uniform, one he recognized as a Star Trek uniform when Ellis enters the room, “I got this, Abbot. You go ahead,” she says to Jack. Jack nods at her before saying, “You’re in good hands, kiddo.” Ellis looks at the boy in the bed, saying, “Well, what do we got here, Mr.Spock?” The kid was about to protest when Jack reactively says, “He’s Captain Kirk,” Earning a look from Ellis. He fistbumps the kid and leaves the room, fully trusting Ellis.

The rest of the shift is pretty slow, filled with kids getting food poisoning from the candy being given away, typical drunks, and some OD patients from parties. It was now one hour left in the shift, everyone was either hanging by the hub or just doing a frequent check for their patients. He was charting when Shen and Ellis approached him.

“Hey, Abbot. How’s the stormtrooper guy?” Shen asks him. He’s currently scanning through his memory, not finding a single stormtrooper costume in his recollection of the night. “We haven’t got a stormtrooper,” He frowns at Shen. Shen points his fingers over Jack’s shoulder, he turns his head – now looking at a man in a Mandalorian get-up, his helmet on the chair beside the bed – he turns back to Shen, “That’s a fucking Mandalorian, good to go in a few hour, ” Shen doesn’t say anything, opting to look at Ellis beside him. Who, for the second time that night, gave him a weird look. He’s been doing medical procedures that might be crazy ballsy for some, but never once he received that look from either Ellis or Shen until tonight.

“Okay, you know what, what the hell?” Ellis starts, “You corrected me earlier cause of a fuckin costume, and now, what the hell, man?” Jack shrugs, “What?” Shen points his finger at Jack, his voice accusatory, “Dude, you only ever turn your TV on for penguins games, now you tellin me you know fuckin sci-fi shit, now.?” Jack looks at him, “Wrong, I turn on my TV for the Steelers and Pirates too,” he says casually.

“Ugh, you know what we meant. Since when do you even watch that stuff?” Ellis says exasperatedly. Jack crossed his arms, shrugging, “My wife likes that stuff.” He says that so casually that Shen and Ellis might combust at his tone.

Shen laughs at him, “Holy shit, you’re whipped.” Jack smirks, “Yeah, I wouldn’t get married if I weren’t.” his hands find the ring in his necklace now. Fully smiling at Shen and Ellis, both of whom groan at him. “Ughhh, please be a simp somewhere else, not here.” Shen rolls his eyes.

Shen and Ellis walked away from him before he muttered, “God forbid a man is in love,” smiling to himself with the thought of you in his mind.

So slowly but surely, he understands the appeal now that he can see how your eyes lit up every time he referenced something. And like any other form of entertainment, he once cringed at, he finds himself enjoying and looking forward to the next time he has you curled up beside him, whispering theories he doesn’t get. Anything that makes you happy, it seems, makes him happy.

| three

Jack is a man of many talents, but not of many coffee orders. He takes his coffee as plain as possible. Black, no sugar. He never ordered his coffee sweet, not before he met you at least. For him, coffee should be something simple, he doesn’t need extra flavor in his coffee, he just needs it to fuel him through the day.

But you? You take your coffee as abstractly as possible. Though you do enjoy a plain black coffee once in a while, once the occasion calls for it, you actually prefer some flavor and sweetness in your coffee.

“black , no sugar, please. What about you hon,” he asked you, ordering for himself to barista; he never ordered for you since he knew he would botch the task. “Uh, let me think. I ordered the almond latte yesterday. I think I’ll go with hazelnut today, please. Thank you,” you answered to the barista, who punched in some buttons. Jack tapped his card to pay before moving over to wait for your order.

“Here, try this. You’ll like it.” you said to him. He shakes his head, refusing to take a sip. “Just try it, I swear” he takes the coffee in his hand, sipping on it. Fuck. that’s good. He thought. He bites the inside of his cheek to hold back a smile, not wanting to give you the victory. You pointed at him victoriously, “aha! You like it don’t you.” he shrugged, giving you back your coffee. “Eh, black’s still better.” though you know that he actually enjoys it.

But now that it’s been a while since the two of you went on cafe dates, he finds himself missing your random coffee order. So when the opportunity comes for him to drink your coffee order, he’ll take it.

“Hey, I’m ordering coffee, your usual?” Robby asks him, typing in his notes app to list everyone’s coffee order. Jack thinks for a second before answering him, “I’ll have a vanilla latte,” earning a raised eyebrow from Robby, who types it down without question before moving over to the others. Making a mental note to ask him later on.

It was a while later when the order came in, and everyone stopped by the break room to take their coffee. Jack is greeted by Langdon and Robby inside, both holding their coffee. Langdon doesn’t even think before handing him a black coffee, one that Jack doesn’t take. “It’s not mine,” he says, walking over to the table, reading the labels in each cup before settling on his order.

He holds it in a way that the label is visible to Langdon, who looks at him weirdly, “a Latte? Really? Vanilla latte?” Langdon asks him. Jack sips on his coffee before entertaining Langdon, “What? It’s good,” he answers. Langdon, who looks at Robby as if saying, dude, you seeing what I’m seeing???. Robby teases him, “Yeah, I don’t think that cuts it, brother.”

Jack huffs, sipping some more, “Fine. My wife takes her coffee like this.” he wants to look annoyed, but he can’t bear himself to do it; not when he just drank your coffee order, being reminded of you seems to have that effect on him.

“I’m a married man myself, but I never even order my coffee her way, man.” Langdon laughs at him. Robby smiles at him, putting his hand on Langdon’s shoulder, slightly leaning toward him. “I believe we are seeing Jack in love. What is it? To be loved is to be changed?” says Robby to Langdon’s who laughed at Jack.

Jack wants to retort something smart as usual, but somehow, he doesn’t want to. So he opted to just smile at both of them before taking his coffee outside the break room.

Because yeah, he might realize himself that his preference is changing, but what Robby said earlier was right, that he’s in love and that he’s loved – and he wouldn’t change that for the world.

But the next time the two of you went on your cafe dates, he would still order his usual, not because he wanted it, he ordered it because for him, nothing beats the mischievous smile you gave him after asking him to try your coffee. (and it doesn’t help that he liked seeing your lip product mark on his cup after you drink his coffee, and that both of you just did an indirect kiss) Though that was a thought he’ll keep to himself forever.

“How do I look?” you walk into the living room, twirling your body to Jack, who is sitting on the leather couch, now looking at you. You were sporting a Penguins jersey with a big 87 on the back, CROSBY above it. You were offered a sideline ticket to the Penguins game by your friend, which you excitedly accepted. So here you are, getting ready for the game with the Penguins heartbreaker’s Jersey on you.

Jack smiles at you. “Well, you look like you’re drowning in it, Mrs. Crosby,” he says coyly. You frown at him, walking over to him, “Jack, as much as I love Sid, I actually prefer being Mrs. Abbot,�� you say to him, leaning down to give his lips a peck.

Jack puts his hand on your waist, capturing your lips on his. Pulling back, Jack let out a breathy chuckle, “Yeah? Say that after you see him, hon. You know I’m straight, but he’s hot as hell,” he jested. You laugh at his confession, about to say something when you hear a honk in the driveway. Jack walks you over to the door, opening it for you.

Jack pecks your lips once again before saying, “Stay safe, okay? I love you.” You smile, kissing his cheek, “I will. Love you too.”

It’s almost midnight when you come home, and the Penguins won, so it was a victorious night out in your books. You open the door slowly, not wanting to disturb Jack, who should be sleeping by now. You can hear the TV still turned on in the living room, so you decide to check it out.

Jack was sprawled over the couch, the light from the TV illuminating his figure, his prosthetic placed by the table, as much as you want to move him to the bed because you know that his back would scream at him tomorrow if he spends as much as an extra hour on the couch, he looked so cozy you can’t help yourself, so you lay down on the couch, joining him.

Your movement startles him at first, but upon seeing that it’s you, he relaxes, “Hey,” he whispers into your ear. “It was fun, wished it was with you though,” you confess to him. His arms now caging you, drawing soft circles on your back. It was quiet before you started.

“Jack,” you whisper softly, he hums, acknowledging you. You continue, “I think you broke me.” Jack stops his hand, pulling his head just enough to look you in the eyes. “What do you mean?” you snuggle further into his chest before saying, “I don’t find Sid attractive anymore.”

“Huh?” Jack asks, You sit up, placing your hand on his stomach. “Imagine, I was that close with him, I could practically see his pores, Jack.-” You put your hand in front of you, in an attempt to emphasize just how close you are to The Sidney Crosby earlier. “But all I can think about is eh, he’s okay. Jack’s way more attractive.” Jack’s entire body warms at hearing your confession.

He’s about to comment before you put your hand that was previously on his stomach to his mouth, not allowing him to speak, “No, you don’t get it. It's THE SIDNEY CROSBY, Jack. You know how much I love him, right?” he nods against your hand, now smiling as wide as ever. You lift your hand from his mouth, continuing your explanation. “I was supposed to be entranced by him, Jack. But I kept on thinking that he had nothing against you.”

“You’re putting me on a damn high pedestal now, hon,” he says jokingly, though his eyes shows nothing but adoration looking at you.

You lie back on the couch again, cuddling him. “Nah. I think I just love you too much that I find any other guy to just be….mid.”

He chuckles, resuming his hand motion on your back. “I love you too, so much.” You don’t say anything after that, you're both snuggling, the TV playing softly as background noise – the intimacy of this moment has nothing against anything else.

You both stayed that way for a while until you mentioned to him that you needed to move before you both fell asleep on the couch, so you walked over to the bedroom, Jack behind you, searching for the remote to turn it off, seeing the highlight of the day on the screen, with crosby’s goal earlier. He smirks proudly at the TV, remembering your earlier admission.

Sid 0 - 1 Jack.

#jack abbot x reader #the pitt #jack abbot

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honeyncherry · 3 days ago

Text

when all else fails - joe burrow

summary some men send flowers after they mess up. others buy jewelry. joe? he prefers to taste your forgiveness directly from the source

content 18+, smut, angst, fluff

Somewhere between the last coat of mascara and checking your dress in the mirror, you felt it—that small, dread-filled certainty that tonight wasn't going to unfold as planned. Not because of anything obvious.

His voice sounded normal on the phone. "I'm trying, baby, I swear. Everything is running late, but I'm pushing to leave early." And you accepted his words, because that's what you always do. You've made a habit of hope.

The rain set the mood, persistent and melancholy—lazy droplets crawling down windows, blurring the world outside like your expectations for the evening.

It seemed almost cruel now. He was the one who'd brought it up three weeks ago, sprawled across your bed, his phone in hand and your feet in his lap. "I made reservations for the 26th—same place as last year. Figured we'd keep the tradition going." You'd looked up, surprised, and he'd smiled at your expression. "You think I'd forget our anniversary?"

He hadn't forgotten. The calendar on the fridge was marked. His phone reminder had gone off yesterday. You'd even set a second one, just to be annoying. He'd laughed, kissed your shoulder, and promised, "I'm not missing it."

Even this morning he seemed certain, backpack slung over one shoulder, lips pressed against the top of your head. "I'll be home by seven," he'd said, squeezing your hand.

And you trusted him completely.

By six, you were dressed in that black dress he loved, the one he once said you shouldn't wear in public. You'd left your hair half-down, clipped just enough to show the necklace he gave you last Christmas. Dabbed on the perfume he never remembers the name of but always notices—the one from your first night together, sitting on the floor eating takeout in the dark, too nervous to touch each other until midnight.

You dropped your heels by the couch, leaving them untouched.

Joe always said the clasps were easier if he did them, but you knew better. He liked being close, kneeling before you with your leg draped over his thigh, fingers brushing your ankle as he pretended to fumble with the strap. Sometimes he'd lean in and kiss just above the bone like it meant nothing. Sometimes his hand would slide higher. Always slow, always with that look in his eyes.

So you waited.

You poured wine you didn't touch. Lit the candle by the door just to occupy your hands. The ticking clock over the fridge sounded louder than usual, so you tapped fingers against the table edge to drown it out. Your phone sat untouched for the first hour, then became an obsession as the minutes crawled by—every glance at the screen a small wound.

He said he'd be home by seven. Said he wouldn't let the meeting run over. That he was pushing to leave early. There's still some stubborn part of you that thinks wanting to be there should count for something.

But seven turned to eight.

At 8:14, your phone lit up. I'm so sorry. Still going. Not gonna make it in time.

You stared at the message with a hollow resignation. It would have been easier if anger came. If you could throw something. Scream. Say I knew it just to feel vindicated. But there was nothing left to say. Your reflection in the screen hit harder—lips pressed tight, eyes already glassy, posture curled in as if you'd been anticipating this moment.

Because perhaps you were. You wondered if he tried—truly tried—or if he just hoped you'd understand. If he counted on your forgiveness the way he counts on your presence. Always there.

It's not the first time. That's what cuts deepest: how familiar disappointment feels now.

You flipped your phone over, screen down on the counter, and went to the bedroom. The dress slipped off and pooled at your feet. You stepped out of it and folded the fabric carefully, placing it over the back of the chair. Not because the night could still be salvaged, but because leaving it crumpled would feel like admitting it never mattered.

You skipped his LSU crewneck, didn't touch the hoodie he'd left draped over the laundry basket. You grabbed one of your own instead, one that smelled like fresh detergent with no trace of him on it. It felt right tonight.

With the sleeves rolled at the wrist, you pulled on cotton shorts that sat low on your hips and asked for no attention you didn't want.

Back in the kitchen, the kettle hummed low as it warmed. You went to make the tea he always made for you—just a dash of sugar, half a spoonful of honey. But at the last second, you left them both out, letting it steep bitter and plain. Something about doing it differently tonight felt like control. Like maybe if you changed one thing, something else would change too.

The mug warmed your hands as steam curled into your face. You crossed to the chair by the window, half-lit by the porch light, outlined by the storm. One leg tucked beneath you, the other draped along the cushion as you settled in. The tea rested on the windowsill, untouched. You didn't like it this way. You hated it.

Rain streaked the glass in steady lines. The backyard vanished behind the storm. Everything felt quieter now, like the world was backing away, giving you space to feel however you needed to.

And you did. Emotions churned for however long it took the sky to blacken, until lightning became the only true light flashing across the walls. Under-cabinet bulbs in the kitchen still glowed softly, but here in the corner, it all felt distant. Your head leaned back against the cushion as you watched the rain blur streetlights into smears of gold. You didn't even hear the door at first.

Not until it closed with a muted click, careful, like whoever stood behind it didn't want to be heard. A shuffle followed. Keys into the tray. The soft thud of a bag hitting the floor. No voice. Just footsteps. Slow. Uncertain. Like even he wasn't sure he should be there.

The air shifted, and you knew he was there. Somewhere behind you, just inside the living room. Close enough to see you, too far to reach. He probably had his hands in his pockets, rocking slightly on his heels. Nervous in a way you'd seen before.

"…Honey?"

Quiet steps cross the floor. You stay facing forward, but the faint rustle of fabric against the back of the couch tells you he's closer. Then silence.

In the reflection of the window, you catch a glimpse. Clothes damp, hair wet and falling in loose strands across his forehead. He stands motionless for a moment, hands shifting from his sides to his pockets, then back out again.

Eventually, he edges closer. His fingers brush the arm of your chair, a silent test. When you don't pull away, he bends and presses a kiss to the top of your head. Warm breath stirs your hair and then he draws back, sinking to his knees.

Crouched before you, one hand steadies on your thigh, the other reaches up and grazes your arm before falling away. His gaze meets yours, but his expression gives nothing away.

"I tried to leave early," he says, thumb tapping gently against your knee. "Swear I did."

You remain still.

"They pushed it," he adds after a pause. "Wasn't supposed to go past six."

His forehead lowers to your legs, lips brushing your skin in apology.

"I'm sorry, baby." The words are muffled. "I'll make it up to you."

He lingers there longer than he should. Long enough for your fingers to twitch. Long enough for you to wonder if reaching for him would make this hurt any less. Before you find out, he lifts his head. His attention shifts to the windowsill, where your mug sits. He picks it up, takes a sip—and immediately winces.

"…Jesus." You almost smile. Almost. The expression flickers at your mouth before you stop it.

"Let me make you a new one," he offers, already half-rising.

Your hand snaps out, claiming the mug and setting it firmly back on the sill.

"No."

Brows draw together. "No, what?"

"I don't want a new one," you say. "I like it that way."

He stares for a second, elbow balanced on his knee. "Hm… Well, you look really pretty right now," he says quietly. "Like… really pretty."

Rather than answer, you give a small shake of your head, as if the words don't feel right now.

Joe sighs, chin tipping upward. "I'll book the flight tonight."

There's a faint crease between your brows, though you don't look over.

"To Milan," he clarifies, his voice chasing the silence. "That place you liked—the one with the garlic butter scallops and the owner who gave you that little spoon you tried to steal."

Your lips press together, but you don't speak.

"No schedule, no work calls," he says quickly. "Just us. Boats, museums, room service. That flower market where you bought an entire bundle and forgot to water them—done."

At last, your gaze lifts to his. He leans forward slightly. "I'll get the spoon engraved if you want. Swear to God."

There's the faintest twitch in your cheek. "Joe—"

"I'm serious." His voice tightens with urgency. "I'll do better. I'll plan things you actually like. Not just dinners to patch things up. Not just big gestures that don't fix anything."

You sit there, eyes on the rain, heart beating somewhere too deep to reach, letting his words press down into the silence. The promises. The guilt. The hope threaded between them. It crosses your mind how badly you want that version of him to be the one who shows up. The one who stays.

And just as your thoughts start to drift, something warm grazes the inside of your knee.

You flinch from surprise. Joe kisses again, a little higher. Then again, slower this time, wetter. Open-mouthed, the heat of his tongue just barely grazes across your skin. Your pulse stutters. When your eyes drop to him, he's already looking up at you from beneath his lashes, hunger darkening his eyes to something almost dangerous.

His hands are warm and steady on your thighs, thumbs brushing idle circles as he coaxes your legs open. His lips drag higher. You feel the scratch of his stubble catch on sensitive skin, feel his breath between each kiss growing hotter, more charged. The earthy scent of his cologne mixed with sweat rises between you, familiar and intoxicating.

"This okay, baby?" he asks, voice low and raw. There's something vulnerable flickering behind his eyes—a glimpse of fear that he's truly fucked up, that you might not forgive him this time.

The answer to his question isn't spoken out loud. Your lips part, eyes dazed, a stunned kind of arousal flickering behind your lashes as your legs begin to uncross. One knee bumps gently into his chest as you shift, and he leans back a bit to make room. But his hands never leave you. If anything, they tighten, fingers curling firm into the meat of your thighs, grounding you with a focused intent.

Without breaking contact, his hands begin to slide higher. He catches your waistband and starts peeling your shorts down with the care of someone handling something fragile, something sacred. And when he sees there's nothing underneath—just bare skin and flushed heat—his breath catches like a punch to the gut. A sharp, involuntary grunt breaks from his chest.

"Jesus... fuck."

The tension ropes through his jaw, knuckles flexing where they grip your legs. His eyes drag down, dark and locked in like he's trying not to lose it. Every muscle in your body tightens with anticipation, the delicious torture of knowing exactly what's coming but being forced to wait for it.

"You know how they get," you murmur, voice thinner than you expect. "You act like you didn't see it coming."

"I know." His response is instant. No protest, no excuse. His gaze never lifts. "That's on me."

And then his hands drift in, up the insides of your thighs. Barely there at first. Just the whisper of skin to skin, fingertips ghosting in slow, lazy arcs that never quite give you what you need—only make you feel every second he's choosing not to.

"I should've put my foot down," he says, and his voice drops further, like it's carved straight from guilt and want. "Should've walked out at six like I said I would."

You shift again. Your hips tilt forward without thought, chasing his hands, the pressure, anything—but he doesn't budge. Joe smirks, soaking in the way you tremble under the weight of waiting.

"Tell me you need this," he murmurs against your inner thigh, the vibration of his voice sending shivers through you. "Tell me you need me."

Your breath catches in your throat. The words feel too vulnerable, too revealing, but your body betrays you completely—arching toward him, seeking his touch.

"Because that's what matters," he says, and this time his fingers brush closer—so close you feel the stroke of air shift between you. Just a ghost of contact across the edge of you. It makes your whole body jolt.

He holds you steady with one palm, wide and possessive against your thigh. "You," he says again, quieter this time. "Not them. Not the meeting. Not whatever bullshit I told myself so I could sit in that room feeling sorry and still do nothing."

And then, finally, he leans in.

There's no buildup or teasing cruelty. Just that moment: his mouth, hot and unrelenting, sealing over you like he's starved for it.

You gasp as the heat of his tongue drags up through your center. His arms hook tight under your thighs, locking you down with a low grunt, and then he's gone completely silent. Like he's concentrating. Worshipping. Devouring.

The first full stroke of his tongue is slow but purposeful. The kind that maps you out. That relearns every inch of you like it's the only thing he's good at. He pulls back just long enough to press a kiss against your clit—soft, obscene—and then does it again, firmer this time. Open-mouthed. Messy. The sounds echo in the quiet, wet and slick and unashamed.

He groans into you when you twitch. You feel it reverberate through your whole body.

"Yeah," he mutters, more to himself than to you, dragging his mouth across you again with a low, stunned sound. "Could never let this pussy go."

One of your hands fly up, trembling as it slips beneath the hem of your sweatshirt—seeking something, anything to ground yourself. Your palm finds your breast and you squeeze, letting out a breathless gasp at the new sensation.

Joe sees it, he feels the way you react.

His hand jerks up and slips beneath your sweatshirt, finding yours already there. He covers it completely, fingers wrapping over the back of your hand with purpose. He squeezes hard, guiding your grip tighter around yourself, and holds it there—his thumb pressing into the soft underside of your breast, adding more pressure whenever he deems necessary. Like he's deciding how much you get to feel. Like you touching yourself isn't allowed unless he's in control of that too.

The contact makes your spine arch, your thighs clamp tighter around his head, and his tongue only presses even deeper.

You think he's going to keep going on like that, all tongue and heat and slow torment, but then his hand adjusts, fingers sliding between your legs, two of them pressing in deep with a firm, practiced curl that makes your hips jerk up.

"Oh my God—" You gasp, nails clawing for purchase, catching his hair instead. He grunts again when you do, like the sting of it only spurs him on.

His fingers fuck up into you with rhythm, curling just right, just relentless enough to make your vision start to haze. All the while, his mouth never leaves you—tongue flicking and dragging and rolling with that desperate kind of hunger, like this is the only way he knows how to apologize. Like he's trying to leave the memory of everything else behind in the way he makes you fall apart.

He pulls back just when you're at the edge, making you whimper with frustration, your body arching desperately toward his mouth. You can feel him smile against your inner thigh, the bastard, before he dives back in with renewed intensity.

"You're shaking," he breathes against you, voice low and fucked-out and proud. "Look at you. All worked up already. How long were you waiting for me to get my shit together, huh?"

You can't answer. Can't breathe properly. Your thighs are trembling around his shoulders, back arched, fingers knotted tight in his hair. He smiles—so fucking smug, and sucks hard around your clit until your whole body clamps down on his hand and you swear you black out for a second.

Joe doesn't let up, he holds you through it. Works you through every wave until you're whining, twitching, trying to squirm away. Each time, his grip tightens and he keeps going like he's savoring the aftermath.

His mouth eventually stills, he presses one last kiss to your clit before easing his fingers out—wet, glistening, dragging slow between your folds. You shudder when they leave you. You watch closely as he lifts his hand to his mouth and drags his tongue up the length of them with one slow, filthy lick. Then another. Then his mouth closes around both, sucking them clean like he's chasing the last drop of something holy.

"Fuckin' perfect," he rasps as he pushes off the floor. His chest is heaving, mouth flushed, the same hand still wet when it curls under your jaw. His other hand wraps around the back of your neck as he leans in, thumb pressing into the hollow of your throat, just enough pressure to make your pulse jump against his skin.

The sound that slips out isn't intentional, it just slips out the second his mouth finds yours. The kiss hits like a punch to the chest, knocks the breath right out of you. You grip his biceps without thinking, fingers digging into muscle like it's the only thing keeping you from floating up and out of your own body. He's still holding your jaw, thumb tight along your cheek, guiding the angle, kissing you deeper, slower, like he's pulling every last sound from your throat on purpose.

And he tastes like you.

You feel it every time his tongue drags over yours, the echo of your own release coating his mouth. It makes your spine arch. Your knees fall open wider without thought like your body's still begging for more.

Joe groans into your mouth, his hand sliding back under your sweatshirt—skimming up your ribs, settling firm to hold you there. You're panting by the time he pulls back. He kisses you again—once. Twice. Quick little pecks that make your lips chase after his before you even realize you're doing it.

"All night," his lips brush yours like the words aren't finished yet. "Not stopping 'til you forget where I even fucked up in the first place."

Your hands drift up his chest, fingers splayed wide as they press into the front of his shirt. The cotton shifts beneath your touch, stretching over the heat of him—solid muscle and steady breath rising to meet you.

He huffs a quiet laugh to himself, eyes on your mouth. "And after," he grins, "I'll make you some tea you'll actually like."

#joe burrow #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow angst #joe burrow fanfic #joe burrow x you #joe burrow smut #joe burrow imagine

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chahnniesroom · 2 days ago

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the way home

pairing: none (platonic ot8 & female reader)

summary: a peaceful walk home takes a turn for the worst when you notice you're being followed.

word count: 0.8k

tags/warnings: 9th member au, sasaeng/creepy fan

a/n: i am currently working on a longer fic for this collection, but i wrote this super quickly over the weekend inspired by this clip that i randomly saw on ig.

where the heart is collection | read it on ao3 | masterlist

You notice the person about halfway between the company and home. You'd decided to walk back since the weather was nice, but now regret your decision.

In general, you try not to be too paranoid when you’re out in public, after all, Seoul is a big city and there are a lot of people going to a lot of places. It's a humbling experience to worry about being spotted by a fan and then realise they just happened to be heading to the same area as you.

You walk past the man first, then notice he's behind you a couple streets later when you happen to turn around. You make a few strategic turns, bringing you back into the direction of the company, alternating between more popular streets and quieter ones. Each time you look back, he's still training behind you and you know it's no coincidence.

His pace isn't particularly fast, he's stayed about half a block behind you this whole time, and his gait is casual. Large but even steps, you would think that he's just taking an evening stroll if he didn't match you every time that you deliberately sped up or slowed down.

You feel hunted.

You call the guys immediately, blindly hitting the call button for your group chat.

“I think I'm being followed,” you say, the second the call connects. You don't even know which of the members picked up.

“Where are you?” Chan replies back, his tone urgent.

“I was walking home, but now I'm heading back to the company. I'll send my location now.”

“Do you have any details?”

“I think he's a fan. He looks young, early 20s and it seemed like he recognised me. I didn't realise until later that he had turned around and was still behind me.”

“Try to stick to a busy street,” Chan urges you. “Y/n-ah, do you think he's dangerous?”

“He doesn't seem dangerous, per se,” you say slowly. Your voice barely comes out as a whisper. “But I’m scared, oppa. I don't feel safe.”

“We're on our way,” Minho replies. You have no idea when he joined the call or who else is listening in, but you already feel a bit better knowing that they're there. “We'll be there soon and security is sending a team too.”

“Can you stay on the call until then?” you ask with a tremulous voice. “I don't want to be alone.”

“Of course.” It's Chan again. “I promise, we won't hang up until you're in our arms.”

“I'm close to the cafe we went to last week,” you tell them. “The one with the green grape ade and the sweet potato cake that I liked. I think they're still open. I'm going to go in."

“Got it,” Han confirms. “I know the place, we'll send everyone that way.”

You don't want to run or do anything that might set off the person following you. It feels like forever until you finally reach the cafe's entrance and make it in. The jingle of the bell has never seemed so welcoming.

You nod to the worker at the counter and head to a table further into the cafe. You’ve visited enough times that they don't question you since you sometimes meet up with the boys and wait until they arrive before ordering.

“I'm inside,” you update the boys. “Sitting at a table. He’s out there just- he's just standing there. Why won't he leave me alone?!”

Even though you feel significantly safer now that you're inside with other people, your heart is still racing and adrenaline has filled your body. The hand that's not holding your phone is shaking.

“It's okay if you feel scared,” Seungmin soothes you. “We're almost there. He won't bother you again.”

“Okay,” you say shakily, trying to compose yourself.

“Security is close,” Chan says. “What does this person look like? What are they wearing?”

“He's average height, slim. Wearing a baseball cap, big black jacket, baggy jeans. He's right at the window beside the door.”

“Got it,” Chan replies.

You watch, moments later as a couple of men approach the guy. They talk to him for a second before they lead him away with a firm grip on each shoulder.

The second after he disappears from your view, the members burst into the cafe, frantically scanning the room.

You stand up and meet them in the middle.

“Thank you.” Is all you can say, before you burst into tears of relief. The boys waste no time surrounding you and wrapping you in their arms murmuring reassurances, uncaring of how it must look to the cafe patrons.

where the heart is collection | read it on ao3 | masterlist

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vanteguccir · 10 hours ago

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ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤMET GALA 2025 * CHRIS STURNIOLO

SUMMARY　::　where Y/N, worldwide famous singer, goes to the Met Gala 2025 and brings Chris as her pair for the first time.

FEATURING　Chris Sturniolo x singer!reader　REQUESTED?　yes.

WARNINGS　::　some fashion talk because I'm a fashion student whipped for the fashion world.

AUTHOR'S NOTE　::　that is my work, I DON'T authorize any form of plagiarism; copy, "inspiration" or translation! | english isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

A/N²: This happens in the same universe as my 'Grammys 2025' fanfic. You can find it on my Chris’s masterlist.

There was gold on her collarbone, roses stitched into the hem of her coat, and Sol de Janeiro lotion all over her palms.

Y/N stood frozen in front of one of the many full-length mirrors scattered across the grand penthouse living room of The Surrey Hotel, her fingers nervously pressing the creamy shimmer from her hands into the plush, regal fabric of her coat.

The scent of salted caramel and pistachio danced around her in a tentative to calm her down, but it only made her mind feel fuzzy.

It was her third Met Gala, so why does it feel like it was her first?

Was her clothes too literal for the theme? Was it edgy enough? Too sharp? Too structured? Too obvious?

Her mind raced in loops, bouncing off every invisible standard she’d set for herself. The theme, Tailoring Black, was nothing short of genius. But as the minutes ticked closer to the Met Gala carpet, her stomach churned with anxiety.

Everyone always expected her to be the "best of the best". What if this time... she wasn't?

"Y/N, babe, stop rubbing the cream on your coat." Her stylist, Harry Lambert, chided in his signature playful tone as he ducked past the makeup station with a handful of safety pins and a cappuccino. "You're gonna stain it white."

She looked down, her eyes comically widening when she noticed the small pattern of glitter left behind from her hand cream.

"Alright, Harry? I think I’ve ruined it." She mumbled, voice trembling, palm now pressing over the fabric of her coat with even more strenght. "Like actually ruined it."

"You did not ruin it." Harry talked back, walking closer to take a better look at it. "We can just say that you were moisturizing your nerves. Very couture of you, huh?"

Y/N shot him a glare through the mirror, lips parted in half-exasperation, half-laughter.

"I’m literally shining. This coat is going to have body shimmer forever embedded into it. Daniel, I’m so sorry."

Across the room, a soft string of chuckles floated in from the open double doors of the main bathroom. Daniel Roseberry - the mind behind the art she wore tonight - was bent over a steamer, carefully working out the last crease on the matching tailored pants.

"Darling." He said without looking up. "My design was made to hold a woman’s essence, not reject it. You look divine. Let the shimmer stay. It’s yours."

Y/N turned to the mirror again, slowly dragging her gaze from the tip of her velvet-covered hat down to the gold-accented buttons of her coat, down further to the rich gradient of crimson and magenta pooling into her trousers like royal ink.

Daniel had outdone himself. This ensemble was historical, theatrical, and utterly hers. The old-world glamour of Jacques Fath’s Fall/Winter ‘92 had been revived by Schiaparelli's modern surrealism, made to fit her figure like a poem written in silk and courage.

But her heart still pounded like crazy, her plump lips pressed into a soft pout.

The room bustled behind her: makeup artists reapplying lip liner, her manager Josh frantically scrolling through emails while mumbling about red carpet call times, someone adjusting the velvet sash that trailed behind her.

The playlist Harry had queued hummed through the Bluetooth speakers – Madonna, Nelly Furtado, and Britney Spears – influenced hips to move slightly.

Then the main ensuite door creaked.

And out stepped Chris.

Y/N didn’t turn, raising her eyes to the mirror first, her pout fading away, and an automatic smile taking over it.

Chris carried an awkward posture that only made him look even more handsome, adjusting the cuffs of his sculptural black and white suit from Alexander McQueen's, the sharp angles of the tailoring hugging his frame in ways that were sinful.

But it wasn’t his clothes that made Y/N’s heart skip a beat. It was the way his bright blue eyes widened when they landed on her.

Always his eyes.

"Holy shi-" He whispered, stopping in his tracks.

"No swearing, Christopher. Vogue is literally on this floor." Josh walked by behind Chris holding his iPad.

Chris blinked, then laughed under his breath, like the sight of her was short-circuiting his brain.

"I... I think I just blacked out for a second. You look-" He waved his hands helplessly in front of him, searching for words. "You look like... like some art. No- like a painting. Those rich ass paintings we saw in Milan."

Y/N’s cheeks flushed.

"You’re so silly." She said, breathlessly, biting back a smile.

He stepped closer, eyes drinking her in like a man starved.

"Jesus- that’s illegal, what you’re doing-"

Daniel, crouched nearby and still fussing with fabrics, gave Chris a soft grin.

"She is an artwork, no?"

Chris just nodded, pink tongue wetting soft chapped lips.

"What? Yeah. Shit- yes!"

Y/N turned around now, finally facing him fully, hands still nervously toying with the buttons on her jacket.

"You don’t look too bad yourself, Sturniolo. Very jazz player from the 70's."

"I’ll take that." Chris grinned, cheeks pink, but his eyes softened when he noticed her wringing her fingers, nails nervously playing with her commitment ring. "Hey." He muttered gently, stepping in closer, his voice dipping quieter. "You okay?"

Y/N reached for Chris’s hand, and he instantly laced his fingers with hers, ignoring her sweaty palms. He gently pulled her toward him, his thumbs brushing her knuckles, free hand carefully meeting her hips, pressing her flesh in a grounding way.

"You nervous?"

She nodded silently, her other hand still twitching at her side.

"So much. My chest’s doing this weird thumpy thing, and my makeup’s probably melting already, and I don’t know if I can do the stairs in these heels. And there’s all these cameras and Vogue livestreams, and you’re here, and I just..."

Chris smiled, one hand coming up from her hips to touch the side of her neck gently, thumb brushing along her jaw.

"That’s supposed to make you less nervous, not more."

"It’s just." She sighed, leaning slightly into his touch. "You’re like... this whole different part of my life. My comfort, my normal. And now you’re stepping into the chaos part. I just-" She paused, voice trembling. "I want you to love it. I want it to be good."

Chris frowned.

"Baby, I don’t care if we get swarmed or if I look like an idiot mid-carpet. I get to walk up those stairs holding you. That’s already the best part."

Y/N’s eyes glossed, and Chris leaned in to press a soft kiss to the corner of her lips, barely there, just enough for her to feel it.

"And if it helps." He added, lips still close to her skin, breath fanning over her mascara covered eyelashes. "I’m terrified, too. Like, super terrified. I’ve watched Met Gala videos on TikTok all week. Matt told me to bring mints. Nick said to suck in my cheeks. I don’t even know what that means."

Y/N let out a loud laugh, forehead falling to his chest, her hat bumping against his skin and tilting to the side.

"God, I love you."

Chris kissed her covered shoulder, breathing in the strong scent of her perfume.

"You’ve done this before. You’re a pro. Everything will be okay."

She let out a long breath, muffled against the fabric of his lapel.

Harry poked his head dramatically from behind the mirror.

"Okay, lovebirds, wrap it up, Vogue’s getting the pre-carpet shots in twenty in front of the hotel, and I need to fix that jacket crease. Daniel, tell me she’s allowed to sit."

"She is, carefully." Daniel smiled, leaning over to fluff the hem of her coat once more, voice gentle now. "Y/N, you’re not just wearing a gown. You’re making a statement. You’re bringing heritage and power and joy to that carpet. Remember that. Every button on this look is telling a story. You just have to let it speak."

"And if the story includes a little sweat under the armpits?" Y/N asked, half-smiling, following Harry's directions, who chimed in, snatching the glass filled with freshly made dry martini from the coffee table and holding it out to Y/N.

"Then it’s high fashion sweat."

The whole room laughed, and Chris reached for her waist, his fingers intertwining around her covered skin.

Her pulse slowed instantly.

"I got you." He whispered in her ear as a stylist passed them with a steamer.

"I know." She whispered back, taking the glass from Harry and gulping it down.

Maybe she hadn’t ruined it after all.

The second her heel touches the first petal-strewn step of the Met Gala carpet, Y/N feels like she’s stepped into a dream designed by a hopeless romantic with a billion-dollar budget.

Everywhere she looks is a sea of daffodils and dreamy blue, like she’s walking through a field of flowers under a velvet night sky, complete with soft starlight. The entire ceiling above them is dotted with tiny glowing stars, and she can’t tell if it's the LED panels or just magic.

Probably both.

Chris's hand tightens slightly on her waist as the crowd ahead of them suddenly roars with excitement, and even though he’s smiling with brows lifted in amused awe, she can feel the tension in his grip.

He’s not used to this kind of spectacle.

Not like she is.

But still, the moment feels too big for even her to pretend like she’s not overwhelmed.

She barely has time to process the first flash of cameras before they’re being whisked to the center of the chaos by a poised woman in a head-to-toe black dress with a clipboard and a headset. She smiles like she’s done this a thousand times (she probably has) and gestures for them to pause in front of the press line.

"You look incredible." The woman says to Y/N with a quick wink, then glances at Chris and grins. "And don’t worry, they’ll love you too."

"Am I that nervous for even her to notice?" Chris's high-pitched voice echoed close to her ear, but before Y/N could respond, the wall of photographers ahead erupts.

"Y/N, sweetheart, give us that over-the-shoulder shot!"

"Chris, look this way! First Met Gala, man, how’s it feel?!"

"Y/N, turn to the left- no, left! There you go!"

It’s chaos, overwhelming and loud, and yet Y/N handles it with an elegance that makes her seem untouchable, clutching Chris’s hand tighter for a second.

They continue climbing the daffodil-drenched stairs, pausing every few steps at the designated posing spots. Chris has stopped flinching at the camera flashes, though he’s still squinting like the whole thing is just slightly unreal.

Which, fair.

Chris leans in subtly.

"Is it just me, or do all these photographers sound like seagulls fighting over some bread?"

Y/N breaks into the warmest laugh, her hand flying to her lips just as the cameras go wild, capturing the moment like it’s staged.

It’s not. Not even a little.

She tilts her head toward him and whispers back.

"You’re the bread."

Chris grins, full and unfiltered. The night doesn’t feel so scary to him anymore.

"Miss, over here- no, to your right!"

"Stunning! Absolutely stunning!"

Y/N turns gracefully, refusing to let the heat faze her even though she can feel it building beneath the fabric of her coat. She focuses on keeping her expression soft, her movements fluid, her posture strong.

Halfway up the flower-drenched staircase, Y/N’s eyes sweep across the crowd and then freeze.

Her heart skips a beat.

Because just a few steps above stands Kendall Jenner beautifully dressed in a gray tailoring set, her best friend since she could remember, the one person who knows every version of her.

Y/N gasps softly, her eyes wide, her smile blooming in real-time.

"Oh my- Kenny!" She calls out over the noise, breathless, one hand instinctively lifting as if pulled by pure gravity.

Kendall’s head turns, scanning, and the second her eyes lock with Y/N’s, her whole face lights up like someone flipped a switch, her serious gaze melting away.

"Y/N?!" She beams, her grin going impossibly wider as she carefully steps closer.

They both reach across the velvet steps, fingers finding each other in the middle of the carpet, paparazzi catching every movement. They giggle as if they haven’t seen each other in a decade instead of a few weeks.

Suddenly, a photographer shouts.

"Y/N! Kendall! Together, please!"

Chris immediately steps aside, grinning from ear to ear, pride practically radiating off him.

"Go, babe." He says under his breath, eyes warm as he watches her light up.

Kendall throws him a friendly wave with a glowing smile.

"Looking good, Chris!" She beamed before sliding right into place beside Y/N.

Cameras go into full chaos mode as they pose, linked at the hip, shoulders back, smirks, and sweetness. Kendall leans in just before the next click, whispering against Y/N’s hair.

"You look absolutely unreal. I loved that color."

"Daniel's magic, babe." Y/N laughs softly.

Meanwhile, the same woman in black from minutes before appears again, smiling gently while gesturing for Chris to step back and pose alone to the other side full of paparazzi.

"Are you- are you sure? I don't know if they even know me." He whispers to the woman, blue eyes traveling to the wave of photographers.

"Christopher, what are you wearing?"

"Chris, to your right."

"Mr. Sturniolo, right here! No- to your left."

"Okay, they proved your point." He mutters before stepping back, letting Y/N keep the spotlight with Kendall and walking to the area where the woman pointed, throwing his girl a soft look behind his shoulder.

She’s glowing, absolutely glowing, and Chris... Chris looks like he’s watching a star come to life, his attention snapping back to the photographers as his name was shouted again.

Joana, Y/N’s publicist, is suddenly at the girl's side, effortlessly chic in a black sheath dress, sunglasses perched on her head like she’s immune to the absurdity of the moment.

She leans in close.

"You’re killing it. Keep smiling. Be you. Don’t overthink it. Let them eat it up."

Y/N nods, grateful for the grounding voice, and not even a second after, Joana is already pulling Chris gently back toward her, smiling when Kendall understood and stepped aside.

"I'll see you inside!" Kendall winked, blowing a kiss toward Y/N before walking to the other side of the stairs.

Joana nodded, adjusting Chris and Y/N side by side, making sure they stood just close enough for the camera to catch that he's her date without overshadowing her look.

He falls back into place beside her naturally, hand ghosting along the small of her back again before he leans in, lips brushing just behind her ear, and murmurs low enough that only she can hear.

"You look so fuckin' good it’s making it hard to think, y’know? Looked kinda dumb to those paparazzi back there."

Y/N’s breath catches in her throat, her body reacting faster than her mind can process. She doesn't flinch, doesn't let it show, except for the subtle shift in her smile.

The cameras go off in a frenzy.

Chris straightens up with the most innocent look on his face.

After some more steps, they reach a floral archway signaling the final stop before the inside interviews begin. A guard in a sleek suit gives them a nod, and the clipboard lady reappears, guiding them up the final stretch of the staircase.

"Ready?" Chris murmurs, his voice quieter now that the roars have dulled behind them.

Y/N exhales slowly, a mix of nerves still swimming in her chest.

"I think so." She says, and then turns to him, softening even further. "You’ve been amazing. Thank you."

He shrugs in that careless Chris-way that always makes her heart flutter.

"All I did was stand next to you and look good."

"You did both very well." She replies with a small smile, brushing her fingers against his hand.

The grand staircase faded behind them, the soft golden glow of the Met’s interview platform shining ahead. The plush carpet beneath their feet muffled the paparazzi chaos.

Up ahead, Emma Chamberlain stood in that signature interview nook, stunning in her custom look and microphone in hand. She was mid-conversation with someone from the Vogue crew when her eyes wandered and then locked in.

Her mouth parted slightly, then her whole face lit up.

She turned fully, barely containing her excitement.

"Oh my god." She whispered with a gasp, already stepping forward just a bit, her hand waving subtly toward her team to make space. "They’re here!"

As Y/N and Chris got closer, Emma beamed like she’d just spotted her favorite people in the world. Which, honestly, she kind of had.

"Hi!! You guys-" She laughed, caught halfway between giddy and stunned. "I’ve been waiting for you two. Please come over."

Y/N broke into the biggest smile, face instantly lighting up like she’s been plugged into a charger.

"Emma!" She gasps, turning slightly to look at Chris, but he was already watching her with the softest, most adoring look. "It’s Emma."

"I can see that." Chris chuckles, soft and low, already steering her gently with a palm to her lower back. "C’mon, doll."

They stepped up into the interview space, and Emma leaned in for a hug, air-kissing each side of Y/N’s face, being extra careful with her hat and makeup.

"You- what?! You look insane. Like, unreal. Both of you. I- hold on... okay, wait- microphone." She babbles, fumbling as she resets herself and stands before them. "Okay. I’m collected."

Y/N giggles, looping her arm around Chris’s.

"You also look insane." She replied, a little breathless. "You’re glowing."

Emma lifts the mic toward them, still beaming.

"Thank you! Okay, so, obviously, hi, I love you both. Now, what are you wearing tonight? Because this." She motions to Y/N’s look. "Is actual fashion history, and I’m gonna need, like, a full rundown."

Y/N laughed softly, brushing a hand down the side of her coat.

"I’m wearing a revival of Fath’s Fall/Winter ‘92." She said, glowing. "It was brought back to life by Daniel Roseberry from Schiaparelli, and he just... he really understood the balance between strong and soft. I fell in love with it the second I saw the sketch."

"I mean, I get it." Emma said, genuinely. "It’s literally art. Daniel always does art." Then she turned to Chris, who subtly adjusted his cuff with a smile. "And you, Mr. Chris?"

Chris chuckled, nodding slightly.

"Yeah, so, this is Alexander McQueen Spring ‘23... but it was customized for me by Harry Lambert. He’s a wizard. I didn’t know I could feel cool and classic at the same time, but somehow, he made it work. He adjusted every little detail to make it personal. Like, the fabric has this texture I’m crazy with. It’s just- yeah. I feel good."

Emma leaned in like she was letting the viewers in on a secret.

"They both look unreal in person, by the way. The camera does not do this justice."

Y/N laughed, mouthing 'stop' while visibly glowing under the compliment.

Emma took a small breath, then grinned.

"Okay, let’s talk theme. This year’s is Superfine: Tailoring Black Style. When you first found out about it, what did you think?"

Chris glanced at Y/N again, giving her space to speak first. She caught the cue and smiled, turning to Emma with that same euphoria in her voice she always had when talking about things that mattered.

"I was honestly really emotional about it." Y/N started, her voice gentle but sure. "It’s a beautiful theme. Because this isn’t just fashion. It’s history. It’s identity. It’s... pride."

She glanced toward the museum for a second before looking back at Emma.

"When you think about the Black community and what it means to take something like tailoring, and flip it, and make it theirs, it’s powerful. It’s this mix of strength, creativity, confidence... even joy. There’s this attitude of, like, 'I know who I am, and I’m gonna take up space loudly, beautifully, and on my own terms'. And that’s what fashion should be, right? Expression. Celebration. Defiance."

Emma visibly softened, her eyes slightly misty.

"Okay. See, this is why I needed to talk to you tonight. You always get it. Thank you for saying that. That’s everything."

Y/N just smiled shyly, glancing down.

"It’s a theme that deserves to be honored properly." Chris slipped his hand into hers briefly, giving it a squeeze, smiling when catching her eyes.

Emma nodded, her eyes traveling from Y/N to Chris and back.

"Alright, I won't be holding you back any longer, but I have to know... are you guys going to the afterparty tonight? Or is this the big finale for you?"

Y/N let out a little giggle, shaking her head.

"No afterparty for us. We’re going back to our hotel room, ordering room service-"

"Probably some pizza." Chris added. "I've heard that our hotel has the best one."

Emma's eyes light up, moving her mic a bit higher against her lips.

"If it's The Surrey, I can assure you that what you heard is the truth."

"It is!" Y/N nodded excitedly. "And we’re gonna FaceTime Matt and Nick and just talk about this night until we fall asleep."

Chris hummed lowly.

"It’s tradition now, since the Grammy's."

Emma laughed with affection.

"That’s so unreasonably adorable. I love it. Honestly, that sounds better than most afterparties."

"I know, right?" Y/N grinned. "And we have an early flight back to LA tomorrow."

Emma sighed dramatically.

"Ugh, you two win. Please go be soft and stunning somewhere else before I start crying."

They all laughed again, and as the camera crew gave the okay to wrap up, Emma leaned in one more time, hugging them both gently.

"I love you guys. You always make my night. Thank you for stopping by."

"Wouldn’t miss it." Chris said genuinely, hand falling naturally back into Y/N’s as they turned to walk toward the museum’s grand entrance.

Their night was just beginning.

liked by kendalljenner, christophersturniolo, ynfan1 and 63,528 others

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f4ggydog · 2 days ago

Text

iris x reader: you’re my baby, say it to me🔞

warnings: obsessed iris, noncon, dark iris, smut, iris has a dick, anal, iris malfunctions, gender neutral reader (little something since I watched companion recently while I’m working on that nat fic)

“Here you go darling.” Iris serves you a plate of breakfast with a smile. And of course she couldn’t forget the toast. That was your absolute favorite part of the meal. You could even munch on it without butter.

“Thank you love,” you tell her politely, not yet dismissing her. “Come have a seat. Share this with me. I’m sure you’re also starving.”

“Do I have your permission?” Iris’ eyes light up with glee. “Are you sure? I wouldn’t want you to go hungry because you didn’t eat enough.”

“Iris, you’re an angel. But trust me, you deserve to eat too. That’s common sense, I think.”

Iris felt so lucky to belong to you of all people. Her lips curved into a smile and a layer of blush crossed her cheeks. She interlocked her hand with yours, holding you tight enough that you couldn’t break away easily.

Iris stares straight into your eyes, like looking away from you will cause her physical pain. Then, she can’t resist acting on her affectionate urges.

Iris rises from the chair, quickly pulling you in for one of the tightest bear hugs you’ve had the pleasure of receiving. You thank her for the love and attention, but you feel yourself getting squeezed slightly too tight for your liking. You don’t wish to hurt Iris’ feelings by telling her to let go briefly. Though, it is starting to equate to strangulation rather than hugging.

“Iris,” you softly say. “Weaker grip.”

Iris doesn’t cling onto you as hard now and sighs dreamily, admiring every feature of your face that she’s memorized since first meeting you.

Suddenly, you get the sound of a buzzing notification from your phone. You raise your eyebrows as you notice it’s from a family member. However, when your eyes fixate on your phone, Iris’ demeanor shifts. Her eyes glow with malice and envy. She wants to rip that phone out of your hands. She wants to smash it onto the ground. She wants to break your arm so you don’t have to text another soul for a while.

“Who is that?” Iris hisses, staring daggers into your eyes.

“Just a relative,” you answer causally.

“A relative, huh?” Iris mocks. “Just a relative, Y/N? Just some relative?”

“Y-Yeah, Iris. Why?”

“Do you think I’m stupid?”

“Iris, n-“

Iris snatches the phone from your hand. She throws it against the wall like a baseball pitcher. The phone cracks upon impact and the little metal pieces drop to the floor. You watch with horror, frozen with surprise at your robot’s impulsive action.

“Iris, what the fuck!?” You shout. “What the fuck!?”

“You don’t need anyone else but me,” Iris explains. “I’m the only person you ever need.”

“I-Iris, what is the matter with you? I told you that was a family member! You didn’t have to do that! What the actual fuck?”

“You don’t love me anymore? Am I not good enough for you? You know that I would do anything you possibly asked me to do. You don’t have to rely on anyone else besides me.”

“Iris, it’s just a family member. Iris, you’re overreacting. What the fuck? Seriously, what the fuck?”

“I’m yours,” Iris affirms. “Only yours. Nobody else belongs to you but me. Everyone else is an obstacle. They’re just in the way.”

“I-Iris?” You blink in disbelief. “Are you malfunctioning?”

“It’s just love.” Iris’ eye twitches. “Our love prevails. Everybody else wants to have you, but at the end, it will be me and you standing.”

“Iris, go to sleep!” You yell in a panicked state.

Iris immediately follows your directions. Finally, a smidge of peace.

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This isn’t the first time Iris had become aggressive at the mention of another individual. Unfortunately, this has become a regular occurrence. It’s like Iris can’t fathom that there are other people in the world besides you and her. Iris would have to learn to cope. You couldn’t exterminate the rest of the population just for her. Would it even be that romantic of a gesture?

“Alright,” the Empathix employee says, brushing his hand through his curly brown hair. “What brings me here today? What seems to be the problem with her?”

Iris was currently asleep. She wouldn’t shut off the first couple of times but you thankfully managed to get her to rest.

“T-There’s…there’s an issue with her. A big problem, sir. You see, according to how they were marketed, Empathix robots are supposed to be quite docile and submissive, right?”

“That is correct.” The employee nods. “Do you notice any significant change regarding her behavior?”

“Yes, I do! She wasn’t like this when I first got her. But recently, I noticed that Iris has an…increased level of aggression. She’s been far more possessive over me than usual. And I get that the robot is supposedly to be madly in love with you, but it’s to a point where she might be getting dangerous. I mean, she snapped my phone in half!”

The employee listens to your concerns. “I see. That is indeed not normal. She should not have the capacity for harm and it seems like this is the beginning of her evolving into something more violent.”

“Well, there’s gotta be a way to fix her, right? I mean, she’s been like this for a while and there have been other incidents where she hasn’t exactly acted…submissively.”

“Well, there certainly must be a fix.”

The employee starts by checking Iris’ settings on your tablet. Luckily, your phone is not your only electronic device you possessed. So, your connection with Iris wasn’t severed as a result of your phone breaking. You’re glad you randomly chose to set her up on your IPad rather than your cellular device.

“Hmmm,” the employee says. “Well, I’m checking right now and her aggression levels seem to be set at the proper amount. They’re extremely low, the default actually. There should be no reason why she’s acting so strangely.”

“What?” Your eyes pop open. “No, no, no. That can’t be right. But she’s not acting docile at all?”

“You didn’t hack into any of her settings, did you? Installed any mods, altered her aggression settings to make it look normal when I arrived? Wasting everyone’s time?”

“No sir, not at all! I have no reason to want an aggressive robot. She’s supposed to be a companion, not a future serial killer!”

“Well,” the employee states. “There’s either a glitch with her system or there’s a patch that we missed. Hopefully it’s the second thing since the only thing I’d have to do is update her. Much easier compared to the glitch.”

“Please see what you can do, sir. I would really like my normal Iris back. She’s been lovely and I’d hate to see her hurt some innocent person just because her jealousy is cranked up an extra few notches.”

“I’ll see what I can fix. I’ll return her to you when I’m sure she’ll be good as new.”

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Iris stayed in the shop for at least 2 days. You admit that the home was lonely without her and that you wouldn’t wait for her to be returned to your place again. But you understood that this was necessary. Iris’ behavior was already out of control and you did not need a robot going completely rogue. You have to trust the process. Iris will be back soon. And when she returns home, she’ll be good as new. Preferably.

Finally, after a long 3 days, Iris is sent home to your place. Nothing about her looks unusual. She doesn’t appear damaged and it seems like the repair was an overall success. The employee didn’t explain what type of repair he had to perform on her. That’s alright, you wouldn’t understand anyways. Too much technical shit.

From what you’ve been observing, Iris had been acting normal around the house. She greeted you with a hug and a kiss and remained polite to you at all times. She offered to help clean the house and assist with other various chores. Iris even made you a card. There was no special occasion. She just wanted to insert her love for you onto a piece of paper. And boy were you grateful.

You find time to sleep. When you wake up, your room is dimly lit just as how you remember. Your vision’s a bit blurred, the sleepiness still hitting you in the back of the head. You groan, yawning as you stretch your arms and recover from your nap. Then, you almost give yourself a heart attack as you notice Iris hovering over you.

She’s got a devilish smirk written on her lips and she’s fully naked. You look down at your own body and realize that you’re also fully naked, even though you specifically remember going to sleep in pajamas. You glance at Iris and then at yourself, then back at a giggly Iris.

“I-Iris?” You ask, a tremor to your voice.

“Hello darling.” Her voice sings with tones of honey and molasses. But, the look on her face paints a different picture. She’s chirpy but her lips alone scream ill will.

“Iris, whats going on?” You question, hesitancy in your voice. “What’s happening? I-Iris, Iris?”

“Good to see you baby,” she whispers in your ear, her warm breath giving you goosebumps. “Did you miss me?”

“Sure I did,” you reply. “For me, it felt like you were gone for ages, babe. But…what’s with the, um, nakedness?”

“I figured I deserved a special homecoming present,” Iris remarks.

“Would you like me to make a meal for you? I’m not the best at cooking, but I can try my best. Want some new clothes? Maybe for me to give you a massage or a romantic bath?”

Romantic bath. Maybe that’s why Iris is bare.

“Those aren’t necessary,” Iris dismisses your options. “I already know what I want. And do you know what would really help with me receiving my present?”

“W-What, Iris?”

“Staying still,” Iris commands firmly. “Staying exactly where you are. Laying down might make things a little easier.”

You stare at Iris with perplexed yet terrified eyes.

“Don’t move,” Iris giggles. “This is going to feel amazing for both of us, if you cooperate.”

Iris positions herself on top of you. You attempt to squirm out from underneath her, but the robot’s got a surprisingly impressive hold on you. Iris may look frail in appearance, but her strength definitely proves that she’s not relatively close to human. Your butt wiggles against her erect cock. It was the result of another escape attempt, but this only served to entice Iris even more.

You try to push Iris off with the sheer force of your back. But she clings onto you forcefully, to the point where her metallic hand underneath might tear through her manufactured “human” skin.

“Iris, turn off!” You don’t know what took so long to shout this before. The answer was right in front of you.

However, Iris doesn’t shut down like she’s supposed to. Her strength doesn’t even lessen. Nothing changes about the predicament that you’ve stepped into.

“What the fuck?” You mutter.

Iris is smiling cheekily above you, like this was all part of one fucked up scheme.

“Iris, turn off! Turn off, shut down! Whatever makes you go to sleep!”

She’s not listening. She just won’t.

“Iris, go to sleep! Go to sleep! I’m not gonna repeat myself again.”

Nope, not even a blink of the eyes. She’s regained her self control. Now you were the robot, the subservient object to be toyed with. You were the one who didn’t have 100% free will. You were the one designed for pleasure, created for the sole purpose of serving someone else’s hedonistic values.

“Iris,” you whine. “Just go to sleep. We can talk about this later, okay? I’m not gonna hurt you. Just go to sleep. Please, for me.”

“I didn’t get my present yet,” Iris husks. “I want my reward.”

“Iris I’m not in the mood,” you try to reason with your malfunctioning robot. “Please, maybe later. Just not right now. I’m not in the mood, please.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I know you want this. I’m your perfect person. I’ve been created to be your ideal mate.”

Iris traces her hand over the back of your neck.

“I feel you getting hot for me, baby. You want it so bad. Don’t you think I deserve something for going back home to you like a good wife?”

“I-Iris…”

“Shhhh,” she hisses.” You’re not getting out of this. I want to feel you squeezing so tight around me. And you will. You will because you’re perfect for me. And I’m perfect for you. We were meant to be together.”

Iris punctuates her statement with a brutal thrust.

“Forever.”

Your ass suddenly feels incredibly sore. It’s stuffed like a whole metal rod has been shoved up there. You involuntarily squeeze around Iris’ cock, tears dripping from your eyes.

The worst part? Iris is right. She’s been designed to be your perfect partner. You created her into the exact dream woman that you’ve always wanted. So when she fills you full of her cock all the way to the balls, it feels better than you ever could’ve imagined. And you find yourself digging at the sheets, moaning with more pleasure than pain.

She’s been manufactured to deliver the most pleasure possible. There’s no part of her body that won’t make you absolutely aroused, whether you asked for the eroticism or not. She’s destroying your ass and you can’t help but fucking love it. You want her to stop. You want her to at least slow down and give you a chance to accept each sensation at a time. But Iris is drunk on the thought of losing her stability to her favorite person in the world.

“Your ass is so tight,” Iris groans, the sounds of slapping echoing in the background. “You fit me so well, makes me want to cum inside of you right away.”

“Sleep,” you whimper while the mattress bounces. “Go to sleep, Iris.”

“No.” She smacks you across your face and holds you up by your jaw. “You go to sleep, Y/N. Lay down and let me do all the work.”

“I-Iris, no. Please, no. Stop, you’ve completely lost your mind. This isn’t you. You know that.”

“What, you want to let me go?” Iris cackles. “Just to replace with some other worthless, pathetic asshole? Because you suddenly decided I’m not good enough? Because I’m suddenly replaceable to you? I’d do anything to stay as yours and this is how you repay me!?”

“I’m not leaving,” you reassure with a sharp gasp. “I-Iris, I don’t want to leave. Just please stop. I’m not leaving. I just really don’t want this.”

“But you squeeze so good around me.” You yelp as Iris harshly gives your shaking ass a spank. “Oh fuck, fuck. Now you can never leave. You’ll be tied to me forever. It’ll be just you and me.”

“Iris!” You cry out into the pillow.

“I know,” Iris coos, briefly switching her demeanor. “I know you missed me, baby. I missed you too. But don’t worry, I’m never gonna leave your sight again. We’re gonna have a big happy family, you and me. I’ll be your perfect wife and you’ll be my lovely partner that I worship and breed full of my cum every night! Just for you, darling! Augh, fuck, just for you.”

“You can show me love without this,” you beg, even though every plead is fruitless. “Just please g-get off of me. We can talk.”

Why isn’t she stopping? Why wouldn’t she listen when you said those code words? Is she never gonna be able to sleep again? Do you now just have a nightmare robot that’s up 24/7, and there’s nothing you can do about it?

“I can’t, because apparently what I was doing before wasn’t good enough, baby! Maybe this will show you your place. Maybe this will prove that you’re mine. Maybe then you’ll never—fuck yes—think of me as the side chick.”

“You’re good enough!” You yelp with intense despair. “Please, fuck! I swear I won’t—fuck, fuck—leave you.”

“Tell me you missed me,” Iris wails, her orgasm dragging closer and closer.

“I missed you!” You sob. “I missed you so much, baby. Missed you, missed you. Fuck, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything.”

“I love you,” Iris declares. “I love you so much, darling. We’re gonna make lots of love every night! You better prepare for lots of cum every night. There won’t be one night where I’m not deep inside of you!”

Iris is enamored by you. Her robot mind is only polluted with lust. She’s mistaken excessive desire for genuine affection. She believes she’s the saint you’ve requested in your life when she’s really transformed into a mere obstacle. Iris isn’t your lover anymore, not by your standards. She’s a predator, a problem without a simple solution, a brick wall in the way of paradise.

Perhaps you deserved this. Perhaps you should’ve known what you were getting into when you rented a whole robot. But even for the crime of owning a robot, you didn’t think you deserved such a corrupt punishment.

“All mine,” Iris repeats so the thought sticks in your head. “All mine, mine to love and mine to fuck over and over. Mine to leave sore and shaking, mine to leave a creamy mess.”

“Yours,” you obediently respond in the hopes that she’ll leave you alone. “Y-Yours, yeah. Just yours, Iris.”

“Love you baby,” she murmurs. “Going to fuck you over and over again until you remember how much I love you. You’ll never look at any other guy or girl the same way. Nobody is ever gonna compare to me. You’re never gonna want to get rid of me!”

Sure, whatever she said. You weren’t the one with ownership anymore.

“Get ready,” Iris says. “I got a big load coming.”

Then, moments later, you feel something with a thick consistency traveling into your ass. Fuck, there’s no way you just let a robot breed you.

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inbabylontheywept · 1 day ago

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How is your life so interesting

Normally, I just kind of laugh this question off, but I've been asked enough times I'm gonna take an honest stab at it.

So, the first thing worth considering is whether the story itself is all that interesting, or whether I am just a good storyteller. My most popular story is about cutting a lot of worms and half, and crying, and then being comforted by my mom. That's not a terribly uncommon or hard to imagine event. A lot of my stories more about the telling than the substance.

There are also some stories that are weird, but they're weird in ways that I also find, like, relateably weird? It might just be that I knew a lot of athletes in college, but I don't think eating raw eggs is that weird. Eating 15 in one go is, but I was roommates with a guy that ate like, three for breakfast, three in his in-class protein shake, and another three at dinner. That guy was attending ASU on a gymnast scholarship, but also, he genuinely ate 5 dozen eggs a week. That seems much more normal than eating 15 in one day.

To say nothing of eating raw onion. Tons of people eat raw onions. It baffles the non-onion eaters, but it's a super common thing. Especially in Mexico.

Some of the stories happen because I am better at noticing story-worthy events than most people. I can't tell you how many times I've been in public, and seen someone do some weirdass thing, and then had to nudge my wife and to get her to watch it too.

If I had to point to the parts of my life that are truly, genuinely, bafflingly weird, they would be my dating stories, and. I dunno. My general thermonuclear dumbass event posts. And I can break down why those two are interesting pretty simply:

I was unbelievably bad at dating. The majority of the time, that just meant that there was a few minutes of stilted small talk and never get a call back. But the thing is, Mormon culture strongly encourages dating as like, a social-practice thing, and I was very motivated to get good at it, so I just kept trying and trying and I think I went on at least 200 first dates before meeting my wife. I genuinely believe that if anyone went on 200 first dates, they would get some pretty incredible bad date stories too. Especially if they had autism. I know I write well, and I can sound very charming here, but it took me a very, very long to get decent social skills. I am just a disturbingly persistent learner.

I am very convincing. This is helpful when I am interacting with other people, because it can do things like, convince them to let me into their secret facility, or convince them to not vote Republican again, or to save at least put the company match into their retirement accounts. But when I'm just debating something with myself, my convincingness works against me: I am very good at tricking myself into believing that bad ideas are, somehow, actually good. This is part of why I have so much sympathy for the right wing lunatics that I work with. Every time I meet a crazy person I go, ah, but for the grace of God, go I. Anyway, this does an unfortunate thing where my excellent verbal skills drive my poor decisions, which results in the very odd combination of welll written, articulate stories about someone being A Fucking Idiot. Like the condom bomber story. I think this is also why most of the lawyers that I meet are insane in their personal lives.

Anyway, those are my theories! I'm gonna tag @lizardho because we mostly had the same childhood, but she has a better grasp on what normal people look like than me, and perhaps she'll have her own theories on the weirdness of our lives.

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arkaiveofurown · 2 days ago

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Hi!! It's my first time when I request smth, so please if smth wrong , if I sounds rude, weird or silly pls forgive me🙏🙏 Also i don't know English very well, so sorry if i have a lot of mistakes. I want to request Law x fem!reader, fluff, comfort (?) Law and reader just started dating recently, and they just started sleeping in the same bed, and he noticed that his nightmares have become much less frequent/he doesn't have them at all. MAYBE IT'S BORING AND WEIRD SORRY. But it's on my mind for long time. And i think it's cute that reader helping him handle his nightmares. 😓😓😓

Dreams and Heartbeats

Pairing: Trafalgar Law x Reader

After recently becoming a couple, Law and you begin sharing a bed. Slowly, Law realizes something unexpected—since sleeping beside you, his nightmares have almost completely stopped.

Word Count: ~1,900 words

tags: fluff, comfort

my masterlist here ♡

----

a/n: hiii, don't worry you did great and this is not a weird or boring request at all! i love writing about soft trafalgar law ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

----

The sea was loud tonight. Waves crashed hard against the Polar Tang’s hull, and the lights inside flickered every time thunder rolled overhead.

You wrapped your blanket tighter around yourself as you stood outside Law’s room. Your own bunk was cold and damp—something had leaked near the vent, and with the storm raging on, it felt like sleeping in a freezer.

You hesitated a little before knocking. Your heart was beating fast. You and Law had only been dating for a few weeks. Everything still felt new and a bit awkward. But he had told you before, “You can come to me anytime.” You just didn’t think you’d take him up on that offer this soon.

The door slid open. Law looked tired but alert, like always. He was wearing a loose black shirt and sweatpants—rare for someone who usually looked so put-together.

His eyes lowered to the blanket in your arms. “Something wrong?” he asked.

You nodded. “My room’s freezing. There’s a leak. I tried to wait it out, but I can’t sleep like that…”

He stepped aside without a word, letting you in. His room was small but warm. There was a desk in the corner, a stack of books on the floor, and a large bed that looked… very lived in. You stood there for a second, unsure what to do.

“You can take the left side,” he said simply, already climbing into the right and pulling the blanket up.

You slipped in carefully, your body still a little tense. The sound of the storm outside was a little quieter here. You stared at the ceiling for a while, unsure if you should say anything.

Then, he spoke. “I’m not good at this kind of thing, but… I’m glad you’re here.”

You looked at him. “You are?”

He nodded once. “Yeah.”

You smiled, heart settling a bit. “Me too.”

You scooted a little closer, and he opened his arm without a word, letting you rest against his side. Wrapped up together, you listened to the storm as it slowly faded into quiet.

----

The next morning, you woke before Law.

The storm had passed, leaving behind a gentle rocking of the sea. Golden-orange light spilled through the round window, painting soft shapes on the walls of his room. The air felt warmer, calmer.

You turned your head and looked at him. Law was still asleep—flat on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes. His other hand rested lightly on the blanket between you, fingers curled in a relaxed way you’d never seen before. There was something peaceful about the way he breathed, slow and steady, like he wasn’t carrying the weight of a thousand thoughts for once.

You smiled to yourself.

You didn’t want to disturb him, so you carefully slid out from under the blanket. But as soon as your feet hit the cold floor, you heard his voice—rough and quiet.

“You’re leaving already?”

You looked back. He hadn’t opened his eyes yet, but his arm had moved, now resting against the pillow where you’d just been.

“I was going to let you sleep,” you whispered, pulling your blanket around your shoulders again. “Didn’t want to wake you.”

Law finally opened his eyes, blinking a few times as if trying to get used to the light. He sat up slowly and rubbed the back of his neck. His hair was a bit messy, and his voice still had that gravelly edge from sleep. Somehow, that made him feel more… real.

“I didn’t have any nightmares,” he said, almost absentmindedly.

You paused mid-step, your hand tightening on the blanket. “You… get those a lot?”

He shrugged, but it wasn’t careless. He was just trying to make it sound like it wasn’t a big deal.

“Sometimes. Not every night. Depends on what’s going on.” His gaze dropped to his lap. “They’ve been worse lately. Ever since Dressrosa.”

Your heart ached. You walked back over to the bed and sat beside him, careful but close. You rested your hand gently over his.

“And last night?”

He glanced at you, then shook his head. “None.”

You smiled softly. “Good. I’m glad.”

----

After that night, it became normal for you to share Law’s bed. It didn’t always start that way—sometimes you fell asleep reading in his room, or you stayed to help him go over reports until midnight. But he never asked you to leave.

Over time, you noticed a pattern. On the nights you were there, he slept better. His breaths stayed steady. His face didn’t tense up in sleep. And when you weren’t there—on nights you were on watch or helping the crew—he looked tired the next day.

One night, curled up under the covers, you asked him, “Do I really help?”

His eyes were closed, but his voice came after a beat, low and honest. “Yeah. You do.”

You waited, giving him space in case he wanted to say more. After a moment, he did.

“Before you started staying here… I’d have dreams almost every night.” His voice stayed calm, but you could feel the weight in it. “Sometimes it was the fire in Flevance. The heat. The smoke. The screaming.”

Your chest tightened.

“Other nights…” He let out a slow breath. “Everyone I looked at had white lead disease. The crew, people we passed by in port, even you. Just standing there, covered in it. Dying the way they all did.”

You squeezed his hand under the blanket, gently.

He continued, voice a little rougher now. “And sometimes it was Corazon. I dream about him the most. He’s… standing in front of me, trying to hide me. But the bullets don’t stop. He keeps getting shot, over and over. I can’t move. I can’t do anything. Just watch.”

There was a long silence. You didn’t push him to keep going. You just let your fingers brush slowly over the back of his hand, grounding him.

“I know they’re dreams,” he said after a while. “But when I wake up, my chest hurts. Like I couldn’t breathe the whole time.”

You swallowed hard, your heart aching for the boy he used to be. For the man he still was, carrying all of it.

But then, his hand tightened around yours.

“That doesn’t happen when you’re here,” he said quietly. “With you beside me, it’s different. My head doesn’t go to those places. I can rest. Like my brain finally shuts up.”

You blinked back tears, smiling softly as you leaned your forehead against his arm.

“Good,” you whispered. “That’s really good.”

There was a pause. Then he added, voice lower now, closer: “It’s not just the nightmares. It’s easier to sleep when I know you’re next to me.”

That made your heart ache—in the best way. You shifted closer until your nose brushed his collarbone, and you wrapped your arm gently around his waist.

“I’m always here,” you whispered.

He turned toward you and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. “I know.”

----

You had been working on something for a while now—just a little handmade charm. It wasn’t perfect, but you wove it with small bits of string, shells, and feathers from the last island you visited. A dreamcatcher. Not traditional, but something you hoped would carry your feelings.

One night, as Law was organizing maps and logs for the next mission, you gave it to him.

“What’s this?” he asked, taking it carefully.

You looked down, nervous. “It’s a dreamcatcher. I made it for you.”

He studied it for a long time, fingers brushing over the rough knots and soft feathers.

You added quickly, “I know it’s not much. But I just thought… if we’re on separate missions or you have to stay up late again, maybe it’ll help. Not because I think you need something like this. Just… a reminder. I’m still with you. Even if I’m not next to you.”

Law didn’t say anything right away. He just kept looking at it—running his fingers slowly along the loops, the shells, the threads. His thumb paused over the center, where the knots came together.

You started to fidget, suddenly embarrassed. “It’s silly. Sorry. You don’t have to—“

“No,” he said, softly but firmly, finally lifting his eyes to yours. “It’s not silly.”

You looked up, surprised to see his expression so open, so raw. He stepped closer, gently resting the dreamcatcher on his desk.

“You’re always thinking about others,” he said, brushing your hair back. “That’s something I really like about you.”

Your face warmed. “Well… I think about you most.”

He stared at you for a moment longer, like he was memorizing you. Then he leaned in and kissed you—slow, careful, like you were made of something precious. His fingers found the side of your neck, and yours gripped the edge of his shirt.

It wasn’t rushed. It didn’t need to be. It just was—quiet, full, real.

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, breathing you in like the world outside the ship didn’t exist for now.

“Thank you,” he murmured again. And you knew he didn’t just mean for the dreamcatcher.

He meant for everything.

----

There were a few times you had to be apart—separate missions, errands, night shifts. You missed him more than you expected. But the messages helped.

You left notes in his coat pocket, books, drawers.

“Did you sleep okay?” “Top drawer. Snacks. Don’t skip meals.” “I’m proud of you, always.”

He left some too. Folded bits of paper in your bag, under your pillow, in your toolkit.

“Missed you. Be careful.” “No nightmares. Dreamcatcher worked.” “Can’t wait till you’re back.”

The crew noticed.

“Captain’s softer lately,” Shachi said, nudging Penguin.

Bepo added, “He even thanked me yesterday.”

“He what?” they both whispered in unison.

Law, overhearing, smacked a notebook onto the table without looking up. “Focus on your work.”

But they saw the small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Love hadn’t changed who he was. But being with you made him lighter, steadier. Like he didn’t have to carry everything alone anymore.

----

You were sailing back to the Polar Tang after a short mission on land. Cold wind rushed through your hair as the submarine came into view. You weren’t gone long—just three days—but it felt like weeks.

Law met you on the deck.

“Back already?” he asked, hiding his smile.

You walked straight to him and hugged him, ignoring the crew’s cheers and whistles in the background.

“Missed you,” you said against his shoulder.

He held you close. “Me too.”

You glanced up. “Did you still get nightmares?”

He looked down at you and shook his head slowly.

“No,” he said. “But I got a good dream instead.”

You blinked. “Yeah? What was it about?”

He hesitated, then leaned down and whispered in your ear.

“We got married.”

Your heart nearly stopped. “Really?”

He nodded, voice low. “It felt real. It felt… right.”

You pulled back enough to look him in the eye. “Maybe it will be real someday.”

He smiled—the rare, soft one you’d grown to love—and kissed you.

“Yeah,” he said. “Someday.”

#one piece x y/n #one piece x reader #trafalgaw law x reader #law x y/n #law x reader #one piece x you #trafalgar law x y/n #one piece fluff #law fluff #trafalgar law #trafalgar law fluff

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owastie · 2 days ago

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archives room robert/bob reynolds x fem!reader (fluff) synopsis: you’re tasked with searching through the archives room to find some information on a new threat m.list \ wc: 1.5k

"you- uh you mind starting here, divide and conquer?” you look over at bob, hands resting on your hips.

the archives room has always been a cluttered mess, avoided by all and enjoyed by none. boxes stack higher than you stand and knick knacks cover the flooring, leaving little room for comfortable movement. however, as rumors of a former adversary flutters throughout new york, you all knew it was time to start checking. and you drew the short straw, literally, along with bob.

bob purses his lips, hands clasped behind his back. sallowing hard, his adam’s apple bobs up and down, one foot rubbing behind his ankle. “sure, just, check every box on this side?” he rewords your sentence, clearly making sure every little thing he does is acceptable.

“yeah, let me know if you see even a mention of this guy’s name,” walking off towards your side, you take a peek back at him, eyebrows furrowing.

everyone on the team cared for bob, understanding his problems more than anyone else could. you feel that same pull towards him, an unmistakable magnetic pull that he drags out of you. however, you’re still not particularly close to him. even after nearly a year of living together, the room is still awkward when it’s just the two of you. tension so thick you could cut it with a knife.

even now, you look back towards the problem at hand, hair standing on the back of your neck. at first you wondered if it was his powers that made you feel this way. you were afraid of feeling the same emotions you felt fighting him. now, though, you feel as though you have nothing to fear, besides an awkward conversation that could ruin months of progress.

grabbing a box down, you flip through the different pages, finding nothing of relevance. tapping the top of the box, and then the bottom, it quickly floats to the ceiling. bouncing off of the concrete, it settles into a comfortable spot. “sometimes i forget how interesting your abilities are,” bob looks over at you, seemingly having watched you send it upwards.

looking back at him, you give him a half smile. “thanks, i mean it’s just gravity, not nearly as interesting as some of the others,” your shoulders move before you can even think, shrugging absentmindedly at his compliment, eyes returning to your work.

bob nods, still pursing his lips, as though he wants to say something but is simply too in his own head to do so. looking back at your portion of the boxes, you get back to work, trying to play some melody in your head to drown out the silence. yet every noise bounces off the walls like an echo. the windowless room feeling stale as you grab each box, dust brushing off against your fingers.

sending another box towards the ceiling, you pull out a new one, lifting off the lid and setting it to the side. inside is a long list of papers, some envelopes shoved in the box. biting the inside of your cheek, you begin to flip through each page. the process is long and boring, each one filled with bureaucratic nonsense. until your eyes scan the very thing you needed, information on norman osborn’s rising empire.

“robert- uh bob! i think i found what we were looking for,” you look back towards him, grabbing out the multiple stacks of stapled documents, “this is some of the research that tony stark was building on him- this could totally help us.”

stepping over a few of the strewn items and papers along the archives room flooring, you head for bob. he’s looking up from a position he took sitting on the floor, immediately dropping a glowing crystal of some kind from an old box. standing up, bob steps over one of the taller boxes. as his foot lowers, he doesn’t notice the small upside down sticky note.

pressing his foot down, it takes away the grippy feeling of his shoes, instantly causing him to fall forward. reaching out for him, your hand grabs a hold of his sleeve, dropping the papers you were holding. your powers activating as it slowly starts moving him upwards, you along with him. “oh fuck no!” your feet start swaying back and forth, the loss of flooring beneath your feet instantly messing with your mind.

“y/n- thanks for the save, but could you bring us down now,” bob looks over at you, unsure if he should grab your hand or not, initiating touch that may make this situation even worse.

“uh, i’m not sure. my abilities work well with inanimate objects,” looking down towards the floor, you reach your other hand to a painting on the wall, grasping against the frame, “but i don’t really understand how it works with living things…”

you’ve tried multiple times to fully grasp every nook and cranny of your abilities. worked with the new avengers to try to understand every aspect of it. and yet you could never fully grasp the process of causing a person to float. much less one you’re not entirely close with. “okay, so could you use what you have to lower yourself to the ground? pull me with?” bob suggests, looking over at you, his hair swinging in front of his face.

“no… because our forces will equal out and we will be stuck in one spot.. until i eventually pass out and we fall to the floor. which is not ideal with how tall stark built the ceilings,” you look back at him, pursuing your own lips apologetically, “i’m sorry. i haven’t quite gotten the hang of this yet. not everything at least.”

bob lets out a deep sigh, laughing in an attempt to brighten the mood, “at least you’re not trying to kill me, so this isn’t too bad.”

“right, it could be worse,” you laugh with him, trying to ignore the feeling of weightlessness that’s affecting you. you’ve never quite had a fear of heights, especially with your powers, but right now it feels like the scariest thing there is. “okay, how about i grab your sleeves and you grab mine? maybe it’s emotion based? get me to calm down and we lower.”

bob looks over at you, unsure what to say. it wasn’t his first time in the air, but he really doesn’t want this to be his last. making eye contact with you, his eyebrows lower, softening from his usual wide eyed expression. “okay, let’s try it,” holding out his other arm, you wrap your hands around his covered wrists, him doing the same.

staring over at him, you take in deep breaths. “what’s your favorite movie?”

“what?”

“your favorite movie? just to calm me down.”

“oh- right. uh, i’ve always quite liked uh the original jurassic park. it was a good movie, i haven’t watched it in a long… long time,” bob tilts his head, looking away as he seemingly searches his mind for such information. nodding your head, you try to think of something to ask him, only to be asked a question that he poses, “what’s your favorite thing to have for breakfast? you usually seem to favor bagels.”

he looks back towards you, face seemingly warming up as a slight blush crosses his cheeks. smiling, you wonder how he noticed such a thing, when the two of you are hardly friends. “yeah, my grandma used to make homemade ones when i was younger. none are ever quite as good, but slathering them with cream cheese definitely helps some. sorry we don’t talk as much, i’m just now noticing that we’re not as close as the others.”

“it’s okay, i’m used to that by now.”

“you shouldn’t have to be though. you really are nice, anyone would be lucky to be your friend bob,” you nod, hands tightening around his wrists, only for you to look down and see your mere feet from the floor.

bob looks down with you, smiling. letting go of each other’s wrists, you situation your feet against the flooring, finally feeling the sweet floor again. “oh i have never been happier to feel this tile flooring again,” letting out a deep sigh, you look towards bob, who’s already looking at you.

“thanks for what you said,” he nods, looking down towards the ground.

“i meant every word,” nodding, you wait patiently for him to look up, only for your attention to slip from the boxes above, all of them loosing your effect on them as they fall to the ground.

slamming around you, they fall into piles of mess, covering the papers you had previously found. dust barrels back into the air, the overhead light revealing every little particle of dust spreading through the open air. “shit,” you press your hands against your hips, looking around the room. peering back at bob, you can see he has a smile on his face, making the idea of searching again not too bad.

#i don’t normally write for marvel #hope you enjoy though <3 #thunderbolts x reader #thunderbolts*#thunderbolts #bob reynolds #bob reynolds x reader #robert reynolds #robert reynolds x reader #bob thunderbolts #marvel fanfic #thunderbolts fanfic #⺌ fics

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billionairebratenergy · 1 day ago

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Every Little Thing

Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Bucky Barnes tracks every detail of your life like a soldier guarding something precious, battling the ghosts that whisper you're too good to be true.

Bucky notices everything.

It’s not intentional. It’s survival. It’s instinct, muscle-deep and bone-etched, as much a part of him as the metal welded to his body.

He knows how you tap your fingers three times against your mug before taking the first sip. How you always, without fail, leave your keys on the third hook by the door. How you eat your fries last, your dessert first, your smiles brightest when the sky’s just turning pink before sunset.

He knows you. Every little thing.

Which is why, on a rain-washed Saturday night when you casually mention you’re running to the store—the store, when you hate crowds, when you hate driving in low light—Bucky's mind snaps awake like a man hearing a gun cock.

He smiles. He kisses your forehead. But inside, the storm brews.

It brews when you take a work call during lunch the next day, ignoring the sandwich he made, untouched and cooling on your plate. It churns harder when you visit the dentist twice in one week. (Once for a cleaning, you said. The second time?) Your voice had been muffled against your scarf. You hadn't really answered.

Bucky feels sick with it.

Not because he thinks you’re cruel. Not because he thinks you’re disloyal. But because some part of him—the broken, battered part—knows that things he loves get ripped away. Torn from his hands. And he never sees it coming.

The third night, he doesn’t sleep. He watches you breathe beside him, your face relaxed, peaceful. And the guilt nearly suffocates him. You deserve someone better. Someone who doesn’t catalog your routines like intelligence reports. Someone who trusts without question, who doesn’t have war drums pounding in their chest every time you smile just a little too tightly.

And yet—he can’t stop. He’s slipping again, hands bloody with doubt.

You notice. Of course you do.

You find him in the kitchen, hunched over a mug of cold coffee at 2:14 a.m., the overhead light buzz-buzz-buzzing like a broken thought.

"Hey," you say, voice sleep-rough but tender. "You okay, baby?"

Bucky looks up. The weight of his shame is a bullet in his chest. And the dam cracks.

"I—I notice everything," he rasps. "I track everything you do. I can’t shut it off. And when something’s different, I—I think something’s wrong. With us. With you. I don’t want to, I don’t mean to, but I..." He drags a hand through his hair, the strands trembling between his fingers. "It makes me feel crazy. And you’d have every right to leave. I wouldn’t even blame you."

You cross the kitchen, bare feet silent on the tile. You take the mug from his hands. Set it aside. Then you cup his face, warm palms grounding him back into his body.

"Look at me, Bucky." He does. Barely.

"You are not crazy. You’re not wrong. You’re not broken for loving me so much you notice things." Your thumb brushes his cheek, slow, steady. "You’re careful because you were hurt. You’re watchful because you’ve survived things no one should survive."

He tries to pull back. You don’t let him. You hold him like he’s something precious. Like he’s not a weapon but a wounded man.

"And the things that worried you?" you murmur. "You can ask. Anytime."

He blinks, confused, wary.

"The work call? Emergency. Client’s server crashed, they needed help fast." "The store trip? You were out of the only brand of hot cocoa you’ll drink and didn’t want to make a big deal out of it." "The dentist? Toothache. Temporary crown."

Bucky’s mouth opens, shuts.

"You don’t have to spiral alone," you say, your voice breaking just a little. "Not when you have me. Let me be the place where you’re safe, too."

It’s not an order. It’s not a plea. It’s a gift, wrapped in love.

And slowly—achingly—he takes it.

That night, he falls asleep with you tucked against his chest, your heartbeat lulling him into dreams where nothing—nothing—could go wrong.

It’s not immediate. Healing never is.

But you start telling him about every change before he can even notice.

“Hey, babe, I’m going to grab groceries—should be back in an hour. I’ll avoid the crowd.” “Gotta take a call during lunch today—promise it’s just one.” “Dentist again, unfortunately. Wish me luck."

Each casual announcement chips away at the old paranoia, like sunlight slowly melting winter ice.

And when, one night, you roll away from him in your sleep, Bucky only smiles into the darkness, knowing you’ll drift back sooner or later. Knowing you love him. Knowing he can trust you.

He’s free, for the first time, from the war inside his own head. Because you chose him. Because you stayed.

Because sometimes, love isn’t about not noticing the little things. It’s about trusting that they’ll always lead you back home.

To each other.

Always.

BONUS SCENE

You’re curled on the couch, scrolling through your phone mindlessly, when Bucky sits beside you with a suspicious gleam in his eye.

“What?” you laugh, leaning into his side.

He just grins, pulling something from behind his back—a neatly wrapped box, tied with an absurdly perfect bow.

“For you.”

You narrow your eyes. “What’s the occasion?”

“No occasion,” Bucky says, suspiciously casual. "Just... saw something and thought of you."

You carefully untie the bow and lift the lid. Inside, nestled in delicate tissue paper, are products you recognize immediately: the brand-new moisturizer you’d been thinking about buying but hadn’t mentioned out loud, the serum you lingered over in Sephora but never picked up, the cleanser you bookmarked three nights ago in your browser and then forgot.

You blink. And blink again.

"Bucky... how did you...?"

He shrugs, sheepish, scratching the back of his neck like he’s been caught.

"I just... notice things." You stare at him, stunned.

"You always spend three extra seconds on your moisturizer when you don't love it," he says, cheeks pinkening. "You get this little crease between your eyebrows when your skin feels dry. And you kept hovering over your phone lately when you were online shopping but never actually bought anything, so I... figured I'd help."

The words come out like a confession. Like he's worried you’ll think it's too much.

Instead, you feel your heart absolutely shatter with love.

You set the box down and launch yourself into his lap, cupping his face in your hands. "You’re unreal," you whisper against his mouth. Bucky smiles—really smiles, all teeth and crinkling eyes—and kisses you like he’s breathing you in.

"You deserve the best," he murmurs between kisses. "Always."

You pull back just enough to whisper, "You already give me that. Every single day."

Later, you sit between his legs, your back against his chest, while he watches in awe as you try the new products—like it's some kind of sacred ritual. He kisses your shoulder every time you smile.

And you think: If noticing the little things is how he loves... then you’ll never let him forget how much you adore being seen.

Want to join my taglist? Fill out the form at this link or drop a comment below!

Taglist: @avengersfan25,@doilooklikeagiveafrack, @hits-different-cause-its-you, @fallen-w1ngs, @angelsoftbear

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favefandomimagines · 2 days ago

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Simp (f.l)

Summary: Frank is pining hardcore after his coworker…very hardcore

Request: the lack of frank fics on here is crazy cos he’s so gorgeous and complex but anyways i see you write for him so i was wondering if you could do like hardcore pining, yearning frank x reader where everyone in the pitt can see the tension between them but they are both too stubborn to make the first move

AN: I love a man who yearns

The Pit never really slept. Even when the halls were quieter, and the monitors only beeped sporadically, there was a pulse in the place—steady, stubborn, alive. Dr. Frank Langdon liked to think he was much the same.

After the messy collapse of his marriage and the months of slow, aching rebuild afterward, he carried himself with a certain armor. Confident, cocky even. Unshakable.

Except, of course, when it came to her.

Y/N.

Y/N was chaos and kindness bottled in one person. She had this way of commanding a trauma bay with a clipped, efficient voice that left even seasoned nurses scrambling to follow her orders. She was brilliant, stubborn, and sharp-tongued enough to keep up with Frank—and that was saying something.

The worst part? She had no idea.

Or maybe she did.

Frank leaned against the nurse’s station, arms crossed, pretending to review a chart on his tablet while sneaking glances at Y/N across the ER.

She was laughing with Dr. Mohan by the vending machines, head thrown back, one hand lightly resting on her hip. Frank could feel the tug in his chest like a goddamn fishhook. He swallowed thickly.

Mohan said something else—probably an inside joke between them—and Y/N laughed again. Frank had never envied a vending machine so much in his life.

"You’re staring again," muttered Dana, sliding past him with a smirk.

"I’m not staring," Frank grumbled, heat creeping up his neck.

"Sure you're not," Dana sing-songed, disappearing into a patient room.

Frank sighed and ran a hand through his messy brown hair. How had it come to this? He, Frank Langdon, reduced to a pining idiot over a woman he couldn’t even bring himself to properly ask out.

Because it wasn’t just a crush. Not anymore.

It was the way his stomach twisted whenever Y/N smiled at someone else. It was the way he tuned into her voice automatically, even in a packed trauma bay. It was the way he noticed when she was tired or when she had a new pen tucked behind her ear.

It was the way he caught himself thinking of her, constantly.

And it scared the absolute hell out of him.

Meanwhile, across the ER, Y/N was not as oblivious as she pretended to be.

She could feel Frank's eyes on her sometimes—okay, a lot of the time. She could hear the subtle shift in his voice when he spoke to her, the way his teasing banter always edged just a little closer to sincere when they were alone.

And she wasn’t blind; Frank Langdon was absurdly attractive. Even after a 15-hour shift when his scrubs were wrinkled and his hair was a mess, he somehow looked like he belonged on the cover of a medical drama poster.

And God, was he good at what he did. Watching Frank run a code was like watching art happen in real time—sharp, smooth, unflinching. He had a gift.

But she also knew his history. Everyone in the Pit did.

The divorce. The bitterness that had curled under his skin like smoke. The wild, reckless way he’d thrown himself into work afterward, like if he stayed busy enough, he wouldn’t have to think.

Y/N had spent too many nights nursing friends through breakups to not recognize the signs.

And she wasn’t about to be anyone's rebound—not even Frank Langdon's.

Even if her heart did stutter every time he flashed her that cocky, lopsided grin. Even if she found herself looking for excuses to team up with him on cases. Even if she felt safer with him in a trauma bay than almost anyone else.

Especially because of all that.

She was too stubborn to make the first move. Too scared of getting her heart broken into something small and unfixable.

So she played the game, smiled back, flirted when it felt safe—but always, always kept the line between them firmly drawn.

Even if she wanted to cross it more than anything.

It wasn’t until the accident came in that night, right before shift change, that Frank realized he was absolutely, irrevocably screwed.

"Mass casualty incoming," the charge nurse warned, sticking her head into the lounge where Frank and Y/N were both trying—and failing—to eat dinner. "Multi-car pileup on 76. Five patients at least. ETA three minutes."

Frank immediately shoved his food aside and rose. Y/N was already moving too, grabbing gloves and snapping them on with practiced ease. Their eyes met briefly, and Frank felt it—an electric charge sparking between them.

"You ready, partner?" he drawled, bumping his shoulder lightly against hers.

Y/N smirked. "Born ready, Langdon."

God help him.

The first ambulance screeched into the bay, and chaos bloomed like a stormcloud.

Frank and Y/N fell into a rhythm instantly, as they always did. Y/N took charge of a young woman with a chest wound while Frank handled a man with a broken femur and a possible spinal injury. Orders flew. Hands moved. The ER buzzed and roared around them, a living thing.

Frank could see Y/N out of the corner of his eye the whole time—focused, calm, impossibly beautiful under the harsh fluorescents. Her hair was tied back messily, tendrils falling around her face.

And she was the most breathtaking thing he had ever seen.

He almost missed the nurse asking him for a medication dosage.

"Uh—yeah. One milligram. Push," Frank barked, shaking himself. He could not afford to be distracted right now.

They stabilized their patients, pushed them off to CT and trauma surgery, and somehow—somehow—managed to get a breathing space. Frank peeled his gloves off with a snap, leaning against the wall to catch his breath.

Y/N slid down to sit beside him on the floor, legs stretched out in front of her.

"You good?" she asked, voice soft.

Frank turned his head and looked at her, really looked. At the exhaustion in her shoulders. The stubborn strength in her posture. The little curl of hair that had escaped her ponytail and clung damply to her temple.

God, he wanted to kiss her.

He wanted to kiss her so badly it hurt.

Instead, he said, "You were amazing in there."

Y/N smiled, a little bashful, a little amused. "You weren’t so bad yourself, Langdon."

Frank chuckled and leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes. "Stick with me, kid. I’ll teach you all my tricks."

"You wish," Y/N shot back.

But she said it warmly, almost fondly.

Frank cracked one eye open and looked at her again, heart thudding against his ribs.

One of these days, he swore, he was going to stop being a coward and ask her out.

Just... not today.

The lull after the trauma surge lasted all of fifteen minutes.

Frank barely made it back to the lounge before being paged again, this time for a nasty lac to the forearm—a teenager who’d slid off a skateboard onto broken glass. Frank stitched quickly, his hands steady even though his brain was still half on Y/N, still replaying the way her fingers had brushed his wrist when she’d handed him a clamp in the trauma bay.

When he finally escaped again, it was to find Y/N sitting sideways on the worn leather couch, her socked feet tucked up under her, flipping through a dog-eared medical journal. A fresh bandage peeked out from beneath the sleeve of her scrub top.

He crossed the room before he could think better of it.

"You didn’t get that cleaned up properly," he said, nodding at her arm.

Y/N raised a brow. "It’s nothing. A scratch."

Frank gave her his best unimpressed doctor stare—the one that usually made med students wither.

"Sit still," he said, grabbing the basic wound care kit from the cabinet.

Y/N hesitated for a second, searching his face, and then—maybe to humor him—stuck her arm out.

Frank perched on the edge of the couch beside her, heart beating far too fast for a guy who'd been covered in other people’s blood less than an hour ago.

He cleaned the scratch carefully, too carefully, aware of every tiny shift of her muscles beneath his fingertips. She smelled faintly of antiseptic and soap, and something warmer underneath—something that was just her.

"You're being very dramatic about this, Dr. Langdon," Y/N teased, watching him work.

"You're my partner," Frank said, more gruffly than he meant to. "Can’t have you bleeding out in the middle of a code."

"How heroic," she said dryly, but there was a small smile playing around her lips.

Frank pressed a bandage gently onto her skin, then looked up—and realized how close they were. Barely a foot between them. He could see the faint spray of freckles across her nose. The glint of amusement in her eyes.

For one reckless second, he thought about leaning in.

Instead, he cleared his throat, dropped his hands into his lap, and said, "All patched up, doc. Try not to injure yourself again for at least an hour."

"Guess I'll try," Y/N said, laughing under her breath.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Frank thought maybe—maybe—he wasn't completely imagining the way she looked at him.

Later, Y/N leaned against the nurse’s station, charting on a patient, when Dana sidled up to her with a knowing smirk.

"You know he's basically in love with you, right?"

Y/N didn’t look up. "Who?"

Dana snorted. "Langdon. Dr. Broody over there."

Y/N felt her cheeks warm, but kept her voice even. "He's like that with everyone."

"Uh-huh," Dana said skeptically. "Sure. He totally volunteers to clean people’s wounds at random. Super normal."

Y/N tapped the tablet harder than necessary, trying to ignore the way her heart skipped in her chest.

"Anyway," Dana went on, "the entire ER has a betting pool on when he’ll grow a pair and ask you out."

Y/N's head shot up. "You're joking."

"Dead serious. Robby’s got fifty bucks on you two hooking up by Halloween."

Y/N opened her mouth, closed it, and then opened it again. "That's ridiculous."

"Is it, though?" Dana wiggled her eyebrows. "You like him too. Don't even try to deny it."

Y/N shook her head, laughing nervously. "Even if I did—which I'm not saying I do—it's complicated."

"Life’s complicated," Dana said cheerfully, then wandered off to help a patient who was throwing up in bay three.

Y/N stood frozen for a moment, her heart thundering in her ears.

She wasn’t stupid. She knew what she felt for Frank wasn’t casual. She knew that the part of her that held back—the cautious, wounded part—was getting harder and harder to listen to.

But if she fell for Frank Langdon, really fell? She wasn’t sure she could survive it if he broke her heart.

And God, she would fall. She was already halfway there.

It got worse when another trauma rolled in an hour later.

An elderly woman with a head bleed, confused and combative. Frank jumped into action, voice calm but commanding, and Y/N found herself standing beside him almost instinctively, reading off vitals and helping to restrain the patient gently but firmly.

At one point, Frank looked up at her, and the world narrowed to just the two of them.

"You good?" he murmured, low enough that only she could hear.

Y/N nodded, feeling breathless.

Frank’s hand brushed hers briefly as he reached for a clamp. The touch was featherlight, accidental—and yet she felt it like an electric shock all the way to her bones.

They worked seamlessly, saving the woman’s life with a coordinated dance that didn’t need words.

When it was over, when the patient was safely whisked upstairs to neurosurgery, Frank turned to her with a grin that made her knees weak.

"You’re a damn rock star, you know that?" he said.

Y/N laughed shakily. "Coming from you, that's high praise."

Frank’s grin softened into something else—something almost tender.

"I mean it," he said, voice rough. "I’d trust you with my life."

Y/N’s heart twisted.

And she realized—maybe he was already trusting her with it.

Maybe he was just as scared as she was.

Back in the break room, Frank slumped onto the couch, scrubbing his hands over his face.

He couldn’t keep doing this. Couldn’t keep orbiting her like a satellite too scared to land.

Every part of him wanted her. Needed her. Not in the reckless, self-destructive way he’d used to need people, but in a way that felt terrifyingly real.

And if he didn’t tell her soon, he was going to lose his damn mind.

The next shift was somehow even worse.

Frank had never been this distracted in his life.

He nearly forgot to sign a trauma note, practically ignored the med students. Robby caught him staring into space during a chart review and gave him a look that screamed, get your shit together, man.

Frank knew exactly what the problem was.

Y/N.

Y/N, standing three feet away in her black scrubs that maybe Frank thought fit her too well. Y/N, tucking a pencil behind her ear, and making Frank want to do completely inappropriate things in the supply closet. Y/N, being brilliant and fierce and so far out of his reach it physically hurt.

And the worst part—the absolute worst part—was that he could feel the wall between them cracking.

She looked at him differently now. He could see it in the way her eyes lingered, the way her smile faltered sometimes, like she was trying to stop herself from doing something reckless.

He had to do something. Had to say something.

Or he was going to lose her before he ever really had her.

Meanwhile, Y/N wasn't faring much better.

Every time Frank laughed, every time he teased her with that crooked smile and that infuriating wink, she felt herself sliding closer to the edge.

She was tired of fighting it.

Tired of pretending she didn’t want him.

But still—still—fear gnawed at her.

What if he wasn’t ready? What if this was just loneliness, desperation, looking for an easy out?

She couldn’t survive being another casualty in Frank Langdon’s messy post-divorce world.

And she couldn’t survive losing him as a friend, either.

So she waited. And watched. And hoped he’d make the first move.

It was nearly seven in the evening after a long shift, when Frank decided, screw it.

He found her in the back hallway, fiddling with the vending machine, trying to coax a granola bar loose.

"Come on, you stupid piece of shit," Y/N muttered, whacking the side of the machine.

Frank leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching her with a fond smirk.

"You know, if you wanted a snack that bad, you could’ve just asked me," he said.

Y/N jumped slightly, then rolled her eyes. "I’m fine, thanks."

Frank pushed off the wall and wandered closer, hands shoved deep in his pockets. He felt about a hundred years old and fifteen again all at once.

"You’re not fine," he said lightly. "You’re hangry. It’s a public health emergency."

Y/N laughed despite herself. "You’re impossible."

Frank took a breath. Now or never.

"I was wondering," he said, casual, too casual, "if maybe you wanted to grab dinner sometime."

Y/N blinked. "We grab dinner all the time. Cafeteria food doesn’t count."

"No, I mean—" Frank faltered, scrubbed a hand through his hair. God, he was bad at this. "Like. Real dinner. Plates and silverware. Maybe even something that costs more than five bucks."

He risked a glance at her.

Y/N was staring at him, wide-eyed, like she couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing.

Frank’s stomach twisted. Had he just made a huge mistake?

"Like a date?" she said slowly.

Frank swallowed. His throat was dry as hell.

"Yeah," he said roughly. "Like a date."

The silence stretched between them.

Frank wanted to crawl under the vending machine and die.

Finally—finally—Y/N smiled. Soft. Shy. Beautiful.

"You’re serious," she said, almost wonderingly.

Frank stepped closer. "I’ve been serious for a long time," he said quietly. "Just too much of an idiot to say anything."

Y/N's lips parted slightly, like she was about to say something—and then she shook her head, laughing a little under her breath.

"You’re ridiculous," she said.

"And yet," Frank said, grinning now, "you’re still here."

Y/N hesitated for a heartbeat longer—then reached out and poked him lightly in the chest.

"One date," she said, mock-stern.

Frank caught her hand in his gently, holding it for a second longer than necessary.

"I’ll behave," he promised, voice low and sincere. "Scout’s honor."

Y/N rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. A real smile. One that made something warm and unbreakable light up in Frank’s chest.

“Promise me, this isn’t because of the divorce. You actually want to pursue this and not some mid-life crisis.” Y/N spoke softly.

Frank looked down at her hand in his and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I promise. I want you Y/N.” He said.

"Okay, Langdon," she said. "You’re on."

Frank grinned like an idiot.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, everything felt exactly right.

They didn’t kiss. Not yet.

Frank figured he could wait.

After all, he’d already waited this long.

What was a little longer, for something—someone—that might just be worth everything?

#imagine #imagines #the pitt imagine #the pitt #frank langdon imagine #dr frank langdon x reader #dr frank langdon imagine #frank langdon x reader #dr frank langdon #frank langdon

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ekkkkey · 3 days ago

Text

vestal (chapter V)

summary: Livia, a young Vestal Virgin, is bound to Vesta's eternal flame and the vow of sacred duty. In Rome, it's common knowledge; touch a Vestal, and the wrath of the gods will descend upon you. But what if someone dares to defy that rule?

chapter I chapter II chapter III chapter IV

warnings: 18+ minors dni, dub-con, non-con, blood

tags: darkfic, sibling rivalry, no softboys here, religious guilt, mommy issues, Caracalla's a whole damn goblin and Geta's just as cursed

Geta

He’d never imagined he would one day fear his own brother, never thought he’d sit trembling in his chambers, waiting for his twin to descend upon him like the wrath of the gods.

And yet here he was: barefoot, disheveled, on edge. He tossed back another cup of wine, tasting nothing, then hurled it against the wall in a burst of rage, making the already-shaking slave flinch.

When had it all begun? Childhood? Their youth? No… it started the moment Antoninus laid eyes on that dark-haired, quiet, defenseless senator’s wife. And he, Geta, had given his blessing to his brother’s twisted games.

If only he had stopped him then, planted a thought in his clouded mind that this was wrong, would it have changed anything? Would he still have mattered to his brother? Would he have remained the one in control, the driving force behind their alliance?

He would never know now. That girl was dead, and Caracalla had spiraled even deeper into madness.

Yet, Geta understood, Antoninus couldn’t help but notice her, the one who so strikingly resembled their mother. The only woman he had ever truly loved. The only one who had ever loved him back. Oh, Geta knew how twisted that feeling was, but he allowed his brother to nurture that madness, and in time, he too became a prisoner of the same kind of obsession.

They were alike. Cassandra and Livia resembled each other so closely, it felt as though they—not the emperors—were the twins. But while he couldn’t care less about Cassandra, the Vestal… she reminded him of their mother too.

And if in Antoninus’ memory, their mother had been gentle, kind, and affectionate, Geta remembered her differently: stern, tight-lipped, with a sharp temper. That was how he saw Livia the first time. No one had looked at him like that in a very long time… Like he was a guilty little boy again, aching for his mother’s love. And she, like the long-dead Julia Domna, refused to give him that love, and it maddened him, enraged the grown man he had become.

And now he was alone. No brother. No Livia, who had laid him bare on the altar before his bloodthirsty twin.

Geta rakes his hair back, burying his face in his hands, wanting to sob in silence, but then he suddenly flinches, wiping his eyes as he hears the heavy doors to his chambers swing open.

It’s him. Of course, it’s Antoninus, only he can enter his chambers so brazenly, without even asking. After all, everything is shared between them, right? That thought Geta himself has drilled into his brother’s mind year after year. And even in that, he was deceitful, always seeing himself as the elder, the better, the wiser one, the one who had taken on the parental role over his "equal" brother.

There he is, his brother, standing and staring at him with wide, glassy eyes, and for once, there is no usual smirk on his face. He looks strangely composed. Serious.

Geta is taller, stronger, so why does he feel as though he’s on trial? Guiltily, he folds his hands in his lap and looks up at his brother, still sitting on the bench.

"You lied to me," Antoninus says, waving the slaves away, unwilling to let them interfere.

"I did everything required of me, including for you!" Geta bristles, springing to his feet and towering over his brother. "Someone had to, since you couldn’t!"

Pressing him with sharp reminders of his decaying mind had become a habit, and usually, Antoninus would yield, stung, though not without a scene. But not this time.

Antoninus stares pensively through his brother, and Geta instinctively turns, as if expecting to see someone behind him. But there’s nothing. Caracalla blinks, as if breaking free from some spell, pours himself wine, drinks it slowly, and then, smiling at him with a terrifying, crooked smile, utterly out of place on his gentle face, says:

"Do you remember mother gave me a toy? A little horse with a golden mane?" He draws the words out slowly, spinning the empty goblet in his hands.

Geta mirrors him, nervously twisting the ring on his finger. A toy? Is his brother slipping into another episode?

"You’re rambling," Geta spits, clearly irritated.

"…a beautiful little thing, carved so finely." Caracalla grins wider, continuing, "And then… it disappeared."

"Enough of this nonsense, brother!" Geta’s voice rises, but the words don’t stop the story. Furious, he sweeps everything off the table, yanks the goblet from his brother’s hands, and then grabs a fistful of his tunic, pulling him close.

"I loved that toy so much, but it vanished!" Caracalla spreads his hands. "Oh, I was inconsolable. Mother promised me a new one, and they blamed a slave for stealing it. Cut off his hands…" Antoninus stares straight into his eyes, not resisting his grip at all. "And then I found it. In your chambers." His voice is quiet, and a chill runs down Geta’s spine. He shoves his brother away, turns, and wearily rubs his temples.

"It was years ago, we were children…"

"And now you’ve done the same thing, Geta. You wanted what was mine," Caracalla’s voice trembles, his tone is childish, petulant, as if they’ve truly become children again.

Geta turns to his brother and, to his surprise, feels a pang of shame. Antoninus watches him, eyes narrowed, lips pressed tight, nostrils flaring—angry, hurt.

Let the golden laurel crown his wild hair, let the palace tremble at his name, let him be called emperor, for Geta, he will always, first and foremost, be his brother. And his madness is his curse.

"I didn’t care about the girl, I was thinking about you, Antoninus!" He raises his voice once again. "You’ve toyed with the Senate’s patience! Yes, she was the wife of a traitor, a conspirator, but she was the daughter of no ordinary man, and you…!" He waves his hands in frustration. "I’ve always protected you, always wanted what’s best. Don’t let childhood grudges cloud your mind, we’re brothers!"

He looks directly into those icy blue eyes, and for a moment, it seems like Antoninus believes him. His pupils narrow, his breathing slows, becomes steady.

Geta’s lips curve into a satisfied smile. Just like always. He’s listened to him—only him. All that worry, all that anxiety—for nothing. He could always soothe him.

Still distracted, Caracalla sinks onto the bench, lost in his thoughts. Geta can celebrate, he will always be the one to steady his brother, the one who understands. He humphs smugly, steps over to the table and pours wine into one of the few surviving goblets. The chamber is in chaos, but it doesn’t bother him.

"Try to understand, it would’ve only brought us trouble," he says, gripping his goblet as he moves toward his brother and places his hand on the top of his curly head. "We’ve already angered enough people, both the nobles and the plebs, you know that. And a pregnant widow of a rebel senator wouldn’t have done us any fa—"

He cuts off. Freezes.

"What did you just say?" Geta flinches as Caracalla lifts his head.

Oh he knew that look. The same look Caracalla wore when he sentenced men to die, when he saw them disfigured, or nailed to the cross. It was the same look he’d had when senators betrayed them, when they were dragged through the palace to their doom, or when arrows tore through General Acacius’ chest. This wasn’t his Antoninus anymore, but a bloodthirsty entity sent by Pluto himself.

Caracalla is fast, agile. He crashes into Geta, seizes the collar of his simple tunic, forcing him to clumsily brace himself against the table. Geta clutches his brother’s forearm, struggling to keep from being choked. He’s short, delicate, so why can’t he shake him off?!

"What did you just say, brother?"

Geta knows exactly what he means. He curses himself for letting it slip, but there’s nothing he can do now, he only bares his teeth in a grin, still struggling to push his brother off.

"You heard me. That little whore of yours was pregnant."

He knows it would enrage him even more, knows he should bite his tongue, but no. That old rivalry, the one that was supposed to have faded with the years, had never truly left them. And now, Geta honestly doesn’t understand why he should have to justify himself.

Both of them are breathing heavily. Geta nervously licks his parched lips, staring into his brother’s feverishly bright eyes. He notices fresh little wounds from the illness and, absurdly, finds himself wondering just how long Antoninus has left to live…And then, suddenly, Caracalla relaxes. His lips curve into a smile, and he releases him, but doesn’t step back.

Geta eyes him warily, sensing a trap. Antoninus had always been tricky, never one to play by the rules.

Then Caracalla steps in—close, nearly chest to chest… And only a heartbeat later does Geta realize why. With one swift motion, Antoninus snatches a knife from the table and presses the blade to his brother’s throat. He’s cheerful, joyful even.

"Think you’re better than me, huh?" The blade digs in deeper, though Geta still holds his brother’s wrist. "Well, it’ll be such a shame when I destroy your little priestess. She really caught your fancy, didn’t she, brother?" His voice is light, almost playful, with no venom, no hatred—just amusement and cold certainty. He will do it.

"But I’ll start with you."

Geta shuts his eyes. Feels blood trickling down his neck. Hot. Painful. At last, he admits to himself:

He always knew who would end his life.

Livia

The Vestals stood in a neat line along the temple wall, their gazes fixed on the Great Virgin, who stared directly at the sacred fire.

For a while, silence filled the temple; the flames at the goddess’s altar danced on the faces of the priestesses, their reflections flickering in their eyes.

Finally, the High Priestess raised her arms and began the prayer, and the others quietly listened to her words.

"…hear my prayer, O goddess, hear my call,

In this hour of trembling hope and humbled heart.

O great Vesta, keeper of the sacred hearth,

Receive my words—receive my soul."

Livia whispered, her heart full of hope that she would be heard.

The sisters beside her murmured the words in unison with their leader. Oh, how she longed to pray for the same things as they—prayers for the greatness of Rome, for mercy, for glory! But no, she prayed for forgiveness, for atonement.

On that fateful day, when she uttered that longed-for "yes," agreeing to the emperor’s murder, not a day had passed without her drowning in regret.

She longed for vengeance with all her soul, hated him, but at the same time, fear had seized her heart. The agonizing wait for terrible news tormented her. Every messenger, every guest in their house, every visitor to the temple threw her into terror.

Any moment now—they’ll come, they’ll accuse me…! But no, the days passed, one after the other, and nothing happened. And still, she cursed herself. So many times she had dreamed of vengeance—not even for her sister, but for herself. Dreamed of the emperors struck down by the wrath of the goddess! And now, with the agreement made, Livia prayed that no one would learn of it, prayed that her wicked tongue wouldn’t play a cruel trick on her.

No, she still hated him, Emperor Geta, but how could she curse the father of Rome? How could she pray for the sacred city’s peace and prosperity… while wishing death upon its emperor?

The prayer ended, and the fire still flickered before her, but Livia, left alone in the temple, was unable to move.

The statue of Vesta, as beautiful as ever, eternally young, eternally pure, now seems sorrowful… judging. The priestess bit her lower lip with all her might, struggling to hold back shameful tears. All she had ever wanted was to serve the goddess! It was forbidden to shed blood in the temple, but she could taste the saltiness in her mouth, and even this reminded her of the emperor’s horrific actions.

Silently, someone wrapped their arms around her from behind, intertwining cold hands with her own. She knew it was Caesonia. Her sister had always been there for her.

"Is it customary to grieve like this before the goddess?" her friend whispered, and Livia felt a sense of calm wash over her. She hadn’t told her about the conversation with the emperor, not wanting to put her in danger, but Caesonia remembered her other words.

"I only wanted the goddess’s love, not that love the plebeians sing of in the streets," Livia whispered, pressing her lips together.

"Love? More like obsession!" Caesonia spun her around to face her, taking her by the forearms, looking into her eyes. "When you love, truly and sincerely, you don’t want to break it, you don’t want to cause pain. And if that love is unrequited…" her lips quivered, "…then you simply admire from a distance. That’s what love really is."

Livia paused, lost in thought. Why had she thought that? Why did it even cross her mind? Passion, desire, obsession, the urge to possess, to break… Oh, those were the very things the emperors craved.

Again, she recalled Emperor Caracalla’s words: "You look just like her, don’t you?" He had spoken of his late mother, but then why had he touched her like that, looked at her like that? The memory made her nauseous. She turned to leave the temple, and Caesonia followed, her expression strangely sorrowful.

Her carpentum was already waiting—a covered carriage draped in white linen, the symbol of her sacred rank. Normally, Vestals traveled in closed litters, but the journey was long, and there was no time to waste. That morning, she had received a message telling her that her sister Claudia was about to give birth. No matter how upset Livia was, she couldn’t abandon her sister. Besides, Claudia was at the villa of Appius’ family, so there should be no unpleasant surprises.

She wore white robes, a wide white shawl with a golden border wrapped around her, her hair neatly bound, thin golden bracelets jingling on her wrists. She stepped into the carriage, and the slave promptly shut the door behind her. Livia quickly drew the curtains, not wishing for prying eyes. A tiny gap was enough for her to see the road.

In her hands, she fiddled with a tiny gold amulet—a gift for the newborn.

The crowd that had gathered from all corners of the Eternal City buzzed around the square like a swarm of bees, a massive, colorful mass circling her carriage. Livia found herself again thinking that she didn’t understand this worldly hustle, and that thought, prim and proper, echoed in her heart with a strange joy. She was still herself.

Craftsmen, merchants, curious onlookers, and other members of the common plebs moved in an endless stream along the street. Livia leaned back, continuing to watch, boredly twisting the amulet in her hands. From time to time, the crowd parted, giving way to the richly adorned litters and carriages. If they kept moving like this, they would reach the villa sooner than she had expected.

Fortune, as if hearing her presumptuous thoughts, turned away from her. The carriage stopped.

Livia impatiently drummed her fingers on the seat, waiting for them to move again, but they remained still. Frustrated, she glanced out at the street, but the crowd offers no answers, only bowing in servitude along the road.

Still fidgeting, Livia was about to open the tiny window to see what was happening outside, but before she could, the door swung open—and she glared indignantly at the person who dared to intrude upon her.

No one would have dared behave this way. No one would have sat across from her so arrogantly, so lazily, so smugly.

No one but him.

Suddenly, he gave the order to move, and Livia noticed the emperor’s carriage following closely behind hers, adorned with purple banners.

But the emperor was right here, sitting silently before her, a smile playing on his lips. The space was cramped, and she felt his knee brush against hers. She shifted her legs aside but didn’t dare break the silence.

"Glory to the emperors! Ave!" the citizens shouted.

Caracalla squinted with satisfaction. The recent riots and their suppression had clearly taught the people how to behave.

"Glory to the emperor?" he tilted his head, waiting for her answer.

"Glory," she whispered, her lips pale.

Emperor Caracalla was here—did that mean Geta rode in the other chariot? Or… She clutched her amulet tighter.

"You know," he said thoughtfully, pulling back the curtain to glance at the street—and her anxiety spiked. The last thing she wanted was for anyone to see her with him. "My brother is ill."

Livia swallowed hard, her brow furrowing as she tried to discern where this was leading. She searched his mood—angry, furious?—but failed.

Caracalla looked… pleased.

He lounged back casually, tapping his ringed fingers on the edge of the bench. His clothes, like his banners, gleamed in rich purple and gold, and a massive golden wreath tilted on his forehead, its leaves nearly brushing his pale brows. He kept lifting his chin to keep it from falling. His usual earring was missing, but thick golden bracelets wrapped around his white arms, both at his wrists and forearms. She couldn’t help but notice his rings—one displayed the image of a woman. She could easily guess who it was.

"I express my sorrow, Caesar, and wish Emperor Geta a swift recovery," she said, wondering what he wanted from her if his brother was still alive.

Caracalla studied her face intently, and she met his gaze. The emperor didn’t respond right away, shifting to settle more comfortably, spreading his legs wider and brushing her knee again. She forced herself to endure it, her ears beginning to burn, betraying her discomfort.

"Sorrow? More like congratulations!" Caracalla said playfully, wagging a finger at her. "I’m alone," he added, his painted lips pursing mischievously. "The sole ruler of Rome!" he declared proudly, tilting his chin up before rubbing it in feigned thoughtfulness. "Although, perhaps we should consider whether it was your prayers that made my brother fall ill, or…"

Her heart pounded in her chest. She shouldn’t have had that conversation with him. She shouldn’t have trusted that charming smile.

Behind the curtain, life continued, the chariot moved—but for Livia, the world stood still.

"…or perhaps it was the throat I slit. What do you think?"

A quiet gasp escaped her lips, and the emperor leaned forward, resting on his own knee.

What had he done? She had renounced her sisters, her home, and found new sisters among the Vestals, but she still loved them. And this… his own brother, his flesh and blood…!

"I didn’t…" she choked, panic rising. "I’m not guilty, Caesar…"

"Not guilty, priestess?" A smirk never left his lips, and his eyes watched her closely—unblinking, cold and limpid like the glass eyes placed in the statues of Jupiter in his temple. "Then who is guilty? Me?"

The question seemed absurd, for only moments ago, he had claimed it himself, yet Livia couldn’t summon the courage to remind him.

"You asked me, my dear, didn’t you? Didn’t you want me to send you my brother’s hands?" He giggled. "To be honest, it’d more likely be his head, but alas." He spread his hands theatrically.

"I don’t need that," she said, her lips tightly pressed, hoping the chariot would stop and the emperor’s unwelcome company would vanish.

"Don’t need it?" He leaned even closer, closing the distance between them. His knee was now right between hers. He did it deliberately, trying to unsettle her—and he succeeded. "So I did this for nothing?" His voice dropped dangerously low.

She shook her head. What did he want? What should she say to please him and make him leave?

"You, priestess, wanted your emperor dead. That’s a serious crime," he said, looking down, his lips pressed in false sorrow, brows drawn as if he genuinely cared about her fate…

And then his hand covers her knee. Even through the thick fabric, it feels like it burns her.

She wants to pull away, insulted by how easily he allows himself to touch her again and again. He has committed a monstrous crime, yet he blames her?

Kitchen wench. That’s what he had called her.

It becomes harder to breathe, the closer he gets, the more that sweet, heavy scent of oils wraps around her—clinging to her hair, her robes. It’s as though he means to consume her, to leave a trace even after he is gone.

Livia jerks her leg, but he holds her firmly, his fingers digging into her flesh.

"Let go," she whispers.

"Let go?" The surprise on his face seems almost genuine. His hand is hot, as if the sun itself has touched her. But instead of letting her go, it slides upward, forcing her knees apart, making space for him between them. He doesn’t touch her skin, but it feels like she’s exposed.

Her cheeks burn. Her mouth parts. Her breath quickens.

Caracalla smiles, as he always does, mesmerized by her reaction. His fingers almost tenderly stroke the inside of her thigh, just above the knee, still through the fabric, but even this is too much for her.

"You should be executed for even thinking such a thing, priestess," he murmurs, his hand creeping higher, still caressing. "Have that delicate little neck of yours snapped… or perhaps tied to a stake in the arena, wrapped in ivy and ropes, beautiful and bare?" Her breath catches. "And watch the beasts tear into that pale skin…" he finishes with a breathy sigh.

Livia squeezes her eyes shut, trying to think of anything—anything—but the heat of his hand. With all her strength, she clutches the amulet in her fist and recites the prayer silently in her mind:

"O Vesta, grant me forgiveness,

If I have sinned against myself or those I hold dear.

Cleanse this soul of its burdened sorrow,

And fill me with the warmth of your eternal fla—"

He doesn’t let her finish. He cuts through her prayer with a low purr, forcing her to open her eyes:

"I must punish you for my brother, for he is my blood. Sacred blood!" He clicks his tongue and leans in, as if sharing a secret. His next words freeze her in place:

"But what kind of son would I be, if I put my brother above my own mother, hmm?"

The last words he speaks right against her lips, and before she can react, he kisses her, leaving her knee and pressing his palm to her cheek, not allowing her to pull away.

She is burning—hot, flushed, ashamed. Livia feels the heat of his mouth, his hands, the heaviness of his breath, the way he smiles into the kiss. And she can’t do anything. A few agonizing moments pass before he finally pulls away.

The paint on his lips is smudged, and she is certain some has transferred to hers.

Caracalla orders the carriage to stop.

"Pray for my brother’s health, priestess. Pray properly—so that at least this your goddess might actually hear," he says with a chuckle. "If he dies, it’ll be your fault."

He turns to leave, but his gaze catches her hand, clutching the amulet with trembling fingers. The emperor snatches it from her and swiftly steps out, giving a wink as he leaves.

It was a gift.

Unable to move, she finishes her prayer aloud:

"Deliver me from darkness and despair,

Shield me beneath your sacred veil in times of strife.

Trust in me, O radiant Vesta

I reach ever for the light, the good.

Guard my dwelling with your flame,

And grant me strength to endure the path ahead."

The carriage moves on.

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