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erwinsvow · 1 day ago

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𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐬𝐝𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠

summary: jack abbot really needs to stop overhearing conversations that he's not a part of.

author's note: here it is!! my first ever jack abbot fic ♡ thank you to everyone who has been reading the little paragraphs so far! hope you all like it!

word count: 9.7k

warnings/tags: virgin, fourth year med student reader and attending jack. age gap relationship. loss of virginity, oral sex, lots and lots of praise kink <3 normal hospital lingo and descriptions of procedures.

jack abbot knows better than to listen to the nurses gossiping. he does—because listening to them never leads to anything good. if he’s caught eavesdropping, he gets dragged in. loses money that was never meant to be spent on the bets—and seriously, the employees of this hospital have a gambling problem.

other times he hears things he really wish he hadn’t heard. it’s just not relevant to him, he doesn’t want to know things about people that he’s not meant to know. maybe it’s a military thing, but he can’t really explain it. maybe jack is just used to keeping secrets and minding his own business.

and the last thing that jack really doesn’t like about overhearing gossip is that sometimes, rarely and reserved only for special information, it gets trapped in his brain and becomes the only thing he thinks about for the rest of the shift.

this is one of those times.

he knows better—that’s what keeps coursing through his mind when he stands on the opposite side of the nurse’s station at central. keep his ears shut, eyes down, because the last time he was standing here unarmed, he learned about a pregnant technician upstairs and the married surgeon who was the father. information that he did not, does not, want to know. nor did he want to learn about the surgeon’s wife who was a nurse in the pediatric ward, or the technician’s boyfriend who is on a work trip in florida.

he thinks that was child’s play compared to this conversation.

when jack glances up, he sees you on the other side of the desk, leaning forward on your elbows, smiling and laughing with the nurses.

you’re a fourth year—he should let you smile and laugh while you can. you’re in that perfect, peaceful transition period between your audition rotations ending and finding out where you’re going for residency. it’s supposed to be an enjoyable time—there’s no exam prep waiting for you at home, no stressful surgery rotation coming up next week.

jack didn’t know too much about you—you’d mostly been on the day shift for the duration of your rotation. that was normal, keeping all the students together when the majority of the doctors were there too. made it a little easier to manage.

you were a little different though. just a little. you’d specially asked to try out the night shift for the rest of the time you’d be at the hospital. it’s not the weirdest request they’d ever heard, but just unusual. fourth years cherish sleeping and spending time with family and boyfriends and organizing their life before being thrown head-first into intern year.

(at least, that’s what jack thinks you’d cherish. the little he knows about you has been transferred from robby and a comment from the residents every now and then. all good things, and when he’d told you the night shift was your chance to prove all the good things he’d heard about you, you had beamed at him.

a smile so bright he had lost his train of thought and had to walk back to what he’d even said to begin with. he tries not to think about it when he sees you smiling like that to your patients or the nurses, like you are now. but it’s not the same one, he can tell. the one you smiled at him had been a little different, something in your eyes had lit up too, you had stood up straighter, like a current had made its way through you at the compliment. or something like that.)

and you had definitely been proving yourself. jack had learned maybe last week that you had applied emergency medicine. it made sense then, why you wanted to try out night shift, since first year interns eventually do night float. it was just practice for the future. which was great, and very exciting for you, but just not what he had expected.

you were just so… happy. patient. you had seemed disappointed on your first day to learn that most of the emergency docs only wore black scrubs. you made up for it in other ways—a pink stethoscope, colored pens, a badge reel with a little cartoon on it.

even looking at you now, fiddling with the pulley on your badge, listening intently to whatever the nurse was telling you, and then smiling in that reassuring way that he’s seen you do, you look like you shouldn’t be here. he briefly considers finding that surgeon’s wife, the pediatric nurse, to take you up there for a couple of hours. jack doesn’t think you would want to come back down, but, well, what does he know about you?

certainly not much. even if he had noticed the way you are with your patients—filled with an abundance of caring, a melodic tune to your voice, trying your hardest to comfort, repair, heal. he had seen you fetch cups of water and sandwiches yourself, not wanting to bother nurses. every sentence had a please and thank you attached. it didn’t take long for you to win over the patients. then the nurses. then the residents, and the attendings.

it seemed that your goal was to win over all the attendings.

jack is still staring at you. but you’re so focused on your conversation with the nurse that you don’t even notice. and he has to stop before someone else notices, forcing himself to look down at the chart in front of him, trying to remember why he’d even come over here in the first place.

and that’s when he hears it.

“-but i would have never guessed. you’re so pretty!” the nurse says, and he knows she is talking about you, because, well, who else would she be talking about?

you are pretty, as unprofessional as the thought feels even entering his head. you’re very pretty, and the way you talk to everyone like they’re the most important person in the world to you only makes you prettier.

jack almost clears his throat, before realizing that he is, in fact, eavesdropping. he can’t interrupt a conversation he’s not even a part of. and much to his chagrin, realizing that he is terrible at this, he tunes back into your conversation.

“yeah, but it’s not about that,” you say, and you sound a little different. like you’re flushed. the words come out hesitantly, quietly. “it’s about... finding the right guy, right? i didn’t want to rush it and then regret it.”

he hears the nurse laugh, and you laugh a little too, followed by a little groan. “i guess it is embarrassing,” you continue, before stopping, interrupted by the nurse. jack looks up briefly—you’ve got your head resting on your forearms, leaning down against the counter. he keeps looking until you bring it back up.

“no, it’s a good thing. especially in hospitals. keep your legs closed otherwise you’ll end up like that pregnant tech upstairs-”

“but that’s so horrible. his poor wife works here. and she has a boyfriend, how do you do that-”

he keeps listening, his own face a little flushed. he both wants to and absolutely does not want to hear the rest of your conversation, but even through the fog, he thinks about how your only reaction to that bit of circulating gossip was how bad you feel for the wife. his heart beats a little faster.

“well don’t worry about that, you won’t have to deal with it as long as you stay a virgin-” you and the nurse laugh, and the phone starts ringing, and the charge nurse answers.

she calls out, yelling for dr. abbot, and so lost in his thoughts—in your thoughts—he doesn’t even hear his own name being called for a couple of car accidents that were incoming. when he turns back to look, you’re already gone.

he needs to shake off whatever you’ve just done to him. his feet automatically take him to the trauma bay, gearing up for whatever is coming, but when he gets there, you’re standing there, waiting. a yellow gown already on you, gloves pulled. and in your hands, another gown and set of gloves—extra large, he can tell from the color. the ones that he wears.

“dr. abbot,” you say, handing both items to him. “i heard from bridget, is it okay if i assist?”

“yeah, sure, kid-” he thinks for a moment that he hasn’t felt this way in a long time. and how the hell is one tiny piece of gossip enough to have his head spinning like he’s some teenage boy? how does that work, when he’s never cared about workplace rumors or any of the other hundreds of medical students he’s worked with before?

you beam up at him again, saying thank you. eager to prove your worth like always. you disappear behind him, and jack is confused for half a second before he feels your fingers on the skin of his neck—briefly, just another half of a second. you’re tying the gown for him.

how is that you’re this kind, this pretty, and you’ve never had someone to take care of you the way you take care of everyone else? that can’t be right. that can’t be fair.

oh god.

jack wants to tie the back of yours, thinks that maybe twenty years ago he’d be a lot quicker on his feet to do what he wants with the information he’s just learned. but instead he hears the ambulance sirens pull up, and he sees the back of your head while you rush out to meet them, and he actually, for the first time in years, has to force his feet to move.

you were so close behind him, he could smell it. not perfume, that would wear off quickly with how much they run around. it was your soap and your shampoo. clean and sweet and something like strawberries lingering in the air after you’ve taken off.

but he’s stood next to you before—how is it that this is the first time he’s noticed?

half way outside, you turn around, realizing jack’s not right behind you.

“dr. abbot?” you question, taking half a step towards him, the opposite direction.

“yeah, coming,” jack answers and he follows you outside.

the mvc’s weren’t in the worst shape jack’s ever seen, but still bad enough that he needed to snap out of it. he doesn’t even want to think about how bad the rumor mill would be if word got out that he lost a patient because he couldn’t stop staring at the twenty-something medical student. (though it is hard to stop staring. how the hell did robby ever work with collins? how did he get anything done?)

it’s not like jack is going to find out. you are strictly off limits.

he tries to do what he always does—asks you questions. how many milligrams should you give the patient? what are the three things you should be the most worried about? the patient’s got a broken wrist from trying to brace for the impact but that’s the least of your worries, so how do you deal with it for now?

the first one gets stable pretty quickly. the second one is where there’s more concern. he comes in, ellis saying something about the patient’s crashing and there’s a big piece of debris jammed in his chest.

jack goes in there and he spares a glance at you. the intensity of the situation is enough to make you a little flushed, even though you’ve done an emergency rotation during third year and two auditions already this year. but it’s a good thing—you take every case as seriously as though it’s your first. worry about each patient like they’re your own family, like each step is your responsibility.

he calls you over, asks you what medications you would give if you had to intubate.

“uh, etomidate a-and rocuronium?” it comes out like a question, like you’re still a little uncertain, even though you’re right, like you don’t believe in yourself enough to say confidently.

he’ll have to change that. help you work on that. he can think of it now—maybe you would learn best if you had some kind of a reward system. you seem like the kind of girl who would benefit from that. maybe if he asked the questions from between your thighs and your reward was—

“dr. abbot?” the sound of your voice snaps him out of it.

“yeah. good. very good,” jack says, and he turns his head just slightly, just so he can see you beam again. “you heard the doctor. let’s get prepped for the intubation.” you move out of the way for ellis to come in, when he stops you. “no, you’re going to be doing it.”

you pause, uncertain eyes staring up at your attending.

“a-are you sure? don’t you think you should-”

“i think you’re perfectly competent to intubate.” “you guys got this,” ellis says, taking her stethoscope around her neck and heading out. the nurse tells you that they’re all set up. you hear the blare of the heart monitor, another nurse reading off the vitals, all the way to the pulse-ox that’s too low.

“i’ll be here the whole time,” jack says, and you really, really wish he hadn’t said that. he’s close to you, handing you the laryngoscope.

in moments like these, you realize why you were always meant to do this. you pick up the scope, carefully lowering it into the mouth and the top of the patient’s throat.

“don’t make any sudden movements. you don’t want to break his teeth,” jack instructs, his voice a gentle guide. you do know how to intubate, you must have done it a hundred times on the dummy in the skills lab. but you’ll never get over how different it is when it’s a real patient, how scared you get even when you shouldn’t be, because the doctor should never be scared like that.

but then you hear dr. abbot’s voice again. quiet, maybe even quiet enough that the other people in the room can’t hear.

“i-i don’t see the cords-”

“take a breath. use your hand to extend the neck, get it straighter.” you listen to his instructions, hands moving by themselves to comply. “try again.” you’re looking down, and the nurses are looking at the video, and jack is looking at you. “past the epiglottis.” you push the tube a little further. “past the larynx.” a little further. “and cords.”

you take a breath like you’ve never taken one before. the capnometer turns yellow and you finish out the steps, the rest feeling like muscle memory before handing it over to the nurse. the patient’s going up to surgery, but you make it outside the trauma room taking deep breaths to ground yourself.

“you okay?” dr. abbot asks from somewhere behind you.

you turn to see him taking off the gown and gloves, the ones you had handed him. maybe you’d never noticed it before, but he’s got freckles over his forearms. maybe he spent a lot of time in the sun as a kid. when you don’t reply, thoughts trapped in your head and words not forming, he speaks again.

“come here,” and he guides you to the empty corner between the trauma room and the hallway. his hand hovers over the small of your back as he leads you there.

you’re going crazy—there’s no way you could feel his body heat through your scrubs. and yet the sensation lingers. he faces you, and you look up, blinking quickly. you don’t think you’ve ever been close enough to dr. abbot to see the wrinkles in the corners of his eyes, or how the hair along his temples is more salt than pepper. his eyes bore into yours, and you stare up, forgetting the reason that you had even needed to speak to him.

“are you sure you’re okay, kid?” he asks again, and you nod quickly.

“yes. yes, i’m sorry, dr. abbot.” you turn to look at the trauma room, looking at the nurses hovering over the patient you had just intubated. when you turn back to look at your attending, you realize he’s staring, just like how you were staring.

“what are you apologizing for?”

“i-i forgot the steps. you-you had to talk me through it. i should have known,” you try to explain, though words and sentences become harder to form with each passing moment.

“you’ve done how many of those, now? a handful? less than ten?” you nod. “you don’t have to be perfect here. you just have to try. and keep going, which you did.” you release a breath you didn’t realize you were holding in. “good job, doctor. you saved the patient.”

“thank you dr. abbot.” you smile, beaming again, just not in the way you usually do. you’re still not that proud of yourself, jack can tell.

the voice in the back of your head tells you that you should have been better, faster, more confident. you can’t imagine that ellis or shen or even your attending had been this hesitant as a medical student.

“it’ll come with time, you know. no one’s perfect when they start out.”

“did i say that out loud?” you question seriously, confusion spread all over your pretty features.

“no.”

you’re so stupid—but maybe being so close to your serious, yet growing kinder by the millisecond attending was getting to you. the attending that you really want to impress, for reasons still unbeknownst to you. you want him to like you, to take you seriously, to think that you’d be a great candidate for their intern class starting in july.

and then you lose your train of thought, staring at his eyes. it’s been too long, people are going to wonder where the two of you went.

but his eyes aren’t actually brown, like you thought. they’re hazel.

“yeah,” he says, with a laugh. “they are.”

your own eyes go wide like coins, and then you run straight to central to find a patient to preoccupy you from the embarrassment that is seeping out of you, leaving jack abbot laughing to himself in the empty corner between the trauma room and the hallway.

the rest of your night shift is surprisingly uneventful. you had heard it was a bit calmer, but you didn’t expect such a drastic difference. but maybe it was just one of those nights. ellis wouldn’t let shen say the actual word, but you were all thinking it. it was kind of quiet tonight.

and normally, jack appreciates a quiet night. it’s like a little peace offering from god, akin to a slap on the back and a ‘thanks for your service’. he needs one every now and then, it’s the way only way to make sure for certain that he doesn’t end up on the roof a step closer than the last time.

though, staring at you from across the emergency room, watching you drink from your colorful water bottle and smile at shen and ellis, thanking them for their help while you work on notes, is certainly another way to make sure that jack abbot doesn’t think about that roof.

it’s only three in the morning though. there’s always time for the night to get worse. they’ve got four hours left, and he knows you’re off tomorrow.

well, he knows that he’s off. and then he took a peak at the schedule in one of his many free minutes tonight to see where you’ll be. he hopes the answer is at home, sleeping and eating and letting your body recover from the damage night shift does to your circadian rhythm.

(he needs to cut it out. attendings have no business wondering what their bright eyed and bushy tailed fourth years are doing on their days off.)

but god if it doesn’t plague him—the fact that unlike what he thought, there’s no boyfriend waiting for you at home. no one to hear about your stressful day at work, the intubation that you did—perfectly, just with a little help from your overbearing attending, all the patients that you helped, and the great impression you made on the night shift. how he sees you answer every nurse carrying a question from patient with all your energy, even in the middle of the night. how you fill up a cup of ice chips for the patient waiting to go up to surgery, comforting them while knowing it’ll be sunlight outside when they’re finally taken up.

and then he sees you sit down, taking a breath like you need to remind yourself to breathe sometimes.

it’s just a little bit wrong. whatever he’s thinking, before he’s even thought it, it’s wrong. but how is it that you have all these things to be proud of, and no one at home to be proud of you? jack can sense it in the way that your smile grows every time you find out someone has something kind to say about you. every good job and well done is catalogued somewhere in your mind, and you wait ceaselessly for the next one, like an addiction.

jack would spoil you, he thinks, for other people. for other men. he would praise you. he would tell you how perfect you are so many times that you wouldn’t be able to forget, that you would never doubt yourself again. that’s what you need waiting for you at home—the thing that can make it all better.

and as wrong as it is, he knows he could do it for you.

you look around the room and find hazel eyes staring right at you. your heart thuds in your chest.

you smile at dr. abbot, and then look back down your notes. a minute later, you look up again, and he’s still looking. smiling. and now you can’t look away either. you had heard about the eye contact thing from other residents, it’s just a habit, they had said. you try not to flatter yourself that your attending is looking at you like he knows everything about you, including the things you don’t say out loud.

why does he have to be so nice to you? why does he have to laugh and smile even when you’re making an idiot of yourself? you should go up and apologize for that bit about the hazel eyes, though you think you might collapse into a puddle and melt into the ground if you have to bring it up again.

but you’re on for six more night shifts before the audition ends, and you ranked ptmc pretty high on your list—which may have been a mistake if you can’t stand in the presence of one of your attendings without turning into a flustered mess.

he hasn’t even done anything besides be nice to you. of course it’s that easy to unnerve you. you keep looking, watching the nurse who stopped to ask dr. abbot a question, how jack turns to talk to him, making eye contact that you were just at the receiving end of.

when the nurse walks away, jack turns back, looks right at you again. you can feel your face heat up like you just ran a mile. is this one of those things that’ll go away when you’re not a virgin anymore? that’s a heavy question for three-thirty in the morning.

here’s another one—how is every person in this hospital not in love with him?

you fluster and turn, breaking eye contact and keeping your head firmly staring at the computer screen. he laughs to himself again, walking off to check on a patient from earlier. the next time your eyes look up, they automatically go to the counter where jack was. you turn back and finish your notes.

“hey,” shen says, sliding into the empty seat next to you a while later. he opens the drawer under the desk, lifting up papers and pulling out a packet of goldfish from underneath. “forget what all these other people told you. your first rule is eat when you can.” you smile at that.

“noted. that’s a good hiding spot. inconspicuous.”

“that’s the goal. don’t tell the day shifters. it’ll be empty in an hour.”

“i won’t. promise.”

“is your mvc still waiting for surgery?”

“i think so, yeah,” you sit up a little straighter. you have this fear that you’ve done something wrong, that it’ll all be revealed in time.

“don’t worry, that’s normal this time of the night. i’d go check on him like once an hour and report to abbot. just because it’s-well, i’m not gonna say it.”

“right. got it. will do.” you get up, feet stumbling a little. it is pretty late. your watch says four-thirty, but you’re not tired. you’re just anxious.

you make your way to the patient’s room, the nurse filling you in on the updates in the last hour. there’s not many, thank god. you stare at the pulse-ox on the monitor for way too long, going over and checking to see that he is, in fact, still breathing. it’s silly. you know it is.

the nurse says she’ll be right back, and you look at the chart for another minute or so, trying to formulate the words you’re going to say to dr. abbot now so you don’t have to form them on the spot—god only knows how that might go.

you turn to head out, looking at the notes on the tablet in your hand, when you run into a brick wall.

“oh my god-” you almost drop the ipad, clutching onto it while it nearly tumbles out of your grip. jesus, how tired were you? walking into walls? but then the wall brings a hand to your shoulder, and that voice that’s been haunting your thoughts all night speaks.

and for what can only be the hundredth time that night, dr. abbot asks you if you’re okay.

you stare up at him.

“you okay, kid?”

“yes. i’m so sorry, dr. abbot. i was coming to find you.”

“i figured. how’s your patient?”

“stable. waiting for surgery. i-i… nevermind.”

“you what?” he asks, gently taking the ipad from your hand and reading. he uses one hand to wipe his eyes, like he can take away the tiredness that way, and then runs a hand through his hair. you put your trembling fingers to your sides. he brings his eyes up from the screen to look at you. you really wish he wouldn’t.

“i was just making sure he was still breathing.”

dr. abbot smiles at you. you smile back, but it’s half-hearted. your chest is thudding so loudly you can hear it in your ears. but his smile fades when he catches a glimpse of your shaking fingers.

“have you eaten today?”

“i had some coffee. and some water.”

“the patient looks great. he’ll be fine. let’s get you something to eat.”

you shut your eyes tightly, but your brain is so tired you don’t even know what you’re thinking. you’ll have to get better at this if you want to keep working here someday.

mindlessly, you follow dr. abbot.

“between five and seven is the hardest part of the shift,” he says, opening up another drawer, different from shen’s. he hands you a protein bar. “and too much coffee is a bad thing. we don’t want your hands shaking if you need to put in a chest tube or thirty sutures at six am, do we?”

you shake your head, taking the protein bar from his hand. your fingers brush for all of two seconds. jack feels like he just touched a live wire.

“eat,” he says, and you listen. “you’re doing good, you know. it’s not supposed to be easy.”

“thank you,” you say, though your mouth is full. you lift your hand to cover, because even though it’s five am, you cannot embarrass yourself any further. “sorry about the hazel eyes thing.”

jack laughs and you smile. he has a really nice laugh, the kind that can make you calm down and forget what was bothering you all night. it really is a wonder that everyone here isn’t in love with him. you don’t even know how much longer you’ll be able to last.

“that’s okay. you’re tired.”

“everyone’s tired,” you clear your throat, sitting up straighter. “i think i’m just going crazy.”

“yeah, why’s that?”

“because i can’t stop thinking about you.”

well. looks like that’s about how long you were able to last.

you put the protein bar down on the counter. hands trembling again, mouth dropped open.

“dr. abbot, i am so sorry-” the words come out in a shaky breath, but when you look at him, when he finally moves his gaze back to your eyes, like he’s been doing all night, you see that he’s not mad. he’s not even upset.

“that’s okay-”

“no, no that is so not okay,” you blubber, words and sentences becoming harder to find by the second. “i am so sorry. that is so unprofessional.”

“well, i-”

“b-but it’s not like it’s just my fault, you’re being so nice-”

“it’s not anyone’s fault, kid, it doesn’t work like that-” “if it’s anyone’s fault, it’s yours,” you say, unsure of where you’re finding these words. “you keep staring at me. what am i supposed to do?”

“have you tried looking away?” he quips, and you laugh at that. jack thinks for a moment that it’s a really beautiful sound. he doesn’t get to hear it often enough. maybe he can change that.

“am i?” you ask, after a small silence. “going crazy?”

“no. you’re not,” he replies.

“oh. that’s good, at least.”

the two of you stay like that for a moment, shoulder to shoulder against the counter, your protein bar long forgotten. jack’s looking at you and you’re looking anywhere but him.

“dr. abbot?” you say, but before he can answer, there’s a phone going off. he hears it in the distance—mvc, truck driver, incoming, five minutes out.

“come on,” he says, doing that thing again, guiding you but not really. even if anyone noticed through the haze of five am, he finds that he doesn’t really care right now. you wear the same flustered, confused, guilty expression until he ties the gown behind you this time, which makes you a smile.

a real one this time.

“what do you think about breakfast?” jack asks, snapping on his gloves and heading outside to meet the ambulance.

“i like breakfast,” you answer, not nearly as hesitantly as you thought you would.

“great. i’m of the belief you should always eat breakfast after night shift. there’s a place down the street.”

“do they have french toast?”

“i’m sure they do. you like sweet things?” and you can’t believe the conversation is still going, the paramedics are opening up the doors in front of you. you turn to jack, nodding to answer his question. “makes sense. alright, what’d we have?”

mouth still open, you follow him out to the bay.

an hour later, both of the drivers from the accident are stable. you’re yawning at central, saying goodbye to the nurse you were chatting with earlier, and without even looking, you know jack is looking at you.

you’re too tired to be anxious. all you want is to go to breakfast with him and figure out what the hell happens after breakfast post night-shift with your attending who knows that you can’t stop thinking about him.

he brings over a cup of coffee for you. you look up quizzically.

“i thought you said no more coffee?”

“it’s decaf. but you need something to get you to breakfast, right?”

“shouldn’t i have a coffee at breakfast?”

“no, because then you won’t be able to sleep after.” the way he talks, you believe everything he says. you smile at him. someone from the other side of the room calls him over.

“i’ll, uh, be right back.”

“dr. abbot?” you say, right before he leaves.

“yeah?” “thank you for the coffee.”

the last hour drags. particularly, six to six-thirty. the second half of the hour, the day crew rolls in slowly, one by one. the day shift counterparts take over patients and beds, get their debriefs. you follow around behind the residents, inform the other medical student about what you had done throughout the evening.

and around seven-fifteen, you pull on your jacket, grab your backpack, and wait for jack. you don’t know who else has left yet, who else might see you two together, but you don’t really care.

you walk to the breakfast place together, your eyes stuck anywhere but on your attending, and now it feels weird, because you can’t get his name to come out of your mouth. the idea of saying jack rather than dr. abbot feels inherently wrong.

the place he takes you to is quaint. it smells of espresso and bacon, and you smile brightly at the waitress when you order a latte, not decaf.

“what did i tell you, huh?” jack asks, and you bring yourself to finally look back at the hazel eyes that started this whole thing.

“i never said i was sleeping after this.”

in hindsight, the coffee was a great idea. the food would have made you sleepy, and you would have missed out going back home with jack. he lives in a nice brownstone, much nicer than your tiny apartment.

it also gave you just enough nerve to ask jack if he wanted to try your french toast. to hold his hand on the walk back. to lean against his chest while he opens the door.

“i can still walk you home, y’know,” he says, but you shake your head, watching him get his keys out.

“unless you want to meet my roommate, i don’t think that’s a good idea.” and inside jack abbot’s apartment is everything you had been imagining for the last twelve hours. shelves filled with records, big windows, a couch that looks tantalizingly comfortable. but you have ulterior motives today.

you keep looking around, perusing through his records while he takes a seat on the couch. you inspect with a tilted head, warmth spreading through your chest and radiating out at his music taste. such an old man, you think briefly, looking back at him sitting on the couch in his civilian clothes. your old man.

you pick one out, the first album that’s familiar to you, and bring it over jack on the couch. you sit next to him, thighs touching, resting your head on his shoulder.

“are you gonna put on music?” he laughs, and you can feel his chest vibrate with the noise. this close, you can feel his heartbeat if you place your head just right. every word that he says, you can hear the rumble first. it’s so soothing, you’d fall asleep if you weren’t so wound up.

“how are you not tired?” he questions, and you look up at him.

“i had a latte, remember. you had coffee too. how are you still tired?” you go silent for a moment, trying and failing to conceal a laugh.

“don’t even say it,” jack says, and he’s laughing too.

“i didn’t say anything.”

“you’re thinking it.”

“i’m not tired enough anymore to believe that you can actually read my thoughts.”

“i can’t read your thoughts.”

“that’s a lie-”

“no, promise. i can’t. i can just tell.”

“how is that possible?”

“you want me to teach you?” you prop yourself up, leaning against his forearm while you do it. his skin is warm, and somehow despite everything you two went through the last twelve hours, he still smells good.

“if you’re not too tired, old man.” jack shuts his eyes, groaning. you laugh again, biting your cheek, wondering what he’ll say when—

he opens his eyes.

“i was gonna go easy on you, kid. but you’re in for it now.”

“yeah?”

“yeah.”

“promise?”

jack makes another noise—something in between a groan and a sigh. and then before you can think about it again, he takes your face in between both hands and kisses you.

and you’ve been kissed before. not well, but you know what it’s supposed to be like. after a date once you think, a date that had been pretty mediocre. you felt a spark a hundred times stronger in the last couple hours with jack than any date you’ve been on in your life.

at least—you thought you knew what being kissed was supposed to be like. as it turns out, while kissing jack, you realize that you didn’t know shit.

the way he kisses you leaves your lungs void of any air. he doesn’t pull away, not once, and you don’t either. you don’t want him to pull away, you think you might die if he does. he moves his hands slightly, one on your cheek and the other on the back of your head, holding you in place, firmly, gently. and he kisses you like he wants you to forget what being kissed is like, as though you should have no memory besides this one.

your hands rope themselves on his arms, hard muscles tense under your touch. you move them up and down, brain so empty after the night you’ve had that you don’t know how to signal to him that you want him to take his shirt off. so you pull on his short sleeves and feel his bicep strain against your palm until you give up. you’d rather go at his pace than make any decisions at all, and somehow, you know that jack abbot won’t let you make a single decision, not if you don’t want to. he’ll decide everything, he’ll know what’s right for you, just like he has all night.

your hands finally leave his arm and wander to his hair, fingers working their way through the salt and pepper that you’ve been admiring for so many hours. his curls are messy, and you’ve ruined them, you’re sure, but you can’t stop.

you don’t know how long it’s been since either of you came up for air, but then you hear the record drop to the ground and you pull away quickly, turning your head to see where it went.

jack doesn’t stop kissing you. his mouth is hot and his touch is lava, moving to your cheek and your jaw and then down the column of your neck.

the moans you’ve been singing into his mouth are now out in the air, noises sweet like honey coming back to his ears.

“y-your record, i-i dropped it,” you get the sentence out in gasps. jack has his mouth over the place where your carotid pulses. he sucks hard on the skin there and your eyes shut instantly, the record leaving your mind as quickly as it had come in. he makes his way back through your cheek, back to your mouth.

and you could almost die at the sight—jack abbot, lips red and swollen, darkened eyes looking at you like he’s going to make you pay for that ‘old man’ comment, though you can hardly remember what you had even said.

this time you lean back in to kiss him again, and he lets you control the pace for all of thirty seconds. you kiss him until your lips hurt, until your tongue is tired—but then again, so is every part of your body. but it doesn’t matter, not when you’re so close to getting what it is that you want.

you don’t actually know how you got to his bedroom. you would have been content on that couch, or on the rug on the floor. against the door or on the countertop in the kitchen, but you guess you’ll have time for all of those things one day.

there’s black out curtains in jack’s bedroom. they’re not shut all the way, so you look around while he stands in front of you, pulling off his shirt in one motion. your eyes are big, heart thudding while you take it in. his room is simple, just like you had imagined. the sheets are soft under your skin and everything smells good, like linen and sandalwood. you bring your gaze back, bringing a hand up to touch his chest, like you need to make sure that he’s really in front of you.

jack takes his hand and puts it on top of the one you’re touching him with, pinning it above your head while he hovers over you. you bring the other one up voluntarily, letting him clasp it down, while he leans in to kiss you again. you keep moaning, not sure of how loud you’re being and not entirely sure if you care anymore.

and then he stops. pulls away from the kiss, unpins your hands. you whine in frustration, shut eyes opening quickly to meet his.

“you sure about this, hm?” he asks, bringing his lips to your jaw again. he hovers there too, not pressing down enough for it to be a real kiss. you can feel his stubble rubbing against you.

“i’m sure,” you whisper back, eyes shutting again. jack’s hands roam down, wandering over your waistband.

“there’s no going back,” he says, just as quietly as you had.

“jack, please—” and for the first time that morning, you hear dr. abbot break.

“oh fuck. say my name again, angel,” and you comply, repeating the syllable once, and then twice. it tastes weird on your tongue—like you’d get in trouble for saying it.

the thought makes you laugh. you keep giggling, unable to stop. you hear jack breathe into your neck, laughing with you.

“what’s so funny, hm?” he brings himself back over you, noses almost touching. you look straight into hazel eyes, bringing your hand to his cheek, running your fingers over the short hairs there.

“a couple hours ago i was calling you doctor abbot. now i’m in your bed.”

“you want me to stop, baby? i can. we can just go to sleep,” and you shake your head quickly.

“no, please don’t stop.”

“well, since you asked so politely.” he starts again, kisses up and down your neck, hands pulling off your bottoms. his fingers tease over the hem of your shirt and you raise your arms so he can pull that off too. his eyes rake over your entire body and unlike what you’d imagined, you don’t feel the need to hide. you don’t want to cover yourself up, or feel embarrassed, or anything else. you want jack abbot to keep looking at you like he’s looking now, like he can’t believe what’s in front of him. you can’t believe it either.

and somehow, this is even funnier. now you’re naked in front of your attending, the very one who has been making your heart race since you met him during your third year rotation. you laugh again, before clasping a hand over your mouth.

“i think you might be a little too tired for this,” he says, and you regret your laughter right now.

“no, no, i want this. i’ve been waiting so long for this,” the last part comes out as a whisper. you tilt your head up, pressing in for another kiss. jack’s hands—hot like every other part of him—roam the bare skin of your hips and waist, all the way up to your ribcage and then back down.

“yeah? how long?” he asks. his kisses go lower now, down your neck, onto your collarbone. he goes down to the smooth skin above your breasts, between them. everywhere except where you need him. you can feel the anticipation thrumming under your skin. “i asked you a question.” he pulls away, waiting for his answer.

“s-since i met you.”

“i think it’s been longer than that, hasn’t it?”

you look at him confused, but then the bastard actually smirks at you. and suddenly you’re back to ten o’clock last night, when the nurse was telling you to keep you legs closed—sorry, couldn’t help myself—and you saw someone in the corner of your eye but you didn’t want to be rude and look away, but when you left for the incoming trauma, you had seen—

“you dick-” you yell, sitting up in jack’s soft sheets. “you heard that whole conversation?” jack’s laughing and you start laughing too, taking one of his pillows and smacking it across his chest.

“not-” you get him with the pillow again and he grabs it, wrestling it out of your hands. you realize how much stronger he is than you for a split second in that moment. “not the entire thing. just the important bits.”

“well at least now i don’t have to figure out how to tell you,” you reply sheepishly, feeling particularly vulnerable. you bring your knees in to your chest, watching jack in front of you with big eyes. “do you feel weird about it?”

“weird about what, sweetheart?” he asks quietly, placing one of his warm hands on your knee and rubbing the skin there.

“the virgin thing. do you not-”

“hey,” he says, and with so much caring behind his voice that you feel whatever’s left—if there even was any—of your resolve break. “we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. we can shower and go to sleep. i can take you home. whatever you want. and we can pick up where we left off when you’re ready.”

“yeah?” you ask.

“yeah.”

you move back towards him, shutting your eyes and leaning in for another kiss. this time you crawl into his lap, feeling his hands roaming all over your body again. you can feel him under you—rock hard, pulsing, incredibly hot even through his pants. your hips move on their own while your hands fiddle with the tie before he takes over, undoing it for you. you hear jack groaning in your ear, and you’re positive that you’re wet enough to leave a wet mark on him. the noise is so exhilarating to you that you have to stop yourself from doing whatever it takes to get more out of him.

jack keeps one huge hand on your back, keeping you steady while he kisses you. you lock your arms around his neck, not letting go incase he tries to pull away. he flips you over in one motion—you on your back, and him hovering over you.

you don’t like this nearly as much—you want it back, the insanely rough pleasure of grinding yourself down on him. you whine again, but he murmurs one word in your ear over and over again—patience.

you’ve waited this long. you think you can be patient a little while longer.

jack goes back to whatever was on his long list of things he wants to do to you. he starts with pinning your hands down, locking you in place so you don’t flail around too much. he starts at your chest, his hot mouth working down to your nipple. he takes one in his mouth and you arch up off the bed, making saccharine noises that no one besides him has ever gotten to hear. that no one besides him will ever get to hear.

“jack, jack,” you say his name over and over again, like you’re worried he’ll disappear if you don’t. your body reacts just like he thought you would, only taking what you’re giving, waiting patiently for more.

“you’re being so good, sweetheart,” and he thinks the words alone are enough to make you come. he switches over to your other nipple, and he hears you curse, the swear ripping from your mouth.

and he hasn’t even touched your cunt yet. but he knows already that he’s going to drag this out, that he’s going to make sure you can never forget it. that he’ll spent the rest of his life trying to top this moment, give you something to compare to forever.

hot kisses down your stomach while your chest heaves. he watches from his position between your thighs, hands reaching out to play with your tits while he finally does what he’s been thinking about since that trauma yesterday night.

he moves your hands for you, putting them to work, making you tease your nipples while he spreads open your legs further.

he stares up again, watching you comply with his instructions wordlessly, being such a good girl without even needing to be told. he needs to tell you, but he doesn’t want you to come until you’re coming on his tongue.

without waiting, jack licks the length of your pussy and makes your entire body tense up, back rising off the bed again. he uses one hand on your stomach to keep you pinned down, to make sure you keep taking whatever he gives you. he can’t talk like this, but he’ll talk you through it when he makes you come all over his dick.

that’s what he’s thinking about while he starts to stretch you out. one finger, then two. your cunt is soaking wet, leaking down and making a mess of your thighs and his sheets and his face. he teases your clit more than he should, but how can he not? when you thrash so hard that you’d fall if he wasn’t holding you down? when you have no choice but to take it, to lay back and feel jack’s tongue on the most sensitive part of your body, the part that no one but him has ever gotten to touch?

two fingers become three, stretching you out for him while he sucks on your clit hard, finally giving you what you’ve been begging for.

one of your hands makes its way down to his hair, pulling on it while the other stays on your breast—you want to have both in jack’s hair but you can’t just ignore what he told you to do.

you don’t know what the punishment would be, even though you’re sure you’d enjoy it. but that’s going to be saved for another day.

right now, you were so close to cumming, so close that you could feel yourself hurtling over the edge, and then you pull on jack’s hair harder than you meant to and he moans around you.

it’s something entirely different—the vibration from his mouth and the fact that he’s moaning while he does this to you, and whatever the combination is, you feel it split you apart. the electric current that you felt earlier when you brushed hands with jack is nothing compared to this, lightening coursing through every part of your body, head to toe, inside and out. the white hot tension in your stomach snapping makes you cry out against jack’s pillows, toes curling while he keeps going all the way through it. you can hear him, and it only makes you cum harder, encouraging you, telling you how good you’re doing, how good you’ve been all this time. the only thing you can hear after it stops is your own heart inside your ribcage, bursting like it’s going to come out.

you let go of jack’s hair, bringing your exhausted hand to his shoulder instead. he comes up to where you are, meeting your eyes and leaning in for a kiss that leaves you breathless and thoughtless all over again.

“thank you, jack,” you whisper, too tired to say it any louder. jack laughs against your skin.

“you tired, sweetheart?” the answer is yes and no at the time, but you shake your head. you move closer to him, bringing your hand to his boxers, palming him. you can tell he’s big—big in the way that’s going to hurt, big in the way that his fingers can’t compare. big like you’re going to have trouble walking tomorrow.

“please, jack?” you say, and honest to god, how is he supposed to say no to that? even in your post-orgasmic state, tired as you can be, every muscle probably screaming at you to let you sleep, you’re so sweet in your request, so polite. just like always. he can’t say no to you even if he wanted to.

jack positions himself on top of you. this is it—what you’ve been waiting for. the result of one harmless conversation half a day ago.

jack brings your knees to your chest, and you loop your arms around them, holding yourself in place. his arms cage you in, and you look up, meeting hazel eyes. and even though you should probably be nervous, you’re not, not at all. because you know jack will take care of you.

he leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead, making your eyes shut.

“you ready, kid?” the nickname makes your heart flutter. you open your eyes, nodding again. “take a deep breath for me,” jack says, and you comply. and when he pushes inside of you, you swear everything in your body stops working for a second.

every thought leaves your head, every muscle goes lax. your eyes rolls back, mouth dropping open. there is nothing left to think about, nothing to feel except jack abbot inside of you.

“breathe for me,” he instructs, and you have to remind yourself to listen to him, that he knows what you need in this moment. jack abbot knows everything about you—even the things you don’t know.

you hear him—groaning and whispering things that you’re sure would make you pass out if you were in a state of mind that could understand him, but you’re not. so you wait for his kiss, take another breath, and feel him push inside of you all the way.

“jack,” you cry out, toes curling and head spinning. “jack, jack, jack-”

“i know, i know,” he says, and gives you another kiss. “you’re doing—fuck, you’re doing perfect.” he pulls out and thrusts back in, and the stretch is enough to make you cry out again. he’s going slowly for you but you don’t know how to tell him that you need more, that you might die if you don’t get more. but then again, you don’t have to tell him anything.

he picks up the pace, eyes stuck to where he’s filling you up. he can’t stop watching, seeing inch after inch disappear inside you, like you were made for him, because fuck, you were. your hands claw at his back and you pull on his neck to kiss you again, and when he does, you moan into his mouth. but he can’t just let you take it like this, he needs to tell you, all the things he’s been wanting to say.

he pulls away from your mouth and you make another noise, upset. he smooths down your hair and kisses your forehead, working down to your temple and then your cheek and to your ear.

“you’re being so good for me,” those six words that you love hearing so much make your entire body tighten up, including your cunt. you pulse around him as he pauses for a minute, taking in how you react to it. you moan against his skin, crying out when he resumes.

“so perfect for me. you’re taking me so well, baby. like you were made for it.” another moan, more crying. but he knows—knows there’s something else still.

you had once thought your first time might be gentle, candles and flowers. you don’t think you would trade jack abbot and his bedroom and his half-pulled black out curtains for anything in this world.

he keeps fucking you, brutally and deliberately, each thrust telling you something different. you squeal out his name like it’s the only word you know. but it’s when he starts speaking again, when you clench down against him, pulsing so tightly, that he knows he’s figured it out.

“good girl,” jack says, and you have to press your mouth against his arm to stop from screaming out loud. “you’re doing so good, so perfect. my good girl, aren’t you?”

“j-jack, jack, jack, i’m gonna-”

“come on, angel. come for me. i want you to come around me. can you do that for me?” you can’t answer, though it’s on the tip of your tongue, and then it happens again—the lightening, white hot, running through you. even stronger than the first one—it rips through you. jack’s in your ear and you can understand him this time—good girl. so perfect. you did amazing.

you don’t think you can feel your legs. your eyes want to flutter shut but you still feel the aftershocks each time jack thrusts inside of you—and when you open your eyes to stare up at him, you lean up, silently asking for a kiss.

he complies, pressing his lips against you. you don’t let go, keeping it going, until you whisper against his lips.

“thank you doctor abbot,” and that seems to be the last straw for him. you wish you could engrain it into your brain forever, how jack sounds when he cums. you’ve been listening to him all morning but this, this was different. a real moan, wrangled from the back of his throat, from his chest. as good as he’s made you feel, now you get to help him, your cunt clenching around him while he finishes. you press back for another kiss, and jack deepens it, until he pulls out.

you suddenly feel so empty.

he collapses next to you, ushering you onto his sweaty skin. you’re sure that you’re drenched too, and you can feel the back of your head where hairs have stuck to your neck.

you find jack’s hand, holding onto it like letting go might make all of this disappear. he presses a kiss to your forehead, fingers rubbing the skin of the dorsum of your hand.

“you okay?” he asks again, and you nod against his chest. glancing up for a moment, you catch hazel eyes looking at you already.

“are you okay?” he gives you another kiss to your forehead.

“you need to get some sleep.”

“i’m not tired,” you lie.

“yes you are. why do you keep thinking you can lie to me?” he asks, still staring into your eyes. you want to look away but you don’t think you can. you lay down against him, so you don’t have to look away.

“i’m not lying.” you take a pause, take a breath. “do i still have to call you dr. abbot at work tomorrow?” jack laughs. you can feel the vibration on his chest. it makes you smile.

“close your eyes, kid. i promise we’ll talk about everything in the morning.”

“jack?”

“yes?”

“you wanna go again?”

♡

#i hope everyone likes!! thank you for your patience!!!#jack abbot #jack abbot x reader #jack abbot smut #the pitt #not proofread-going through it after i post so if you notice something changed.. no you didnt

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p1astr81 · 2 days ago

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hey bestieeee, i am craving some oscar fics after the win!! I was thinking maybe something to do with when people say oscar doesn’t show any emotions or rarely smiles, is stoic. And like to his gf is so funny because when he is with her, he is so different compared to the way he shows himself on the press. He is (obviously) more comfortable, he is more relaxed, funny, maybe a bit clingy, idk whatever you feel like!!! Loveee uuuuu🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻

(not so) secret moments in a crowded room

synopsis: the stoic Oscar gets caught on camera in a not-so-stoic moment with his girlfriend.

pairing: Oscar Piastri x fem!reader

warnings: not proof read! So sickly sweet like omg I need to go brush my teeth now sweet.

He’s emotionless. He has the same face if he wins or if he dnfs. I think is face is permanently stuck in a straight face.

The comments bothered you, but Oscar didn’t seem to mind them. Of course.

He’d gotten another win, the third of the season and all Twitter was raving about was how he’s never happy enough when celebrating his wins.

He shouldn’t win if he’s not going to be happy about it.

But that wasn’t Oscar. He was happy about it, over the moon really. He’s just reserved.

You knew he wasn’t emotionless and he proved that when he found you after the race.

You were hidden away in the back of the garage, letting him have his moment with the team. When he spotted you, he couldn’t help the way his lips split in an open-mouthed smile. His laugh echoed down the pit lane as he called your name and did a stupid little jog over to where you stood.

The both of you were unaware of how the cameras—streaming live to anyone who had access to sky sports—followed Oscar to the back of the garage and zoomed in on the both of you.

“Hello my winner!” You greeted, arm wide. He reached you just after, wrapping his arms around your torso and lifting you into the air for just a moment. A burst of adrenaline.

He put you down, but didn’t distance himself. Hands gripping your waist made sure that the front of your body stayed flush against his.

“Someone’s happy.” You poked him in his sides, then rested your hands on his shoulders.

He shrugged. “Only because you’re here.” He joked.

“So it’s not because you just won your fifth Grand Prix?”

He shook his head, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The movement was so natural, you didn’t notice it.

The buzzing of the garage and the noise of the team faded into the background. It was just you and him. He gazed at you like you’d hung the stars in the sky, the very ones you guys map shapes out of at night, curled up in each other. You gazed at him like the made the ground you walked on from his bare hands, just for you.

Love. An undeniable connection between the two of you. Not a single soul could deny it no matter how hard they tried.

Not when you looked at each other like that. Not when he held you so tight—like he was afraid he made you up and reality would take you away at any moment. Not when he loved you so much he couldn’t help but laugh—if not he may have cried. Too many emotions circled his veins at once. It was overwhelming in the best way possible.

And when Twitter got their hands on the clips, lord did they notice everything.

THE HAIR TUCK OMFGGGGG

Sending this to everyone who calls him emotionless bc why is he looking at her like she is literally his lifeline???

HELLO OSCAR??? STAND UP???

I too would be this down bad if I was dating y/n

Even though you weren’t thrilled that the broadcast caught such an intimate moment, you were glad it was silencing all that ‘emotionless’ talk.

#f1 #formula 1 #f1 x reader #formula 1 x reader #f1 blurb #f1 fluff #op81 #f1 x you #oscar piastri x fem!reader #oscar piastri x you #oscar piastri one shot #oscar piastri imagine #oscar piastri #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri blurb

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mercvry-glow · 20 hours ago

Text

all that gleams (18+)

parings. jack abbot x nurse!reader

summary. everyone seems to be hitting on you tonight, and your husband doesn't seem to appreciate all of the attention you're getting.

warnings. this is 18+ so mdni, unprotected sex, p in v sex, rough/jealousy sex, half plot/half porn, sex in the work place, hospital setting, age gap (jack late 40s, reader late 20s to early 30s), reader gets hit on by men who are not jack, non-consensual touching (patient grabs reader), reader has hair, let me know if there's anything else!

notes. where the fuck do I even begin? uhhhh- so many people asked for a sequel to all that glitters and I never thought I'd actually do it but here we are! I absolutely live for their dynamic, and they're softcore rich which is truly the dream. I'm actually really proud of this, especially bc this is my second time writing any form of smut! as always any and all feedback is appreciated and please enjoy!

wc. 4700+

all that glitters

There wasn’t a person in your life who hadn’t told you getting married so young was a mistake. A newly minted nurse with a shiny new degree, a big diamond ring, and a big house in the nicest part of town—people loved to talk. And they did, especially behind your back.

“Too fast,” they said

“Too young.”

“She doesn’t know what she’s getting into.”

But they didn’t know Jack.

He’d been your constant through it all. Through the twelve-hour shifts, the night terrors you both had but didn’t always talk about, the tangled mess of silky bed sheets and plain coffee mornings. He never missed a beat, not with you. He always made sure the front door was locked, that you didn’t forget to eat, that you never had to face a bad day completely alone.

Jack Abbot was your storm and shelter all at once.

Still, some days it felt like you were speaking two different languages. You’d grown up with champagne brunches, sorority sisters, and an Ivy League education on Daddy’s dime. Jack grew up fast though—boots on the ground, blood on his hands, and scars no one could see unless he let them.

His world had edges, and darkness only he could understand.

Yours had comfy throw pillows and a walk-in closet.

Falling for each other had been a whirlwind, but staying in love… that took work.

Especially now.

Lately, every conversation felt like walking on eggshells. He was short with you. Distant. And maybe you were a little more sensitive than usual—he always said you felt deeply, cared too much. Maybe you did miss the way he used to look at you, touch you, talk to you like you were the only person in the room.

Now? Now he was somewhere else—lost in his head, behind some wall you couldn’t climb no matter how hard you tried.

And you still tried.

You showed up to work, same time as him, hair curled, and lip gloss on as usual. Your scrubs were still fitted just right, your badge reel sparkled, and your sneakers matched your pastel compression socks of the day. You were tired, overworked, and emotionally frayed—but damn it, you still tried, for yourself, for him, and most certainly for your patients .

He didn’t even say “Hi,” when you checked in.

Just a curt nod, eyes already scanning a trauma sheet.

Fine. You had a job to do anyway.

The ER was chaotic, as usual. You floated between rooms, upbeat as always, soft-voiced with your patients, making the new interns laugh with your sparkly pens and habit of humming softly under your breath.

That’s when he showed up.

Leo, tall, handsome in a sun-kissed, ex-lifeguard in the Baywatch kind of way, and new. The latest temp nurse from another hospital, and definitely not shy.

“You always this put-together at 7 p.m.?” he said, grinning as he helped you restock the IV cart.

You glanced up from your clipboard, smiling just enough. “Only when there’s new employees to impress.”

He laughed, nudging your elbow. “Well, consider me thoroughly impressed.”

Across the hall, you didn’t see Jack. But he was seeing everything.

You caught a flash of movement in your peripheral vision—him, leaning against the med station, pretending to read a chart. The way his jaw clenched was less than subtle. So was the way he suddenly had something urgent to discuss with Dr. Reese, right behind where you were standing.

You didn’t react. Just went back to scanning meds, asking Leo if he needed help finding anything on his first night. You were being polite. Friendly. Maybe a little intentionally oblivious—but only because it felt good to be noticed by anyone today.

Jack didn’t say a word.

But every time you turned around, he was there. Close. Watching.

He didn’t like it. You could feel it.

And for the first time in weeks, you felt something that wasn’t just disappointment.

You felt giddy.

You weren’t trying to make him jealous.

But if he was suddenly remembering the woman he married? The one who lit up a room? The one who still wore t-shirts to bed and nothing else, even when he acted like he didn’t care?

Good.

Let him remember.

The next few hours passed in a blur of motion and monitors—IVs, trauma alerts, vitals to chart and families to console. You stayed busy, focused, but not so focused you didn’t notice the way Jack kept drifting into your orbit.

Not close enough to talk.

Just… there.

Lingering near the nurse’s station when you laughed at something Leo said. Answering the trauma bay calls himself when you usually did first. A silent presence, watching without watching, always just a little too close not to be intentional.

There had been so much to do between learning about coworkers drama, taking care of patients, and dealing with incoming traumas that you’d been on your feet for almost seven hours straight before getting any sort of break.

Still not having found the right time to touch the overnight oats in your lunchbox.

Typical.

You finally ducked into the break room around 2:30 a.m., practically vibrating from a bit too much caffeine and sheer stubbornness. Your sneakers squeaked on the tile as you opened your lunch tote, pulling out your jar with a satisfied “Aha”. You gave it a little shake and popped the lid, the faint scent of almond butter and cinnamon curling into the air.

Leo was already in there, lounging in the corner with a Coke Zero and half a sandwich he didn’t seem particularly interested in eating.

“That looks suspiciously healthy,” he said, eyeing your jar like it confused him.

You grinned. “It’s delicious. Cinnamon, chia seeds, oat milk, with a little bit of honey and almond butter. You should try it sometime—maybe it will lower your blood pressure.”

Leo let out a low whistle. “Oof. She’s cute and judgmental.”

You wiggled your spoon at him. “I’m not judgmental. I’m just stating a fact,”

“Same difference,”

You laughed, shaking your head as you settled on the couch. Your big water tumbler clinked softly on the table as you set it down. Leo glanced at it.

“Okay, real talk. How many cups do you own?”

“Oh at least ten,” you said proudly. “And yes, they all match my scrubs and socks.”

He chuckled. “Of course they do.”

You were in the middle of telling him about your latest homemade electrolyte concoction—something with sea salt, lemon, and maple syrup—when the door creaked open.

Jack stepped inside, silent as ever. No one noticed at first, but you felt him before you saw him. That familiar pull.

You looked up and smiled, just a little.

He didn’t smile back.

He walked to the cabinet, pulled out a pod of instant coffee, and started making the world’s saddest cup of caffeine.

“You good?” you asked, casually, spoon still dangling from your mouth.

Jack shrugged. “Fine.”

Leo gave him a nod. “Rough night, man?”

“Same as every night,” Jack said coolly.

There was a pause.

You went back to your oats.

Leo leaned over slightly, stage-whispering, “Is it true you color-code your vitamins?”

You lit up. “Oh my god, yes! You have to! It’s so satisfying.”

Jack let out a breath—not quite a sigh. Not quite anything.

Just something.

Leo turned to him. “She’s kind of a fairy, huh? Healthy, pretty, and scary organized.”

Jack didn’t answer. Just stirred his coffee with the kind of force that made the spoon clink too loudly against the mug.

“I mean, who even makes time for meal prep on night shift?” Leo kept going, still playful, still oblivious. “She comes in glowing while I’m running on vending machine Pop-Tarts and anxiety.”

You grinned again. “You say that like Pop-Tarts are bad.”

Jack finally looked up. Right at you.

“I liked you better when you were sneaking granola bars from my locker.”

Your breath caught a little—not because it was mean. But because it sounded like a memory.

You raised a brow. “You never let me finish the boxes.”

Jack’s gaze didn’t move.

“Maybe I liked the distraction.”

The room went quiet again.

Leo cleared his throat and stood. “Okay, I’m gonna grab another Coke. You two want anything?”

“No,” Jack said, a little too quickly.

You shook your head. “I’m good, thanks.”

When Leo left, the silence stretched.

You scooped another spoonful of oats, pretending not to feel the weight of Jack’s stare.

“You didn’t answer my text,” he said finally.

You blinked. “Which one?”

“The one about locking the side door this morning.”

“Oh.” You smiled faintly. “Sorry, I was halfway through meal prepping for us and my mom called... You know how she gets.”

Jack nodded, jaw tight. “You’re supposed to text me back.”

You raised a brow again, but this time softer. “Jack. It was about a door.”

“It was about you being safe.”

That landed somewhere in your chest.

You didn’t say anything for a second. Just set your spoon down and leaned back into the couch.

“I was fine,” you said gently. “I promise.”

Jack didn’t reply. But he reached for your cup, unscrewed the lid, and took a sip (not using the straw) like it was the most normal thing in the world.

You stared. “That has lemon in it.”

He grimaced. “Tastes like a scented candle.”

You laughed.

He didn’t.

But the corners of his mouth twitched—just a little.

He set your water with a quiet thud, the lid clicking into place like it was holding something back for him, too.

You tilted your head, watching him in that way you always did when you were trying to read what was going on behind those stormy, hazel eyes. “You're drinking lemon water,” you said, voice lilting. “Should I be worried?”

Jack didn’t look at you. “I was thirsty.”

You smiled. “And yet the entire fridge full of bottled water didn’t do it for you?”

He shrugged.

“Grumpy,” you said under your breath, just loud enough.

His eyes finally flicked to yours. “I’m not grumpy.”

“You kind of are.”

“I’m tired.”

“You always say that when you’re being grumpy.”

Jack gave you a slow look—flat, dry, and just a little amused. “You finished?”

“Not even close,” you said sweetly, your elbow propped on the arm of the couch. “You’re cranky, you’re overcaffeinated, and you get weirdly possessive whenever someone’s nice to me.”

That got his attention.

“I’m not possessive,” he said.

You smirked. “Jack, you nearly snapped Leo’s neck when he said I had good handwriting.”

“That’s not what he said, and you know that.”

You blinked, then laughed. “Okay, fine. ‘Prettiest charting I’ve ever seen,’ and he winked. So what?”

Jack’s jaw tightened—just slightly.

You stood, stretching your arms overhead in a way that made your scrub top ride up just a little. His eyes tracked the motion like muscle memory.

You stepped closer, toes nearly brushing his boots. “I like that you care about this,” you said, softer now. “It’s kind of hot, actually.”

He looked at you—really looked at you—for the first time all night.

“You drive me crazy, kid.” he muttered.

You beamed. “So you are jealous.”

Jack sighed through his nose, the tension melting from his shoulders like an exhale he’d been holding in too long. His hand came up, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, fingers lingering a second too long.

“I know you’re mine,” he said quietly. “I just… sometimes I forget the rest of the world doesn’t always know it.”

Your chest tightened. Not in a painful way. In a finally, you’re here with me again kind of way.

You reached for his hand and squeezed. “Well, they do. But if you ever forget again, I’ll tattoo your name on my ass”

That earned you a snort—low and surprised.

“I’m serious,” you teased, squeezing his fingers. “Right across my cheeks. Property of Jack Abbot. Think it’d go with my Bikinis when I start tanning again?”

His lips twitched. “You’re insane.”

“Mm. And you’re stuck with me.”

“I know,” he murmured, voice quieter now, as he dipped down for a soft kiss, “Wouldn’t change it.”

And there it was.

The part of him no one else got to see—the softness under all that armor he put up. The way he looked at you like you were the only thing in this chaotic, blood-slicked hospital worth holding onto.

Before you could say anything else, the overhead crackled to life:

“Trauma en route. ETA four minutes. MVA, two patients. GSW secondary.”

Jack’s head lifted, all instinct now. You were already moving toward the door when his hand caught yours.

He didn’t pull, didn’t squeeze—just held.

“Be careful,” he said.

You leaned in again, kissing his cheek, quick and certain. “Always.”

Then the moment passed, and the hallway swallowed you both—he leading, you following, hearts synced in the rhythm of the ER. But his hand brushed yours again as you walked.

The trauma had come in hard and fast—twisted metal, broken glass, and enough blood to soak through your shoes. Jack had been in the thick of it, barking orders, steady hands moving like muscle memory while you worked across from him, suctioning, suturing, stabilizing. For a while, there was no room for anything else. No talking. No teasing. Just the two of you, back in sync, locked in the rhythm you knew so well. It was easy to forget the cracks when the adrenaline kicked in.

But by 4:15 a.m., the ER had slowed to a lull.

The kind that was never quiet, but at least breathable.

You’d just finished helping a resident clean up trauma one when they wheeled in another patient—mid-40s, minor head lac, walking wounded and very, very drunk.

You smiled politely, grabbing a suture kit.

“Alright, sir. Let’s get you cleaned up, okay? Can you sit still for me?”

He gave you a once-over that made your skin crawl. “Sure thing, sweetheart. For you, I’ll be real good.”

You kept it professional. “Thank you.”

But the longer you worked, the bolder he got.

“You married?” he slurred.

You didn’t answer.

“Bet your husband’s not half as pretty as you.”

You offered a tight smile. “Try to stay still. This part stings a little.”

He didn’t even flinch. “You ever date older guys? I got a boat, you know.”

You glanced around the bay, but the resident was long gone, charting somewhere out of earshot.

“I’m flattered, really, but I already have a boat,” you said lightly, finishing the last stitch. “And you’re gonna feel real silly about this in the morning.”

He grinned, crooked and gross. “Not if you give me your number.”

And then he reached out—his hands brushing your hips in a way that was not accidental.

You stepped back instantly, heart thudding.

“That’s enough sir,” you said sharply, your voice still steady, still calm—but colder now. “I’m going to step out for a minute, since I’ve finished. Someone else will check on you soon.”

You didn’t wait for a reply.

You slipped into the furthest supply closet you could easily find and leaned against the shelves, chest rising and falling like you’d just run a sprint. Your hands were shaking—more with anger than fear—but still. It clung to your skin.

The door creaked open a minute later.

“Hey.”

Jack.

He stepped inside and shut the door behind him, gaze scanning your face. “One of the other nurses said he got grabby.”

You looked up at him, throat tight. “I’m fine.”

He didn’t answer that right away. Just moved closer and touched your cheek, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth like he needed to ground himself.

“You sure?” he asked, quieter now.

You nodded. “Just… gross. Not the first, won’t be the last.”

His jaw flexed. “It shouldn’t be happening at all.”

You leaned into his hand. “It’s okay. I handled it.”

“You shouldn’t have to handle it.”

You looked up at him. “Jack—”

He stepped closer, and suddenly his body was pressed against yours, warm and solid and steady. His hands found your waist, rough fingers curling around your hips.

“I should be the only one touching you,” he said, voice low.

“We’ll get written up…”

“I don’t care.”

But Jack wasn’t hearing logic right now. He was standing there like he could still smell every guy you had met tonight on you, like the air hadn’t cleared yet.

“Hey.” You placed your hands on his chest, grounding him. “We don’t have to do this here…”

His hands squeezed your waist. “You’re mine.”

“I know.”

“You don’t flirt like that with anyone else, right?”

You blinked, caught off-guard. “Flirt like what?”

“Like you did with that prick.”

You frowned a abit. “I was being nice. He asked if I wanted something from the vending machine- he asked you too and you looked at him like he offered me lingerie.”

Jack didn’t budge. His grip didn’t loosen.

You tried again. Softer this time.

“I steal your clothes. I come home to you. I wear the ring you bought me, and I’m your wife. I chose you.”

His eyes searched yours—tired, and heavy, with a mix of something else.

You rose on your toes, placing your lips to the corner of his mouth. “I’m yours, Jack.”

And then his arms were around you fully, pulling you in like he needed to feel your heartbeat to believe it. Your heart thudded in your chest, a beat behind your breath. You looked at him, eyes narrowed, lips parted.

You didn’t hear him lock the door.

You felt it.

That soft, decisive click behind you—like a promise.

“Did you just lock the door?”

Jack’s answer was a look—slow, hot, and so heavy it pinned you in place. He stepped with the kind of precision that said this wasn’t spontaneous. No, he’d decided the second he saw you walk into the closet room, cheeks flushed, lip gloss smudged, tensions high.

The second all these guys started paying attention to you tonight.

Jack hadn’t liked that.

He tried to be quiet about it, like always. Quiet the way a storm is—only right before it breaks.

He stopped just barely inches from you, hand coming up to trace a line along your jaw. His fingers were thick, rough, warm, familiar. His touch didn’t ask permission. It remembered.

“You keep smiling like that,” he said low, his voice a gravel-coated whisper, “and I’ll have to fuck the memory of it out of you.”

Your breath caught—somewhere between outrage and arousal. “Jack—”

But you didn’t get the rest out.

He kissed you.

Not sweet. Not careful.

Claiming.

His hands tangled in your hair, dragging you into him like it was instinct, like your mouth had always belonged to his. You melted into him, your body curving against his like you were built for this—built for him. His hips pressed forward, pinning you to the wall of the storage closet, and your head thudded back softly against the cool plaster as his lips slid down to your throat, sucking, biting just enough to make you gasp.

“Locked the door for a reason,” he murmured, tongue flicking against the skin where your pulse fluttered. “Tired of pretending I didn’t want you every second we’re here.”

You let out a shaky breath, your fingers gripping his shirt like lifelines. “You’re sooo jealous.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, dark eyes devouring. “Damn right I’m jealous.”

His hand slid under your scrub top, skimming up your ribs, palm flat, hot and possessive. “You’re mine—I can’t fucking stand it when they look at you like you’re not.”

“And what are you going to do about it?” you whispered, breathless, lips grazing his.

His answer was a growl.

Jack spun you, quick and controlled, pressing you front-first against the shelves. Supplies rattled, somewhere above you—gloves, gauze, sterile wraps—but it was the sound of his breath at your neck that made your knees threaten to buckle.

His hands roamed—under your shirt to your tits, over the waistband of your scrub pants, every inch of bare skin he found earning a new kind of heat.

“You wanna be flirted with?” he whispered, voice dragging down your spine. “Fine. But I get to remind you who makes you cum”

You gasped as his mouth met the base of your neck, teeth grazing, tongue following. “Jack…”

“You knew,” he said again, almost reverent now.

And god help you, you did.

Because you’d walked in here to take a second, needing this—needing him. Not just his hands or his mouth or the way he made you come apart so effortlessly, but this claiming. This reminder. That under all the stress, the silence, the long nights and missed moments—the fire still burned. Hot. Unrelenting.

His fingers slipped lower, teasing the waist of your scrub pants, and you pressed back against him without thinking, needing more, needing everything.

“You’re mine,” he murmured again, lips brushing your shoulder, low and slow. “Say it.”

You turned your head just enough to whisper, “I’m yours, Jack. Always.”

And that was all it took.

He kept you facing the shelves, a hand coming down to your hips to steady you as he continued to feel you up with the other. “Yeah? You gonna be my good girl, sweetheart?”

The whimper you let out was pathetic. A low pitched sound that came from the back of your throat, as Jack started to flood your senses. He gave your ass a quick, hard, smack. Hand going back to rub over the spot, as it snapped you out of your daze. “I asked you a question, baby.”

You nodded, desperately. Already whoozy from the assault on your sense that your husband brought on. “Mhm! Jack-”

He shushed you, gently pushing down your scrub pants, “Gotta make this quick and quiet, or they’ll all know what a bad girl you’ve been.”

Reaching back, you straightend up leaning into his burning touch, wanting him closer than he already was. You could feel how hard he was beneath his cargos, half chubbed as he ground his hips into your panty-clad ass.

You would’ve felt embarressed if this hadn’t felt so right.

Clothes barely off, lazily grinding against your husband in a closet like you’re back in some college frat house at UPenn.

Jack doesn’t waste anymore time though, hastily shoving your panties down, rough fingers making quick work of finding your swollen clit. The tight circles he does against you, make you feel dizzy—legs already beginning to shake, as if you haven’t been working for ten hours already.

Your moans are muffled by your arm as you lean further into the shelves, but press your hips back toward Jack. Your resolve slowly slipping, as he dips a finger in your wet heat.

“Fuck, you’re soaked.” he groans out softly, continuing as he brings you closer and closer to the edge.

Then he just pulls away.

Not entirely, still so close that you’ve basically become one. It’s enough for you to whine at the loss of contact, pushing back into him hoping he’ll start again.

“Why’d you stop?” Jack can practically hear the pout in your voice. The breathy little lilt of displeasure showing in your tone.

“Sorry, baby. We only have time for one thing, and I’d much rather make you cum on my cock.” He kisses the back of your neck, gentle and loving as ever as he reaches down to free himself from his scrub pants.

He’s aching, he’s so hard.

He takes a few deep breaths before haphazrdly stroking himself. Fisting his cock in his meaty hand, already slick after playing with your wet little cunt.

Jack wasn’t going to make love to you.

He was going to fuck you like you needed it.

Lining himself up, Jack pushed in with a solid thrust of his sturdy hips. You just about collapsed into the shelves, already feeling so full of Jack as he started a steady rhythm. It was overwhelming, one of his hands tight against your hips as he used it to guide you into his thrusts, the other snaked over your mouth to muffle your breathy moans because the hallway was just beyond the locked closet door.

“Shit- you’re so fucking tight, baby.” you cleched against him as he drove himself further into you, trying to angle himself to hit the spot that would have you seeing stars in no time.

Your walls hugged him tight, leaving him a mess as he watched himself slip in and out of you in a trance like state.

“Fuck Jack-” you start mewling, hips pushing and grinding to meet his thrusts. “Ah- ah, you’re so deep.”

He mumbles something incoherent against your shoulder, both of his hands moving to your hips and ass to get more leverage to fuck you nice and hard.

You can tell you’re making a mess of yourself, panties clearly ruined with how you’re leaking down your thighs and his cock. Each thrust is a new shockwave of pleasure you don’t expect, but Jack doesn’t let up and you don’t want him to.

“Too m-much,” his cock throbs, hard and heavy inside you as he stills for just a second.

“Yeah? It’s too much for you, Sweetheart?” It’s almost mocking as he draws it out into longer deeper strokes—the ones that make it hard to breathe, the air escaping your lungs faster than you can take the chance to gasp for air.

“You’re just so big,” you whimper out, trying to keep yourself from collapsing back against him as your legs start to feel like jello.

Jack gives you a light scoff, “Good thing you’re being a good girl, and takin’ me so well, huh?” He keeps the pace steady, if not a bit quicker. Switching up the tempo to keep you on your toes and eager for him.

“Mhm!” You can feel your orgasm building, that all too familiar pressure in your lower tummy bubbling over. “Fuck- fuck I’m gonna cum-”

It’s like a switch flips in his brain, kicking him into high gear as he spins you around to face him. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him close as he lifts one of your legs around his waist.

“Yeah, pretty girl? You gonna cum for me?” He asks you through a sloppy kiss, one that smears what’s left of your lip gloss.

You feel like you’re about to implode, too tense and too loose all at once. Your hands find purchase on his clothed chest and the curls at the base of his neck, as he continues his loving assault on your body and senses. Jack is everywhere, and you’d never want it to be different.

He watches as you finally let go, shivering your way through your orgasm as you cum on his thick cock. Your breath catches as he kisses you slowly, working his cock in and out of your gushing pussy still chasing his own release.

“Fuck- you ruin me baby,” He groans into your kiss swollen lips, giving you a few more sloppy thrusts before burying himself as deep as possible. His own breathing shallow as he spills his load deep into your cunt, right where it belongs.

Blinking slowly, you return to your body. Jack looks down at you, capturing your lips in one last sweet kiss as he gently pulls out of you. Your body shudders at the now empty feeling, “You with me, Baby?”

His thumbs stroke your cheeks, gentle and loving as you just stare at him a little dazed. You manage a soft hum, and he begins the process of putting you back together for the public.

You cringed a bit as he helped you pull the pants of your scrubs back up, at least they were dark… right? You’d change into your backups as soon as you found the courge to leave the storage room. Then there was your hair which Jack lovingly braided as quickly as he could, before fixing himself the best he could

“Everyone’s totally gonna know… Ugh…” you leaned your head against his chest, sighing at the thought of John or Ellis questioning where you two were for the past 15 minutes.

“You look fine, besides who cares?” He questioned, “Do you know how many times I’ve heard the same story from other departments,”

“Yeah but this is us,” you gave him a deadpan expression, as he reached behind you so that he could grab your stethoscope and badge reel from one of the many shelves behind you.

He gave you a nonchalant shrug, and one last kiss on the forehead. “You ready to go get ‘em tiger?”

“You’re so dead whe we get home, it’s not even funny Jack Abbot!”

“We still have about two more hours, so I think I’m safe, Princess.”

mercvry-glow 2025

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moonstruckme · 2 days ago

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Hi!

I just watched 'me before you' (so sad wtf)

Anyways the one scene with the bumblebee tights? I can't stop thinking about it and was wondering if you could write something with whimsical!reader and the marauders (individual or poly) inspired by that?

Oh that is the cutest little storyline! Thanks for the request angel <3

cw: reader has hair long enough to have a clip in, but the hair itself isn't described

James Potter x whimsical!reader ♡ 1k words

James grins at the blue vervain hung above your front door before he knocks three times, hiding the small gift bag behind his back. You open with an easy smile on your face. It widens once you see him.

“James,” you say, voice a pleased hum. “I thought we already went on our date?”

“We did,” James agrees, “yesterday, but…” he digs in his pocket “...I think you left this in my car.”

“Oh.” Your eyes widen delightedly at the large acorn he holds out in his palm. “I did! I was going to call and tell you, but I thought surely by this morning it would be gone.”

James feels his eyebrows bunch even as he smiles. “Where would it have gone, lovely?”

“Well, it’s a very nice acorn, so I thought for certain faeries would pluck it up if I left it unattended. I wouldn’t have blamed them, it’s only fair.”

James doesn’t see anything particularly remarkable about the acorn—aside from it being rather large—but you often see beauty in stuff that James doesn’t. It’s one of the things he loves about you. He’s learned that you collect these sorts of things the way other people might collect postage stamps; it’s not for him to question.

“I’m glad it was still there, though,” you say, pushing up on your toes to give him a kiss that, in James’ opinion, is far too brief. “Thank you for keeping it safe.”

“It was no problem.” He leans forward for another kiss, but you’re already turning, disappearing into your home.

He follows you inside, though you haven’t invited him in—sometimes these things simply don’t seem to occur to you; James is learning to interpret your cues.

“You look lovely today,” he says.

You send him a curious look. “You always say that.”

“It’s always true.”

“It can’t be the same amount of true every time,” you say, finding a place for your acorn on the windowsill above your kitchen sink. You’ve a small collection of things there, from propagated plants to dead bugs to little origami stars.

“Can’t it?” James asks.

“My hair never looks exactly the same,” you point out, not arguing so much as musing in the way you’re given to, “and last week when you saw me I didn’t have any spots, but today I have two.”

James captures you in a gentle embrace, his hand on your cheek. “You’re just as lovely,” he vows, kissing you, “every single time.”

Your eyes have gone soft and cloudy; you’re easily mollified. “If you say so.”

“I do.” He kisses you again, smiling. “I have something for you.”

“Mm, for me?”

“Who else?” He reveals the gift bag. The tips of his fingers are buzzing with excitement. “Open it.”

You take the bag, appearing bemused. “It’s not my birthday.”

“I know that.”

“Is it a holiday?”

“No.”

You look at James, still not opening the bag. “What’s this for, then?”

“Maybe I just like to give you things,” he says. “It made me think of you.”

“Oh.” You relax, the mystery resolved. “Because you’re nice.”

“Sure. Would you just open it, please?”

“Okay.” You give James a puzzled sort of smile, but part the folds of the bag. “Oh.” Your voice softens as you look inside. “Oh, James, this is lovely.”

“Yeah?” he asks, suddenly nervous as you draw it out. Up until just this moment, he’d felt nothing but confidence that you would love it, but now he’s unsure. “Do you like it?”

“Yes.” You turn over the barrette in your hand, expression awed. It’s a dragonfly, larger than life and incredibly detailed, with wings an iridescent green color that shimmer in the light coming in through your kitchen window. “It goes in my hair?”

“Yeah, but there’s a trick to making it work.” James leans closer, giddy. “Can I show you?”

You nod mutely, and he leans over, blowing gently on the gift.

In the palm of your hand, the dragonfly comes to life. You gasp as its wings shift and flutter, the colors becoming even more vibrant. If you look really closely, even its tail is moving, the only still part of it the legs so that they stay fixed in your hair while you’re wearing it. It took a nifty bit of charmwork to achieve that amount of specificity.

Your eyes are alight with wonder. It’s the sweetest thing James has ever seen, and he knows—if the ministry cracks down on him, if he’s never allowed to practice magic again—he knows he’s done the best thing.

“It’s beautiful,” you say, softly, as though afraid to scare the creature. “Where did you find this?”

“Just—at a market.” James tries to sound casual. “It was a pop-up, I think. Cool that they make them like this, yeah?”

You make a sound of agreement, eyes still on the dragonfly as it begins to settle down. “It’s like magic.”

James leans over to kiss your forehead. “Want me to put it on for you?”

Your expression lights up as though the possibility hadn’t yet occurred to you. “Could you? Please?”

“Of course, lovely. Give it here.”

You transfer the barrette to James’ hand delicately. He smiles at how preciously you treat it, turning you by your shoulder to fix it in the back of your head. Once he gets it situated—James really isn’t very experienced at styling hair—he draws you into the bathroom so you can approve.

“Can you blow on it?” you ask when he holds up a mirror for you to see the back of your head, barely leashed excitement in your tone.

James does, and you make the most elated sound he’s ever heard from you. He laughs as you turn to put your arms around him, his soft-spoken, placid girl nearly jumping with glee.

“Thank you,” you say, pressing your lips to his. “Thank you, James. No one’s ever gotten me anything so thoughtful.”

James reckons he has a thing or two left to do about that.

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dior-luxury · 2 days ago

Note

i dont know if your requests are open but if they are can you pretty please make a part 2 of the how they'd propose to you with other characters like Sebek and Ruggie and anyone else you would like? (⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠)

How'd They Propose To You

( ✧ ) ────── boyfriend stories . fluff - gn!reader .

- [𝐜𝐡.] cater . ruggie . floyd . kailm . vil . rook . idia . lilia . sebek

- [𝐩:𝐬] nothing . just the boys being romantic

Note: This series like my 'Kiss And Make-out' series was heavily request so... Part two, here we go!! Also everyone, get your tissues out cause this is going to be an emotional one.. 😭

Cater Diamond

Cater always made everything look effortless. From his impeccably filtered Magicam photos to his playful, lighthearted persona, he was the guy who breezed through life like a summer wind — colorful, vibrant, and hard to pin down. But the moment he realized he wanted to spend his life with you, the thought terrified him. Not because he didn’t want it — but because he did.

You’d been together for a while, enough to see past his curated charm and into the subtle sadness he kept hidden behind his eyes. You saw the moments when his smile faltered just a second too soon, when he stared at old class photos for a beat too long, when he tried too hard to make everyone like him. And despite it all, or maybe because of it, you stayed. You loved him, not the persona.

He wanted to return that love with everything he had.

So he planned it down to the second. Not flashy, not performative, but genuine. A proposal just for you two — no hashtags, no likes, no audience.

You were led on a surprise “casual date” through campus, each place tied to a memory: the greenhouse where you first studied together, the corner of the courtyard where you surprised him with lunch one day, the little music room where you once caught him playing guitar alone. At each spot, he left a small printed Polaroid of the memory, with scribbled notes like “Can you believe you caught me blushing here?” or “Still the best sandwich I’ve ever had, btw.”

Finally, you arrived at the abandoned tower that overlooked the rose gardens. It was dusk — golden hour. A string of soft lights framed the edge of the balcony, and a blanket lay spread out with two drinks, his favorite strawberry soda, and your favorite too.

Cater stood there, not in any extravagant outfit, but in his everyday clothes, a little flushed, a little nervous. His Magicam was nowhere in sight.

“I know I’m not always easy to read,” he began, eyes softer than you’d ever seen them. “I’m a master of filters. And honestly? I’ve spent most of my life trying to be someone that other people like. But with you… I don’t have to be anyone else. You make me feel like being just ‘Cater’ is enough.”

He knelt, pulling out a small velvet box that he almost dropped because his hands were shaking.

“So… if you’ll have me, for all the mess, the moods, and the million selfies — will you marry me? And keep reminding me that being myself is okay?”

His voice cracked, and you could tell it wasn’t a line rehearsed for flair. It was Cater Diamond, bare and honest.

You said yes, of course.

And that night, he took one photo — just one — of the two of you silhouetted against the golden light, laughing through your tears.

No filters. No edits.

Just love.

Ruggie Bucchi

Ruggie Bucchi never thought he’d be the type to propose. Where he came from, marriage was practical, not romantic. You partnered up, you made it work, and you did your best to survive. Love? That was a luxury. He grew up knowing how to scrape by, how to hustle, how to keep smiling when your stomach was empty.

But then he met you — and everything shifted.

You saw past his tricks and street-smart charm, past the sly grin and the mischievous glint in his eyes. You saw someone capable. Someone worth loving, not just useful. And that meant more to him than he ever let on.

He saved for months. Scrimped every madol he could without you noticing. Side jobs, extra errands, even turning down a few schemes with Leona when they felt too risky. He wanted this to be his, something he earned with his own effort. Not flashy — but real.

One day, he invited you to his hometown. He played it off as casual — “Hey, wanna see where the magic began?” — but you could tell he was more nervous than usual. His tail twitched a little more. His jokes came faster. He wouldn’t meet your eyes for too long.

You arrived in the Slums of the Sunset Savanna, where he grew up. It was loud, dusty, and full of kids shouting and running barefoot in the alleys. But Ruggie looked… peaceful. At home. He gave you a tour like it was the royal palace — proudly showing you the bakery where he got day-old bread, the crumbling wall he used to climb for fruit, the school where he taught himself to read better.

That evening, he brought you to a quiet hill just outside the neighborhood. It overlooked the city, bathed in orange from the setting sun.

There was a picnic spread, nothing fancy — some homemade snacks, cold drinks, and a little bread pudding he tried (and failed) to make look neat. The bread was a little burnt. He kept muttering that it wasn't perfect.

And then, out of nowhere, he said:

“Y’know… I used to think I’d just grow up, keep scrappin’ my way through life, maybe end up old and alone with a bunch of stolen pies under my belt.”

He laughed awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck.

“But then you came along and messed it all up — in the best way.”

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a tiny, slightly lopsided ring box. Inside was a simple band with a small, pale gem. Not expensive. Not glittery.

But made with his whole heart.

“I don’t got a palace. I don’t got riches or magic castles or nothin’. But I got you, and I wanna spend every day makin’ you smile. So… what do you say? Wanna keep causing trouble together… forever?”

His ears were flat against his head, and his tail was still as stone.

When you said yes, he lit up like the stars were inside him.

And he never stopped smiling after that.

Floyd Leech

Loving Floyd was like dancing with a storm: unpredictable, wild, sometimes overwhelming — but breathtakingly beautiful. He could be sweet one second, biting the next, and then melting into your arms like seafoam. And through it all, there was something real behind his mercurial moods — a strange, raw devotion that ran deeper than the ocean.

So when Floyd started acting… weirdly consistent, you knew something was up.

No wild mood swings. No threats to squeeze someone into a pretzel. Just this quiet intensity in the way he looked at you, like he was memorizing your every blink.

He’d drag you along for “dates” that were more like mini adventures: exploring underwater caves off the Coral Sea coast, racing each other through twisted kelp forests, picnicking on giant sea turtles (you hoped it was legal). He’d laugh, splash you, nibble your ears when you weren’t looking — but then fall completely silent when you watched the sunset over the waves.

That silence carried something unspoken. Something serious.

Then one day, he brought you to the edge of the Mostro Lounge after hours. No lights. No music. Just the dark water shimmering under moonlight. Jade had subtly cleared the area, probably under Floyd’s “friendly encouragement.”

Floyd stood by the pool, barefoot, wearing loose, sea-salt-dried clothes. He looked wild and untamed, like he’d just swum from the abyss.

“Ne~ shrimpy,” he started, voice low and lilting. “You really stuck around this long, huh?”

He didn’t look at you at first. He stared at the water, watching it ripple like something might rise from it.

“Most people get scared. They say I’m too much—too loud, too weird, too hard to keep up with. Even Jade gets tired of me sometimes, y'know?”

He turned, and for once, his eyes weren’t playful. They were clear — crystalline, serious.

“But you… You let me be me. Even when I’m a pain in the tailfin.”

He stepped forward and pressed a tiny shell into your hand. At first glance, it looked ordinary — until it opened with a soft click, revealing a shimmering, black pearl nestled in its center like a star trapped in the deep.

His hand slipped into yours, fingers squeezing tight.

“So, what d’ya say? Wanna be my forever shrimpy? I can’t promise I won’t get bored sometimes or drag you into weird stuff… but I can promise I’ll never leave. ‘Cause when I say you’re mine, I mean it.”

He grinned then — sharp teeth and all — but there was a rare softness to it.

When you said yes, he scooped you up, twirled you into the air, and shouted your name into the sea breeze like it belonged to him now.

Because, well… it did.

Kalim Al-Asim

His love was the kind of love that sparkled — joyful, loud, radiant. He loved with everything. And when he realized he wanted to spend the rest of his life with you, there was no hesitation. No fear. Just overflowing excitement and the desire to make it perfect.

So naturally… the entire city had to know.

You started noticing little hints. He’d smile at you longer than usual. Ask strange questions like “What’s your favorite kind of flower, just hypothetically?” or “Do you like fireworks or doves better? No reason!”

But the day of the proposal? He kept it hidden perfectly.

You were invited to a “casual dinner” at the Al-Asim family estate — nothing fancy, he swore! When you arrived, the garden was transformed into something out of a dream: floating lanterns bobbed gently in the air, casting a golden glow; fragrant jasmine vines curled around the trellises; rose petals lined the walkways in careful spirals.

And in the center of it all stood Kalim, wearing a white and gold sherwani embroidered with intricate sun motifs — custom-made, obviously.

He took your hand and pulled you close, his smile so big it looked like it hurt.

“Surprise!! Okay okay, I know I said this wasn’t a big deal, but I might’ve lied a little,” he admitted, practically vibrating with excitement. “I wanted this to be special. Because you are.”

He led you through the garden, pointing out little scenes — memories you’d shared together recreated in glowing, magical dioramas. The first time he gave you a ride on his flying carpet. The time you accidentally got stuck in the rain together and danced anyway. Even the first time he tripped and landed face-first in a pile of fruit during a festival. Each one floated in a soft golden shimmer like preserved dreams.

Finally, at the very end of the path, the lights dimmed. Music began — a quiet, melodic tune played by a live ensemble hidden behind silk screens.

Kalim dropped to one knee, pulling out a ring so stunning it looked like it belonged in a treasure vault: warm rose gold shaped like the sun, with a diamond center surrounded by sunstone and opal, glowing faintly with enchantment.

His voice trembled slightly, but his eyes never left yours.

“I know I’m… a lot. Loud, excitable, maybe too much sometimes. But my heart? It’s yours. Every day. Every moment. I want to fill your life with so much joy you forget what sadness feels like. Will you… will you marry me?”

You could barely answer before fireworks burst overhead in a dazzling cascade of color — forming your name, a heart, and then the words “Will You Marry Me?” again for good measure.

He laughed, teary-eyed, pulling you into a spinning hug the moment you said yes, nearly tripping over a pile of lanterns.

And he swore — over spiced sweets and glowing stars — that loving you would always be the most joyful celebration of his life.

Vil Schoenheit

Vil Schoenheit had always been perfection incarnate.

He chose his words carefully, curated his life down to the last detail, and ruled over every room he entered with grace and quiet authority. But love? Love was unpredictable. Messy. Vulnerable.

And yet… with you, he chose it anyway.

For months, he kept the idea of proposing buried beneath a polished exterior. Not because he doubted your love — no, never that — but because he feared imperfection. What if the moment wasn’t enough? What if his words failed him? What if he wasn’t enough?

But one morning, as you were wrapped in a robe, sipping tea while lazily flipping through one of his scripts, looking utterly unbothered by the world — his world — he knew. No stage could rival this.

Still… he had to make it perfect.

The proposal wasn’t sudden. It unfolded like a symphony — days of subtle preparation, each moment building toward the crescendo. First, a handwritten invitation slipped under your door, sealed with gold wax in his personal crest. It read:

“You are cordially invited to an evening of celebration — for a love that deserves the finest stage. Wear what makes you feel radiant. The rest… is mine to handle.”

You arrived at a private rooftop garden in the heart of Maquillaville— Vil’s favorite filming location. Every inch of it had been transformed: strings of enchanted lights that pulsed like heartbeats, violet roses laced with flecks of gold, a crystal runway leading to a single, candlelit platform under the stars.

Vil stood at the end of it, not in a costume, not in a role — just himself. Beautiful, yes, but bare. No stage makeup. No lenses. Just Vil, with his natural elegance and a look in his eyes like he was seeing you and only you.

As you approached, music swelled from invisible instruments — soft piano and violins, as if the stars themselves were holding their breath.

Vil took your hands, his thumb stroking your wrist gently.

“I have played many roles,” he said quietly. “A prince. A villain. A monarch. But none… none compare to the part I’ve played in your life — myself. No masks. No script. You have loved me.”

He lowered himself to one knee, not out of tradition, but reverence. The ring was an opalescent band shaped like a flower in full bloom — not ostentatious, but hauntingly beautiful. Regal. Just like him.

“And I want to spend the rest of my days proving that I am more than a face on a screen. That I am yours — wholly, imperfectly, and honestly. Will you marry me, my dearest?”

Your yes was the kind of answer that echoed through your soul. And when you kissed — fireworks didn’t go off.

But you could’ve sworn the stars shifted.

Rook Hunt

To love Rook Hunt was to walk the edge of obsession — not in a dangerous way, but in a way that made you feel seen. Utterly seen. No piece of you, no habit or flaw, escaped his gaze. And he loved every detail with fervor and poetry.

So, when Rook decided to propose, it wasn’t a question of if or even how. It was a question of when the moment would feel like destiny.

And he waited for it with the patience of a hunter watching from the trees — breathless, quiet, focused.

It came during an autumn evening. The forest outside campus was bathed in gold and amber light, the air crisp and still. He asked you to take a walk, his tone casual, but there was a certain gleam in his eyes. The kind that made your heart stir.

He led you into the woods, deeper than usual, through a path dappled with falling leaves and faint trails of candlelight — candles placed just out of reach, like fireflies guiding you toward something sacred.

Eventually, you came upon a small, open glade. In its center stood a circle of white lilies and dried pampas grass, arranged with almost ceremonial care. Strings of paper birds fluttered from the trees — cranes, owls, hawks — each meticulously folded and each with a word written inside: Admiration. Fascination. Devotion. Enchantment.

You turned to Rook, who now stood behind you with that soft, unreadable smile.

“Mon trésor,” he breathed, voice velvet-smooth. “You are my greatest muse. The most magnificent mystery I’ve ever encountered. I have followed your footsteps, your laughter, your sorrow — and I find myself always… captivated.”

He circled around you like a dancer, his hand brushing your cheek, then resting over your heart.

“To hunt is not merely to chase — it is to understand. To behold. And I understand now that no beauty compares to yours. No thrill equals the way my heart stirs when you smile.”

Then, with the flourish of a magician revealing his final act, he drew from his coat a black-velvet box — aged and worn, like an heirloom passed through generations. He knelt, the golden leaves falling around him like confetti from the sky.

Inside, the ring was unlike anything you’d seen: a twisting band of silver and moss-green enamel, crowned with a delicate white diamond shaped like a feather — symbolizing the pursuit, the admiration, and finally, the surrender.

“Would you, my radiant one, do me the indescribable honor… of being mine, forever? Not as prey. Not as an object. But as the one I choose to walk beside, for all my days?”

When you said yes, Rook exhaled — deeply, reverently — and kissed your hand as if pledging allegiance to a monarch.

Idia Shroud

Proposal? Marriage? Social interaction? That was high-tier anxiety content for him. Even the thought of confessing to you, back when it all started, had nearly sent him into a shutdown spiral.

But now, here you were — his person. The one who understood his silences, who gamed beside him through 72-hour dungeon crawls, who sat beside him in eerie, comforting stillness while the blue glow of his hair flickered in thought. Loving you felt like logging into a private server only the two of you could access — quiet, secure, and safe.

And Idia, for all his dramatics and gloom-posting, loved you with an intensity that didn’t need fanfare. Just… data. And intention.

So, when he decided to propose, he made it a quest.

Literally.

You received a handmade invitation on your phone one morning: "Player 2, your presence is requested for a legendary raid. Final boss: Emotional Vulnerability. Rewards: Eternal Love + Rare Ring Drop. Do you accept?"

He built the whole thing himself: a pixel-art RPG styled just like your favorite fantasy games. The title? “Shroud.exe: A Love Story.”

As you played through it, you encountered your story together — from your first awkward hangouts in the Ignihyde dorm, to the moment you held his hand during a panic attack, to every late-night cuddle session where his hair dimmed peacefully beside you. Every NPC was a digital recreation of your favorite characters (Ortho, obviously, had an adorable role as the overly enthusiastic love-coach sidekick).

Each level was built with custom dialogue, full of Idia’s signature wit and fourth-wall breaking commentary:

“This is the part where MC doesn’t leave me despite my trash social skills. Truly S-tier behavior.”

“Warning: Final boss approaching. His defense stats are ridiculous but he’s got a glass heart. Weak to unconditional love.”

Finally, at the end of the game, the final cutscene began. And instead of sprites on screen, the video feed switched to live camera.

There he was.

Idia. Sitting in his room. Nervously fiddling with something in his hands — a small velvet box. His flame-hair flickered erratically, and he was in a carefully chosen outfit you’d never seen him wear before. Formal, but still unmistakably him.

He looked directly at the camera — right at you.

“I, uh… I figured I should do this in a way that makes sense for me. For us. Not in some overhyped, real-world, normie way with candles and violins and… people.” He cringed just saying that last part.

“But I wanted it to be real. So… here I am.”

He opened the box with trembling fingers. Inside was a ring shaped like a circuit loop, inlaid with glowing lapis and delicate code etchings — the ones you both designed together for fun once. The pattern pulsed faintly with light.

“I’m not good at words IRL, but I can say this: You’re my favorite co-op partner. You made all my side quests feel like main storyline material. So, will you… like, marry me? And maybe keep patching me for the rest of our lives?”

You didn’t even need the dialogue box to appear.

You just whispered "Yes" to the screen — and moments later, Ortho popped into the game world cheering with pixel fireworks in the background.

You looked up — and there Idia was, standing awkwardly in your doorway, holding the ring in real-time. Blushing furiously. Looking like he’d risked everything.

And when you kissed him — he glitched. Heart racing. Code crashing.

And he didn’t want to reboot. Ever.

Lilia Vanrouge

He had watched centuries pass like seasons. He’d lived through empires and starlight, laughter and war. He’d known many things — joy, grief, loyalty, loss — but love? True, soul-deep love? That was rare. Precious.

You, however, had changed that.

He never planned to fall for you. It simply happened. Like a song that begins as a hum and ends in a chorus that takes your breath away. With every shared moment — your laugh, your clever comebacks, your kindness — you pulled him out of memory and rooted him firmly in the now.

And so, one day, when the time felt quiet and right — he began to prepare.

The proposal wasn’t flashy. It was intimate. Lilia’s style had always been part mischief, part myth, part poetry. And so, he invited you to a place he hadn’t shown anyone in centuries.

A clearing deep within Briar Valley’s forest — hidden beneath vines and weeping trees, where the moonlight filtered through like silver lace. Fireflies lit the air in lazy constellations. In the center stood an old, stone ruin covered in moss — a place once sacred to the fae.

Lilia held your hand and stepped into the clearing with you, a small smile on his lips.

“Do you know what this place was?” he asked, voice soft like dusk. “It was a fae courting ground. We used to come here when we were ready to say, ‘This is it. This is the one I’ll write songs about.’”

You blinked at him — heart stuttering.

He stepped back from you, then lifted his hand. Magic shimmered like crushed moonlight around his fingers. With one slow motion, the ruins bloomed to life — glowing vines wrapping around pillars, flowers that hadn't blossomed in centuries opening in a swirl of glowing petals. The whole grove sighed, as if exhaling from a deep sleep.

“I’ve done many things,” Lilia said, stepping closer again, eyes shining. “I’ve lived through battles and lullabies. But I’ve never done this. Never wanted to. Not until you.”

He reached into the folds of his cloak and pulled out a delicate silver ring carved in the shape of intertwined bat wings and thorns, centered with a faintly glowing green stone that looked like a captured firefly.

Kneeling — he looked up at you, unguarded and eternal.

“You have made my immortality feel like a blessing again. Would you walk with me through what years I have left, and let me love you through each one? Will you marry me?”

The forest held its breath with you.

When you said yes, his smile was the softest thing you’d ever seen. He pulled you close — kissed you slowly — and whispered, “Then we’ll write a love story even time won’t forget.”

Sebek Zigvolt

For a long time, Sebek Zigvolt didn’t understand love. Not in the way he understood duty, or training, or the fierce loyalty he bore for Lord Malleus. Love was… unpredictable. Emotional. Disruptive.

But when he began to feel it — first in small ways, like watching you speak with others and getting irrationally flustered, or the way your touch lingered in his mind for days — he was angry at it. Frustrated.

And yet, you stayed. Through his yelling, his dramatics, his constant declarations of greatness on behalf of Malleus. You never teased him. You understood him.

One evening, after an exhausting mission outside Briar Valley, you found him standing guard alone under a stormy sky — soaked, grim, but stubborn as ever. You put your cloak around his shoulders and stood beside him in the rain.

He never forgot that moment.

It was when he realized: You are who I want to stand beside forever.

Sebek’s proposal took months of planning. Everything had to be worthy — of you, of his feelings, and of the future he wanted to protect. He asked Lilia for advice (and immediately regretted it after hearing “fake dragon attack for dramatic flair” — no thank you), trained twice as hard every morning, and spent evenings carving something in secret.

When the day came, he invited you to the castle gardens of Diasomnia at sunrise. The sky was still dark and quiet, a soft mist curling between hedges and dragon statues.

Sebek stood waiting at the center, in formal attire — the ceremonial armor of the Draconia Guard, silver and forest green, etched with runes that glowed faintly with magic. He turned when you arrived, eyes wide and serious, breath fogging in the cold air.

“I… I wanted to say this in the place where my heart was forged — under these towers, in these shadows, where I learned what it meant to serve.”

He stepped forward, taking your hands in his own — warm despite the chill.

“But then I met you. And I learned something greater than duty. I learned love. Fierce. Relentless. Protective. The kind I would fight for. Die for. Live for.”

From his belt, he drew a small box. Inside it was a ring made from polished emerald steel — hand-forged, slightly rough around the edges, but unmistakably beautiful. It bore his family crest inside and tiny runes around the band for strength, loyalty, and passion.

“I will not promise perfection. I am loud. I am difficult. But I swear to be yours with every heartbeat I have. To protect, to cherish, and to learn. Always.”

He dropped to one knee — knight-like, formal, trembling — and looked up at you as though you were the most sacred being in the world.

“Would you do me the extraordinary honor… of becoming my partner? My future? My heart?”

Your “yes” rang through the mist like sunlight.

When he stood, his composure nearly broke — eyes damp, mouth trembling — and when he kissed you, it was with the passion of someone who had finally learned what it meant to love freely.

And though he never said it aloud again in front of others — in private, every night after, he whispered: “Thank you for choosing me.”

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formulaonecrumbs · 3 days ago

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could you write a Lando x reader where the reader comes from a low-income family and her childhood and teenage years were deeply affected by that? Her life started to improve a little when she began creating content on tiktok and instagram, but it still wasn't anything too surprising or luxurious. Lando came across her profile by accident, got interested in her, and they started talking. After a few weeks of chatting, they planned to meet in person, and Lando picked her up for their date. they went to an extremely fancy restaurant, completely out of the reader’s reality, which made her feel a bit uncomfortable especially because Lando acted like it was just a regular place, even unintentionally being a little rude to the waiter. she felt embarrassed to order food and ended up choosing the cheapest options (which were still very expensive). as the dinner went on, she started realizing that Lando was kind of snobbish, and pretty much everything he talked about involved a lot of money. that made her feel uneasy, especially because of the huge difference between the realities they grew up in

not used to this 🥂

Lando Norris x middle-class!reader

summary: lando takes reader to a restaurant way out of her comfort zone

warnings: rich boy trying his best, writer (me) not doing as the request says 🤗

A/N: thank u anon!!! i wrote this when u sent the request in and reading it back, i’m realising now that i didn’t really make him snobbish 😭 MY BAD. i can rewrite it if u want, all u gotta do is ask. i hope u enjoy it regardless. again it is unedited. love uuuuuu 💋

୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ

she didn’t grow up with much. not in the sad, movie-montage way—just in the real way. money was tight. bills came in stacks. school trips were “maybe next time,” and birthdays were handmade cards and discount cake. she never blamed her parents. they gave her everything they could. love, mostly. and that mattered. but still, it made her grow up early. taught her not to ask for too much.

by the time she turned nineteen, things had started shifting. not drastically. but enough. she’d built something on tiktok—honest, messy, creative little videos that made people laugh or feel less alone. her following wasn’t massive, but it helped. brand deals, a bit of income, enough to finally buy her own clothes, to take her mum out for lunch every now and then. it was progress. not luxury. but she was proud of it.

and then lando norris followed her.

she thought it was a joke at first. but no—it was him. real, verified, f1 superstar lando norris. and he didn’t just follow—he messaged. funny stuff, casual. asking questions. responding to her stories. talking like she was just another person, not some online profile.

weeks passed. they started calling each other. laughing for hours, sending stupid memes, talking about childhood, music, food. he made her feel like she wasn’t just from a different world.

until they met in person.

he picked her up in a sleek car that probably cost more than her entire life. he didn’t flaunt it—he just drove it, casual, like he didn’t even think twice. he wore simple clothes, but she could tell they were expensive. he grinned when he saw her, told her she looked amazing, even held the car door open.

the restaurant was… a whole other planet. chandeliers. glass walls. the kind of place where you feel like whispering. lando smiled like it was nothing. like this was just dinner.

“hope this place’s alright,” he said, pulling out her chair.

“yeah,” she said, heart pounding. “it’s beautiful.”

she meant it, but also… it wasn’t her. not even close.

the menu was in french. she didn’t even recognize half the dishes. she scanned the prices, eyes wide.

“order whatever you want,” lando said. “seriously. they do this wagyu something something that’s unreal.”

she gave a small laugh. “i think i’ll just get the soup.”

he tilted his head. “just soup? you sure?”

she nodded. “yeah, i’m not super hungry.”

he looked at her for a second too long. not questioning her, just… noticing. something in her voice maybe. or the way she kept folding her napkin over and over.

as the waiter came by, he asked, “still or sparkling?”

“sparkling,” lando said easily, then caught her eye. “wait—do you want still?”

she blinked. “yeah, i usually do.”

he gave the waiter a sheepish smile. “sorry—still water, please.”

a small thing. but she noticed. he noticed.

as the meal went on, he talked about racing, about travel, about how weird fame can feel. sometimes money slipped into the conversation—a fancy hotel, a car he tested—but not like he was bragging. just like it was his version of normal.

but even still, she felt it. the space between them. how far apart their worlds had been.

and somehow… he started to feel it too.

he leaned forward after a moment of quiet. “this place might’ve been a bit much, huh?”

she smiled softly. “a little.”

he scratched the back of his neck. “i just wanted tonight to be nice. special. didn’t really think about how… intense it might feel.”

“it’s not bad,” she said quickly. “just… different.”

lando nodded. “you can tell me if you’re uncomfortable. i don’t want you to feel weird around me.”

she looked at him, really looked, and saw the sincerity in his face. not pity. not guilt. just a boy who cared. who was trying.

“i don’t feel weird around you,” she said. “just… here.”

he smiled. “then next time, we’ll go somewhere with chips and ketchup packets.”

she laughed, and the tension in her shoulders finally softened. “perfect.”

“good,” he said, reaching across the table to gently squeeze her hand. “because i really like you. and i want to get this right.”

she squeezed back. “you already are.”

THE END :>

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camille-aurelie-deveraux · 2 days ago

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Can I request some overprotectiv Carlos please. Maybe they are celebrating a win or someone's birthday and Carlos is like her guard dog. But then back at home he is like cutesy and gentle and stuff

After the Win

The lights of the club were dim, washed in red and gold, pulsing to the beat of the music. Laughter echoed across the VIP section reserved just for the team, a bubble of celebration thick in the air. Carlos had won today—he’d taken pole, held it through every lap, and crossed the finish line like a king returning home. And now, he had his queen on his arm.

Yn.

They’d been engaged for just a month, her ring still shining new under the strobe lights every time she lifted her hand. And tonight? Tonight Carlos was glued to her side like he thought someone might try to steal her if he looked away for even a second.

She was wearing a beautiful dress he bought for her birthday, elegant and tied at the waist to show off her figure, and every time someone complimented her—especially one of the mechanics or a cheeky teammate—Carlos would tug her a little closer.

“Don’t even think about it,” he muttered playfully to Lando as he passed, his arm tightening around Yn’s waist.

“I wasn’t!” Lando laughed, hands up. “Just saying hi to your fiancée, bro.”

Carlos rolled his eyes, leaning down to Yn’s ear. “You’re too pretty, mi amor. It’s dangerous.”

Yn laughed, the tipsy edge of champagne already curling her smile. “You’re the dangerous one. You won a race and now you think you’re some kind of superhero.”

“I am a superhero,” he said with mock offense, tapping his chest with one hand while keeping the other firmly around her hips. “And my only job is to protect my princess.”

“Your princess can handle herself,” she teased.

Carlos just raised an eyebrow, leaning forward and brushing his lips along her jaw, murmuring against her skin. “You’re my everything. I’m not taking chances.”

They moved through the crowd like that—Yn tucked into Carlos’ side, his hand never leaving her. When someone offered her a drink, he took it first, gave it a sniff, then handed it over. When she swayed a little in her heels, he dropped a hand to her thigh and pulled her gently into his lap on the couch they’d claimed for themselves.

“You’re not going anywhere, cariño,” he said, letting her settle with her back to his chest, one arm wrapped snugly around her waist. He nuzzled the curve of her neck and kissed the top of her shoulder. “You stay right here.”

“You act like I might run away,” she joked, taking another sip of champagne.

“No,” he said seriously, “but people get pushy. Or careless. Or drunk. And I don’t want anyone bumping into you or stepping on you or—”

“Okay, okay, Mr. Overprotective,” she laughed, turning her head to kiss him quickly. “You win. I’m staying in your lap.”

“That’s all I wanted,” he whispered against her lips. “Just stay close.”

She leaned into his chest with a happy sigh, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath her. Around them, the celebration continued—teammates cheering, music shaking the floor, people clapping Carlos on the back and congratulating him—but Carlos stayed in his little world, hands rubbing gentle circles into Yn’s thighs, pressing kisses to her cheek every time she shifted.

At one point, she yawned, blinking slowly and rubbing her eyes.

“Tired?” he asked softly.

“Mmhm,” she murmured. “But I don’t want to leave yet. Everyone’s still having fun.”

He looked down at her, brushing a strand of hair away from her forehead. “I’ve had enough fun. Let me take you home.”

“But it’s your night,” she protested. “You should celebrate more.”

Carlos smiled. “I already have everything I want. I won the race. And I have you. I’m done.”

And just like that, they slipped out the back entrance, security guiding them through the car park. Carlos kept her tucked into his chest the whole ride home, one arm around her shoulders, the other resting over her hand.

When they reached their apartment, Yn was dozing off against him.

“Sleepy girl,” he murmured as he unbuckled her seatbelt. “Come on, mi amor. Let me carry you.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Shhh,” he silenced her, already lifting her into his arms like she weighed nothing. “You took care of me all weekend. Now it’s my turn.”

He carried her up the stairs and into the apartment, kicking the door closed behind him. The lights were low, the city outside their windows glittering in the distance. It was quiet, warm, safe.

Carlos set her down gently on the bed and leaned over her, brushing her hair back.

“Let’s get you into something comfy, yeah?” he said softly.

She nodded sleepily, arms lifting as he helped her out of the dress and into one of his softest hoodies. He slid off her shoes, her jewellery, placing everything carefully on the nightstand. He moved like a man who’d done this a hundred times—with love, patience, and infinite care.

“Can I brush your hair?” he asked suddenly.

Her eyes fluttered open. “You wanna brush my hair?”

“Yeah,” he said, sheepishly holding up her brush. “I like doing it.”

She smiled. “Then yeah. Go ahead.”

He took his time, slow strokes through her soft strands, murmuring in Spanish under his breath—little praises, little te amos, little reassurances that she probably didn’t even fully hear. But she felt them.

Afterward, he pulled back the sheets and tucked her in, sliding in beside her. She immediately curled into his chest, her hands resting on his t-shirt, her face tucked into his neck.

“Carlos?” she whispered.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you for tonight. For taking care of me.”

He kissed the top of her head. “Always. You’re my world, Yn. I’ll protect you with everything I have.”

“Even from Lando?”

He chuckled. “Especially from Lando.”

She giggled, her breath warm against his throat. “I love you, you big softie.”

“Yo también te amo, mi princesa,” he whispered. “Now sleep. I’ve got you.”

And he did. Through everything—races, celebrations, exhaustion, champagne-fueled nights and quiet, sleepy mornings—Carlos had her. Always.

💙🩷💙🩷💙🩷💙🩷💙🩷💙🩷💙🩷💙🩷💙🩷

Hello, my lovely reader!

I hope you had fun reading this story. I would be very happy if you would send me a request.

-Cami💙🩷

#f1 x reader #formula 1 x reader #carlos sainz x reader #carlos sainz x y/n #carlos sainz #charles leclerc x reader #lewis hamilton x reader #f1 x female reader #george russell x reader #lando norris x reader #max verstappen x reader #kimi antonelli x reader #ollie bearman x reader

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riddlesrizzler · 1 day ago

Text

𝙃𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙩𝙨 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙄𝙣𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙖𝙡𝙨

summary: You hadn't meant for him to see it...

characters: mattheo riddle. shy! reader

warnings: maybe a little bit of mean! matt

word count: 2.1k

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟

It hadn’t started with anything dramatic.

There was no grand gesture, no moment where time stood still. No accidental brush of fingers or shared detention that changed everything. If anything, it started in the background-quiet and unassuming, like the way sunlight slowly creeps across a windowsill.

At first, Mattheo Riddle was just another name. Another student in the halls. Another face you recognized but didn’t really see. You’d heard the rumors, of course-everyone had. He was intense. Sharp around the edges. The kind of boy who looked like he was born with a cigarette in one hand and a secret in the other. He didn’t talk much in class, but when he did, his voice cut through the air like a knife-low, slow, and full of a confidence that made people listen.

You weren’t immune to it. But you weren’t the type to fall for a boy just because everyone else did.

No, your crush didn’t start until much later. Until you caught him in a rare moment-one that nobody else seemed to notice.

It was a rainy Tuesday afternoon, the kind of grey that soaked through your robes and made everything feel just a little heavier. You had arrived early to Charms, slipping into your usual seat at the back of the classroom, half-hoping to be invisible for a while. You’d pulled out your notebook, trying to lose yourself in your doodles-half-formed shapes and crooked stars and your own name written over and over again in soft, looping script.

And then you saw him.

Mattheo, sitting two rows ahead, head bent low over his parchment. Not lounging like he usually did, not smirking or joking or making lazy remarks under his breath. No-he was reading. Really reading, with his fingers pressed lightly to the page like he was trying to hold the words in place.

It was the way his brow furrowed in concentration, how his lips moved just slightly as he whispered something to himself-practicing, maybe. The way his dark curls hung just a little too long over his eyes. The tiny crease in his shirt collar. The ink stain on his thumb.

You didn’t mean to stare. You were just... curious.

And then, like he could feel your gaze, he looked up.

You froze.

For a breathless second, your eyes locked-and something fluttered in your chest, soft and uncertain. You dropped your gaze instantly, cheeks warming, pretending to be absorbed in your notes. But you could feel him looking at you. Not with the smug amusement you expected, but with something softer. Quieter.

That was the first time.

The first time you noticed that he wasn’t always storm clouds and sharp words. That sometimes, he was just a boy-tired, thoughtful, alone in a room full of people.

And after that, it was like you couldn’t stop noticing.

The way he tapped his quill when he was thinking. How he stood just a little closer to his friends than necessary, like he needed to feel they were still there. How his voice lost its edge when he talked to animals-how he lingered outside the Owlery like he didn’t want to go back inside.

You never told anyone.

You didn’t know how to say it out loud. That the boy with the sharp tongue and stormy eyes had become the center of your day. That your stomach fluttered every time he passed you in the hall. That you started carrying your notebook closer to your chest, just in case he might see what was written inside.

It wasn’t supposed to be anything. Just a crush.

But it grew, slow and warm like tea steeping on a cold morning-seeping into all the quiet corners of your day.

And you didn’t mean for him to find it.

You’d been scribbling in the margins of your Transfiguration notes, zoning out during one of Professor McGonagall’s more monotonous lectures. Your quill had a mind of its own-curlicues and looping hearts appearing without a second thought, a small cluster of initials tucked between the equations and diagrams. His initials. Yours. Sometimes side by side. Once, definitely with a heart around them.

It wasn’t like you planned it.

You’d just… thought of him. The way his eyes lingered on you in class, the way his hand sometimes brushed yours when you passed parchment back and forth.

And maybe, just maybe, you were a little bit in love with him.

But then, during lunch in the Great Hall, your notebook had slipped from your arms as you reached for an apple from the fruit bowl. You hadn’t noticed until it was too late. Mattheo had already scooped it up, flipping it open casually to see what page you were on.

And then he froze.

You turned back toward him, notebook in his hands, and felt your heart stop.

“No-Mattheo-” you stammered, reaching for it, but he was already grinning.

“What’s this?” he asked innocently, holding it just out of reach as his eyes scanned the doodles.

Your heart dropped into your stomach. “It’s just-I was bored-it doesn’t mean anything-”

“Hmm,” he said, tapping the corner of the page where a large heart wrapped around the letters M.R. + Y/N. “Doesn’t look like nothing.”

You made a desperate grab for it, face on fire, but he stood, holding it over his head with a smirk. “Admit it,” he teased, eyes dancing. “You’ve got it bad for me.”

“I do not,” you mumbled, practically glowing red, burying your face in your hands. “Please give that back…”

Mattheo chuckled, finally handing the notebook over with both hands up like he was surrendering. “Fine, fine,” he said. “I’ll let it go…”

You exhaled.

“…For now.”

The rest of the day was merciless.

In Potions, he sat beside you and leaned close, his breath brushing your cheek as he whispered, “You gonna draw more hearts for me, sweetheart?” right as Professor Snape walked by.

In Charms, he passed you a folded note-just your initials drawn next to his in messy ink, with a little heart and a winking face.

You nearly combusted.

And in the corridor between classes, he cornered you by the windows, one arm resting against the stone wall behind you, eyes glinting. “You never answered me,” he said softly, leaning in until you were sure your legs were about to give out. “Do I get to be your boyfriend now, or do I need to earn a few more hearts first?”

You couldn’t even speak-you just squeaked and stared at his lips, completely overwhelmed.

He laughed-soft, fond, not mocking at all-and tilted your chin up gently with two fingers. “You’re adorable,” he murmured. “Seriously.”

And just when you thought he’d kiss you-just when your breath caught and your eyes fluttered shut-

He didn’t.

Instead, he stepped back, hands in his pockets, grinning like a menace. “Better start doodling, love. I want to see stars next to my name next time.”

And he walked off-leaving you stunned, flustered, and completely ruined for the rest of the day.

You stared after him, notebook clutched to your chest, and realized something very dangerous:

Mattheo Riddle had found your secret crush.

And he was never going to let you live it down.

The days that followed the notebook incident were torture-sweet, funny torture, but torture nonetheless. Mattheo had turned his teasing into an art form, and you, shy and utterly flustered, were his willing target.

It didn’t help that you couldn’t stop thinking about how he’d looked when he found your doodles-the way his lips curved into a mischievous grin, the teasing sparkle in his eyes, the way his voice softened just a little when he almost kissed you in the corridor. It wasn’t just the way he made fun of you that got to you; it was the way he made you feel-like you were the only person in the room.

That night, you found yourself in the library, your notebook open on the desk, fingers hovering over the page but not quite able to put pen to paper. You tried to focus on your notes, but it was impossible. All you could think about were the words Mattheo had whispered to you, his voice so close, his breath warm against your skin.

You sighed, resting your forehead against the cool wood of the desk. Why did you have to be so obvious?

"You know," a voice said from beside you, low and teasing. "If you stare at your notebook any longer, you’re going to wear a hole through it."

You looked up, heart jumping into your throat at the sight of Mattheo leaning against the bookshelf, arms crossed over his chest. His dark eyes glinted with that familiar mischievous spark as he glanced at the open notebook on the desk.

“I—uh, I wasn’t staring,” you said quickly, suddenly feeling like your whole face was on fire. “I was just thinking-”

“About how badly you want to write more hearts with my initials in them?” he cut in, voice so smooth it was almost dangerous.

You choked on a laugh, your hand darting to cover your face in embarrassment. “Mattheo, stop.”

But he didn’t. He came closer, until he was standing beside you, looking down at the notebook with that same teasing smile. “It’s cute, you know?” he said, tapping the page lightly with his finger. “I never thought you’d be into me.”

“I’m not,” you blurted out before you could stop yourself. “I mean-I’m not into you like that, I’m just... just doodling. For fun. That’s all.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Yeah? You sure about that?”

Before you could answer, he grabbed a quill, dipped it into the ink bottle, and began writing-his handwriting neat and precise-right next to your scribbles.

Mattheo Riddle + Y/N. Forever.

You froze. “Mattheo, don’t-”

“It’s already done.” He grinned, dropping the quill back into the ink bottle with a clink. He was so close now, standing just beside you, and you could feel his warmth seeping into your side.

“You’re impossible,” you muttered, biting your lip, feeling both incredibly flustered and completely weak in the knees.

“Am I?” he asked, the smirk on his lips slowly fading into something more sincere. “Or maybe you just like it when I’m impossible?”

You tried to hold his gaze but failed miserably, quickly looking away as your heart hammered in your chest. “I don’t... know what you’re talking about.”

Mattheo’s expression softened, and for a moment, you thought he might say something teasing again. But instead, his voice dropped to a quieter, more serious tone. “You don’t have to hide it, you know.”

You blinked up at him, confused. “Hide what?”

“Your crush,” he said, leaning down slightly, as if he were telling you a secret. “I can see it in the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention.”

Your face felt like it was on fire, and you could barely meet his gaze. “I don’t-I don’t look at you like that.”

“You do,” he insisted softly. “And I like it. I like how you get all shy and flustered, how you bite your lip when you’re nervous.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but the words wouldn’t come. How could you argue with him when he was looking at you like that-when it felt like everything in your chest was tightening and blooming all at once?

He took a step closer, his face inches from yours now. “So, what do you say, sweetheart? Think we could make those hearts real?”

You stared at him, heart thudding in your chest, feeling like every word was caught in your throat. He wasn’t making fun of you anymore-no, this was different. There was something real in his eyes, something soft and warm that made you feel seen.

“I-I don’t know,” you whispered, so quietly you weren’t sure he’d even heard you.

Mattheo’s lips twitched upward in a smile, and his gaze softened even further. He reached out, gently brushing your hair away from your face, his fingers lingering for a moment longer than necessary. “You don’t have to say anything, Y/N. I already know.”

And with that, he kissed you-softly, tenderly-his lips lingering on yours for just a moment longer than you expected. When he pulled back, your entire world was spinning, and you could feel your heart racing like it was about to jump out of your chest.

“You’re adorable,” he murmured against your lips, his voice low and affectionate. “But next time, maybe just give me a little more credit, yeah?”

You nodded, speechless, your mind still whirling from the kiss. It was so much more than you’d ever dreamed, and yet it felt so... natural.

For the first time, you realized-maybe Mattheo had known all along. Maybe he’d been waiting for you to catch up.

#slytherin boys #slytherin #hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry #harry potter #slytherin aesthetic #my works #mattheo x y/n #mattheo riddle x you #mattheo x reader #mattheo riddle x reader #mattheo x you #mattheoxreader #mattheo imagine #mattheo riddle #mattheo fluff #shy!reader

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crystallinecardinal · 3 months ago

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“The strings are wrapped around you,” or, a discussion about Truthless Recluse, Pure Vanilla, and an idea of an awakening

One of the things I’ve been hung up on ever since finishing A Game of Truth and Deceit’s story is the fact that the things Truthless Recluse says does not feel exactly in character for Pure Vanilla. I’m sure this is the point. You’re supposed to get that feeling out of hearing him, Gingerbrave even directly points it out.

So, other than the corruption, why the so sudden change? Why is he suddenly turning against everyone? And most importantly, how is he supposed to get out of it?

Or, a CRK analysis/theory of sorts regarding Beast-Yeast episode 7, as well as how episode 8 might go, split into sections below the cut.

1 - An Introduction

I will start off by saying that before this update came out, I was one of the people adamant that Pure Vanilla was not going to end up corrupted. Not because I didn’t want anything bad to happen to him, but because I couldn’t see a reason why.

For as much as Shadow Milk could break him, dig into his biggest fears and insecurities and make them appear real, there wasn’t a reason to me for him to suddenly turn against everyone on his own— not when those around him had consistently helped him, bringing him out of what might have been the worst dips of his bad mental state. Not unless Shadow Milk was able to really manipulate him into it.

Then again, I knew what Shadow Milk could do. I knew he could control the will of other cookies (seen with the faerie cookies), and disguise himself in another form (see: every time he impersonates the Light of Truth). I also knew Pure Vanilla would be vulnerable to him, both with the bad mental state, and by the fact that the first time they encountered each other, he was already struggling. The right strings being pulled could just make him snap.

And then, I saw Truthless Recluse. And I lost my mind.

So, the point of all this. I had been TERRIFIED before this update how Pure Vanilla would fall. I thought he’d have his sense of self broken, all his emotions toyed with, sure, but I wasn’t ready for a FULL CORRUPTION. Then I got to thinking: it’s been a pattern this happens, right? In the Ancient vs Beast chapters, they encounter each other, fight in some way, and the Ancient somehow loses their connection to their respective Light. They only awaken after, picking themself back up from the brink of defeat. And we already know Awakened Pure Vanilla exists, so that leaves the question: how do you help him? How does he come back from where he is now? How does he awaken if he’s already been “defeated?”

That’s what I’m here to discuss.

2 - The Spider-Man meme problem

So! Fortune Teller. That guy.

Almost everyone I saw took one look at him in the trailers and KNEW he was Pure Vanilla. Had to be. The voice was the same, appearance the same, motifs the same, the character design was a pretty big giveaway. If it walks like a duck, talks like a duck, yknow. It’s probably a duck.

And that presumption was right! Fortune Teller is Truthless Recluse, and by extension, Pure Vanilla.

How can that happen, though? If Pure Vanilla talks directly to Fortune Teller, how can they be the same? Luckily, the game decides to answer this question on its own!

So, if this is a space the future of the past (the present) and the future of the present (just the future) can both exist… that means Fortune Teller, and by extension, Truthless Recluse, are likely from the future. Not only because we’ve seen PV walking around in the present, but because we KNOW how TR talks about PV like he’s dead, as well as because of a fun little quote from Shadow Milk!

“In the end, you will become me.”

This is what I’m going to be building the rest of this off of. Stick with me here.

3 - What’s that, puppet boy??

Lies. Manipulation. Deceit.

These are the things Shadow Milk lives for. But any good snake, any good spider weaving a web, knows that the best lies have a hint of truth to them. This is what I intend to dissect.

It feels... a bit strange to think that Pure Vanilla could become someone like Shadow Milk. And yet, the signs are already there. He isn't honest with himself, tells white lies in the hopes that it may make someone feel better rather than the cruel truth, and his mental state is already in a horrid place. Of course, none of these are particularly bad things, they're human, and I can't blame him for any of it. But they're also all undeniably things that could lead him to snapping. What's the point doubt is all that's left? What's the point that he delves into the comfort of the lie of fantasy? What's the point that reality is too much agony to bear? Is that not how the Fount of Knowledge became the Master of Deceit, finding that cookies enjoyed the sweet lie more than the cruel truth?

“In the end, you will become me.”

And so, he just might.

So, consider. If present and future can both at once in Shadow Milk's domain, if Fortune Teller is not merely an illusion, then who's to say Truthless Recluse isn't who Pure Vanilla is destined to become?

The best lies have a shred of truth. This is our (hypothetical) truth. If nothing changes, if Pure Vanilla falls to Shadow Milk's games, lets himself be broken, plays the role he's had laid out for him ever since he was young (once again, if we choose to take that as truth and not an illusion), then his fate is sealed.

"Despair follows in your footsteps... A river lies on your path. Cross it, and you will face unfathomable dread. Turn back... Turn back before it is too late. Turn back before the cold flames of doubt swallow you whole."

That river is fast approaching, if it hasn’t already.

4 - Finding truth, breaking strings

Let's circle back to one of my first points.

"Then I got to thinking: it’s been a pattern this happens, right? In the Ancient vs Beast chapters, they encounter each other, fight in some way, and the Ancient somehow loses their connection to their respective Light. They only awaken after, picking themself back up from the brink of defeat. And we already know Awakened Pure Vanilla exists, so that leaves the question: how do you help him? How does he come back from where he is now? How does he awaken if he’s already been ‘defeated?’"

Is episode seven not still following the same formula, yet iterating on it in its own unique way? Pure Vanilla comes directly into contact with Shadow Milk, and tries to defend himself the most he can. However, he's a lot more vulnerable than the others this time around— after all, lies and truth cannot exist without the other. They're not entirely opposites. After having his sense of self shattered, Pure Vanilla falls from the Spire. Somewhere, he loses his connection to his Light of Truth. Enter: Truthless Recluse.

We know Pure Vanilla will eventually be awakened (see: dev commentary), so how does he leave the state he's in? How do you come back from falling so far?

This is where our "Truthless Recluse is a future version of Pure Vanilla" idea comes in handy! To put it simply: he hasn't become him yet. Not in reality. The present Pure Vanilla has fallen somewhere deep, deep down, into the darkest abyss... And has yet to come back. It sets a perfect scene to trick those closest to Pure Vanilla to believe the lie wrapped in truth of his ‘death,’ doesn't it?

It also solves our characterization problem from the very beginning of this post. I never said he immediately becomes Truthless Recluse. Given that in this interpretation, TR is what PV will eventually become, it provides a reason for Truthless Recluse to say the things he does, and act the way he does. Maybe Pure Vanilla wouldn’t have said or done those things, but to Truthless Recluse, that part of himself has long been dead.

So. Where does Pure Vanilla find his truth?

It could be a lot of things. However, one of the main things I've seen reiterated is just how much Shadow Milk toys with the mind. Right now, Pure Vanilla likely believes his entire life is a lie. Not once has he had free will. Since birth, he has been a marionette on strings, a plaything for a being beyond everything he ever knew. Every action, every decision, it was just part of an Oscar-worthy performance. Everything he may have once defined as himself is null.

And even worse: there's no one to drag him out of it this time. White Lily is gone, off on her own mission. Gingerbrave and his friends have Truthless Recluse to deal with. The Light of Truth is silent. Everyone, everything he may have depended on isn't there. It's just him, the Other-Realm, and eyes that have been watching for his entire lifetime.

To get out, he has to break the strings. Just as he once awoke from his prison when he needed to confront his past, he can do it again. But this time, it isn't going to be while he hides under another identity, it isn’t going to be while telling himself a lie. Outsmart the snake, remember, remember, remember. Hold onto the love, the care, the things that are true. No amount of deceit can change how he once felt. They say the heart is true. Maybe that's the key out.

To put it more simply: no matter what it ends up being that causes it, he needs to realize himself that he is in charge of his own destiny. The truth of the question "who am I" is "whoever you want to be." It isn't an question that can be answered by someone else. You only become fully truthless, only fully wall yourself away from everyone if you choose to do so. It isn't fate.

And so, in the end, I think Pure Vanilla will awaken. By proxy, if my entire idea here were to be true, Truthless Recluse would cease to exist. Paradoxes are funny that way. There's no way for that ending to exist if it's no longer the future that lies ahead.

5 - A conclusion

I have absolutely no clue what's coming in episode eight. I'll say that upfront. I have no clue, and it terrifies me. I love Pure Vanilla, I want him to make it out of this, but I know he won't make it out unscathed. The tragedy could stay, it could just be for this episode, it's unclear. We just have to wait until episode eight goes live.

Regardless, I want him to struggle. I don't think it makes sense for him to get out of this easily. Not when he considers himself pathetic, not when he can't trust the voice of the Light of Truth, not when he's been questioning himself. Let that doubt sink into him. Let him rebuild himself, piece by shattered piece. It makes for an emotional story, and makes me like Pure Vanilla even more as a character. Maybe that's just the Omori fan in me, but I love delves into characters' minds like that.

It may not be anything like what I've discussed here, but I'm very excited to see what Devsisters does. This is all I'm going to be thinking about until then.

#I'm like. 90% sure that this won't happen #but I still think it's fun to explore #and maybe other people will like it too!!#I've just had this ruminating on top of all the DE/TR similarities I could talk about #and also the whole truth/freedom rant about PV and WL lmao #can't wait for Beast-Yeast episode 8 #cookie run spoilers #crk spoilers #cookie run kingdom spoilers #truthless recluse #pure vanilla cookie #pure vanilla crk #cookie run kingdom #crk

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