#even if it's only the back of his head lol

[creamflix]

SEX YEAH ! ꒰ঌ ໒꒱

mission brief a self-imposed sex ban during finals week sounds like a great idea…until your favorite professor stops playing nice. w.c 11.3k

risk assessment 18+ content mdni, smut & crack, second chance at love, cnc (adding just in case), fuck-buddies/fwb relationship, reader is of age and is a college student, age gap, exhibitionsim, unprotected p in v sex, jerking off, scenting, cosplay (the wolf of wall street reference), spanking, cowgirl, fem-dom, cock-warming. ft! choso, toji, nanami, gojo, sukuna

a/n: do people even read a/n's? lol

☆ CHOSO KAMO: CUM LAUDE AND OTHER HONORS

Choso Kamo — Professor Kamo to the rest of the campus, or “that one hot literature guy who talks about knights dying for pussy” — had really, truly, not expected to spiral like this. And it wasn’t even the whole “fucking a student” thing. 

Sure, that had its own risks and thrills — medieval metaphors about sin and secrecy practically wrote themselves every time he bent you over his desk after a lecture on Dante's Inferno. But no, the real kicker here was how quickly the entire situation had devolved into something almost pitiful.

He was a man of principle. Of poetry. Of well-tailored tweed jackets with elbow patches. He annotated Beowulf in his spare time and kept a hand-written syllabus, for God’s sake. But now? He was a walking hard-on with a PhD and a steadily unraveling sense of self.

Because it started so innocently. 

You’d shown up to class late on the first day, hair a little damp from rain, muttering apologies while trying not to slip on the tile floors. He'd looked up, ready to sigh, but then froze when he saw your face. Something about the tilt of your head, the way you bit your cheek while scanning for an empty seat.

“No fucking way,” he’d murmured.

And later, when you caught him in the corridor after class, backpack slung low, eyes bright with mischief—

“Hey, Kamo. Did your emo phase die with that mustache?”

You had said it like a challenge. Like a spark tossed onto dry kindling.

He remembered how your lips had tasted that first time again — after years — pressed against his mouth in the backseat of his shitty Honda. He’d driven you home like he was sixteen again, one hand on the wheel, the other trailing down your thigh, unable to focus on the road signs.

And the sex. Jesus.

“Are you gonna read Sir Gawain to me after you make me cum again?” you’d panted once, still catching your breath as he kissed down your stomach.

“No,” he muttered against your hip, smirking. “Only if you fail the oral quiz.” 

He was funny back then, or thought he was.

Before his identity began orbiting entirely around whether or not you were free to sneak into his office.

He still remembered how you’d grabbed the edge of his desk to keep your balance, skirt bunched around your waist, his fingers deep inside you as you whimpered, “F-fuck, I forgot the assignment—”

“I'll let it slide,” he’d whispered like some depraved academic deity, licking into your mouth while curling his fingers just right. 

Which made it all the more humiliating when, two weeks before midterms, you’d pulled away post-orgasm, adjusting your shirt like you were zipping up a compartment in your brain.

“So I'm gonna need to focus for a while. No more of this until after the exams.”

He blinked. 

“Wait, you’re—what?”

“No distractions. You qualify as one. Temporary ban.”

“Temporary—” he sat up. “You’re banning me?”

You kissed his forehead with horrifying gentleness. “Don’t be dramatic.”

And that, quite precisely, was when Choso Kamo began losing his damn mind.

It was subtle at first. Quoting love poetry during completely unrelated lectures, spilling coffee on his own lecture notes, and more recently, spending ten whole minutes monologuing about chastity belts before realizing what he was saying and hastily switching to feudal taxes.

But the eyes. His big, brown, tragically earnest eyes. When you told him, they’d gone glossy, wet around the edges — not full tears, not yet, but a threat of them, like he’d just witnessed the burning of the Library of Alexandria and been denied a hug.

“You’re being very stoic about this,” you told him, trying not to smile.

He blinked rapidly. “I'm literally about to cry.”

Meanwhile, you were surviving. Thriving, even. If you counted staying caffeinated and not flunking your upcoming Philosophy elective as thriving. 

The sex with Choso had been — frankly — excellent. Top-tier, euphoric even. Toe-curling in a very literal, very real way. His tongue knew things, his hands remembered places. And your cervix? Familiarized. Reacquainted like an old friend.

But unlike Professor Kamo, Ph.D., who had the luxury of retreating into his office with leather chairs and pearl-clutching guilt, you were an undergraduate scraping by with cold lattes and colour-coded notes. The breakup all those years ago had been dramatic in the way only high-school love could be — he’d told you he wanted a PhD like he was announcing he had been drafted for war.

“I need to go,” he had said, sixteen and a half and full of dreams, with his stupid floppy hair and that hand-me-down hoodie that still smelled like your perfume.

“Go where? Oxford?” you’d snorted. You didn’t mean to cry, but you did. Grossly. He’d held you through it, apologised even while making that determined man chasing legacy face, and you had let him go.

But now — now, you had midterms, and your brain had no space left for sentimentality. Or dick. Which was basically the same thing in this context.

So, like a responsible adult (or the closest approximation of one), you took yourself to the library. And, like the tragically naive idiot you were, you chose the medieval literature aisle for reasons you tried to dress up as “academic curiosity” when in truth you were just…a masochist.

The library was empty. 

You should’ve known. No one studied in this section, not unless they had a god complex or an obsession with incest-coded epic poems.

You reached up toward a volume you pretended to be interested in — Courtly Love and Other Medieval Lies or something like that — and that’s when you felt it.

Something solid and warm absolutely pressed against your back.

You froze.

“If this is some hallucination brought on by lack of sleep and unresolved sexual tension, I swear to God,” you muttered aloud.

“It’s not,” came a familiar voice. Warm, low, and stupidly fond. 

“Though I am flattered you’re hallucinating about me.”

You turned your head slowly, dread pooling somewhere near your pancreas. And there he was.

Choso Kamo, medieval literature messiah, complete with a cardigan that had patches on the elbows again, holding a copy of Le Morte D’Arthur like he hadn’t just pinned you to a bookshelf.

“You’re kidding,” you deadpanned.

“I come here for peace,” he said, tone saintly. “And the tragic poetry.”

“You come here because no one can see you cry in this corner,” you snapped.

He blinked. Guilty. Then, because he was unbelievable, he leaned in — just a little. Just enough for you to feel that he was very real and very not over the whole “temporary ban” situation.

“You smell like that lavender thing again,” he said, voice barely a whisper. “Makes it really hard to respect your ‘study boundaries,’ y’know.”

You exhaled slowly, book still hovering in your hand, brain refusing to cooperate with basic motor function. 

“Do you need something, Professor Kamo?”

He looked at you with that wounded, damp-eyed expression he had no business making in a public academic space. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I need you to maybe let me kiss you for, like, two seconds so I can remember what peace feels like.”

And that, right there, was how your study break ended — pinned between Choso Kamo and a bookshelf older than both your childhood homes combined. You were kissing like you’d forgotten what oxygen was, like air didn’t matter when he was mouthing at your bottom lip like that, with hands sliding under your blazer and pressing against your waist like he couldn’t stand the idea of space between you.

“Keep it quiet back there,” called the old librarian from somewhere far down the aisle, voice like brittle parchment. You barely pulled away, breathless, whispering a quick, “sorry!” toward the void before biting down a laugh and burying your face in Choso’s chest.

“Do you think she knows?” you mumbled against the fabric of his shirt.

“Absolutely,” he said. “She probably thinks I'm shelving books. Badly.”

“You are shelving something,” you muttered.

He groaned. “You’re disgusting.”

But he was already lifting your skirt, huffing like a man on a mission, swearing under his breath when he realized how many layers you’d cursed yourself with this morning.

“Why,” he whispered, mouth pressed against your shoulder as he unbuttoned and unzipped and peeled like his life depended on it, “Why do you do this to me.”

“Because the weather said fourteen degrees,” you hissed, clutching onto the shelf behind you, fingers brushing the cracked spine of The Canterbury Tales. “And because I didn’t think I’d be fucked next to Chaucer, Cho.”

He finally got to your thighs, his warm palms skimming over skin and stopping when he saw them — the lacey black pair. The ones with the tiny bow and mesh trim.

“Holy shit,” he breathed, kneeling slightly, letting his thumb drag just under the waistband. “You still buy these?”

“They’re comfortable.”

“They’re fucking ruining me,” he whispered.

His hands gripped under your knees as he pulled one leg up and hooked it over his hip, tugging the lace to the side, the cold air of the library kissing wet heat just before he pressed himself into you. You clenched around him on instinct, a soft, surprised sound escaping into the dusty rows.

“God, shhh,” you hissed, forehead knocking against the shelf. He let out a strained chuckle, already starting to move.

“You shush me,” he muttered, nose brushing your temple. “You’re the one making those tiny fucking noises, like you’re trying so hard to behave.”

“Maybe I am trying to behave—”

“You’re failing.”

His thrusts were slow at first — painfully deliberate, his breath warm against your cheek, his hand cupped around the back of your thigh. The faint creak of wood beneath you, the occasional rustle of fabric, and the obscene sound of wet heat meeting flesh echoed faintly through the aisle. You were half-laughing, half-gasping, fingers digging into the bookshelf, one palm flat against The Song of Roland, muffling a whine into its faded cloth cover.

“Does this count as sacrilege,” you mumbled.

“Absolutely,” he groaned, speeding up, his hips snapping sharper. “But I'll repent after you cum.”

“What a gentleman.”

“Shut up and let me ruin your study schedule.”

He angled his hips and hit something that made your breath stutter, made your hand fly to his chest and fist the fabric there, biting down hard on your lip. His lips found your throat, mouthing along your pulse, and he whispered — raw, reverent — “You’re so fucking tight. Every single time.”

You couldn’t reply, not verbally. Your mouth opened, but no real sound came out — just a high, broken gasp as his fingers slipped between your legs to circle over your clit, his rhythm stuttering when you clenched around him again.

“Cho—”

“I know, I know, baby,” he murmured, thumb working in slow, cruel circles. “Come on. Be good for me.”

And you did. One hand still clamped over a book, the other wrapped around his shoulders, hips twitching as you came with a quiet, strangled cry into his neck, teeth grazing skin. He followed right after, groaning low, clutching you close like he needed to anchor himself in the reality of what just happened.

Silence settled in the dusty air, with only the sound of breathing, of fabrics shifting.

A beat passed. Then choso whispered, still catching his breath—

“So... still banned, or…?”

☆ TOJI FUSHIGURO: THE EXAM BEFORE THE EXAM

Toji Fushiguro — head of military sciences, habitual menace, and the reason half the student body walked with a permanent limp (some from sparring, others from fear). Getting into the program was doable. Surviving it? That was where dreams went to die. And you? Well, somehow, you were still standing.  Walking the tightrope of respect and rebellion, womanhood and war, biting sarcasm and battle simulations — and managing not to crumble under the weight of Professor Fushiguro’s ice-cold stare. 

Which would have been fine. Normal even, in the way bootcamp trauma is considered “character-building.” But the universe, in its infinite cruelty, had one little twist for you:

The man who railed you within an inch of your life at a bar this past summer — the one with the deep voice, veiny hands, and that mouth like a loaded weapon — turned out to be your fucking teacher.

You didn’t know when he pulled you into that coatroom that night. Didn’t know that those strong hands were government-funded or that the man who bit your shoulder when he came was going to be barking orders in a lecture hall two weeks later.

And yet.

You walked into class, and there he was. Professor Fushiguro. Same green eyes, same build. 

Same mouth you’d kissed while breathless and begging, now saying things like “form a perimeter” and “that’s a piss-poor excuse for a flank.”

To his credit, he pretended not to recognize you. And you, in return, tried to pretend he hadn’t once called you baby while dragging his cock over your dripping folds like it was a reward. 

But see, the pretending didn’t last.

Not when you started lingering after class, not when he’d walk past you during drills, and you��d stand just a little straighter, thighs pressing against each other just a little tighter. 

Not even when he found you one evening in the training hall, wrist-deep in frustration over a jammed dummy rifle and an even more jammed libido.

“You still don’t listen,” he’d said that night, voice low as he boxed you against the wall. “No wonder you’re always behind.”

“Guess I need someone to show me,” you’d snapped back.

And then it spiraled.

Into on and off fucks in staff storage closets, under the flickering lights of the weapons bay, in his office when the door “accidentally” locked behind you.

He was always rough. Not cruel — he never hurt you (unless you asked). But rough like he had to get it out, had to get you out of his system or else he’d lose it. He’d mutter shit like, “always so wet for me,” while shoving your panties to the side with two fingers, pressing into you like he was reclaiming something he never really gave up. You’d scratch down his back, gasping into his mouth, feeling his teeth on your collarbone, hands gripping your thighs like they belonged to him.

“Gonna make you fail, fucking you like this,” he’d say, voice rasping near your ear, hips snapping into you as you braced yourself on his desk, your notes crumpling beneath your palms.

“Then don’t stop,” you’d dared. “Make me fail.”

But then.

A week before exams, he pulled back.

“No more,” he said, arms crossed, mouth tight.

You blinked. “You serious?”

“Yeah.”

He ran a hand down his face like he’d aged five years in the last month. “You’ve got exams. I've got integrity.”

You snorted. “Since when?”

“Since now,” he gritted out. “And don’t give me that look. Just because we’re…” he paused, made a vague hand gesture that could’ve meant ‘fucking’ or ‘cursed soulmates’ — hard to tell, really.

“…close, doesn’t mean I'm gonna grade you easier. You get that?”

You stared at him.

This six-foot-something walking contradiction, trying to draw a line now, after he’d already crossed ten of them balls-deep.

“Got it, sport,” you said, tone dry enough to parch a desert.

He flinched. You smiled. And just like that, the sex-ban was in place.

But if the look on his face said anything — clenched jaw, hands tightening into fists every time you so much as breathed near him — it was affecting him way more than it was affecting you. And that was just the beginning of his downfall.

Physical examinations were hell — plain and simple. Muscle-aching, sun-scorched, sweat-slick hell. Your limbs felt like lead, your lungs were raw, and if the grass beneath your boots felt soft for a moment, it was only because you were seriously considering collapsing into it and never getting up again.

And of course, he had to be the one barking orders.

“Outside. Now. No one gets a free pass, not even the ones whining about cramps or puking their breakfast. Ground. Move.”

Toji Fushiguro — mean as ever, especially toward you lately. His green eyes barely brushed your face now, jaw so tight you could practically hear the teeth grinding. 

It was almost funny, if it weren’t also kind of sad.

You passed him in the doorway, shoulder brushing his arm. No glance, no grunt, nothing. You’d dare say he was acting like a kid. And fine, let him sulk — you had a test to get through without dying. 

What you didn’t know, though, was that he stayed back. That he lingered in the quiet of the empty break room, your scent still clinging to the air like a cruel reminder. That was his first mistake.

His second?

Green eyes drifting to the bench where you'd left your bandana. Sweat-soaked black cotton, creased from being tied around your head all morning, the faintest sheen of your hair oil still warming it. And Toji — old, bitter Toji — picked it up like it weighed something.

He told himself he wasn’t gonna do anything stupid. He was just gonna…hold it. Maybe tuck it into his coat pocket and return it later, like a normal adult. But then he rubbed the fabric between his fingers.

Thin, soft, still warm. It smelled like you — that impossible mix of salt and cheap soap, shampoo and skin, and something earthy and feminine that always made him a little crazy.

He felt it in his gut first. That low throb — not just in his cock, but in his goddamn chest. Regret, guilt, arousal, shame — an ugly stew of it. He groaned under his breath, thumbing the bandana with a clenched jaw, eyes fluttering shut. His cock was hard already, straining against his pants. Fucking great. “Just five minutes,” he muttered, like some kind of prayer. “Five minutes and I'll forget you ever existed.”

He palmed himself, rough and fast, still holding the bandana like it might anchor him to something other than pure depravity. His breathing grew louder, chest heaving under the thick black shirt he always wore like armor. It was pathetic. He knew it was pathetic — jerking off in a break room like some depraved teenager, when he was old enough to have tenure. But then again, hadn’t you turned him into this? You and your little shorts. Your mouth that always had something smart to say. Your eyes looking up at him like you knew what he was thinking.

He fisted his cock, hard now, thick and twitching in his grip. The ache was unbearable — heavy, pulsing, the kind that made his teeth grit and his thighs tense. And all the while, he kept the bandana close to his face, his nostrils flaring, moaning low like he was about to die from it.

“Fuck…fucckkk, you little brat…” he muttered. He was close. So fucking close —

And that’s when the door opened. Fast. Sudden.

“Shit, I forgot—”

You stopped. He didn’t. 

His hand froze around the base of his cock, the bandana still in his other hand, flushed red and eyes blown wide as you stood in the doorway, breath hitching.

You stared. He stared back. The silence was so thick, you could hear the clock tick on the wall. And Toji — Toji fucking Fushiguro — had never looked more ashamed.

Not when he lost comrades. Not when he failed his last marriage. Not even when he nearly got caught sleeping with you in his office two months ago. This was different.

This was you, standing there with your hand still on the doorknob, eyes flicking from the bandana to his cock to his face. And fuck, he didn’t even have the words.

You blinked, slowly.

“…You’re seriously jerking off in a student break room?”

He swallowed, chest heaving. “I—”

“With my bandana?”

“…It smells like you.” 

The words escaped before he could stop them. And yeah, he was definitely going to hell for this one. 

You stepped inside, shutting the door behind you.

“Well, that’s one way to say you miss me.”

Of course, not one word was said. Not a gasp, not a curse, not even the ghost of a reprimand. You stepped forward, fingers curling around the very bandana he’d just fucked his fist into like a shameful teenager, the cloth warm and heavy and damp with the evidence of his so-called self-control, his cock still twitching in the aftermath. His jaw locked in mortification as you slowly peeled it out of his hand — never once breaking eye contact, not even when your thumb grazed the wettest patch, not even when you gave a soft amused hum that made his stomach flip and his spine stiffen.

You didn’t flinch, didn’t blink, didn’t say a single thing as you brought it up, shook it out once with a flick of your wrist, and with casual, deliberate hands, tied your hair back with it, the fabric brushing your cheek, cooling slightly as it met your skin, still sticky from the heat of your morning drills.

And then you turned and walked away, boots loud against the linoleum, leaving the break room like nothing happened, like he was the only one caught in the storm — because all said and done, you still had an exam to give, and unlike him, you didn’t waste time. You were built for war and score sheets both, and you weren’t about to let a pervy, emotionally repressed head instructor knock your GPA off track.

Toji didn’t move for a full minute after that. Not even a twitch. The only thing that stirred was the sick realization setting in his gut that there was no walking back from this now — not after what he’d done, and definitely not after what you’d done right back.

Later that day, when the sun was dipping low and the training ground had mostly emptied out, he waited until the hallway was clear, eyes flicking left and right before grabbing you by the elbow in that no-nonsense way that meant you were in trouble — dragging you down the hall with that rough, controlled gait of his, jaw working like he was chewing through glass.

“Office. Now.”

You didn’t resist, didn’t even roll your eyes. But the smirk on your lips told him you knew exactly what this was.

The door slammed behind you, the lock clicking a second later, and you barely had time to drop your bag before he had you pressed against the nearest desk, hands already on your hips like he was restraining himself and failing miserably. “You’re gonna pretend that was nothing?” his voice was low, frayed, voice-box rasping like he’d smoked too much or screamed too long. “You think you can just walk outta there with my fuckin’ cum in your hair and act like that’s normal?”

You tilted your head, just enough for the smell to hit him again. Thick, raw, intimate. The combination of his own musk and your shampoo, grounding and familiar in a way that made his knees want to give out. He groaned — long and guttural — pressing his nose into your head like he was being punished, inhaling deep, and the way his grip on your hips tightened was almost painful.

“You’re a sick fuck, you know that?”

“Takes one to know one,” you replied sweetly, and that was all it took for his control to snap.

His hand shoved up your shirt, not gently, the rough pads of his fingers grazing over your ribs before sliding down to the waistband of your pants, yanking them down just enough to expose what he needed, and his breath stuttered when he saw the slick already gathering between your thighs — your pussy already wet and twitching like you knew this was going to happen. He didn’t even undress himself fully. Just unzipped, pushed his briefs down to free his cock, already rock hard and leaking at the tip, angry red and pulsing with every beat of his blood.

“You got no shame,” he hissed into your ear, lining himself up and sinking in without a warning, hissing through his teeth when the tight heat of you clenched around him like a vice. “You like being filled up that bad, huh?”

“I like multitasking,” you gasped, knuckles white on the edge of the desk, nails scratching into the wood as his hips slammed against you, the sound of skin on skin echoing around the cramped office. “Told you — I can focus.”

“Focus, huh?” he growled, fucking into you harder now, every thrust raw and punishing, like he was trying to fuck the memory of earlier out of both your heads. “You’re dripping, girl. You soaked through your damn pants, and you call that focus?”

You moaned, jaw slack, lashes fluttering with every thick, deep push that filled you to the brim, the friction of him inside you so blindingly good it almost knocked you off your balance. Your breath caught when he reached around, pinching your nipple through the fabric of your sports bra, a little cruel, a little possessive, all of it insane. “Guess you’re grading on a curve now, huh?” you managed, and he laughed, breathless, wrecked.

“No,” he muttered into your shoulder, voice cracked and hoarse, hips stuttering as his cock twitched deep inside you. “You’re just that fucking smart.”

☆ NANAMI KENTO: THE WOLF OF WALL D

You never really envisioned a life of ledgers, equity risk premiums, and the horrors of double-entry bookkeeping. In fact, if anything, you’d always assumed you’d end up somewhere in the arts — or at least somewhere where the word “asset” didn’t come with twelve subcategories and a spreadsheet the size of a tombstone. But one ambitious internship, two mock stock wins, and a dangerously persuasive LinkedIn mentor later, here you are: enrolled in one of the most prestigious finance programs in the country, selling your soul for a theoretical future on Wall Street.

Except, no one warned you about the real economy — the one where your old hookup turns out to be your new professor.

It was Halloween. Pre-college euphoria, post-exam breakdown — a sloppy cocktail of confidence and denial. You’d just gotten the admission offer, the kind that comes with a fancy crest and a pretentious Serif font. You were glowing, and frankly, you wanted to celebrate. And maybe — maybe — dressing as Margot Robbie's Naomi Lapaglia from The Wolf of Wall Street was a little too on the nose. Thigh-highs, heels, the pink velvet micro-dress, the accent — you committed. You even practiced the line in the mirror. Yes, that line. Yes, that scene.

And just your luck — of course the man who walked into the party with his sleeves rolled, Rolex glinting, and a perfect scowl under his sunglasses had gone as Jordan fucking Belfort. Expensive cologne clinging to his collar, the soft pull of his silk tie hanging low, like he already knew he’d be using it later. And he did.

Nanami Kento — although he hadn’t introduced himself with his full government name that night, just “Nanami” in that bored baritone, fingers skimming the rim of his glass like he was about to sign off on your performance evaluation. He didn’t even smile when you pointed out the cosmic horror of both of you showing up as horny power couple chaos incarnate. He just raised a brow, sipped his whisky, and drawled, “Well. It would be criminal not to commit now, wouldn’t it?”

And you did commit.

Specifically: to the floor of a stranger’s (Nanami’s) bedroom, sitting pretty and poisonous in the center, legs spread just enough to tease, your dress hiked up your thighs with practiced ease. No panties, of course — what kind of tribute to Naomi would it be otherwise? The heels stayed on — tall, glossy, a shade that caught the light like blood. You sat like you belonged on display, like he should’ve paid just to breathe the same air.

Nanami was in his shirt sleeves now, his tie loosened but still there like a noose. He hadn’t broken character once, hadn’t so much as cracked a smile since you’d started this absurd pantomime of power — but his eyes were molten. Reverent. He dropped to his knees slow, like something sacred was about to happen.

And just before he got close enough to bury his face between your thighs, you tilted your head, voice sugary and venomous.

“And you know something else, daddy?” you asked, tone lilting. “Mommy is just so sick and tired of wearing panties.”

He inhaled — sharp and shaky, like it was pulled straight from the pit of his chest — then let out a stunned, broken: 

“Yeah.”

You blinked slow, smiled crueler. “Yeah?” you echoed, mocking his tone with a tilt of your lip.

His mouth opened like he was going to say more, but nothing came. just another rough exhale. and then he moved, hands coming forward as he began to crawl to you, something primal starting to flicker in his posture, like he’d shed the suit entirely and become all instinct and hunger. His face was already dipping low, gaze locked on where your thighs parted.

And that’s when you stopped him. Your heel — clean, sharp, and merciless — pressed right to the center of his forehead.

“But no touching,” you cooed, all faux sweetness and full control, dragging the sole down just enough to smear your heat along the crease of his brows.

He froze, arms shaking, still breathing hard.

And you pushed. Not gently, not cruelly, but enough. Just enough to tip him further down until he was on his stomach, the full weight of him humbled under your foot, cheek scraping the floor as he groaned from deep in his chest like it hurt to be treated like this and hurt more to be denied. You just sat there, thighs parted and glistening. His own personal hell, framed in pink velvet and sin. And you said nothing.

Because the message had been sent — he wasn’t getting this. Not tonight.

And then you’d leaned back on your palms, one knee lifting slow as a threat, and whispered, “You’re not gonna touch me, Nanami. You’re just gonna sit there and look.”

And he did. For longer than you'd thought he could manage.

But later on, you don’t know what was more embarrassing:  the sound you made when he spat on your pussy and shoved two fingers in without ceremony, or the fact that you came — hard, embarrassingly fast — when his mouth dragging up your neck as he muttered, “You’re not going anywhere until I say you are.”

You should’ve known then that Fate was laughing at you. That this wouldn’t be the last time.

So imagine your shock when a year later, you walk into your first Financial Management and Ethics lecture — yes, ethics, the irony is its own punishment — and see Professor Nanami Kento himself standing behind the podium, glasses perched neatly on his nose, tie done up to the throat this time, looking like he’d never so much as held a condom, let alone wrecked someone with their own pantyhose. You couldn’t speak. Your body went cold, like someone had poured iced coffee down your spine. He, on the other hand, barely reacted, didn’t so much as glance your way during roll call.

And then, later that night, an email pinged into your inbox — along with the standard welcome email he’d drafted for the rest of the class. But yours? Yours came with an extra paragraph. Entirely formal. Impeccably punctuated. Polite to the point of threat.

Regarding our prior acquaintance, I trust that you will exercise discretion. Kindly refrain from referencing the event under any circumstances. It is not relevant to your coursework. Sincerely,  Professor Nanami Kento, M.B.A., C.F.A. Adjunct Lecturer, Department of Financial Management Certified in Ethical Finance & Professional Conduct

You stared at the screen for a good five minutes, equal parts humiliated and deeply entertained. Because yes, Professor Nanami may want to pretend nothing happened — but you still remember the way he groaned your name like a warning, the way he muttered “greedy little thing” while stuffing you full, the way he unbuckled his belt like it was procedure. And you’re betting ten-to-one that he remembers it too. After all… it was his tie.

Nanami, meanwhile, was losing his mind — with an elegance only a man like him could bring to a full psychological collapse.

He’d never really been a “party guy,” let alone someone who dressed up for one. Halloween, to him, had always been one of those inefficient Western distractions, mostly an excuse for adults to wear synthetic wigs and pretend they weren’t miserable. But last year, for reasons even he didn’t fully understand (perhaps an existential crisis, perhaps two glasses of aged whisky), he gave in and indulged. Picked out a suit he already owned, added a pair of shades, tousled his hair on purpose for the first time in his life, and called himself Jordan Belfort.

The real kicker? He had just watched The Wolf of Wall Street the night before. The whole thing, from top to bottom, credits and all. Not because he wanted to — because a colleague said he should “loosen up.”

And that’s when he saw you.

You, in that godforsaken, serotonin-triggering pink velvet dress, hair sprayed into a perfect blowout, gloss on your lips, and a walk like you knew exactly what scene every man in that room was already imagining. And when your eyes met his and you smirked and asked, “You seen the movie?” — he knew. God help him, he knew.

You didn’t even need to discuss it. The two of you fell into that scene like it was muscle memory, like it had been choreographed months in advance. You sat on his bedroom floor, all spread pink and no panties. And Nanami — normally so composed, so neutral — crawled. Hands and knees. Ready to abandon God and dignity both just to get a taste.

But what kept him up at night wasn’t the act. It wasn’t the bruises, or the heel mark on his pride. 

It was that goddamn care package.

Nanami prided himself on being considerate. He'd laid it all out for you on the bedside table:

A bottle of VOSS water, chilled. 

A small silk bag with clean makeup wipes (bought from a boutique skincare store, not that pharmacy crap). 

Travel-sized cleanser and moisturizer. 

A protein bar (he googled “best post-sex snacks” at 2AM). 

A mint. 

A goddamn luxury tampon pack — in three sizes, just in case.

A note: “Thank you for tonight. Please take an Uber Black on me — money’s in the envelope.”

And it was. The exact fare + tip, calculated down to the decimal. He even folded the envelope with a golden paperclip. The one thing missing? His fucking number.

In all his obsessive curation, he forgot the single most basic detail. And when he realized it, it was already too late — you were gone. Slipped through his fingers like lingerie and regret.

He thought about it for weeks. Might’ve written a little poetry about it in his notes app, which he absolutely did not save. But fate, cruel bitch that she is, handed him a distraction: his alumni called. Said they were building an elite course track, needed a finance pro and thought of him. And Nanami said yes, thinking, surely, this would be a fresh start. But then he walked into the lecture hall, and you were there. 

Front row. Same gloss on your mouth. Same eyes that once looked down at him like he was nothing more than a toy. You crossed your legs — the pink of your dress peeking out from under your coat like it knew what it was doing.

Nanami almost dropped his lesson plan.

And you? You smiled,  gave a polite little nod, as if you weren’t the reason he woke up half hard most mornings. As if you weren’t still, technically, the only woman to ever shove him to the floor and then leave without a trace.

Later on in the semester is what was supposed to be a one-time “closure” meeting — two adults, one flat white, and a mutual agreement to never speak of Halloween again. Easy. You even wore flats. That's how serious you were about not being tempted.

Nanami, unfortunately, showed up in that same goddamn tie. Pale blue, subtly striped, definitely too expensive. The man must buy them in bulk, and you’re convinced there’s a hidden shelf in his penthouse that’s just ties and guilt. You tried to talk like adults. Really. You even brought up the contract he typed out like it was a sexless prenup.

Well, it was supposed to be a contract. A “mutual cessation of erotic activities in the interest of academic integrity,” as Nanami put it, complete with an italicized heading, numbered clauses, and an embarrassing amount of legalese clearly lifted from somewhere between a divorce form and a workplace harassment pamphlet. 

You signed it with a pink glitter pen, under the heading that read: “Student–faculty agreement to abstain from sexual relations and/or activities that might invoke the carnal, the erotic, or the emotionally destabilizing.”

Clause 1.1: No sexual conduct, explicit or implicit, including but not limited to oral gratification, penetrative intercourse, hand stimulation, or any roleplay reminiscent of prior encounters involving cinematic characters.

Clause 3.4: Even suggestive eye contact during class hours to be avoided — especially if wearing high heels, pink dresses, or gloss.

Your personal favorite, Clause 5.2: Nanami Kento retains the right to amend or dissolve the agreement if academic integrity is compromised or if the student in question “moans like that again.”

You snorted when you read that part. “Moans like what again?”

He didn’t answer, just stared at the lid of his coffee like it wronged him personally.

Clause 4.0 (added later): If the student is to arrive in a pink dress, she must also be wearing undergarments.

Clause 5.6: Should any aforementioned clause be violated, the offending party shall write a 500-word reflection on self-restraint.

You honestly thought he was joking until he printed it on letterhead.

Until he asked for a second copy “for record-keeping.”

Until he slid it into a folder labeled “important documents” right next to his will.

And still, despite the theatrics, despite the absurdity, you tried. You kept your skirts modest. Wore flats. Avoided eye contact in the lecture hall like Nanami Kento was the sun and you were but a humble, horny moth. But temptation, much like New York traffic, does not yield to logic.

Especially not during one rainy Wednesday, when you walked into his office to ask about your project grade and caught him mid-sentence, blazer off, sleeves rolled, sipping his espresso like a tragic European novella character — and there it was. That tie again.

“You only own one tie, don’t you?” you said, shutting the door behind you.

“I have seven of the same,” he said, not looking up. “Consistency is important.”

You crossed your arms. “Is sexual tension included in the syllabus?”

“Not until post-graduation.”

But then you leaned on the edge of his desk — his very clean, very expensive, very wide desk — and when the angle gave him a flash of your lace waistband, all bets were off. “You’re breaking clause four,” he said, already flushed, shifting in his chair like a man being tortured.

“Guess you’ll have to penalize me,” you purred, toeing off your flats like they were irrelevant.

“This is a violation of so many subclauses,” he whispered. 

“Which one stops you from bending me over this desk?” you asked sweetly.

He didn’t have an answer. 

“I am deeply—” he groaned as he pushed everything off his desk with one dramatic sweep and yanked you onto the wood, “—disappointed in both of us.”

Your thighs hit the edge with a thud. Your ass was in the air by the time he undid his belt, cursing softly, reverently. You shoved the pink dress up over your hips, smiled like a girl who studied hard and sinned harder. “And yet your mouth is still open.”

His mouth was, indeed, very open. The action was scholarly — like he was trying to write his thesis on you. You clenched his tie in your hand like a leash, and his groans vibrated all the way up your spine.

He fucked you like it was an unscheduled exam — brutal, precise, every thrust a line crossed in that ridiculous contract. The wood was cool under your cheek, the desk wobbling under both your bodies as he muttered incoherently into your skin. Somewhere in the blur of sweat and polished wood creaking beneath you, you moaned his name — and he froze, like a glitch in the matrix.

He nearly collapsed.

After, while wiping his glasses and adjusting his cuffs like nothing happened, he muttered, “I'll need to rewrite the contract.”

You, legs dangling off the desk, lipstick smeared and dress hiked up to your ribs, laughed. “Don’t forget to add Clause 6.9: No begging in the faculty lounge.”

He did rewrite it. This time, on thicker paper. Embossed.

But neither of you signed it.

☆ GOJO SATORU: CURRICULUM VIT-A-DICK

You should’ve known from the moment he strutted into the university auditorium like a six-foot-tall migraine in human form that life was going to test you. 

Gojo Satoru — excuse me, Professor Gojo — who you first met at a tragically overfunded science fair where he proceeded to obliterate your carefully calibrated quantum demonstration with the same ease he probably uses to open cereal boxes. No, he wasn’t a judge. No, he wasn’t even supposed to be there. Yes, he still wore those obnoxious sunglasses indoors. The man had main-character syndrome, and unfortunately, the plot seemed to agree. 

You thought that was the last of him, you really did. But then, scholarship in hand, you walked into your first advanced theoretical physics seminar and there he was — standing in front of the whiteboard with his hair gelled like it was afraid of gravity, grinning like a man who absolutely remembered insulting your entire personality and research method six months ago.

And that’s where it began: the pettiest academic rivalry known to mankind. 

You interrupted every lecture with hypotheticals that started with “But wouldn’t that break down under—” and ended with Gojo pausing mid-sentence, sighing, and rolling up his sleeves like he was about to conduct a scientific duel instead of finishing the unit on entanglement.

The first time you lost a bet — over the probability collapse theory, God help you — he didn’t even gloat. He just handed you a page with “AFTER CLASS” written in blue gel pen and walked off humming the Jeopardy theme. That was your first “correctional training” session, he called it that. “Brat correction,” in reality, said in the tone of someone who absolutely loved how your jaw clenched every time he said it.

He likes to think he’s the authority figure in the room — Professor Gojo, head of department, youngest theoretical physicist with two international awards and a cocky little writeup in a nature magazine about quantum entanglement that he sends to every new TA like it’s a Bible. But none of that means shit when you’re in the front row again with your leg crossed just so, lips pursed in a smirk that tells him you’ve done your research — and worse, you’re going to use it.

The thing about debunking Gojo’s teachings is that it’s become a tradition now. An academic bloodsport where you come armed with papers, formulas, and sheer insolence, and he comes armed with that patronizing little chuckle and the smug belief that nobody, nobody, is ever going to outdo him in his own damn classroom.

And when you don’t? Well, let’s just say your ass knows the weight of his disappointment very intimately. There’s a very specific kind of warmth to his palm when it lands flat on you, almost reverent, like he’s patting down the remains of your pride after dismantling it entirely.

“Disrespecting your teacher again?” he murmurs, voice all low and falsely dismayed, fingers trailing the hot skin beneath your panties as if it pains him to have to teach you this way. “And I thought we were making progress. You’re gonna make me grey, sweetheart.”

You snort into the table, biting back a moan. Liar. His hair’s been white since tenure.

But when you win — oh, when you win — he drops the act entirely. Gojo becomes Satoru, sloppy and glassy-eyed as he stares up at you from where he’s half-kneeling on the floor, the lines of his shirt rumpled and his tie hanging undone like a leash you might tug if he talks back. And you’ve got one foot on his chest, the ball of it pressing ever so gently down, just enough for him to feel it and shudder like a dog in heat.

“Now say it,” you hum, tilting your head. “Say you were wrong about the decoherence model, Satoru.”

He actually whimpers. “I—I was wrong—Fuck, you were right—”

“And?”

Your foot inches lower, brushing against the bulge straining in his pants, feeling the heat of it beneath thin, overpriced fabric. He's sweating now, cheeks flushed, panting like he’s running a fever that only you can break.

“You’re smarter than me,” he gasps, voice cracking, so wet and wrecked you wonder if he even remembers what the original debate was about.

“Mmhm.” your foot presses harder. “Good boy.”

There’s a certain irony to it, really — you came here to study quantum physics, and somehow ended up mastering the laws of cause and effect in the way Satoru Gojo responds to your foot in his lap. The man can theorize particle-wave duality until he’s blue in the face, but one good press of your heel and he’s unraveling faster than any atom he’s ever split. And the best part? you still haven’t told him you’re publishing a paper that contradicts his entire thesis. Maybe next week.

But then comes finals season. 

Oh, finals season. A time of chaos, caffeine, collective breakdowns — and Professor Gojo’s personal renaissance. He is, without a doubt, in the best mood he’s been all year: cheery, chipper, even. Students whisper about it like he’s some kind of academic sadist, thriving off the pain of others, grinning like the devil in a tailored button-down as he posts the final exam that reads more like a dissertation than anything else. And the worst part? He isn’t grading on a curve.

But you, his prized little rival-slash-pet project, get… kindness. Or something adjacent to it. A gentle reminder before class ends, said with an infuriatingly sweet smile:

“No staying after today, sweetheart. You’ve got bigger things to focus on.”

And then, like the most deranged cherry on top:

“We can always catch up on our…activities later.”

You almost pity the way he says it, like it doesn’t make his dick twitch. As if he hasn’t been pent-up all semester, denied of your touch and your scorn and your heel on his chest like a guilty little sinner. As if he’s not walking around with just enough self-restraint to keep from humping the podium.

But here’s where it gets fun.

Because he thought this would break you. That his absence, the sudden lack of punishment and provocation, would mess with your head just enough to send you spiraling, slipping, making one teeny-tiny mistake in your finals that he could then circle in red and jerk off to later. And it almost works. He's giddy as he grades, bouncing his leg, lips twitching in anticipation. Every other paper is a war crime, the red ink running out. But when he gets to yours? Blank.

Blank, as in: no errors. Not even a formatting issue. Not even an ambiguous variable name. Not even a single goddamn typo.

And you signed your name with a heart.

The gasp he lets out is not professional. He's sitting alone in his office with the door locked, hunched over the paper like it just whispered dirty secrets to him. His hands tremble a little — out of horror, out of awe, out of the frankly humiliating pressure building in his boxers. Because this is it. This is what he wanted. 

To lose. To lose to you. And you knew it, you knew — that smug little smile when you handed it in, the way your fingers lingered against his as you passed it across the desk. You knew you’d fucked him academically and emotionally and now, he’s sitting there, legs spread and back arched like some kind of fucking... exam-brained toy.

When he returns the paper the next day, it’s with a practiced expression, the mask of Professor Gojo firmly back in place. But his hand brushes against yours — too slow, too soft — and you can feel the static hum between your fingertips like tension in a charged field. “Full marks,” he says smoothly, like he didn’t have to jerk off in his office to even touch this paper. “You've made me proud.”

You smile. “I always do, don't I, professor?”

He swallows so hard you can see the twitch in his throat. Yeah, he’s not mad at all. In fact, he’s already mentally clearing his schedule for next semester.

Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

Gojo Satoru, professor, physicist, prodigy — is currently a blubbering, overstimulated mess beneath you, his palms flat and useless against his own silk sheets, hips twitching every time your ass connects with his thighs in that cruel, delicious rhythm. He's crying fat, glossy tears as they trail down his cheeks like he’s in mourning, but it’s just you. Just you, sitting pretty on his cock like the goddess of academic revenge, one hand planted on his chest like a paperweight, the other gently curling around his throat with all the casual authority of someone grading a multiple-choice test.

You bounce slow, unhurried, torturously controlled — and he loves it.

“F-fuck, you — you did so good,” he slurs, head thrown back so hard the veins in his neck twitch under your fingers. “So smart, baby — so fucking brilliant, top of the class, top of me —”

“Yeah?” you whisper, leaning forward just enough so your breath brushes his wet cheeks. “Who's the valedictorian now, professor?”

He whines — whines — something like a yes and a laugh and a sob mashed together, a hiccupping mess of praise and need. “M’so proud of you, fuck — fuck, y’ride me like you solved me, figured out the whole equation— m’just a— a variable— oh god—”

He’s delirious. Incoherent. Flushed chest heaving, hair a sweaty halo against the pillow, and it’s kind of funny — the irony of it all. Because this is the same man who used to look at you with that cocky glint in class, dreaming of your downfall, picturing you stuttering through corrections and red ink like a scolded schoolgirl, only to end up here: broken and blissed-out beneath your hips, all heart-shaped eyes and thank-you-mommy energy, mouthing nonsense like it’s a second language.

“Wanted me to fail so you could play teacher again, huh?” you coo, slowing down until your movements are a slow, grinding circle that has his toes curling. “But now you get to be my little after-school project instead.”

“Yesyesyes,” he gasps, voice breaking mid-word. “Use me, please— you earned it, you aced it— s’the least I can do, swear— wanna b’good for you— f-for my valedictorian—”

You press your palm firmer against his neck. Not hard — not yet — just enough to remind him that the only thing keeping him grounded is you. “That’s right, professor,” you murmur, licking the sweat off his jaw. “You’re just my bonus credit now.”

And he moans like you handed him a lifetime achievement award. If the education board ever saw this, you think, they’d have to rename the curriculum: quantum physics and Gojo Satoru’s public humiliation, taught by you, graded by orgasm count.

☆ RYOMEN SUKUNA: A+ IN ANALYSIS, D- IN SELF CONTROL

If there was anyone who could make a student’s life flash before their eyes with a single look, it was Professor Sukuna. 

Department: Modern History. Specialty: war crimes, chain-smoking, and looking like he belongs on a “do not approach” government list. 

The man walks around like tenure is just a polite word for “try me,” tattoos curling up his neck and peeking through the gaps in his shirt like they, too, are sick of the dress code. He wears formal clothes the way one wears a hospital gown — reluctantly and out of necessity — and the scent of his cologne is nicotine and disdain.

He doesn’t lecture, he warns. Powerpoint slides are a thing of myth in his class. If you miss a date, you don’t get a reminder, you get a monologue about how the fall of Rome wasn’t as embarrassing as your lack of attention to deadlines. He’s harsh, terrifying, and objectively hot in that “he will ruin your self-esteem and your cervix” kind of way — not that you'd ever say that out loud.

You never had any special rapport with him either. You just sat in the front row like a chronically anxious nerd, too scared to even sneeze wrong. That is, until he found you crying in a quiet corner of the library, head in your history textbook like it could somehow absorb your heartbreak. He assumed you were overwhelmed by the syllabus — which, okay, rude — and muttered something that was equal parts pep talk and emotionally repressed threats against “whatever loser made you cry.”

Since then, Sukuna’s been...different. Not soft, not kind — don’t be delusional — just less sharp around the edges when it came to you. He'd still verbally dismantle any student who tried to correct him without citations, but when it came to you, he asked things like “you eating?” and “sleeping or still reading?” in passing. And he did it through email, because of course he did. Because Ryomen Sukuna doesn’t text students. He barely even types. He pecks at the keyboard like it owes him money. You’ve got a folder now, unintentionally titled “passive aggressive motivation,” where emails read like:

Subject: stop crying no man is worth bombing your GPA over. eat something. drink water. also your thesis outline was dogshit. fix it. -r.s

or:

Subject: your seminar slides don’t present this without adding a section on postcolonial analysis unless you want to embarrass yourself. also that guy who came to pick you up last week looks like he can't read. don’t bring him around again. -r.s

Every email ends with lowercase letters and an implicit threat. And it’s all very… professional. Totally, completely normal professor stuff. It’s not like he lingers outside your class when it ends to “make sure nobody bothers you,” or that his hand just happens to brush yours every time he gives back a graded paper. Or that when you send him an email past midnight, he responds faster than your own friends. Strictly educational, completely above board. Absolutely not the start of a very complicated, slow-burning, morally grey something.

…Right?

Right.

He wasn’t supposed to be there. The bar, that is.

Sukuna didn’t even like bars. Hated the smell of cheap beer and watered-down perfumes and whatever desperation clung to the sweat-slick air by midnight. But he’d gotten dragged there by another tenured professor who thought he needed to “loosen up,” which was ironic considering Sukuna’s idea of relaxing involved reading war manifestos and judging grad students.

So he’s already annoyed, even more so when he steps outside for a smoke and sees you there. Sitting on the curb, arms hugging your knees, hair pinned up like you’d tried too hard tonight. He knows that expression — the mix of hurt and embarrassment and the beginnings of oh god, don’t cry in public. It makes something seize in his chest.

“Seriously?” he mutters, walking up with the cigarette still burning between his fingers. “Who the fuck takes a girl to a bar for a first date?”

You just blink up at him, and he rolls his eyes like he’s not already halfway down the spiral. He drives you home, his untouched drink forgotten. The silence in the car is stiff, quiet, the kind that makes his knuckles tighten on the wheel every time you shift slightly in the passenger seat. When he drops you off and you say thank you too softly, he doesn’t say “you’re welcome.” He just stares ahead and mutters, “Get inside safe.”

But when he wakes up to your smaller body curled against him the next morning — God, fuck. He barely remembers letting you in, just that your eyes were glassy and your voice broke when you asked if you could stay, and then you’d fallen asleep on his bed before he could make a choice. And now you’re here, mouth slightly open in sleep, your wrist resting against his bare chest like you belong there. He slips out of bed like it’s going to absolve him of anything. It doesn’t.

So the next week? He ignores you. Not because he doesn’t care, but because he cares too much. Because he’s your professor, and you’re his student, and this shit is so far past the line that the line is a fucking dot. And yet—

You stop raising your hand in class. Stop sending over-enthusiastic thesis emails. And that’s when Sukuna knows he’s fucked. Because ignoring you only works until he realizes the silence is your reaction to being ignored. He doesn’t even think before knocking on your apartment door one night, hair still damp from a too-fast shower, jaw clenched in some attempt to be rational. You don’t say anything. You just look at him.

And he cracks.

It’s the wall. The bed. The damn kitchen counter. His mouth on your neck, your thighs, your breasts — sucking marks like he wants to leave proof of the apology he can’t voice. His voice is low, gravelly, drunk off the taste of your skin. His hands are rough, too big, too familiar now, and you tremble with every movement. “You still mad at me?” he grunts against your cunt, tongue swiping through your slick like it’ll get him forgiveness. Your hand fists his hair.

“You’re such an asshole,” you moan, shoving him deeper. He hums into your cunt like he agrees. And he does.

That night ends the same way they all do — tangled limbs, sheets kicked to the floor, and your breathless whine of “you never talk to me after.” And he means to, he really does. But he leaves again without saying anything, guilt burning like nicotine in his lungs.

So the cycle repeats.

You cry, he shows up. You argue, he pushes you up against the nearest surface and apologizes with his mouth and hands and cock — biting your shoulder, squeezing your hips, kissing the angry tear-track down your cheek until you’re choking on his name.

“Say it,” you gasp, nails raking down his back as you ride him. 

He doesn't. He can't. He just slams you down harder and lets his mouth fall open, guttural noises spilling out like prayers. Fuckfuckfuck—

You make him feel alive. And all he can do is keep fucking up the same way, hoping one of these days, you’ll forgive him before he can find the words. And yet, finals season’s supposed to be your personal hell, not his. Sukuna’s brooding harder than usual, a semi-permanent crease etched between his brows and his arms crossed so tight over his chest that even the most clueless undergrad knows better than to raise their hand today.

You had said it nicely — too nicely — when you showed up to his office hours that weren’t even real office hours, just you dropping by like you always did, except this time, you had a script memorized.

“I just… I think it’s better if we don’t see each other until exams are over. I can't focus. And you’re kind of… a distraction.”

Him? A distraction? In his own subject? He doesn't even know if he should feel insulted or flattered. He decides on both and sulks accordingly. And you didn’t even say anything mean. There was no fight, no cold-shoulder aftermath. just soft words, a guilty look, and then nothing.

You didn’t show up to his class again. It was optional, sure — study week lectures aren’t mandatory, professor, he can hear your smartass voice in his head — but still. It's him. You always came for him. So when you don’t? That's when he knows it’s bad.

He tells himself he doesn’t care. Tells himself this is what he wanted, anyway — distance, boundaries, some room to breathe. Maybe he’s too old to be dealing with this kind of nonsense from someone who probably still has their ex-best friend’s Netflix password memorized.

But then he finds himself at the library. Not for you, of course not. He was returning a book — something dense and miserable on post-war treaties. Definitely not stalking. Absolutely not peeking between the shelves. Except then he sees you. Head bent over your notes, hair tied back, lips slightly pursed in concentration — and then there’s him. The most annoying little shit in his class, sitting beside you like he’s earned the spot, asking questions like he actually gives a damn about the League of Nations.

It takes everything in Sukuna not to walk up and knock the guy’s books to the floor. Instead, he glares from the second-floor balcony for an unhealthy amount of time before dragging you out the second you’re alone.

No explanation. No “hey, can we talk?” Just him grabbing your wrist and leading you into one of those back hallways that smell like too much disinfectant and stress sweat.

“Are you tired of me yet?” he says, low and flat.

You blink. “What?”

His jaw ticks. Fuck. It sounded pathetic out loud. He hadn’t meant to say it like that, all quiet and cornered. But now that it’s out there, the rest just comes spilling out in the most emotionally constipated way possible.

“You stopped showing up. You didn’t even reply to my last email. Now you’re with that… kid,” he mutters the last part like it physically wounds him. “You’re just—moving on?”

You stare, confused. 

“I told you I needed to focus on finals.”

“Yeah, and I thought that was your generation’s code for leaving someone” he snaps.

The hallway goes still, the lights above continuing to buzz. Your fingers twitch at your sides, and Sukuna catches it — that little tell you have when you’re about to say something heartfelt, and God, he braces himself.

“You think I'm replacing you?” you say finally. “Sukuna, he was helping me revise flashcards.”

“Flashcards,” he repeats like it’s the filthiest word he’s ever heard.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re confusing,” he counters, but softer, quieter. Almost like he’s embarrassed.  “You say I'm a distraction and then just vanish. I don’t know what the fuck you want anymore.”

“I wanted to pass. And maybe try not lose my mind.”

He leans back against the wall, head tilted up, arms now slack by his side. “Well,” he mutters, “Congrats. Because I'm losing mine.”

And he is. He misses your smart mouth, your late-night emails about history memes, the way your legs hooked around his waist like you belonged there. He misses the way you made him feel young again, even though he’s not — not really — and that fact creeps up his spine every time he watches you laugh with someone your age.

You reach for his hand, pull it away from the wall, and squeeze it gently. “I'm not replacing you,” you say. “I just needed to take a breath. But I'm still here.”

His thumb brushes your knuckles before he even realizes what he’s doing. 

“…Good,” he says, voice rough. “Because I don't want to go back to pretending I don't give a shit.”

You smile, and his brain short-circuits the same way it always does when you do. He's still grumpy, still tired. still convinced he’s about five years and one existential crisis too old for you. But you’re still here. And that, somehow, is enough.

Monday morning smells like pencil shavings, stress, sweat, and betrayal. Not yours, of course — his. Because there you are, nestled so sweetly in his lap at his home desk, thighs spread across his, sunk down around his cock like you belong there. Because you do.

You’re not even moving. That's the part that’s driving him feral. Just sitting there all cozy and full and smug, keeping him hot and throbbing inside while he tries — tries — to grade the final batch of modern history exams. It’s the academic equivalent of edging, and Sukuna, for all his big scary professor demeanor, is fucking losing it.

Your breath is warm against the side of his neck as you lean in lazily. You’d had your fun earlier — broken him open on his own sheets like you were studying anatomy, and now you were just… resting. Inside him. Sheathing him. Cockwarming him like some kind of reward, like he was your treat. And the worst part? He didn’t even hate it.

“You've been on question three for five minutes,” you murmur, lips brushing his ear, and he jolts — not from your voice, but from how the shift grinds your cunt around him just the tiniest bit.

“I'm focusing,” he lies, throat tight. 

You hum like you don’t believe him. “You’re twitching.”

“You’re warm.”

“You’re hard.”

He glares at the paper like it’s personally responsible. “It's correction season.”

“Mhm. And you’re grading while balls-deep in your student. Who's the distraction now?”

He grunts — but it’s weak. He's weak. Because he’s still inside you and your cunt is so soft and wet and hot and he swears he can feel your heartbeat around him when you clench just once, just to remind him who’s got the power here. And then, as fate would have it, the worst fucking name in his roster shows up on the next paper.

“You've gotta be kidding me,” he says, voice dry, mouth downturned. 

You peer down. “Oh. Him.”

Sukuna goes still. You don’t even need to say the name — it’s the boy from the library. The one you studied with during “the dry spell,” aka the week you ghosted him for focusing on your exams, and he swore he’d never be that soft again. Well. Jokes on him.

“He used zeitgeist in a sentence,” Sukuna says, with venom. “Unironically.”

You smile, slow and cruel. “He’s not wrong though.”

He turns to you, jaw tight, cock throbbing. “Say that again.”

“The answer’s worth full marks.”

You say it like it’s nothing. Like you don’t know exactly what that does to him.

His hand slips under your ass and pulls you down hard, deep. You don’t make a sound, just breathe against his cheek, but the flutter of your walls around him has him practically vibrating in place.

“Take it back,” he rasps.

You smile. “Never.”

He’s back to bouncing his leg again — a nervous tick turned torture as every shift sends your warmth tightening around him, soaking him, milking him. He can barely hold the pen. He scribbles out a 10 and replaces it with a shaky 7.

“He gets a C,” Sukuna mutters, spiteful.

“Abusing your authority?”

“Yes.”

“Because you’re jealous?”

“Yes.”

You lean in close, lips just barely grazing his jaw. “Say it.”

“I hate that fucker,” he breathes.

“No,” you purr. “Say what you really hate.”

His head tips back, neck flushed red, pulse hammering under your mouth. “I hate that he got to see you smile.”

You grin. “You’re seeing it now.”

And you give him a single roll of your hips — slow, devastating, slick and sinful — and his breath catches, his eyes flutter shut, and his cock twitches helplessly inside you. “Holy fucckk,” he moans, low and wrecked.

“Mark the damn paper,” you whisper, licking the shell of his ear.

He scribbles an 8. “He gets a B- and that’s generous.”

You laugh softly and clench around him again. “You’re such a mess,” you coo, brushing his sweat-damp bangs back. “And you haven’t even cum yet.”

“You’re evil,” Sukuna whimpers, half-hysterical. “I missed you so fucking much.”

You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I know.”

a/n: thank yeww for reading!! this took way too long to format, i hope you enjoy xx. i probably won't be writing any part 2's or continuations of this trope, so please respect me and my work and not comment about it/asking for it.

[em1i2a3]

I Wanna Get Lost With You

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/Sentry/The Void x Stark!Thunderbolt!Reader

Summary: After a rough night, you find yourself with a rare day off–the one that you take on the same day every year in memoriam for the fallen. So you head into the city to spend your feelings away on the only thing that makes sense to you: gifts for your favourite team of scrappy anti-heros…And Bob.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI, Spoilers for Thunderbolts because everyone from Thunderbolts is in this and is involved and there is events from the movie that are mentioned :). Fluff, a hint of angst (because of the reader having a rough night…and a rough couple of years in general), Brief Mentioning of Grief and Loss, Bucky is kind of a reluctant father figure to the reader, Bob is Bob and he’s a softie who’s seen it all, Reader and Bob have an established friendship, Smut.

Smut Warnings: Hot and Heavy Makeout Session, Grinding, Cuddling with Some ✨Spice ✨(ahem…Fingering and handjobs lol), Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up y’all, you know the drill), Bob is a softie, reader knows what she likes (a bit of a soft dominant vibe but not really). This is like a mix of comfort sex, and like purely desperate sex, you’ll see, you’ll see. Lol, Aftercare (because that’s hot too)

Author’s Note: This request was given to me by @xlittlemissydjx and I just had to do it when I read it (I also accidentally deleted the request by accident lol). I really expanded the landscape of it though, but I hope it meets what you were looking for :). Thanks I know I have a lot of pending part 2’s of one-shots, but I really couldn’t resist the opportunity to put a little bit of everything into this story, Angst, Fluff, and Smut. The holy trinity lol. Enjoy :))

Note About Requests!!!: I’m working through them! I have about 14 things I need to do! So be patient! They should all be done at varying times within the next week and a half (I get in the zone enough to get two a day out so hopefully that can help!)

Word Count: 18,416 (…Wow)

You had been tossing and turning all night, and it showed the second you stepped into the kitchen that morning. It was written in the heaviness of your steps, the way you continuously readjusted your sweater as if it was too tight–even though it was two sizes too big–, and it was painted across your eyes with the faint smudge of exhaustion that clung to the corners of them.

You had your tells–the little things that gave it away, and the team knew all of them. They knew when you didn’t get enough sleep, or when you didn’t get any sleep at all. You didn’t even have to say a word to them, they could just gauge it from your facial expressions. If you weren’t your usual chirpy self–the version of you that compensated your sadness with jokes and filled the room with noise–they knew what they were in for.

And today? You hadn’t said a word.

The moment you walked into the kitchen though you were pulled into the chaotic scene unfolding in front of you, as the scent of scorched butter hit your nose.

“I told you to spray the pan, Bob. Did you spray it or not?” Walker’s voice rang out, sharp with his distinct signature brand of early-morning frustration. He stood by the oven, hunched over it with a spatula in his hand wearing a pair of plaid pajama pants and a “Grill Sergeant” apron. Bob stood a few feet away, sheepish and visibly wilting by the tone that Walker was taking with him. His shoulders were hunched forward, and his fingers were busy wringing the hem of his flour-streaked sweater–the nervous habit he hadn’t kicked.

Over the past few weeks, Bob had started volunteering for kitchen duty more and more–not because he was good at it, because unfortunately he wasn’t and everyone had learned it the hard way–but because he liked the idea of it. Of helping. Of contributing back to the compound as he was in his recovery process from his incident in New York. He had also mentioned to you in passing that it helped him feel like he was normal again, and it reminded him of the simpler times.

But now, with flour scattered everywhere, batter dripping down the front of the counter, and Walker looming over him with the interrogating questions, he was clearly second-guessing his life choices.

”I…I thought I did.” He mumbled, looking around the kitchen, “I could’ve sworn I had the can in my hand.” He whispered, confused.

”Then what happened, hm?” Walker questioned, “Did the damn thing disappear out of your hand or something?” You reached up to rub the tiredness out of your eyes, letting out a sigh, which got the room's attention almost instantly–like you sucked the air out of it.

“Walker, what have I said about taking it easy on Bob, for the love of God.” Your voice wasn’t loud, because it didn’t need to be. Even with being the youngest in the group, you were seasoned enough to be feared, especially by Walker–which was always surprising for the ones who would see the both of you interact.

Bob looked over at you immediately the moment your voice broke through the room–firm and quiet, how you always were–and just like that, his posture shifted. Not completely–he was still wringing the hem of his sweater and looking sheepish–but something in him softened.

You always did that to him. You walked into a room, and it was like the gravity in the room shifted. You were never loud with him, your energy was controlled, but even if you were the loud person that you were around the others, Bob still lit up, in the same way a quiet house lights up when someone finally opens the blinds. His breathing got a little easier. His shoulders dropped just a little lower. Like he knew–even without words–that if anything ever went wrong, you’d be there to shield him from the worst of it.

And you always were, since the day you met in the O.X.E Vault, the day things changed for you–for the better of course.

You defended him the way no one else really did. The way nobody else really could replicate. You caught every nervous tick he had, you knew when to pull him out of situations he couldn’t handle, and you filled in his silences when he got overwhelmed and went quiet, answering hard questions for him with that calm, dry tone that let everyone know there were lines that were crossed.

You didn’t baby him, but you stood with him.

And Bob–who had spent so much of his life being pushed to the side, forgotten, or abused–had never really known what it was like to be protected like that, and he paid you back in the only way he knew how; by being your constant. A little planet in your very tight orbit, always trying, always showing up, always offering whatever soft, steady care he could muster.

You would say you took care of him in public, and he took care of you in private.

You’d never talked about it–not in direct words–but the arrangement was understood. He knew when to slip a cup of tea into your hand on the nights when your hands shook too hard to make one yourself. You knew when to plant yourself between him and a room full of sharp voices. He knew when to knock gently on your door and ask if you’d eaten. You knew when to tug him by the sleeve and get him out of conversations that made his breath short and his voice crack.

‘Hey, there’s only so many ruined breakfasts a man can take before he snaps.” Walker replied, holding up the pan that had what looked to be a burnt pancake glued onto it, “Look at what he did. This is literally my last one.” You didn’t even flinch. You gave the pancake a passing glance, then turned your attention back to Walker, your arms loosely crossing over your chest.

”And yet somehow the world keeps spinning, Walker. Why didn’t you take the harder stuff if you knew there was a possibility of Bob ruining your prized pan?” There was a long pause, until Walker held his hands up in mock surrender.

”Fine…Fine…You’re right. I’m sorry.” You raised an eyebrow.

”And apologize to Bob.” You added, watching Walker glance sideways at him.

”Sorry, Bob.” Bob gave a quick, awkward nod.

”It’s okay…” He whispered under his breath.

You didn’t wait for the rest of the interaction to be done, as you walked from the entrance of the kitchen and made your way toward the fridge, cracking the door open to grab a chilled bottle of water. The cold bit into your palm–and you lingered there for a moment, letting the cool air brush over your skin before closing the door again.

You stepped towards Bob then.

”You good?” You asked, voice low now, like it was just meant for him. He nodded, hesitating for only a breath.

”Yeah…I-I didn’t mean to screw things up so badly…I was just trying to help.” You let out a quiet sigh. The kind that carried the tail-end of exhaustion and affection at the same time, in equal measures, giving Walker a death stare, before reaching out to Bob, patting the side of his arm. It wasn’t too soft, nor too hard–it was just right to comfort him.

“Well,” You murmured, letting a touch of warmth back into your voice, “Go help by setting up the table, okay? I’ll order some food for everyone, and if you hear Walker screaming for his life, just ignore it.” This drew out a laugh from Bob–small and unguarded, a little surprised, like he hadn’t expected it to break free from his mouth in the way it did. It wasn’t loud, but it was full-bodied and real, the kind that deepened the flush that was always on his cheeks. Walker furrowed his brow from where he stood.

”What was that?” You didn’t answer him, you were already pulling your phone from the front pocket of your father’s hoodie, tapping through the food delivery app with the kind of speed that only came from someone who routinely cleaned up the emotional aftermath of other people’s messes.

”Nothing, I was just telling Bob I’m ordering breakfast for everyone, hope you like hash browns.” You said flatly, your tone disinterested as your thumb hovered over your usual go-to breakfast place, the one that you used to go to on your birthday.

Bob, still smiling faintly to himself, took this as his cue to duck out of the kitchen without another word, moving towards the dining area with a new sense of purpose. Walker watched him for a second as he left the room, leaving the two of you alone together, before shaking his head.

”You’re too soft on him.” You didn’t look up from your phone as you added seven orders of bacon to the cart.

”I’m just going to give you a friendly reminder that he helped us out of the Void and bought us time to save him, and another reminder that he saved our lives at the vault too. We owe him the softness, and the stability.” Walker sighed, rubbing at the back of his neck like he was trying to physically scratch the tension out of his spine.

”Still. The guy’s not made of glass. I think you forget that he beat the shit out of us in this very tower.” He shot back, which made you look up from your phone.

”That was the Sentry. You know that. And you only bring that up because you’re still butthurt that your shield hasn’t been fixed.” Walker grunted, caught somewhere between irritation and reluctant defeat. He shook his head again, slower this time, then dropped his spatula into the sink.

”Fine…You win.” He muttered.

”I always do,” You replied, looking back down at your phone to add three extra croissants to the order just in case someone got picky, going to check out.

”You gonna be in the training room later, thought we could spar together.” You paused for a second, glancing up at him for a moment, before processing your order and locking your phone, sliding it back into the hoodie pocket.

”No,” You said simply, turning the cap off your water, taking a quick sip, letting the coolness spread across your chest, “It’s my day off.” You added, which caught his attention immediately.

”Off? You don’t take days off.”

“I do today, we haven’t known each other long enough for you to see me take a day off anyways…So why is this such a surprise?”Walker furrowed his brow a bit.

”It’s just a bit weird, taking a random Tuesday off, what’s the occasion?” You met his eyes, almost annoyed by the line of questioning.

“It’s just for me, that’s all.”

——————-

After cleaning up everyone’s plates after breakfast, you collected your keys from the dish on the counter and slipped them into your pocket. No one questioned you. No one stopped you.

Bob had been in the middle of rinsing out the orange juice glasses, sleeves damp with his concentration fixed on the smallest marks, like he was trying not to think too hard. You gave him a soft pat on the back as you passed. He didn’t turn, but you felt the way he leaned into it, a silent acknowledgement.

You didn’t say goodbye. It wasn’t that kind of day.

Instead, you made your way down the corridor, past the glass-paneled lounge where Yelena and Ava were arguing over something that sounded like movie night logistics, and past the half-lit training room where the mats were still scuffed from the week before.

The elevator greeted you with a soft ding, and you stepped inside, pressing the button for the main lobby, knowing you had to make a stop before travelling into the heart of the city. The doors slid shut in front of you, sealing off the noise of the compound, and the silence that followed settled in your chest. The elevator hummed quietly beneath your feet, the numbers ticking down slower than usual, like it knew what kind of day it was for you.

When the doors finally opened, the lobby was quiet. You stepped out quickly, turning on your heel to go down the hallway that was right beside the elevator. It was silent, cleaner than the rest of the compound, and dimmer–there was less foot traffic so that’s why it was normally lit like a mortuary. The air down this hall always felt heavier, because it was the lead up to something you visited frequently.

Your boots echoed against the polished tile, until the corridor opened into the memorial wing. A long, curved hall with framed photos and holographic projections lining both sides–names etched into the glass like ghosts.

The “Hall of the Fallen,” they called it. A name you hated to say out loud, because to you they were your people.

The entire wing had only come to be because you forced it into existence. During the final round of renovations, when Valentina wanted the east wing reserved for press briefings and high-tech sparring simulations, you had walked into her office, dropped a folder full of lawsuit drafts onto her desk, and told her plainly that if your father didn’t have a place in this building, neither would you. You knew you sounded out of line, but because the tower used to be his, you thought the leverage would be something to hold over her head.

“I will sue you into the sun,” You had said calmly, “And I’ll have Pepper on the line within the hour to back me.”

So she relented.

And now… Here it was.

Each section of the wall was backlit in soft amber light. Not cold and sterile, but warm–like candlelight. Like the kind of lighting your dad always insisted on in the Tower because he said it was more comforting and less lab-like.

Your eyes tracked instinctively toward the far right. You never had to look for it, because you knew exactly where he was, call it a daughterly instinct.

The large framed photograph of Tony Stark stood in front of you. No helmet, no Iron Man suit. Just him, in a slightly crooked tie and a hand resting on your shoulder. The image had been cropped, but you remembered where this was taken. He’d been giving a press conference and you snuck up beside him mid-speech. He had rolled his eyes and laughed, pulling you into the shot like it was nothing.

You slowly stepped forward, putting out your hand to reach for him, but before you could, you noticed someone already standing near the center of the hallway, facing a different frame.

Tall. Broad shoulders. Hands tucked deep in his jacket pockets, hair slicked back like he was going for a meeting…Bucky.

He didn’t turn at the sound of your steps. He didn’t have to. He knew you would be here. It was the anniversary of your fathers death after all.

He was standing in front of Steve’s photo–head slightly bowed, jaw clenched, like the weight of all the memories he had with him had curled itself around his spine and wouldn’t let go.

You approached him slowly, your boots muffled now by the soft carpet that lined the central arc of the memorial wing. Bucky hadn’t moved, his eyes were locked on the image of Steve–clean-cut, square-jawed, with his warm smile forever frozen in time. You stopped beside him to stand shoulder to shoulder.

For a few moments, neither of you said anything, you just stared at the photo, breathing deeply, in reflection of the moments you all got together. After a minute you cleared your throat, pushing the lump to the side so you could speak.

”You missed breakfast.” Bucky let out a slow breath through his nose.

”Didn’t really feel like having pancakes today.” You cracked a small smile.

”Wasn’t pancakes…Bob ruined Walker's last pan by burning them.” His lip twitched just a little.

“Sounds like I didn’t miss much then.” He said, the ghost of a smile flickering at the corners of his mouth before fading again. The silence between you returned, but it wasn’t empty–it was heavy. Full of everything neither of you had ever needed to say out loud.

Your eyes lingered on the picture of Steve for a moment, before shifting sideways to study Bucky instead. He looked older in this light. Not tired–just…Quieter. Softer around the edges in a way that only grief can carve into a man.

“How long have you been down here?” You asked.

”About thirty minutes, I had a meeting today actually so that’s also why I missed breakfast.” Bucky shifted his weight slightly, eyes still trained on the photo, “Didn’t think I’d end up staying this long, but you know…Memories make you lose track of time.” You nodded slowly, getting a bit closer to him, slipping your arm into his, feeling the coolness of his vibranium radiating through his jacket. He let out a slow, steady exhale, letting your hand rest there, and in that small gesture, you felt the quiet return of the role he’d carved out between the both of you–it was reluctant at first, but unshakable now.

”You know…” You murmured after a beat, “He would’ve been really proud of you.” Bucky didn’t speak right away, but you could see his jaw clench at your words, before nodding.

”Tony would’ve been proud of you too.” That made you scoff, but softly. You looked down at your boots, your fingers curling slightly around the curve of his arm.

”Definitely not,” You said with a dry laugh, “I don’t think he ever intended on me being on a team like this…Or carrying on his legacy at all, really. Especially not with how I started this…With Val and everything.” You added.

”We all do stupid things sometimes, but now you’re a part of something bigger than yourself. I’m telling you…He would’ve been very happy to see you in action.” You looked down at your feet, with a soft smile coming up on your face before nodding.

It hit you again–like it always did this time of year–that Bucky had become the closest thing you had left to family. Apart from Pepper and Morgan, he was the only one that truly stood by you. This year was different of course, especially with your new teammates, but it made you think back to how far the both of you truly came.

Because it never started that way. In fact, you didn’t think Bucky would’ve offered you the protection he did. He was quiet and watchful, always keeping people at arm’s length. But something changed at your father’s funeral.

He found you that day–after the speeches and the silence, after Pepper had walked Morgan inside of the house to make her some food and Rhodes offered his condolences. You were standing by the water, not crying, just looking out onto the way the sun was setting, wearing one of Tony’s old jackets because it still smelled like his aftershave.

You didn’t even hear Bucky approach until he was beside you, and when he spoke, it was the only thing that had cut through the fog in your brain that day.

“If you ever need anything…” He said, quietly, like it wasn’t a promise he had been planning to make, “Anything at all…I’m one phone call away. No questions asked.” You had looked up at him, surprised that he was even talking to you, especially after everything that had happened between him and your father, but all you did was give him a nod, and a thank you.

Then, four years later, when you found yourself stuck in the desert with Walker, Ava, and Yelena, after escaping the death trap that was the O.X.E. Vault, and witnessing Bob turn into a human asteroid, you had pulled out your phone and dialed his number.

You remembered the look on Walker’s face as you pulled out your phone and started dialing.

”Who the hell are you calling in the middle of the desert?” You looked up at him, shielding your phone away from him.

”My emergency contact…Someone who’s not going to let us die out here.” You muttered, putting the phone to your ear. It only had to ring once, before he picked it up.

”Y/N, hey, you think I can call you back in a few minutes.” He said, like he was in a rush, like he was packing.

”Bucky, I’m in trouble.” Walker’s face had immediately dropped, his mouth opening slightly. Yelena had seen the look, and she had whispered something to him, not understanding the visceral reaction.

“Bucky!?” Walker exclaimed, you looked over at him confused, pressing your finger to your lips–afraid that his voice would echo through the open space and gain some sort of attention possibly.

”…Y/N…Was that John Walker's voice that I just heard?” Your brows furrowed, still trying to piece together what the hell was happening.

“Y-Yeah. Listen, we don’t have time to go into details because I need to conserve my battery, but we are in a desert in Utah, and we’re lost. I need you to help me…Will you please help me?” He had already been packing his motorcycle to start making his way over after receiving a call from Mel with her coordinates, and immediately he started connecting the dots that you were somehow involved. Before the line of questioning even left his lips, he remembered what he told you at the funeral and reluctantly spoke.

”Okay. I’ll track your coordinates and be there as fast as I can, just…For the love of God stay safe.” You nodded.

”I will, I’ll see you soon…Thank you Bucky.” Then you hung up the phone.

”How the fuck do you know Bucky Barnes?!” Was the first question out of Walker's mouth.

Then all the details were out in the open for everyone to know; how you knew him, how you were Tony’s daughter, how you joined Val’s list of operatives because you felt like you wanted to do something and she offered it to keep you busy. You were surprised that your identity wasn’t known to the group, so it was a relief when they quietly gave a nod to you almost as if to say they were sorry for even asking. Then the unplanned limo pickup from Alexei had happened, which intruded on the plans a little bit and ended with you having to reset your own shoulder, but to be reunited with Bucky Barnes was a heaven sent.

“Been watching you on TV at those congress hearings, congratulations by the way.” He let out a soft laugh at that comment, adjusting your shoulder into the proper position.

”Yeah well…I guess a lot of unexpected things have happened over the past couple of years.” He said, still a bit concerned with the details on how you somehow got wrapped up in all of this. But once again, he said no questions asked and he stuck to it.

Now as you stood side by side today though, it was easy to say that he was like a father figure you never thought you would have again, and you were grateful for all of it, regardless of how it fell into place.

”…I sometimes wish he got to see me with you guys too…” You whispered, breaking the silence. Bucky glanced at you from the corner of his eye.

”I’m telling you, he would’ve liked it. Sometimes when I see you at briefings you have the same mannerisms he had, same attitude and stuff. I was never really around him but I heard stories from Steve. It’s like you’re a carbon copy of him in female form.” That drew a soft laugh out of you.

“While I do appreciate being compared to him, I can never be as good.” There was a pause, and he sighed.

”There’s no ‘good’ kid…You’re doing the best you can with the cards you’ve been dealt. And I’m proud of you, we all are, even though none of us really say it often enough.” Bucky’s words settled into your chest like something warm and grounding, something heavy in the best possible way. You blinked a few times, swallowing the knot in your throat before it could turn into something embarrassing, and that’s when an idea popped into your mind.

The two of you stood in silence for a moment longer, just breathing. Just being.

Then, slowly–almost uncertain–Bucky shifted, and his arm moved around your shoulders. He didn’t pull you in abruptly. He didn’t force the moment. It was gentle. Intentional. Like he was offering the hug, not giving it. It was something Bucky rarely did, but in a moment where comfort was needed he would push the discomfort off for you.

You leaned into it immediately.

Your arms came around his middle, anchoring yourself to the familiar weight of him. You didn’t close your eyes, but you let your cheek rest against his chest and took a breath. He smelled like leather and clean soap, and the faint trace of a piney cologne he always insisted he didn’t wear. You both stayed like that for a few beats–just enough to feel steady again.

“Thanks Buck,” You mumbled, your voice quiet.

“Anytime,” He replied, equally soft.

You pulled back, brushing your sleeve against your face subtly wiping a small tear that was forming in the corner of your eye as you stepped away.

“Alright…Enough with the sappiness…” You sighed, your tone turning a bit lighter now, “I’m heading into the city to do a bit of shopping therapy…” Bucky arched an eyebrow.

”Shopping therapy huh? Guess it’s better than drinking. And you’re going without your second shadow?” You looked at him confused.

”Who?” Bucky gave you a look, one of those deadpan, all-knowing stares.

”Bob,” He responded, “You think he’s not going to notice that you’re gone for the whole day?” A guilty grin tugged at the corner of your mouth. Everyone knew how close you were to him, but Bucky was the one person to know how deep it truly went, how much Bob actually knew about you, down to the little details, and the darkest parts.

”I slipped out while he was rinsing the glasses, I figure I’ll have about an hour of radio silence until someone calls to tell me he’s looking for me.” Bucky huffed a dry laugh through his nose, shaking his head slightly.

“I’ll shoot let him know of my whereabouts in a bit…Don’t worry.” You promised, stuffing your hands into your hoodie pocket. “Just wanted a little time to myself. Got an idea I need to run with, and I think it’ll help.”

He didn’t press for more. He never did. That was the good thing about Bucky–he could read you like a book, but he only turned the pages when you were ready.

“Well,” he said after a moment, adjusting the collar of his jacket, “Don’t get lost in any candle shops.”

“No promises.”

You turned to go, but paused halfway down the hall and glanced back. He was still standing there in front of Steve’s photo, hands back in his pockets, eyes distant. You softened.

“I’ll be back later tonight. Might be close to dinner, maybe after. But tell the others not to start movie night without me.”

Bucky nodded, glancing over his shoulder.

“They’ll wait,” He said. “I’ll make sure of it.”

You offered him a small smile–one of the rare, real ones–and gave a little wave as you turned and headed out.

The elevator doors closed behind you with a soft ding, and for the first time that day, you felt the flicker of excitement hum through your chest. You weren’t sure exactly what you were looking for yet–but you were going to find something for each of them. Something thoughtful. Something that said thank you for being here, for staying, for putting up with me.

Even if you’d never say it out loud.

———————

You had returned that night thirty minutes after dinner was wrapping up. Everyone was still mingling in the kitchen, the remnants of takeout cartons and half-eaten desserts scattered across the island, but when the elevator dinged, every head instinctively turned toward the hallway.

When the doors slid open and you stepped out–flanked by two interns struggling with your overflow of tissue-paper-filled bags–you didn’t even get a full step before you called out.

“Everyone stay in the kitchen! No peeking!” You warned, your voice commanding but playful. “I’m serious, if I catch one head in that hallway, I’m throwing dessert in the trash.”

That got a ripple of muffled laughter from the group.

“You act like we don’t eat dessert before dinner,” Yelena shouted back.

Despite your warning though, Bob didn’t get the memo.

You barely made it halfway to the living room, with the interns trailing behind you, when the sound of socked feet came pattering rapidly around the corner.

Bob appeared, cheeks flushed, his light brown hair a little mussed, his eyes wide and brimming with unfiltered concern. He wore a pair of black sweat pants and an oversized dark grey sweater that covered his broad frame, it made him look fragile and small–even though beneath his clothes it was far from the image he was trying to portray. You had caught glimpses of his body in little increments, sometimes by accident you would walk in as he was pulling on his shirt and you’d catch the lean muscles on his back flexing, once you saw his abs when he reached up to grab something, and once in a while you’d catch him with his sleeves rolled up, and you’d see the cool blue veins that rose from the planes of his forearms. Sometimes you wished you’d see more of him, but you were fine with what you had the privilege of seeing. He looked like he’d been waiting by the kitchen threshold all evening, just listening for the elevator.

“Hey—are you okay?” He asked, his voice already rushing. “I—I remembered what day it was, and I didn’t know if you wanted space or if you wanted company, but then you left without saying anything and I didn’t wanna crowd you but—”

“Bob!” You cut in quickly, spinning around to shield the bags with your body. “Close your eyes!” He startled like someone had set off a firecracker behind him.

“Sorry! Sorry!” He blurted, immediately slapping his hands over his face. “I didn’t see anything! I swear…I only saw you, not the-uh-the stuff-whatever the stuff is…”

You let out a long sigh, shaking your head as one of the interns behind you adjusted their grip on a delicate gift bag.

“Here,” You whispered to them, handing off what you were holding. “Take these into the living room...And thank you again for the help, oh and make sure the box is put in my room okay? First on the right.”

“No problem.” The intern nodded, already moving with the caution of someone who had been thoroughly briefed with the other intern trailing behind.

Once your hands were free, you turned back to Bob. He stood perfectly still with his palms mashed over his face like a kid in a surprise party gone wrong–lips pressed into a worried line, shoulders a little too rigid. You let out a soft sigh, stepping towards him–knowing you scared him a bit– and reached up for his wrists, pulling his hands away from his face slowly.

”You can open your eyes now…I didn’t mean to scare you…I just have a surprise for everyone. Sorry…” You said gently, watching as his lashes fluttered open, his eyes instantly meeting yours, with that all too familiar look–soft and worried and wired, like he had been on the edge of his seat waiting for your return.

”I-It’s okay…I was just…I was w-worried about y-you. I remembered what today was after Walker mentioned to me that you took the day off…And I felt like such an idiot f-for not che-.” Bob’s words halted immediately when your fingers touched his lips–just two of them, soft but still–to quietly tell him to stop talking. His breath caught in his throat, and you could feel the way his shoulders tensed under your touch, frozen like a deer in headlights. His eyes went wide, and then slowly his cheeks flushed a deep, unmistakable red, blooming from his cheekbones to the tips of his ears.

It was the kind of color that told you everything without a word.

You didn’t tease him for it. You didn’t move your hand right away either.

You just held his gaze, steady and gentle, letting the silence do the heavy lifting.

“I’m okay,” You whispered, your voice barely audible above the distant murmur of the others in the kitchen. “Really.”

His brows drew together just slightly, like he didn’t believe you entirely, like he was still cataloguing every detail of your expression for proof. But your hand stayed right there between you, steadying the weight that always seemed to pile up in his chest when he couldn’t fix things, or make you feel better.

You felt him breathe in–and that tiny shift, that barely-there exhale through his nose, was the signal that he heard you. That he believed you…Even if just for now.

You slowly dropped your hand, the warmth of your fingers leaving his skin with the ghost of your touch. He blinked, like coming out of a daze, and looked like he didn’t quite know what to do.

“Okay,” He said quietly. He was still flushed, avoiding your eyes, knowing that he just had to take your word for it, even though he knew how much this day was a dark reminder of what you were most ashamed of.

He only knew this because he had seen it.

In the O.X.E vault, after you, Walker, Ava, Yelena, and Bob had barely escaped the incinerator, you had all collapsed into a breathless heap in one of the elevator areas., sweaty, and rattling with adrenaline. No one celebrated. It was too soon for that. Tension still clung to the air like smoke, and the five of you were still strangers.

You had sat against a wall, jaw clenched, blinking through the pain that was radiating from your ribs. The quietness was deafening.

Yelena hadn’t moved much. She sat cross-legged on the far end of the room, her elbows on her knees, and her sharp eyes trained on Bob–who was pacing a few feet away, muttering under his breath. His hands trembled slightly, and his voice barely registered above a whisper, like he was listing something he didn’t want to forget. You couldn’t quite make out what he was saying, but just watching him pace in that mint green scrub set, made you tense up, there was just a feeling in those moments that something was wrong.

That’s when you noticed Yelena’s expression. Not skeptical. Not calculating. Just…off.

You pushed yourself to your feet, wincing as your ribs protested, and made your way toward her. She didn’t look up until you crouched beside her.

“What’s going on?” You asked, voice low, “You hurt or something?” Her eyes didn’t leave Bob, when she shook her head at your question.

“I need you to touch him.” She whispered under her breath.

“Touch who?” You asked, shifting on your feet a bit, confused at what she was saying to you.

“Bob.” Her voice was even, but her brows furrowed. “I saw something…But I need to know if I’m just going crazy or if it was real.” You could feel yourself grow more and more concerned just by how shaken up she looked.

”Yelena…What did you see?” She shook her head at you.

”Can you just go do it? Please.” You stared at her for a second longer, then nodded. You didn’t understand it, but something in her voice had pulled up, like she was scared of something. You stood up and dusted your palms off, turning around to approach Bob, who was still pacing back and forth, taking four steps before turning and doing the same towards the other side, whispering to himself still.

Walker and Ava were still talking, strategizing how you were all going to get out, and neither of them noticed when you moved past them. Bob didn’t hear you coming either, he was too wrapped up in his own storm to even see your slow approach.

”Hey,” You said gently. He startled almost immediately, his eyes snapping to you like you had dropped him in a pot of ice cold water, “Do you mind coming with me for a second?”

“I-I’m f-fine.” He replied quickly, a reflexive panic in his voice, like he had done something bad, and he was afraid of being punished. You gave him a soft smile though, almost like you knew you needed to make yourself a little less aggressive, especially after he had seen you go head to head with Walker over something so minor you couldn’t even remember..

”I know, I just want to check something, okay?” He looked down at you with such hesitation that you honestly thought he was going to say no, but even back then he had a distinct soft spot reserved for you. His eyes were an odd shade of blue that day, and you had seen distinct little flecks of what seemed to be an off yellow peering through. Back then you chalked it up to being the lighting.

”…Okay.” He whispered. You gave him a little smile, and took hold of the sleeve of his scrub top, leading him towards the side of one of the concrete pillars, just far enough to shield you both from the rest of the group. The tension in Bob’s shoulders hadn’t eased. If anything, being pulled away from the others made him more rigid, as if you were going to reprimand him.

“You hurt anywhere?” You asked, nodding toward his chest, his ribs, his shoulders.

“No…No…I mean, not really j-just some scratches and stuff b-but I’m okay, r-really.” You squinted at him, and you could see the way his breath hitched in his throat a little, like he was nervous or trying to hide something. Your eyes scanned over his dust covered face, watching him shift uncomfortably, as if being under your gaze felt like he was being smothered.

“Mind if I check?” He looked like he wanted to say no, like he wanted to tell you he was fine again so he could go back to his pacing, but instead, after a beat of hesitation, lifted his arm up slowly to you, with his palm up.

You reached forward slowly, and grabbed his hand.

Then everything slipped.

The world around you–the gritty concrete, the stale air, the faint hum of the vault’s broken systems–all vanished in an instant, replaced by heat, light, and the faint crackle of fire.

Your body didn’t move, but your heart slammed like it was being punched. You knew this place. The ruined battlefield. The shattered husk of the Avengers compound after the snap had been reversed. Twilight bleeding across rubble. Smoke curling in the air. The air was so thick it clung to your skin like regret.

You saw them–Peter, Pepper, Rhodey. All of them gathered around the figure on the ground.

And there he was.

Your father.

Collapsed. Barely breathing. The right side of his face blistered from the energy surge of the Infinity Stones. His arc reactor flickering like the dying heartbeat it had become. His mouth was slack, his breathing shallow.

He was dying.

And you were nowhere near him.

But you had been. You remembered it clearly now, clearer than ever–how you had stepped forward when they pulled him from the wreckage. How you’d seen him, gasping for air. How you’d started walking toward him and then–froze. Stopped in your tracks.

You had walked away.

The grief you’d locked down in the deepest corners of yourself–boxed and buried for years–rushed back to the surface with the brutal weight of tidal force. Your knees hit the ground in the memory, even though your body in the vault hadn’t moved.

Your chest heaved.

Because this wasn’t a memory.

This was your shame.

The moment you’d never told anyone about. The moment even Pepper didn’t know. The moment you abandoned him because you couldn’t watch the man who raised you die.

And now Bob—Bob, who you barely knew at the time—was seeing it too. Sucked into the deepest darkest secret you had. You tried to pull away, but the memory gripped you like a vice.

Tony’s eyes fluttered shut.

Peter was crying.

Pepper leaned in and whispered something too quiet to hear.

And you–you were nowhere near him. You had your hands over your mouth, hiding behind a crumbled slab of wall, like a coward. Crying silently, too ashamed to show your face.

The memory ended like a door slamming shut.

The vault came crashing back into view. Cold. Harsh. Fluorescent.

And you stumbled backward, your hand jerking away from Bob’s as if it had burned you. Your back hit the pillar, hard, and you bent over, one hand gripping your ribs like they were splitting open. You were breathing heavily, but holding back the tears, because you needed to remain strong, you had to or else you weren’t going to get out of the vault alive.

Bob didn’t say anything at first.

He just stood there, his hand still half-raised like he hadn’t realized you’d let go. His chest rose and fell unevenly, not with fear, but with something more fragile—remorse, maybe. Guilt. A kind of stunned softness that only existed in people who had never been given permission to hold something that delicate, and now had to live with the knowledge that they did.

He didn’t look at you right away. He was staring at the spot where your hand had touched his, like it still lingered there.

“I-I’m sorry…” He whispered, which caused your head to snap up at him. You had been expecting confusion. Denial. Questions, maybe. But not an apology.

“I-I don’t know how to c-control it. I didn’t mean to do it.” He said under his breath, kind of like he was muttering it to himself. The strangest thing about it all though was that you didn’t feel angry. You should have. You should’ve been furious that he’d been pulled into something so private. But there was something in the way he looked at you now–like he understood you in a way–that made your breath catch.

“Just…Don’t tell anybody about this.” You said hoarsely, wiping your nose on the back of your sleeve, as you pushed yourself up off the pillar to recover.

”I-I won’t,” He said immediately, “I’d n-never do t-that, I-I promise.” He added, and you believed him.

Even though the moment passed, even though Walker barked something from across the room and Ava told everyone to regroup, even though Bob turned to leave first to give you space–you knew in your gut that it had shifted something.

And now, standing in the present day, in the quiet hallway outside the kitchen, you realized that he really did keep that promise he made all those months ago…But that just spoke to who Bob was, and who he had always been.

——————

The lights in the compound’s living room had been dimmed for movie night, the projector humming softly behind the couch as the team shuffled in with snacks in hand.

You stood in the middle of the chaotic scene of bags and boxes, arms crossed, eyeing them as they made their way over to their designated spots that they typically claimed during movie nights. Yelena kicked her feet up onto the coffee table like it was her birthright. Walker was already grumbling at Ava for stealing the corner seat he liked to stretch out in. Alexei lumbered over with a bowl of popcorn that definitely wasn’t for sharing, and Bucky, as always, took the spot by the far armrest, the one with the clearest view of the exit. Bob lingered near the back of the couch, waiting–always waiting–until he was sure everyone else was settled before choosing a spot closest to you.

You cleared your throat, but it barely registered above the chatter that was happening around you.

”Hey!” You exclaimed, and that’s when heads turned. Walker paused mid-bite. Yelena glanced over her shoulder. Bob straightened immediately like someone had called his full name in school. Even Bucky looked up, one brow arching in curiosity. The projector hadn’t started yet, but the anticipation for the movie had everyone on autopilot. Until now.

“I, uh…” You started, then immediately hated the sound of your own voice. Awkwardly, you cleared your throat, and tried again, “Before we start the movie, I need to say something.” They sat in anticipation, thinking that you were going to announce something either tragic, or shockingly happy. Your hands fidgeted with the hem of your sleeve as you took a breath, the hush in the room now bordering on tense.

“Today’s always been a shitty day for me,” you said simply, and the honesty of it settled over them like dust. “Most of you probably figured that out. Some of you knew… or saw more than you were supposed to.” Your eyes flicked briefly toward Bob, and then back.

“But this year felt different. I didn’t want to sit with it by myself. I didn’t want to spend the day pretending it wasn’t happening just to make it easier to breathe.”

You exhaled.

“And I didn’t want to feel alone. So instead… I went shopping.”

There were a few scattered smiles at that. Ava smirked. Yelena tilted her head. Alexei made a noise that sounded like a chuckle and a snore at once.

“I got you all something. Nothing huge. Just things that made me think of you. Things I thought might make you smile. Because whether you like it or not, you’re my team now. You’re my people–my family. And I wanted to say thank you. For being here. For staying.”

You paused, blinking away the weight behind your eyes.

“For putting up with me.”

There was silence. But the kind that meant something. The kind you didn’t want to break too fast.

Then, you turned to the bags behind you and grabbed the first one.

“Ava,” you said, walking it over. “Noise-cancelling headphones and a pass to a rage room. Because, let’s be honest, we annoy the shit out of you.”

Ava cracked a genuine smile. “They better let me bring my own bat.”

“No promises.”

Next: “Yelena.” You passed her a smaller black box. “New utility belt. And some custom knives and batons I had made. Not saying you need them. But I also didn’t want to find out what would happen if you didn’t have them.”

Yelena grinned, flipping the latch open immediately. “You do love me.”

“Very much.” You replied with a smile.

“Walker,” You said, tossing him a medium-sized box that thunked heavily into his lap. “New pans, and a mini travel sized grill.”

“Thank God,” He muttered, already tearing the paper. “And they’re even better quality than the last ones.”

“Alexei.” You handed off two heavy bottles wrapped in tissue paper. “Vodka. The expensive kind.”

“Oh…Oh this is not going to survive night,” He replied, already cracking the top open.

“I figured.”

Then, you looked at Bucky.

“For you,” You said more quietly, stepping over and handing him a neatly wrapped parcel, “A metal polishing and cleaning kit, so you can stop using the dishwasher on your arm. And I got you an appointment for a bike detailing. Full job. New coat of black, too.”

He blinked slowly, surprised. “You remembered that?”

“You yelled about it for thirty minutes. I’d have to be concussed not to remember.”

He smiled. It was the small kind, but it stayed on his face longer than you expected.

You turned to Bob last, and something in your chest fluttered a little harder than you were ready for.

He was sitting upright, hands folded in his lap, trying not to look too eager, but his eyes flicked up to yours like he was bracing for impact. You walked over slowly, cradling the last item with more care than the others, and stopped just in front of him.

“This one’s for you,” You said gently, and handed him the book.

It wasn’t wrapped. No fancy paper, no ribbon–just a hardcover in a matte finish, with The Creative Act by Rick Rubin printed across the front in clean black letters.

Bob’s eyes flicked down to it. His hands moved slowly, reverent almost, as he turned the book over, like he wanted to feel the weight of it first before opening it. He ran his thumb along the edge before he finally slipped the front cover open–and there it was, tucked just inside the front page.

A handwritten note on a small square of folded paper that you had taken from Bob’s desk when you snuck in just before the movie.

Written in your slanted, slightly chaotic handwriting.

’The real gift is in your bedroom.’ Just the words alone affected him immediately.

His ears flushed red at first, before blooming down to his cheeks, and over his neck like a fire that couldn’t be put out. His eyes darted up to you, then back to the page, like he was checking to make sure if he’d read it right.

Then, with a bit too much urgency, he shut the book. Yelena was already leaning over from her seat to look at him.

”What’d you get?” She asked, her voice laced with amusement, seeing the deep blush that continued to burn on his cheeks.

”Yeah, let’s see,” Walker added, craning his neck, “It didn’t even have wrapping. What is it?” Bob shook his head quickly, holding the book close to his chest like it might be pried from him if he held it out too far from him.

”It’s…It’s j-just a book.” Everyone exchanged glances at one another, then looked over at you, then Bob.

”You’re turning that red over a book?” Ava raised an eyebrow. You watched as Bob sank slightly into himself, clutching the book like it was something far more scandalous than a hardcover on creative philosophy.

“You didn’t even open it all the way, you just opened the cover.” Yelena added.

”I-I don’t have to,” He stammered, adjusting the book in his arms, “It’s o-one Y/N and I saw at the b-bookstore a while ago that’s all.” Now all eyes turned to you. You gave a small, innocent smile.

“It really is just a book guys,” You said simply, meeting their suspicious looks with a calm ease, “Like Bob said…We saw it at the bookstore a while ago and he didn’t buy it. So I just got it for him now. No big deal.” Then you went to the couch to take up your space, looking back at Bob who was already coming to sit in the space that was available beside you. “Now…We can commence movie night.” You added, feeling Bob adjust beside you slightly, bumping his knee against yours almost like he was giving you a nudge, before settling in completely.

——————-

Eventually, everyone fell asleep in their spots apart from you and Bob.

The projector had long since gone dark, the soft white glow replaced by the quiet hush of breath and shifting limbs. The living room had become a patchwork of tangled limbs, half-eaten snacks, and drooping blankets. You and Bob sat in the warm silence at the edge of it all, knees still brushing where they’d been for the past hour.

He hadn’t opened the book again–not since that first flustered glance. But his fingers never stopped grazing the edges of the cover. He was still holding onto it carefully, like it might slip through his hands if he blinked too fast. You leaned toward him slightly, just enough so that your shoulder nudged him to get his attention.

”Hey,” You whispered. He glanced over at you, like he’s been waiting for you to say something because he was too scared to do it himself, “Wanna see your real gift now?” You asked, a small smile appearing on your lips. Bob could feel his heart pumping out of his chest as he began to overheat like a furnace.

“Y-Yeah…I mean…Y-yeah if you’re ready to s-show me.” You rose slowly, careful not to kick over a stray popcorn bowl or stir anyone from their half-snoring sprawl. Your eyes flicked briefly over the room to make sure no one was stirring—Yelena had curled into a blanket cocoon, Walker was snoring like a truck engine, and Alexei’s head had slumped against the back of the couch, drool threatening the upholstery. Bucky’s eyes were shut, but you could tell by the slight twitch in his jaw he was only pretending to sleep, which was typical for him. Turning back to Bob, you extended your hand toward him, palm open, wrist loose.

“Come on,” You whispered, just loud enough for him to hear. “Just make sure to be quiet cause if they wake up we’ll never hear the end of it.” He nodded–one firm, terrified little nod–and slid his fingers into yours. His hand was warm and clammy, but you didn’t mind the feeling. Quite honestly, you wished he did this more often, because it gave you this ease, the kind that only he truly provided. You squeezed his hand gently before tugging him up onto his feet, and he followed like you’d cast a spell over him.

You led him carefully through the living room, toes skimming across the floor like a cat, weaving between bodies and blankets until you reached the edge of the wing that led to your rooms.

The hallway was dim and quiet, the only light coming from the soft golden hue of the floor runners and the faint spill of moonlight through the high windows. You padded down the hardwood floor hand in hand, every step muffled, every breath shared. Bob stayed impossibly close to you, so close in fact that you could practically feel his breath on your neck, as if putting too much space between the both of you might make the whole moment disappear.

When you reached his door, you stopped just short of the frame and turned to him with a look that was half excitement, half warning.

“Okay, you’re gonna have to cover your eyes.” You whispered, looking up at him with one of the soft smiles you always gave him when you needed him to do something for you.

“W-What? Why?” He asked quietly under his breath, still holding onto your hand, only it was a little tighter now, probably from the nerves that were clawing away in the pit of his stomach.

“Just trust me…You won’t regret it.” Bob let out a quiet, breathy laugh–more like a whimper, really–and gave you the softest, most defeated sigh, like his heart had already left his chest and he was just trying to keep his limbs from shaking.

“A-Alright…” He whispered, leaning just a little closer to you, close enough that you could feel his breath hitting your cheeks, “Just…Just don’t let m-me trip or walk into something…Please.” You gave his hand another reassuring squeeze.

“Hasn’t happened before, and I’m not planning on letting that happen now.” You teased, before softly adding “Now…Close your eyes.” Bob obeyed, raising his free hand over his face with careful fingers, blocking his vision as if you were leading him into a sacred place rather than his own bedroom. You nudged the door open with your foot and gave his hand a gentle tug, leading him across the threshold.

You didn’t need to turn on a light.

His room always felt a little like stepping into a different plane of calm. The kind of space that knew quiet in its bones. Moonlight fell in soft silver lines across the floor through his half-open blinds, slicing the darkness into gentle pieces. The windows of his room were quite large, which was the reason why everyone assigned it to him, because if he ever had an episode and didn’t want to come out of his room, he would at least get some sunlight.

His bed was unmade, but it was clean, it always was–Bob didn’t like messes too much, and the comforter was crumpled in a way that suggested he hadn’t been able to stay still for more than a minute. His nightstand had a glass of water and a half-melted candle that still smelled faintly like lavender, which was something that he had learned calmed him through you. There were books stacked under the window. T-shirts folded too neatly on the open shelves. A jacket draped on the chair in the corner.

His room was basically a manifestation of things he picked up from you and bits and pieces of himself that he couldn’t shake. It was a perfect balance, especially when he was too scared to go to your room when you were out on missions–when he was missing you terribly.

And then–right there in the center of the room, illuminated perfectly by the soft glow spilling through the curtains–was the record player.

Matte black, sleek, minimalist. Quiet in its confidence. It sat on a low wooden console table that you had bought pre-assembled. Beside it, propped open just slightly, was a padded carrying case–and inside there were three of your records that he had constantly put on whenever he would end up in your room: Loveless by My Bloody Valentine, Last Splash by The Breeders, and Elton John’s Self Titled.

On nights like these–when you had nothing to do–Bob would come and listen to a record with you while lying on your bed. The both of you would stare at the ceiling and talk, usually it was about anything and nothing at all, that’s just how it had always been. Sometimes you guys would touch, hold hands just as a source of comfort, but it never went further than that, because neither of you wanted to possibly put the friendship in jeopardy.

Tonight would be one of those nights that you would be able to lie with him thankfully.

You looked up at Bob who was still shielding his eyes even though he was clearly trembling with anticipation. You gave the hand that was intertwined with yours one last squeeze and leaned close enough that your arms brushed.

”Alright,” You whispered, “You can open them now.” Bob’s hand dropped from his eyes like he was lifting the lid on something sacred.

And the second his gaze landed on the record player, his entire face changed.

His shoulders softened, his chest lifted like he’d just taken the first real breath in hours–and then came the smile. Wide, radiant, boyish. One that reached all the way up to his eyes and cracked something open in you.

He stepped forward slowly, like he was approaching something precious. His fingers hovered above the turntable for a moment before he crouched down in front of it, knees tucked in, head tilted with something like awe. The soft light haloed around him, catching on the strands of his hair and the curve of his jaw. You saw his lips part slightly, saw the way he swallowed thickly.

Then his sleeve came up–quick and almost sheepish–and he dabbed at the corners of his eyes with the back of his wrist. He thought you wouldn’t notice if he did it quickly but you knew his tells, and you knew when something was wrong with him. When he let out a small sniffle, you were at his side in an instant.

“Bob?” You whispered, dropping to your knees beside him, voice soft, uncertain. “Hey…What’s wrong?”

He didn’t look at you at first. Just shook his head quickly, eyes still fixed on the player.

“Nothing–Nothing’s wrong,” He said quickly, but his voice cracked halfway through. “I’m just–God–this is…It’s too much.”He whispered to himself, pressing a trembling hand to his eyes again to wipe off another set of tears.

Your brows knit together, and you lifted a hand instinctively, hovering just above his shoulder but not quite touching.

“I didn’t mean to overwhelm you, I just–”

“I love it,” He interrupted gently, finally turning to face you. His eyes were wet, his cheeks flushed, and there was that dazed smile again, wide and aching. “I love it so much.”

You let out a soft, quiet exhale, the kind you didn’t even know you were holding, relieved that you didn’t do anything wrong.

And then–without warning–he leaned into you.

Not cautiously. Not halfway.

Fully.

Bob wrapped his arms around you with all the care and all the weight of someone who had wanted to do it for a very long time. One arm slid around your lower back while the other curled protectively around your shoulders, tucking you against him like you were the only thing he could hold onto. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, and you felt his breath hitch against your neck.

You froze for just a second–stunned by the sheer intensity of it–before you melted into him. Your arms wound around his back, your hands gripping at the soft fabric of his sweater. You closed your eyes and held him, not just because you were trying to comfort him, but also because you needed it just as much as he did.

Bob breathed in deeply, inhaling your warmth, and your sweet scent–a mixture of iris and clementines. He said you smelled like summer to him once, and he stuck by that even to this day, because it was intoxicating to him, and it was you…That’s what he liked most.

Your hand drifted up slowly to the back of his neck, letting your fingers brush through his hair with a tenderness so natural it almost startled you. He didn’t flinch, or shy away, instead you felt him melt into you just a little more, like your touch was untying the knots that were within him.

“I-I’m sorry,” He murmured, his voice muffled against your shoulder, “I-I didn’t mean to cry…No one’s ever gotten me something t-this nice before.” You let out a soft huff against him, pulling back just enough so you could look at him, your fingers curling gently so you were cradling the back of his head.

”Bob…” You whispered, then smiled with a soft ache, “You don’t need to be sorry. I’m glad it means something to you…” He looked up at you with wide, glassy blue eyes, still watering slightly at the corners.

”It really…It really does…It-It means everything to me Y/N…” He replied.

A silence settled between the both of you in that moment, not awkward but charged–thick with feelings that were just cresting on the horizon. You brought your other hand up to his face, letting your thumb brush along the curve of his jaw before you dropped it to rest over his chest, right where you could feel his heartbeat drumming just under the fabric of his sweater. When you pressed a little harder you could feel the muscle flex against your touch,–a reflex from Bob.

“So…Uh…Does this mean I c-can’t come to your r-room anymore to listen to vinyls?” You raised an eyebrow at that comment, leaning in just a little so your noses were almost touching, as you allowed the edge of your voice to dip playfully.

”Actually…It’s an excuse for me to come in here once in a while.” He was taken aback by your comment, but it had hit him like a lightning bolt.

His mouth parted slightly, eyes locking with yours as if you just upended gravity. You could see when it fully clicked for him–what it meant, what you wanted it to mean. The warmth in his face scattered deeper now, but this time, he didn’t look away.

”W-Well then…I-I think you should use that e-excuse…A-All the time then.” You tilted your head a bit, a smirk coming up on your lips, realizing what he was giving back now.

”All the time hm?” He nodded, keeping his eyes glued to yours, his pupils dilating slightly to adjust more to the darkness, and to take more of you in.

”A-As much as you want Y/N...Every n-night even i-if you want.” Your heart fluttered–too loud, too strong–but you didn’t let it show except for the little smile that cracked wide across your face. You slid your hand up to the collar of his sweater, your thumb running along the thin skin on his neck.

“Well,” You said, leaning in, “Why don’t we start now then…” Bob didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

Because the second those words left your lips–why don’t we start now then–the air between you changed. Like it folded in on itself. Like the gravity in the room evaporated completely and every ounce of tension that had lived in stolen glances and almost-touches finally snapped tight, pulling the two of you together like you’d never really meant to be apart in the first place.

Your lips found his.

Soft. Certain. Slow at first–just a press. Just a whisper of something that had been waiting so long to be real. Bob shuddered under you, like every nerve in his body had lit up at once. His hands came up instinctively, almost blindly—one settling on your waist, the other cradling the curve of your back like he was afraid you’d vanish.

But you didn’t.

You kissed him again.

And again.

Breathing into each other between the spaces. Your mouths never fully parted–they just shifted, adjusted, and learned. His lips moved with yours like he was starved for the taste, like he had imagined it so many times but never dared to believe he’d ever actually feel it. You felt his breath catch in the back of his throat, felt the way he tensed, and then eased, melting into it like he finally believed it was happening.

When you moved closer to him Bob let out the softest gasp into your mouth, it was barely a sound, but it still hit you like an electric current. You deepened the kiss, tilting your head as your hands slid higher into his hair. You gripped at the soft strands and gave them a gentle tug, just enough to guide his head back just a little–earning a low, breathless sound, stealing it straight out of his chest.

With trembling strength, Bob shifted, pulling you with him slowly until you were in his lap, your knees sliding on either side of his thighs, straddling him. His hands gripped at your hips, thumbs pressing into the fabric of your shirt like you were something holy to him. When your weight settled over him completely it made Bob feel like the world had gone totally quiet–like he could live in this moment and never need anything else for survival.

You pulled back just enough to breathe, your forehead resting against his as your fingers brushed his flushed cheeks. Bob’s lips were still parted, his breath coming in soft, stuttered exhales that fanned across your mouth. His hands had stilled on your hips, still holding you like he was scared to grip too tightly, like if he held too hard you might vanish again.

“Is this okay?” you whispered, voice low and weighted with something deeper than just desire. Bob nodded immediately, so fast it was almost a flinch.

“Y-Yeah,” He breathed, “Y-Yeah, anything you want–just–God, I want you to take whatever y-you want.”

You smiled, touching your nose to his briefly, before leaning back enough to sit upright on his lap. Bob’s hands stayed where they were, unmoving, as if he was afraid to go any further unless you guided him. And you would. Because this was yours to take if you wanted it–and he had already given it so freely.

Your hands slipped to the hem of your shirt, and you pulled it over your head in one smooth motion. The fabric whispered over your skin as it came off, and you dropped it onto the floor beside you without looking away from him.

Bob’s breath hitched.

You were wearing a thin, slate-colored bra–and barely anything between your body and the chill in the air. The moonlight caught on the curve of your breasts and the subtle rise and fall of your breathing, but it also revealed more than just your skin.

Faint, jagged lines kissed across your ribs and shoulders. Scars from old missions, burns, nicks, remnants of the life you’d led before this–before the Thunderbolts. Each one a story you rarely told. Some puckered. Some silver. A few newer, still healing. They caught the light and glimmered in ways they never had before–because now, someone was really looking at them. You saw Bob’s eyes flicker down over them like he was cataloging each one with the kind of care and thoughtfulness that made your throat tighten.

And then there was the necklace.

Stark tech. Thin chain. Sleek design. The pendant was small, flat, shaped like a coin and glowing faintly from within–pulse blue, soft as breath. It had been a gift from Tony. A prototype for a fail-safe, disguised as a keepsake. Only a few people in the compound even knew it wasn’t just jewelry. You never explained it, never offered context. But you didn’t move to hide it now

His eyes lifted again–tentative, trembling–and met yours. You saw the way he swallowed hard, saw the way he tried to stop himself from looking lower, like he didn’t want to disrespect the moment. But his gaze dropped again anyway, helpless against the gravity of you. He didn’t speak. He couldn’t. He looked stunned.

“I know,” You murmured, softer this time, like you were trying to soothe the bashful panic behind his wide-eyed stare. “It’s a lot.”

“No–n-no, it’s not–” Bob’s voice cracked as he tried to sit up straighter, his hands tightening a little on your hips. “You’re–God, you’re beautiful, and it’s e-everything I imagined.” You tilted your head to the side, a teasing glint blooming behind your eyes as you traced your fingers slowly up his arms.

”You’ve imagined this?” You asked, voice light but thick with hea, watching Bob’s entire face turn a deeper shade of red in the moonlight, like he was caught committing a crime. His lips parted as he scrambled for a respectful response, but you didn’t give him a chance. You leaned in, lips hovering just above his, your breath slipping into his mouth as you whispered, “What else have you imagined?” Bob exhaled shakily, the sound brushing your mouth. His hands flexed unconsciously on your hips as though trying to ground himself–like if he didn’t hold onto you, he might drift right out of the moment.

“I’ve…” He whispered, his voice barely audible over the heavy breathing the both of you were doing, “T-Thought about touching you…Like t-this.” He began to kiss the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, leaving a trail of heat and wetness from his lips all the way down to your neck, before he opened his mouth against you, right below your ear, placing a lingering kiss that made you push your chest against his with the heat that curled around you.

“I’ve t-though about what your s-skin would feel against m-mine,” He murmured, trembling as his lips traced the column of your throat, “And how you would sound i-if I kissed you h-here…” He added, placing a kiss against your pulse point, listening to the small sigh that escaped your mouth.

His breath was shaky against your neck as his lips lingered at the little patch of skin that thumped against his touch, his nose brushing against the soft dip of your throat while his hands remained firmly planted on your hips–too still, too solid, like he didn’t trust himself to move without falling apart.

But then, as if pulled by some gravitational force he could no longer fight, one of his hands slid upward. Slowly. Tentatively. Fingertips brushing over the hem of your bra, skimming your ribs, following the curve of your waist until they reached the delicate strap resting on your shoulder. His knuckles trembled, but his touch was impossibly gentle, as if even the fabric you wore deserved to be worshipped.

He kissed your jaw again–open-mouthed, soft–and then you felt the light tug at your shoulder as he slipped the strap down. The fabric eased across your skin with a quiet drag, and you shivered beneath it, watching the way his eyes followed the path like it was sacred scripture.

His lips returned to your skin, grazing over the hollow of your collarbone before whispering into it–so quiet you almost didn’t catch it.

”C-Can I look?” You nodded.

”Yes…Of course.” You whispered. His hand twitched where it rested at the curve of your spine, and then, with a sort of hesitance that nearly broke you, he slid his hand up to the clasp of your bra, his fingertips brushing clumsily along them, missing the latch twice. You couldn’t help but smile at the fumbling, as he let out a breathy, nervous laugh against your skin, while his forehead dropped to your shoulder in a sheepish show of surrender.

”I-I swear I’m trying,” He murmured, the corners of his lips curling up. You laughed with him, soft and unhurried, before pressing a kiss to his temple.

“I’ve got it,” You said, reaching one arm behind yourself with practiced ease. The clasp gave one tiny click and you slid the loose straps down your arms, letting it join your t-shirt that was beside you. When you straightened back up, bare now in the soft glow of the moonlight, Bob didn’t move at first, he just stared.

Not in a greedy way, not in the way you were used to being looked at, it was with such desire and want it made your stomach turn. Like he was trying to memorize the details of your body so when he closed his eyes he’d be able to picture it.

His hands slid up slowly from your waist, palms wide, cautious, and trembling just slightly as they moved to trace along your ribs. His thumbs brushed upward–barely skimming the outer swell of your breasts–before he let out a long, shaky breath and leaned in. His lips pressed to the curve of your breast, just above your heart, and you felt the sigh leave him as he held you like you were something holy.

You curled your fingers into his hair, watching him.

“Bob…” You whispered, but it was barely a sound.

He lifted his head just long enough to meet your gaze. His cheeks were flushed, his lips already kiss-bitten and pink.

“I-I’ve imagined this so many times,” He said softly, almost apologetically. “But it never felt like this. I-It never felt this real.”

And then his mouth returned to your skin–this time lower.

He kissed across the top of your breast, then the underside, open-mouthed, so gentle you almost whimpered. His tongue barely grazed, only enough to tease, to taste. You felt the warmth of him, the way he held one breast up in his hand with delicate fingers while he mouthed softly at the other. You gasped when his lips closed over your nipple, sucking gently, and your back arched toward him without meaning to.

You slid your hands beneath the hem of his sweater, then under his shirt, fingers meeting hot, bare skin. He jumped slightly at the sudden contact, pulling back from your chest just enough to pant softly against it.

“C-Cold hands,” He whispered breathlessly, grinning faintly against your skin even though his whole body was burning with heat. “Or maybe I’m j-just really warm…” You laughed again, low and soft.

“You are, I think I can even feel your blood boiling.” You joked, keeping your hands under his shirt, palms smoothing across his back and up over the planes of his stomach and chest. You could feel how solid he was beneath you–not just strong, but sensitive, pliant, like he wanted to give all of himself over to your hands, your mouth, your gaze.

And he did.

Bob went back to your breasts, now kissing them between worshipful sighs and breathless, choked words.

“You’re so…So soft,” He murmured against your skin, his lips brushing your sternum. “So warm… I didn’t know it could feel like this. I-I didn’t know it could feel this good just…Just to be close to you...”

You felt a swell of something tender and aching crash into your chest.

You cupped his jaw, tilting his face up so he’d look at you. And he did with red-cheeks, wide-eyes, and lips that were still shining faintly from the saliva that coated them. And then you leaned in again and kissed him—deeper this time. Slower. You pushed your tongue into his mouth, tasting him, letting him taste you.

His arms wrapped tighter around your waist again and this time, he moved.

“C-Can I…” He panted into the kiss, “Can I bring you to t-the bed?”You nodded against his lips.

“Yes, Bob. Please.” He stood slowly, hands steadying you as he rose, and then–without any real effort at all–he lifted you into his arms. You clutched at his shirt as your legs wrapped instinctively around his waist, a soft gasp leaving your lips.

”Jesus, sometimes I forget you’re a superhuman basically…” He laughed–nervous but proud that he surprised you with his strength.

”I d-don’t really show it off, so I don’t b-blame you for forgetting.” He murmured, as his skin continued to heat up against you. He walked the two of you the short distance to the unmade bed and lowered you gently onto the cold sheets.

But instead of climbing on top of you, he slid in beside you, curling close–not out of hesitation, but intimacy.

You turned onto your side, your body instinctively seeking him, and hooked one leg over his hip, bringing your thigh around him and pulling him in. The moment he was close enough, you kissed him again–your hands sliding up into his hair, fingers threading through the soft brown strands at the back of his head.

Immediately, he melted into the kiss, groaning softly into your mouth–barely audible, but it vibrated through your chest, and curled low in your stomach– where the tension began to build. Your lips moved against each other in a rhythm that felt like it had been written in the marrow of your bones, like the both of you belonged there together in that moment.

And then Bob pulled back–just enough to look at you. His pupils were blown wide, eating away at the lush blue, his lips were wet and parted as he breathed shallowly, trembling slightly.

”I-I wanna feel everything,” He whispered.

Then with a move that felt bolder than anything he’d ever done, he pulled at the collar of his sweater, pulling it off. The hem dragged over his head, catching slightly on his hair before he tossed it aside, his t-shirt following soon after–slightly rumpled and damp from how hot he was getting.

The moonlight etched the shape of him–slender but strong, pale skin kissed splashed with little drops of freckles and barely-there scars. You saw the muscles move under the skin of his stomach when he breathed in, saw the way his chest rose and fell like he was trying to stay steady in a storm of want.

He slid his arm under your neck and around your shoulders, pulling you close, gathering you into the crook of his body like he needed every inch of contact. Your leg stayed hooked over his waist, your hips now pressed firmly together, heat and need blooming where your bodies touched.

His hand slid slowly down your spine, palm wide, curling gently around the dip of your lower back.

And then he kissed you again.

It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t rushed. It was molten. Deep. Slow and desperate.

You could feel the way his lips moved with a kind of hunger that didn’t want to consume you–it wanted to worship every inch of you.

As your tongues brushed, you shifted your hips, rolling gently against the line of his thigh. His breath hitched, a surprised little gasp breaking the kiss.

And then his knee shifted.

He tilted his leg slightly between yours, giving you the perfect angle to move against him–and you did. Slowly at first. Just the press of your body rocking into his. You moaned softly against his lips as you rolled your hips again, dragging yourself along him with just the right amount of pressure. It wasn’t loud, but it vibrated between your mouths, slipping into him like a secret you wanted him to feel in his bones.

His lips barely touched yours now–just ghosting–warm and open and trembling, like he was terrified to break the moment. You breathed in at the same time he exhaled, your lips parting in tandem, and it felt like you were drinking each other in. Breath passed between you in small, shared gasps, heat curling where mouths nearly met, where words became vapor.

“Bob…” You whispered into him, and his name felt like silk on your tongue.

The air between your mouths wasn’t even air anymore. It was communion. Heat. Exchange. Like you were tethered by the sheer force of needing each other. His nose brushed yours. Your foreheads pressed together. His breath hit your tongue before it hit his own lungs.

And still–you craved Bob’s touch even more.

You reached between your bodies, your fingers skimming over his wrist before curling around it gently. His pulse jumped under your touch.

You guided his hand down until his knuckles met the waistband of your sweatpants. His breath faltered.

“I need more…” You whispered, voice raw and low–on the brink of begging, “Please…”

Bob didn’t speak at first. He just nodded, quickly like that word please had been carved into him. Then, with trembling fingers, he tugged at the tie of your sweatpants, undoing the bow with care, like he was unwrapping something sacred.

As he did, your fingers slipped down to the tie of his–mirroring him. Equal.

He froze just a little.

“W-What…What are you doing?” he asked, voice cracking like a matchstick in the dark.

Your hand kept working the knot, lips hovering over his, your nose brushing his as you breathed:

“I don’t want to be the only one being touched like this.” His eyes fluttered shut for a moment, jaw tightening, chest rising as he tried to hold himself together. But your voice–your need–had undone him completely. He nodded again, slower this time, gaze trailing down to where your hands were now at each other’s waistbands.

And then you both moved.

It wasn’t graceful–no art to it. Just need. Just fumbling, frantic hands pushing sweatpants down over hips, wriggling out of the fabric together in a tangle of half-laughs and sharp breaths and grazes of skin.

Your legs kicked the soft fabric off the edge of the bed and his did the same.

And then you were back–wrapped around each other again. The arm beneath your head pulled you in slowly, as his hand splayed between your shoulder blades, fingers curling slightly like he needed to grab onto something to keep him in the moment. Your thigh returned to his hip, locking yourself into him, and the kiss you shared was now pure fire. It was teeth and tongue and breath and a low, desperate sound torn straight from his throat.

You kissed him like you couldn’t get deep enough. Like you’d climb inside his chest if he let you. And he would. He would.

His hand slid up the back of your neck and into your hair as your mouth’s finally slowed, pulling back slightly to breathe. Your lips stayed apart for him, letting a whisper of space between you.

Your noses touched. His forehead pressed to yours. And when you opened your eyes, he was already staring–flushed and wide and wrecked in the most beautiful way.

Then Bob’s hand moved. Slowly. Purposefully.

He brought it to your mouth, two fingers extended–not tentative, but gently.

“Let me,” He whispered.

You nodded, opening your mouth just a little more for him. You took his fingers in without hesitation, wrapping your tongue around them, wetting them with slow, deliberate passes. His eyes fluttered closed, his breath shaking as you sucked softly–just enough to coat them in warmth.

When he withdrew, he immediately slid his hand down. Beneath your underwear.

And when his fingers found you–hot, wet, already aching for him–he moaned into your cheek.

“Oh, God…” Was all he could choke out, as he slid through your arousal, slow and careful, dragging every drop of slickness to your clit in gentle circles. You gasped–your whole body arching forward into him, closing your eyes at the sensation of his fingers against you.

Your hand moved too now–down his chest, over the soft lines of his abdomen–until your hand slipped beneath the waistband of his briefs. He hissed at the contact, his forehead dropping to your shoulder.

You found him hard and hot in your hand, thick and twitching under your fingers as you wrapped around him, stroking slow. Just once. Just enough to feel him jump in your palm.

Bob groaned, low and guttural against your skin.

You both moved together, hands working in tandem–your touch on him firm and steady, his fingers stroking you in slow circles until he dipped one inside. Then another. Stretching you gently, curling just enough to make your breath catch, your thighs tremble.

The bed creaked softly beneath you as the both of you writhed beneath each others hands

Skin to skin. Mouth to mouth. You moved together like a tide pull–rocking, gasping, fingers slipping and sliding against one another.

Bob adjusted himself slightly, pressing closer to you, before moving his fingers quicker now–they were still gentle, but there was more purpose to his movements. Like he couldn’t help it. Like your body had hypnotized him into doing exactly what you needed him to do, and his only job was to listen. The pads of his fingers pressed and curled inside you, while his thumb circled your clit with more pressure than before, and the sensation that came from this change bloomed in sharp and immediate trembles.

You gasped–high and sudden–your head tilting back into the solidness of his arm that was wrapped around the back of your neck. Your hand that was wrapped around him, stilled. You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

It was too much.

Your free hand flew to his shoulder, fingers digging in, nails curling against the slope of muscle. You clung to him like he was the only thing anchoring you to the bed, to the moment, to yourself.

Bob’s breath caught as he felt you seize around him, as he watched your eyes flutter and your mouth part in a soundless moan that finally broke into a quiet, desperate whimper. His name left your lips like a secret you’d never told anyone else–torn from the center of you. He could feel it, the way your body trembled against him, the way your muscles clenched around his fingers in tight, rhythmic pulses.

And he watched.

He watched you come undone with a look of sheer awe painted across his face. His lips parted slightly, eyes fixed on yours, and then on your mouth, like he couldn’t decide what was more beautiful: the way you looked when you fell apart, or the sound of his name when you did.

Your brows furrowed with the force of it, your thighs tightening around his hips, your breath breaking apart like waves crashing on rock.

Bob didn’t stop—not until he felt you ride the last crest of it, your body softening again beneath him. And when you finally blinked, eyes unfocused and lips still parted, he leaned forward and kissed your cheek. Reverent. Almost trembling.

He withdrew his fingers slowly, gently, like he didn’t want to startle you after such a fragile, shattering moment. You shivered at the loss, and he whispered something into your skin—too soft to make out. But his breath was warm. His lips were warm.

And then he pulled back just enough to meet your gaze.

His hand hovered between you, the slick still glistening faintly in the low light. But he didn’t wipe it away. He just looked at you like you were the most divine thing he’d ever seen.

“C-Can I take these off?” He asked, his voice thick with longing, with excitement, with the weight of everything he was holding back.

His hand ghosted over the band of your underwear, waiting.

You nodded slowly, still breathless, still catching your bearings.

”Yes…Yes please…Please just do what you want to me Bob…I’m already yours.” The moment those words left your lips, one thing inside Bob snapped like a wire that had been wrapped too tight. It wasn’t in a wild, unruly way though. No–this was quiet, controlled, but powerful.

His breath shuddered in his chest as he surged forward to kiss you harder this time, deepening it almost instantly. It was desperate but gently, like he needed to pour all the feelings he couldn’t say into your mouth, into the space between your teeth and tongue and breath.

As he kissed you, his fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your underwear, dragging the last barrier down slowly, reverently. His knuckles skimmed your thighs, your hips, the swell of your backside. The fabric clung slightly, then surrendered, pooling around your knees before you helped kick it away.

Bob’s hand dipped next to his own waistband, and you could feel the moment he slid his briefs off. The subtle lift of his hips. The faint brush of heat and bare skin against yours. He was pressed close now–every inch of him.

And when you looked down between your bodies, when your eyes caught the sight of him fully bared–his length flushed light red and thick, curving slightly, the tip glistening with need–you felt heat flood every nerve in your body. The moment was more than just physical. It was overwhelming. He was ready, so ready, not just in body but in soul, in the way he looked at you like you were gravity and breath and sky all at once.

Bob swallowed hard, as if he could feel you seeing all of him, as if the intimacy of being witnessed so completely was almost too much to bear.

But he didn’t look away.

Instead, he shifted–slowly, carefully–until he was over you. His hands pressed into the bed on either side of your body, muscles tense as though he were anchoring himself to the world. You welcomed him with a soft sigh, parting your legs wider to cradle his hips, letting him settle into the space that had always been meant for him–since the day you realized you wanted him like this.

He leaned down first–pressing a kiss to your chest. Right between your breasts. Then another to the slope of one, then the other. Then higher. His lips grazed your sternum, your collarbone, the hollow of your throat. Each kiss was warm, slow, and sacred.

By the time his mouth found yours again, you were breathless from just the journey of it.

He kissed you with everything. Not just hunger, but reverence. Like your lips were a language he’d studied for years but only just learned how to speak.

And then–without a word–he reached for your hand.

You let him take it easily, watching the way his long fingers wrapped around yours. He brought it up gently, pressing it down into the mattress beside your head, his grip secure but soft–like he wanted to hold you in place but never trap you.

That one motion nearly undid you.

It wasn’t restraint.

It was his way of closeness. The kind that made you feel tethered to him, like your bodies weren’t just aligned–they were entwined, they were marking. Like they were made to be this close. Built for this level of intimacy for only each other.

His forehead rested against yours again. You could feel every exhale fan across your lips.

“I wanna go slow,” He whimpered, voice breaking like dusk light through the curtains. “I wanna…Wanna feel all of you…Every second of you…”

You reached your free hand up to his face, and your thumb brushed across his cheekbone, slow and tender, like you were tracing the edge of a secret only you were allowed to know. His skin was warm beneath your touch–warmer than it had ever been–and you could feel the tremble in his breath as he waited, eyes searching yours like they were the only compass he had left.

“And I want you to lose yourself in me.” You replied. His eyes fluttered shut, and for a moment he just breathed like your words had cracked something open in his chest. When he looked at you again, there was something new behind his expression–like awe and fear had melted into devotion.

“If anything becomes too much, you have to tell me…” He said, voice almost broken with the weight of care. You nodded, but your hand tightened in his.

”It won’t…But I promise if it does I will tell you.” He dipped his head lower again, as if he couldn't bear the space between your mouths any longer, and pressed a kiss to your lips again absorbing the softness of them, the warmth. Your hand threaded through his hair, fingertips curling at the nape of his neck, guiding him so he was pressed right against you.

And then–his hand moved down between your bodies. You felt the slow drag of his palm against the outside of your thigh, then the careful slide of his fingers as he reached down and guided himself to you. He breathed out when he felt you coat him, your wetness catching on every ridge of him as he slid himself against your entrance–once, twice, gathering all of you onto him. His body twitched with restraint. His jaw clenched. He pressed his forehead harder against yours as if the contact was the only thing keeping him from breaking apart entirely.

The moment he pushed in, your bodies stopped breathing.

Your mouth parted with a gasp–sharp and soft–as he sank into you slowly, inch by inch, until you felt your body stretch and adjust to every curve of him. Bob choked on a breath the second he felt your warmth take him in, his face screwing up in something between a sob and a moan. His forehead pressed harder against yours, like if he moved any other way he’d fall apart.

“God–oh, God…” He whispered, voice ragged and frayed at the edges. “Holy…You’re…You’re so” He couldn’t finish the sentence. He was too overwhelmed by the feel of you wrapped around him, every pulse and tremble drawing him deeper into the haze of you.

Your hand clenched tighter in his, and you felt the way his fingers locked with yours, grounding himself with your grip as he bottomed out. A low, aching sound slipped from your throat and caught in the space between your lips, and you felt it shake against his mouth as he kissed you again–slow, reverent, his tongue barely brushing yours as he tried to breathe.

“You’re doing so good,” You whispered into him, your voice like silk over fire. “Just stay right there. Just let me feel you…”

He whimpered at that, a broken noise into your mouth, like the praise undid him. He didn’t move–couldn’t, not yet at least. He was just holding himself there, buried inside you, feeling the way your body fluttered around him.

“I-It’s like…Like you’re pulling me apart,” He said, breathless. “And putting me back together all at once…”

His hand left yours slowly, reluctantly, fingers sliding down your wrist with a feather-light touch as he reached for your thigh. You felt it happen in stages–the way his hand cradled the back of your knee, the way he gently guided your leg up higher on his waist, opening you up further, angling himself deeper.

The shift made your breath catch. He slid in even further, the new position sending a wave of pressure right through your core, and you gasped into his mouth. Bob groaned–breathlessly low, lost—and his hips jolted forward once, like he couldn’t help himself.

You could feel him trembling above you, his hand still gripping your thigh like it was the only thing anchoring him to the planet.

“I need…” he murmured into your neck, voice barely coherent, “Need to be closer—need to feel all of you.”

“You are,” You whispered back, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, holding him close. “You’re already in every part of me.”

He rocked into you, slow at first–agonizing in its care–like he wanted to memorize every detail, every sound you made when he moved. Your bodies stayed pressed together, chest to chest, lips to jaw, gasps shared like breathless secrets.

And then you reached up.

You cupped his face, thumbs brushing over his cheeks, until your fingers slid gently into his mouth. Bob’s eyes fluttered open, glassy and stunned–and then he groaned, low in his chest, as he closed his lips around them.

You watched him–watched his lashes flutter, his breath hitch, the way his hips stuttered forward harder now, more desperate, like the taste of you on his tongue had undone something deep and buried inside him.

You moaned at the sight of it–at the way he sucked your thumbs, not rough, but with such reverence you almost passed out, on the brink of obedience.

You slipped your thumbs from his mouth slowly, watching the glossy string of saliva stretch and catch in the moonlight like silk spun from reverence. Bob’s lips stayed parted, his breath hot against your fingers, his tongue brushing the edge of one thumb as you pulled it away. And then, without breaking the contact, you trailed the damp touch down his jaw–soft, deliberate, leaving a glistening line in its wake.

His whole body stilled.

You felt him twitch inside you, felt the sharp inhale he tried and failed to control. And then your fingers tilted his chin up.

“Look at me,” You whispered, your voice low and rich with everything you couldn’t say with words alone. His eyes lifted to yours like he was coming up for air, like your gaze was the only thing keeping him from dissolving into the moment completely. He looked wrecked–beautifully so. Lips kiss-bruised, cheeks flushed to the tips of his ears, pupils swallowing the blue of his eyes completely now. You could see every flicker of awe in his expression, every ounce of need, of surrender. You brushed your fingers along the edge of his jaw, then swept them up into his hair, pushing the sweat-dampened strands from his forehead with aching tenderness. His breath caught when you did it, like your touch alone unraveled something buried too deep for him to reach.

“You’re doing so good…You feel so good inside me, Bob.” You whispered, voice like velvet as your thumbs stroked the sides of his face. His hips stuttered forward—once, then again. A trembling gasp slipped from his throat as he sank in deeper, the pace no longer slow but no less careful. It was desperate now. Steady and aching. Each thrust felt like it was pulled from the center of him, like he was trying to carve himself into your body—leaving a part of his soul there.

The sound of skin meeting skin filled the room in soft, rhythmic slaps. Your breathing hitched with each one, your legs tightening around his hips to pull him in, to keep him close. You could feel how badly he was trying to keep control, how every movement was threaded with reverence and restraint. But his body–his need–was beginning to override his fear.

And you wanted that.

“Don’t hold back,” You said between soft gasps, brushing his hair back again, curling your fingers against his neck. “I want you to give it to me. Everything.”

His face twisted like he was going to cry. He dipped down and kissed you hard, and sloppily, like he was already too far gone to keep it clean. His tongue slipped into your mouth, searching for yours, and when he found it, he moaned into the kiss like he’d been starving for it. He fucked you through it–deeper now, faster–his hips rolling in a way that had your head falling back onto the pillows.

“Oh God…Oh–fuck–Bob,” You whined, your nails raking lightly down his back. He gasped at the sharp drag, chasing the friction because he liked the burn it brought him.

“I-I’m s-sorry,” He choked, voice breaking as his thrusts grew uneven. “I can’t—I can’t slow down—I n-need—”

”No…Fuck. Don’t apologize you feel so fucking good. Please––Please don’t fucking stop.” You interrupted, desperate now, feeling your stomach twisting into knots. He dropped his forehead against yours again, lips brushing yours with every breath, and drove into you harder. Deeper. Each movement was more desperate, more pleading, as if his body was trying to reach some part of you his words couldn’t. The bed shifted beneath you, the frame creaking, but neither of you noticed. Not when it felt like your souls were colliding.

You felt everything building again, fast–hot and coiled and pulsing at the center of you.

“Bob…” You whimpered, your voice cracking with need, “I-I’m close, I’m so close…” His eyes met yours again–blown wide, glassy, nodding.

“I-I’m gonna come too,” He panted, and then the question tumbled out of him, desperate and ragged–“Where—Where do you want me to…?”

Your body trembled.

“In me,” You breathed, cupping his cheek again, pulling him close, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Inside me, Bob. I want to feel it dripping out of me all day tomorrow.”

And that was it.

Bob cried out–barely a sound, more of a broken whimper–and buried himself to the hilt inside you. His hips stilled with a violent shudder, and then he came. You felt the heat of it, the way his body jerked as he pulsed inside you, moaning your name like it was the only prayer he knew. His arms locked around you, trembling as he held you through it.

And then–seconds later–you followed.

You clenched around him as your body went tight, your back arching off the bed, your lips parting in a soundless cry that turned into a whimper of his name. He felt you come around him, fluttering, pulsing, your legs tightening around his waist as your body shook with the force of it.

He kissed you through the aftershocks–soft and slow now. Like a thank you. Like an apology. Like he was still trying to give you more even after he’d already given you everything. Then he collapsed into your arms, chest heaving, lips brushing against your throat with such tenderness you were beginning to feel overwhelmed by how much he truly cared about you.

And then–out of nowhere–you laughed. It wasn’t loud or mocking. It was soft, breathy, and stunned.

“W-What? What did I––Did I do something?” He asked, lifting his head quickly, eyes wide and flushed with concern. You reached up, still giggling as your fingers gently swept the hair off his forehead.

”No,” You said with a smile so wide your cheeks ached, “No, it’s nothing like that, it’s just…I can’t believe we didn’t do this sooner.” You could see the relief in Bob’s eyes when you said it, as he let out the softest laugh. A breathless, giddy kind of noise.

”I-I was so scared to mess the friendship up…” He admitted, his nose brushing yours again, voice low and shy, “But I’ve wanted you for so long…” You nodded.

”I know,” You whispered, kissing his cheek, “Me too Bob.” He let the moment linger for a heartbeat longer, then shifted slightly, wincing as he carefully pulled back. You gasped quietly at the sensation of him slipping out, a hot flutter leaving your core in the wake of it. You tightened your thighs reflexively as you sighed, and Bob caught the look on your face instantly.

“Are you okay?” He asked, concerned now, pushing your hair back from your forehead.

”Just a bit sore,” You admitted, cheeks flushed, “It’s been a while since I…Y’know.” Bob nodded, slowly getting up from the bed, pulling on the boxers he had on before.

”I’ll be right back–I’m gonna grab a warm washcloth, okay?” He said gently, giving you a gentle kiss on your lips, “Don’t move.” You smiled at him.

”Okay.” You whispered, watching his silhouette pad across the room and disappear into the bathroom, as he turned on the pale white light. You could hear the gentle rush of water, the sound of the towel drawer sliding open, and the rustle of cloth.

He returned a minute later, stopping at his dresser to pull a pair of boxer shorts and one of his old, soft t-shirts, before making his way back to you.

“A-Alright,” He whispered, setting the clothes beside you as he kneeled back onto the bed, “You tell me if anything hurts…Okay?” You nodded, watching as he eased your thighs open. You winced slightly at the sting, but bit back a gasp. He brought the cloth between your legs and cleaned you carefully, delicately, like every part of you was sacred. The warmth helped a bit with the soreness thankfully, so now all you felt was the euphoria of the come down.

Once he finished, he set the cloth on the bedside table, then helped ease the boxers up your legs. They were soft and loose around your thighs, a simple comfort, as you lifted your hips slightly to help. He then tugged the shirt gently over your head, guiding your arms through the sleeves with a kind of tender concentration like he was worried he might do it wrong.

When it was all done he let out a soft sigh, one full of warmth and the heavy pull of contentment. You were blissed out, sore in a way that felt good. And he was still looking at you with such admiration it made your heart race.

You lifted your arms in front of you.

The motion was simple–gentle, slow, but deliberate. An offering. A request. And Bob’s entire body reacted to it like it was instinct. He didn’t say anything–didn’t need to. His shoulders dipped forward as he crawled up into your arms, letting himself be folded against your chest, nuzzling in like he was coming home. He was careful, even now–making sure his weight didn’t press too much into your legs, tugging the thin top sheet off the corner of the bed before wrapping it loosely around both of your bodies.

He laid his head on your chest, just over your heart, and you felt him exhale fully for what might’ve been the first time all night. His arm slipped around your waist, his other hand curling loosely over your ribs as he pressed his cheek to the center of you, listening.

You held him close, your arms winding around his shoulders, fingers sliding gently into his hair, brushing slowly along his scalp in lazy, thoughtful strokes. He hummed–barely a sound, more of a breath–but it vibrated softly into the shirt you wore.

The sheet was thin, barely a whisper of fabric between you and the cooling air, but you didn’t need more than that. Not when you had this. The weight of him. The heat of him. Bob tilted his face slightly, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the fabric at the underside of your breast, where your heartbeat fluttered near the surface. You smiled at him, your hand stroking down the back of his neck, feeling the way he melted into you even further.

“Y-You’re amazing Y/N…” He whispered, “And I’m so…So in love with you.”

[lovableapocalypse]

scar tissue

dr. jack abbot x female!resident!reader

wc: 2k

summary: an unexpected patient arrives in the er and turmoil arises

warnings: medical inaccuracies, mentions of injuries and medical procedures, mentions of alcohol abuse aka reader has a shitty alcoholic dad who yells, mentions of brief sexual content but nothing explicit (mdni!), power dynamic in relationship/reader is a 3rd year resident jack is an attending, unspecified age gap, wrote this at 4am

a/n: this is soooo inspired by greys specifically the scenes where meredith's mom is a patient at sgh and then the mark and lexie (deleted?) scene of them after the shooting. i struggled a lot with the ending of this one so sorry if it sucks lol. hope you like and enjoy and thank you guys for all the love

Tonight’s shift hadn’t been too wild, but you would never risk speaking the words aloud. Jinxing the remaining 3 hours would only ruin the night you’d had so far. 

A few random cases had come through and one drunk driver who was already stable and moved up to the ICU. One of the more chill night shifts you’d had in a while. 

Glancing up from your seat at the nurse’s station, you watch him move from South 15 to the curtain over- checking on patients. 

Your cheeks heat unprofessionally and unintentionally at the sight of him. A habit you needed to kick soon for you worked with the man 4 nights a week. That, and your flustered appearance was becoming more obvious than you’d realized. 

Dr. Abbot has been your attending for over 2 years now. Starting as an intern on an emergency med rotation and thrown to the night shift due to scheduling conflicts- you found yourself working closely under the army vet. 

His dynamic teaching and advantageous reassurance drew you to the emergency department. Deadset on surgery, you completely pivoted after working with the doctor. Declaring your specialty, you were now well into your third year of residency in the pit. 

You felt confident when you worked under Abbot. He gave you the room to make decisions and he trusted your opinions- only stepping in to assist during especially challenging moments. 

He glanced at you as his eyes passed over the board above your head. You shifted your gaze away, crumbling under the slightest look from him. 

This was new. This nervousness. You had always thought Abbot was attractive, harboring a small crush, but he was your superior and that was a boundary you would never feel comfortable crossing. 

Or so you thought. 

It happened 11 days ago. Not that you were counting. 

Your shifts had aligned that week to where you had three days off in a row, a rare occurrence. 

Since residency had put your social life on the back burner you took the opportunity to call up a couple of friends and go out.

By some means of the universe, you had ended up at the same bar as Jack that night. How you ended up in the back of his car was a blur. Skirt bunched around your waist, hips thrusting roughly into yours, hands pulling and grasping at anything they could touch, his mouth whispering dirty words and kissing soft desperate kisses against your skin. 

It was the heat of the moment. That’s what you kept telling yourself. It was a one-time thing. A mistake that wouldn’t happen again. Despite how much you secretly wanted it to. 

So you glanced away. You kept it professional. You avoided him like the plague and spent as little time as you could in his presence.  

You even traded a day shift with McKay to get a night away from him. You didn’t feel guilty or ashamed, you just didn’t want Jack to treat you differently. To see you differently. 

The calm of the ED was short-lived as the charge nurse shouted out, “Incoming ped versus vehicle. 3 minutes.”

You stood from the desk and Jack stepped out of the room he was in. You reached for gloves and moved much slower than you should’ve. 

The ambulance doors opened in a rush and the paramedics pushed in the patient on a stretcher. You were focused on snapping on your gloves. One tore as you pulled it on and you cursed under your breath, reaching for another. You listened to the paramedics as you grabbed a new one. 

“Male. 64. Was hit by a driver. Multiple femoral fractures and a blood alcohol level higher than I’ve ever seen.” The paramedic huffed and the patient slurred aggressively in response. 

You glanced up, approaching the stretcher, and your heart fell out of your chest. Your throat closed up on instinct. The patient was spewing nonsense but his demeanor was obvious. He was angry and drunk. And he was your father. 

Abbot calls out your last name, voice sharper than normal as he motions for your frozen self to come help. To do your job.

You don’t move. Your heart races uncomfortably. You hadn’t seen your dad in a few weeks. He was a drunk who had treated you like the biggest regret of his life from as far back as you could remember. 

You avoided him and only checked in on him every once and a while. Mostly to see if he was still alive. 

Even in his drunken state, your father recognized the last name Jack had spoken. The one you shared with him. 

Your father stopped squirming enough to glance up, directly at you. 

“Look who it is.” His sneer was exaggerated and he threw his head back on the gurney. 

Abbot’s brows furrowed and he looked between the man and you. 

“You know this guy?” He spoke as they moved the gurney to the trauma bay. 

The nurses tried to ask for his name and information but your father was shouting nonsense- mostly about giving him drugs to stop the pain. 

You swallow harshly and follow into Trauma 2. 

You feel like you’re in a daze. Watching your worst childhood memories clash with reality. 

“Y/n. I need your help here.” Jack snaps. 

They’re already working. Moving your dad to the bed, cutting his clothes. And you’re useless. Watching and trying not to break down.

Your dad shouts and you flinch involuntarily. He yells at the nurse for morphine. Jack is frustrated at your lack of help, but more so concerned about your behavior. 

Your dad’s head snaps up and he glares right at you. “I’m talking to you! Give me something for the fucking pain-” His words are a jumble, but you understand him loud and clear. 

“Sir-” The nurse starts and your dad shouts over her. 

He keeps his head up, his gaze and words directed at you. 

“Do you know him?” Abbot repeats his question from earlier, harsher this time as he works over the chaos. 

Your dad answers for you unintentionally, shouting your name, “Give me something, here. I’m your father for fuck’s sake!”

The room falls quiet for a beat and your stomach twists. 

“This is your dad?” Abbot’s eyebrows meet his forehead. 

“Is he an addict?” The nurse asks you. 

“Only alcohol. That I know of.” Your voice is a whisper. 

Abbot sighs harshly and the nurse moves to give your dad a stronger painkiller. 

“Right, get her out of here and send in Ellis, please.” Jack nods to another nurse. 

She grips your arm softly and you watch as your father finally stops shouting and lays his head back in a morphine-induced haze.

The nurse squeezes your arm and sits you in a chair before rushing off to get the other resident. 

You watch numbly as Ellis goes into the bay. You don’t know how long you stare at the wall for, your mind seeming to shut off. 

You hear Shen’s voice behind you and it sounds like he’s asking you a question but you’re not registering anything. 

Your stomach lurches violently and you stand, walking to the ambulance bay doors. 

They slide open and Shen calls out to you. 

You stagger to the bushes and the contents of your stomach come up. 

You cough and wipe your mouth, catching your breath. 

You grip the wall, needing something to stabilize your influx of emotions. 

His voice comes from behind you after a moment. 

“You okay?”

You turn to him and nod. 

He stands across the bay, hands on his hips. He’s unconvinced. 

He approaches you carefully, like a wounded animal, and you hate it. 

“I’m fine. I just need a minute.” You call back. 

You turn away from him and run a hand over your hair, gasping for a breath. 

His hand finds your elbow in a gentle grip and you glance his way. He doesn’t say anything. He just grabs your arm and slowly moves you to the curb outside the building. 

He sits you down and moves beside you, his knee brushing yours. 

Your eyes well up despite your best efforts. Your breath wracks and your head sags. 

You wipe at your tears as they begin to fall and try to hide your face in your shoulder. You feel his arm come around you, wrapping you in warmth. 

“You’re okay.” His voice is so steady and reassuring that you almost believe him. 

You nod, but the tears keep falling. 

“I’m sorry.”

You feel his head shake beside you. “Don’t apologize.”

Tears stream down your face and his arm squeezes you closer. You let your head fall to his shoulder and let his comfort consume you. 

Processing what just happened, you let Abbot ease your emotional toll. You feel his lips brush your hairline and your eyes squeeze shut. 

Sniffling, you sit upright again. Abbot’s hand stays on you, sliding down to rest on your back. 

“I didn’t know what to do. Or why I reacted like that. I didn’t- I wasn’t expecting to see him. Not here.” You wipe a stray tear away as you try to explain yourself. 

“From what I witnessed, your reaction tells me there’s a whole other story to your relationship with that man. You don’t have to explain yourself to me. You’re a good doctor, but everyone has their limits. Things that hit close to home- or things that come from home.”

He sends you a sympathetic look and you nod at his words.

“I can’t have my best resident freezing up again. Or avoiding me. Which I know you’re doing by the way.” He raises a knowing brow.

The sigh that escapes you is full of embarrassment and nerves. 

“I don’t want to talk about it-”

“About the fact that we slept together or that your dad is an abusive drunk?”

“Jack.” 

“Either topic is up for debate.” His lips rise slightly and you can’t help but shake your head at his persistence. 

“I want to forget it ever happened. All of it.”

It’s silent for a moment and at his lack of response you turn your head to look at him. 

His words are quiet, “If that’s really what you want, I’ll never bring it up again. But if it’s not, I can’t keep pretending that I don’t care deeply for you. In a way that I definitely shouldn’t.”

His words are a punch to the gut. A reality check.

“You do?”

He nods, “Have for a while now.” 

He reaches up to brush a rouge hair off your forehead and you lean into the touch. 

“I do too. I care about you.”

His smile is small, “I figured.”

“Was it that obvious?” You cringe. 

He shakes his head, “You’re just easy to read sometimes.”

“It’s inappropriate. Us.” You state the obvious, though you know the words are a useless feat. 

“Very.” Jack huffs a laugh.

You can’t help the small laugh that escapes you. 

After a moment you speak up again, “Is my dad okay?”

“He will be. He needs surgery, but he’ll live.”

You nod. 

Jack runs his hand up your back, his lips meeting your head. He stands slowly, reaching down to grasp your hand. He pulls you to your feet gently. 

“You don’t have to see him, but if you want to I can go with you.”

“Thank you.”

He nods and starts back towards the automatic doors. 

“Jack.” You call. 

He turns, eyebrows raised in question. 

You step closer to him and repeat the sentiment. 

“I’ll look after you.” He squeezes your hand and moves back inside. 

He drives you home that night. And many more nights after that. Your dynamic changes. While still supportive and professional, it’s deeper and fervent- your relationship building a whole new layer of trust. You loved him and it was easy. No more glancing away or avoidant behaviors. You let Jack into every aspect of your life and he cherished it- nurtured it. 

He was everything you needed and more. You accepted each other in whole, scar tissue and all. 

[sidemari]

• After Dark •

A NSFW compilation of short texts (not so short) about their kinks. This could also be called "1 character, 1 kink".

Characters included: Childe, Diluc Ragnvindr, Dottore, Kaeya Alberich, Kamisato Ayato, Ningguang, Scaramouche, Wriothesley and Zhongli [separately] x Fem/AFAB/GN!Reader 

TW: Aphrodisiacs; BDSM dynamics; bondage; brat taming; breeding kink; consensual non-con; creampie; DD/LG; dirty talk; edging; exhibitionism; fingering; masturbation; oral sex (F/M receiving); overstimulation; praise kink; sub/dom dynamics; vibrators; unprotected sex. Let me know if I missed any.

WC: 10k+ (all of the stories together, of course).

Forgive me for any mistakes, I'm exhausted, and I won't read this giant post over again for the next few weeks, lol.

Childe 

Consensual non-con. (Fem!Reader) 

You were lying on the sheets, your wrists tied above your head with a bow he had tied himself — tight enough to keep the fantasy alive, but soft enough not to hurt you.

“Look what we have here…” Tartaglia’s voice sounded deep and theatrical, as if he were playing a character. He was looking down at you with a wild glint in his eyes, the crooked smile of someone who was having fun — but with his heart pounding with desire and zeal for you. You squirmed, trying hard to look scared, even though you knew that was exactly what he wanted.

“P-Please… Don’t do this…” You whispered, trembling on purpose, playing the role perfectly.

“You should know that you can’t tease someone like me and still get away with it, princess…” He growled, pulling your legs to the edge of the bed. The way his eyes bored into yours, even when he was playing his role, was still full of adoration. “It’s too late to regret it now.”

The sheets under you were damp with some of the essence that insisted on seeping from you, due to your anticipation. Your nipples were hard beneath the thin fabric of your nightgown, and he noticed every reaction — every little sign that you wanted this as much as he did. 

“You’re so wet…” He commented as he slid his fingers between your legs. “You’re begging me with that little body, even though you’re saying ‘no’ with your mouth.” He leaned in and whispered against your ear, “But I know your body better than anyone, my love. I know when it’s desperate for me.”

“P-Please, don’t do this to m-me… I’m… so sorry for—” But he didn’t let you finish. He thrust into you hard, in one motion, eliciting a scream from you that was a mix of shock and pleasure. You arched your body, pulling at the sheets, feeling the heat rise like an overwhelming wave.

“Beg me.” He ordered, his voice hoarse with lust. “Tell me you need it. That you can’t live without my cock ravishing your cunt.”

“Ajax, please, use me… Fuck me until I can’t think anymore…” You moaned, your eyes moist, no longer from pretense, but from real, deep pleasure. His hips moved with rhythm and strength, your name escaping between his lips. The act had already given way to surrender — the game was exciting, but what made it all intense was the trust between you.

He leaned in, his red hair wet with sweat, his eyes fixed on yours.

“Is everything okay?” He asked softly, breaking character for a moment, just to be sure.

You nodded with a lascivious smile. “I can still take much more, love…”

And he provided that to you, until your legs were trembling, until your eyes watered with pleasure, until your voice broke. And when it was all over, he released you with loving hands, kissing each mark and scratch, wrapping you in his arms as if you were fragile. 

“It was perfect.” He whispered. “You’re perfect.”

Diluc Ragnvindr

Bondage. (Fem!Reader) 

The flames in the fireplace cast warm shadows over the stone walls of the room. The unmistakable aroma of wine and wood filled the room, and the silence was broken only by the soft crackling of the fire. You sat on the edge of the bed, your heart racing, your eyes attentive to Diluc’s every move as he walked back towards you. 

He looked even more imposing under the golden light, his red hair loose over his shoulders and an expression that mixed concentration with restrained desire. In his hands, he held the red satin strips that you had timidly suggested the night before. 

“Are you sure about this?” He asked in a low, husky voice, kneeling before you. His hands caressed your thighs gently, reverently, as if preparing the ground for something deeper. “I only want this if you want it too.” You nodded, your face hot, your breath shallow.

“Yes. I do. Just… just take care of me.” A small smile appeared on his lips — a rare, intimate smile that made your chest tighten. 

“Always.”

Patiently, Diluc led you to the center of the bed. His kisses came slow, intense, as he took his time to undress you, piece by piece, as if each button and strap were a ritual. When you were naked beneath the fine linen sheets, he pulled away just enough to tie your wrists with the satin, crossing them over your head and securing them firmly to the headboard.

“Let me know if it’s too tight.” He said, caressing the skin of your arms, his dark eyes assessing your expression every second. You felt the knot tighten securely, but it didn’t hurt. It was firm… comforting, even. You trusted him. You always had.

Diluc lay back down beside you, his fingers gliding over the curves of your bound body, his eyes exploring every detail as if he were memorizing the landscape of the woman he loved. He leaned in, kissing your collarbone, your jaw, until your lips parted reflexively.

“You’re so beautiful like this…” He murmured against your skin. “Surrendered, only mine.”

His words made something inside you melt, even more so when his hand went down between your legs and found you already wet, hot and pulsing.

“Already so wet… I’ve barely touched you.” He chuckled softly, a deep, satisfied sound, before pressing his thumb against your clit and making slow, teasing circles. Your hips moved instinctively, but he held them back with his other hand, holding you in place.

“No.” The word was spoken tenderly, but full of command. “I’m the one in control here.”

You bit your lip, arching your back with a restrained moan. Tied up and exposed, each touch felt more intense. Diluc knew that. He knew your body like no one else. His fingers danced between torture and pleasure, making you writhe under the delicate control he masterfully exercised. His breathing was also heavier, his dark eyes fixed on your face, capturing every reaction. He alternated soft caresses with firmer touches, sometimes leaning in to kiss your breasts, sometimes whispering praises in your ear: 

“You endure so much for me… so obedient…” 

“You’re driving me crazy like this…” 

“I need to hear you beg, love.” 

You felt yourself getting close. Your body trembled, your muscles contracted, your orgasm building like an inevitable storm. But then, just as the wave began to rise, he stopped. He removed his fingers, went back to kissing your neck, leaving you on the edge — dragging your pleasure with refinement and intention. 

“D-Diluc, please…” You whimpered, your eyes watering, your body arching toward him. “Don’t stop…”

“You haven’t reached your limit yet,” He replied quietly, his voice low and husky, his fingertips tracing your abdomen. “I want you to need this. To really beg for me.” You panted, your body too hot and sensitive. Each pause was sweet torture, a flame that burned without consuming — until the desire became something deeper, more urgent. And then, when you finally moaned his name, begging without pride or shame, he smiled.

“Good girl.” He positioned himself between your legs, kissing you hungrily, his entire body pressing against yours. The heat of his skin, his weight, the firmness with which he held your hips — everything about him was absolute. When he finally entered you, slow, deep, your body cried out in relief. It was as if everything fell into place — as if the universe were spinning on its axis again. He groaned softly, his lips against your neck, his hips moving with a rhythm that was torturous, but felt so good.

“You’re perfect. So tight… You take me so well…” His voice was hoarse from pleasure. “You have no idea how much I’ve thought about this… about you, trapped, moaning my name…”

The restraints kept you from touching him, but that only made everything more intense. You felt vulnerable and adored at the same time. His thrusts became harder, but the bed creaked in protest as he lost himself in you.

“Look at me.” He pulled your face with one hand. “I want to see your eyes when you come for me.” And you obeyed. There was no other choice, no other destiny, no other name to say but his as your body shattered with pleasure — the orgasm ripping through every inch of you hot, overwhelming. Diluc continued for a few more seconds, until he spilled himself inside you, trembling, his face hidden in your neck.

When your breathing returned to normal, he carefully untied your wrists, kissing every red mark left by the satin. His fingers caressed your arms, your hair, your waist.

“You were wonderful,” He murmured, pulling you to his chest. “Thank you for trusting me.” You smiled, tired, satisfied, whole. In the flames dancing in the fireplace, everything seemed safe. Everything was love.

Aphrodisiacs. (Fem!Reader) 

You were sitting on the couch in Diluc’s private library, wrapped in a light robe, your body still tingling from the wine he had brought. But it wasn’t just any wine. It tasted exotic, sweet and spicy — with something that made you feel warm from the first sip.

Your heart beated faster, your skin felt more sensitive, and every glance Diluc made in your direction made your breath falter. He was there, standing in front of the bookshelf, watching you with those intense red eyes, like embers about to catch fire. There was a small smile on the corner of his lips — a smile that betrayed that he knew exactly what he had done. 

“This wine…” You began, your voice lower than you expected. “There’s something more to it, isn’t there?” Diluc approached slowly, his hands in his jacket pockets, his eyes fixed on yours. 

“It’s a special batch. Made from a rare variety of fruits grown in the fertile soil of Sumeru. Some say it… stimulates the senses.” He stopped in front of you, leaning down just enough to touch your chin with two fingers. “Do you feel it?”

You nodded, your lips parted, the heat growing in your lower belly like a fire slowly spreading. He gently removed the robe from your shoulders, exposing your skin to the warm air of the room.

“You look so beautiful like this… all flushed, breathless…” He knelt between your legs, his fingers sliding up your bare thigh. “Sensitive.” His lips brushed against your skin, each kiss sending electric waves to the core of your body. It was as if each touch of his tripled in intensity. The wine, or whatever it was, made your body beg for more — made you writhe under the softest caresses, yearning for something that had yet to come.

He pulled your legs up to his shoulders with ease and buried his face between your thighs, his hot tongue sliding inside you with precision, firmness, and calculated pleasure. It was almost cruel, the way he used his mouth — as if he studied your reaction to every movement. You moaned, your hands going to his hair out of reflex, but he held them with one of his large hands, keeping you in place.

“Stay still,” He murmured against your skin. “Let me take care of you.”

And you tried. But it was impossible not to writhe, not to moan, not to beg. The heat was too much. Your body throbbed, hungry, desperate for release. And when you were finally on the edge, arching your back and gripping the seat under you, Diluc stopped. His red eyes rose to yours, hungry, and a little cruel.

He stripped off his own clothes, revealing the strength contained beneath his formal attire, his muscles defined in the firelight. When he lay down on top of you, the heat of your two bodies met like a spark in gunpowder. He entered you slowly, filling you completely, and you both gasped in unison.

“You’re… tight,” he whispered through his teeth. “Like you’ve been waiting for me for days.” His movements began slowly, deeply, and you felt every inch of him as if it were the first time. The aphrodisiac made your body vibrate, your skin tingle, your senses plunge into a pleasurable torpor. It was impossible to control your moans, the way your body trembled beneath him, the way your hips sought more. Diluc bent down, kissing your neck, your shoulder, biting carefully. 

“Are you this sensitive because of me? Because I filled you with that wine, knowing what I would do to you later?” The answer escaped like a sob of pleasure. 

“Yes…” He increased his pace, his movements more intense, the sound of skin against skin echoing in the muffled room. His hands held your waist firmly, keeping you in place as your body was taken deeper, faster, harder.

“You’re mine,” he whispered against your mouth. “Only mine. I want you like this… writhing in pleasure, calling my name, begging for more.” You couldn’t think, speak or breathe properly. The pleasure came like violent waves, and when it arrived, it was overwhelming. Your body arched, your eyes rolled back, your moans were lost in Diluc’s mouth as he also spilled himself inside you, with a low, hoarse grunt, full of pleasure.

He stayed there for a while, still on top of you, kissing your forehead and stroking your hair. Then, he pulled you to his chest, covering the two of you with a blanket.

“Next time,” He said with a satisfied smile, “I’ll use a smaller dose. Or maybe not.”

Overstimulation. (Fem!Reader) 

The night had started slowly. Calm kisses, hands exploring patiently, and tender whispers exchanged under the soft light that entered through the mansion’s windows. Diluc was always meticulous with everything he did, and with you it was no different. He made love like someone who appreciates a rare wine — slowly, savoring your every reaction, every sigh.

But that night, there was something more. A glint in his eyes, something hungry, that made your entire body react even before the first most intimate touch. He wanted more — and he wanted you to feel more.

Your eyes met his for a moment, and all you could do was nod, already feeling the heat begin to pulse in your belly. Diluc smiled — not that gentle smile of his usual, but a slower one, full of dangerous promises.

The sheets were rumpled beneath you, your hair spread across the pillow as he settled himself between your legs again. You had already gotten there — not once, but twice. Your body was trembling, sensitive, a little fragile under the touch of his hands… but still hungry.

“Look how wet you still are for me,” He whispered, sliding two fingers inside you, slowly, almost reverently. You gasped, your body reacting with small spasms, as if you were on edge — and you were.

“Diluc…” Your voice was broken, pleading, but he just smiled and lay back down between your thighs. The first touches of his tongue were almost unbearable. Your skin reacted with small tremors, the pleasure coming fast, too aggressive, as if every nerve was screaming with the accumulated intensity. You tried to close your legs, instinctively, but he held them firmly.

“Don’t run away now, my dear,” He said in an almost serious tone, looking at you with his red eyes burning with desire. “You can handle it. I know you can.”

And he went back to licking, slow and deep, exploring you with the precision that only he had. His hands held your thighs open, pinning you to the bed as if he wouldn’t let you escape for even a second. Your head threw back on the pillow, moans escaping loudly, uninhibited, because you could no longer control anything.

It was too much. Everything was too much. His mouth, the heat, the perfect and cruel rhythm, the feeling of being consumed entirely. Your entire body trembled, and when the orgasm arrived — a third, overwhelming one — he didn’t even give you time to breathe.

“Diluc, please… I… I can’t take it…” You whimpered, almost sobbing, your body contracting as if you were running away and searching for more at the same time.

“Of course you can,” He murmured, his fingers now replacing his mouth. Two firm fingers, thrusting in and out of you at a torturous pace, while his other hand caressed your clit with soft, rhythmic circular strokes. “You’re so good for me… you always give me everything.”

You whimpered fearlessly, shamelessly — your moans mixing with disjointed words, your eyes watering. Each wave of pleasure was more intense than the last, each one stealing a piece of your air, your strength. And yet… you didn’t want him to stop.

Diluc was visibly aroused by your surrender. His eyes were glued to your body, to the way you trembled and moaned and begged. He climbed on top of you, pressing your body against his, and aligned himself with your entrance again — hot, hard, hungry.

“One more,” He whispered against your mouth, his lips crashing to yours in a searing kiss. “Just one more for me, love…” And when he entered you, everything went blank for a second. Your body, which already seemed about to collapse. He moved with force, with need, each thrust deep and accurate. The sound of your bodies colliding filled the room, his moans mixing with yours as he held your face, his eyes fixed on yours. 

Your entire body exploded in pleasure once more, with such intensity that tears escaped your eyes. You moaned loudly, your whole body arching, your hands gripping the sheets as if you were going to come undone.

Diluc hugged you tightly, burying his face in your neck when he came too, with a hoarse moan. His body shuddered against yours, and then everything was quiet for a moment — just your hearts beating fast, your breathless, sweaty, and exhausted.

He kissed your forehead gently, running his fingers through your heat-soaked hair.

You smiled against his chest, your body still trembling, but completely sated.

Dottore 

Sleepy sex. (Fem!Reader)

The lab finally fell silent. Vials still pulsed with faint blue glows, remnants of some unstable mixture he had decided to leave for the next day. For the first time in hours — maybe days — Dottore was without his mask and his impenetrable posture. Just a man with heavy eyes and slow breathing, slumped on the couch in the next room, his shirt half open and his hair still a little messy from the last time he ran his hands through it.

You approach him silently. He knows it’s you even before he opens his eyes, and he murmurs something hoarse, low, almost swallowed by fatigue.

“You should be sleeping…” But his arms open anyway, as if his body were defying its own order.

When you lie down next to him, he immediately pulls you onto his lap, burying his face in your neck as if he were trying to hide from the world. There’s something curious there — he seems more fragile than you’re used to seeing. The defenses that always make him so hard to read were now slowly melting away in the heat of your skin.

“You calm me down.” He confesses softly, between warm kisses on your shoulder. His voice is still slurred, half-sleepy, but the desire… that was already starting to boil beneath the surface. His hands slide down your thighs more slowly than usual, as if he were too lazy to let go of his control — but also without the slightest desire to resist you. Each touch of his is a little more needy than technical. You see him without any armor, and yet so sure of himself, even tired.

Your lips meet slowly. It’s a lazy, slurred kiss… but full of that typical Dottore intensity. He murmurs against your mouth:

“Do you want this now?” And when you respond with a whispered yes, he sighs as if he already knows. “Of course you do. You always know how to make me weak…”

The excitement grows between kisses and touches exchanged in silence, almost respecting the tiredness that weighs on both bodies. Still, there is something delicious in losing yourself like this — in bodies intertwined without haste, in moans muffled by the pillow, in panting breaths that mix.

Dottore’s surrendered more than ever. With half-open eyes, he observes your every reaction, even as he moans softly as he feels you mount him with the calm of someone who knows all the shortcuts to your pleasure. His hands hold your hips, sometimes tightly, sometimes just caressing you with his fingertips, as if he wanted to prolong that moment as much as possible.

You move your hips slowly, feeling every inch of him, feeling how his body trembles beneath yours.

“You’re driving me crazy…” He says, his voice deep and broken.

“Then go crazy with me.” You reply. And he does exactly that.

There, between the rumpled sheets and the drowsy smell of experiments and desire, Dottore lets himself go. Cumming with you on top of him is almost cathartic, as if his own body were thanking you for letting him come undone like that — tired, vulnerable, but satisfied.

Then, he keeps you there, lying on his chest, fingers drawing circles on your spine. The drowsiness is now real, deep… but in the midst of the torpor, he still says with an almost choked voice:

“You are the only experiment I never want to end.”

Kaeya Alberich 

You being on top. (Fem!Reader)  

He loves to tease. You know that. Just look at him, with that crooked smile and his blue eyes sparkling with mischief. But behind the sharp words and calculated charm, there is something else — something that only you know.

It is the Kaeya who moans softly when you hold his chin firmly and tell him to stay still and obey. It is the Kaeya who shudders when you push him against the bed and ride him at your own pace, making sure to control every moan, every sigh, every tremor of his body.

“Are you that sensitive already?” You ask, feigning innocence as you move over him, slowly burying his cock deep inside you, staying there for a few seconds, grinding your hips against his, before starting the movements all again. He bites his lip, his eyes moist with pleasure — that pleasure that burns in his chest, that almost hurts because it feels so good.

“You’re going to kill me, love… I can’t take it—”

“Yes, you will. You’ll take it because I want you to.” And he obeys. Always.

He loves seeing you on top — literally and emotionally. He loves when you hold his wrists against the mattress and straddle him with a sweet, dangerous smile on your lips. He loves feeling his entire body begging for release, while you deny it, only to see him begging for more.

“Touch me… Please, just a little—” His voice breaks, choking, and he turns his face away, ashamed of his own weakness. But you hold his chin, forcing him to look you in the eyes. “Or else… At least let me touch you…” His hands struggle against yours, winning and lifting one of them to touch your breast, squeezing it devotedly. You pull his hand away, preventing him from touching your body under the threat that you wouldn’t let him cum if he did.

“Look how beautiful you are like this… Whimpering and almost crying just because I’m giving you pleasure in my own way.” The moan that escapes him is almost a sob. A muffled sound, drenched in emotion and desire. You don't need to do anything else — just exist, and he's already surrendered.

“Can I?” He bit his lip, trying to hold your hips only to have you slap his hands away.

“Can you what? Use your words, Alberich.” Heavens, iit was so good to see him like this, escaping his dominant and sharp personality.

“C-Can I cum? I'm so close, p-please…” Your movements became faster and your own hands guided his so that one of them stimulated your clit while the other squeezed one of your breasts, teasing your nipple every now and then. That was your way of saying �� without words — that he could cum. And he did, becoming a whimpering mess under you.

“Remind me to tease you more often if you're going to treat me like this.” He murmured, before pulling you off of him so that you two could switch positions. “Now I need some revenge, right?”

Bondage. (Fem!Reader) 

You were there, your wrists tied above your head, your back against the mattress, your body exposed and heated by his voice. Kaeya was an expert at seduction, but with you… he sometimes left a little teasing aside, just to show how much he knew what he was doing.

“Don’t worry, love,” He whispered, adjusting the tie on your wrists with surprising care. “If you want me to stop, just say so. But something tells me you won’t.”

The fabric he used to restrain you was soft, allowing it to be firm enough to impede most of your movements. His kisses spread like slow fire — down your neck, against your collarbone, across the curve of your breasts. Your eyes returned to his for a second, and Kaeya gave you that mischievous and affectionate smile, his fingers sliding between your legs, teasing you just enough to make you gasp.

“Look at you… You’re already so ready, and I barely touched you.” His fingers penetrated your folds, curving to reach your g-spot with ease and mastery. It was almost as if he had memorized your body: every curve, every sensitive spot. Teasing was a game he mastered. 

Then he bent down and devoured you with his mouth while his fingers didn't stop their movements. His tongue lapped at you with a precision that made you writhe, tied up, completely helpless in the face of the pleasure he administered with dedication.

"Stay still for me, darling," He murmured against your sex, his dark blue eyes fixed on yours. "Let me take care of everything." And you let him. 

The world was reduced to his hands, his mouth, the weight of his body on yours. He made you ask — not beg, because he knew the difference. He wanted to see you surrendered, but with pride, surrendered to him because you trusted him, not because you were forced. And that made him crazy with desire. 

When he finally entered you, your moans mingled with his, muffled by deep kisses. The thrusts were firm, constant, followed by sweet and dirty words in equal measure.

"Just like that… You're mine, all mine. I'm going to remind you of that every time you cum around me." And you both came, strong and overwhelming, the waves of pleasure washing over your bodies. He released you afterwards, with gentle hands, worried eyes, covering you with kisses and caresses.

"Did I tie you up too tightly?" He asked, caressing your cheek affectionately.

"No, I like it when you do that." You kissed the corner of his mouth. "Can we go again?"

"Always."

Aphrodisiacs. (Fem!Reader) 

You didn’t know exactly what he had put in that wine — but you knew he wouldn’t do anything you didn’t want. Kaeya was a tease, but he loved you. He loved the way you trusted him even when your eyes were clouded with desire, even when your body trembled for more.

“Just a touch of something special,” He whispered against your lips, holding the glass that was still between his fingers. “Something to... ignite what’s already burning.”

The drink tasted sweet, almost fruity, but the effect was immediate: your skin tingled, every heartbeat seemed to echo between your legs, and Kaeya’s presence, with his scent, his smile, and his cool fingers against your warm skin, became unbearably addictive. 

He noticed the effect, of course he did. He sat behind you, pulling you onto his lap calmly, his chest against your back, his hands traveling over your body, mapping it with care and intention.

“It’s hot, hm? It’s the aphrodisiac... But it’s also me.” He chuckled softly, kissing the side of your neck. “Your body knows who it wants.” 

You moaned softly when his hands reached your breasts, squeezing them gently, his thumbs playing with your nipples through your thin clothing. Your hips moved unintentionally, seeking friction, relief — and Kaeya guided you with pleasure.

“You’re sensitive... So beautiful like this. I could make you cum with a touch.” 

He laid you down with all the care in the world, removing each piece of clothing with lingering kisses. His fingers stimulated your sex just enough to make you shiver, and he smiled, fascinated by the intensity of your reaction.

The aphrodisiac pulsed in your blood like fire, and Kaeya enjoyed every second — with patience, with precision, with desire. His touch was the final dose: you came with just his fingers and tongue, your entire body arching in response.

“That’s it...” He whispered, between kisses on your belly, moving up to your lips. “I want to make you come like this again and again.” And he really did.

With his body pressed against yours, his eyes fixed on yours, Kaeya penetrated you slowly, moaning with the pleasure of being inside you — and feeling how hot, tight, desperate you were. You scratched his back, and he moaned back, asking for more.

“It’s my fault,” He murmured with a dirty smile. “I left you like this... and now I’m going to fix it.” 

Overstimulation. (Fem!Reader) 

He had already made you cum once. Then twice. And now your body felt like it was about to collapse under his every new touch.

“Kaeya… P-Please…” You moaned, your voice broken by the excess of pleasure, by the tremors that ran through your open legs, still exposed to him.

But he didn’t stop.

His tongue moved slowly over your clit, as if savoring your every reaction, every involuntary spasm, every breathless sob that escaped your lips.

“You can still take more, can’t you?” He asked in a low voice, his lips wet with your essence, his eyes half-closed and hungry. “Your body is begging me even if your mouth says otherwise.”

You tried to close your legs, but his arms were firm, keeping them apart. Kaeya was gentle, but determined. The pleasure was already unbearable — and yet, you wanted more. 

“You look so beautiful when you crumble like that,” He whispered, before lapping at you again more firmly, his fingers sliding inside you with ease, curling at the exact spot that made you gasp. Your back arched once more, the orgasm ripping through your body with force. He felt it and smiled, because he knew there was more to come.

“How many times can I make you cum before you pass out in my arms?” He murmured against your skin, kissing your inner thigh, his fingers still inside you, moving slowly, as if he was testing the limits of your sensitivity. 

You whimpered, struggling weakly, your body already too sensitive, your clit throbbing, your mind clouded by so much pleasure.

“Shhh, it’s okay,” He whispered, moving up to your lips and kissing you tenderly. “You’re doing so well...” Kaeya entered you slowly, feeling how you trembled, how your body pulsed around him, completely surrendered. He moaned against your mouth, pleasure consuming him too. 

“Let me take you to the edge… Just one more time.” He asked, his voice choking with desire and affection. “I’ll take care of you later, I promise.”

And you let him. Because there, even in the midst of the chaos of absolute pleasure, Kaeya was your safe haven — even when he made you forget your own name with yet another orgasm that made you see stars.

Kamisato Ayato 

Bondage. (Fem!Reader)

You had lost count of how many times Ayato had told you that he loved seeing you surrendered to him. But there was something in the way he said it — with that serene smile, his clear eyes fixed on yours — that made everything inside you warm. With him, even submission was wrapped in elegance and reverence. And that night, the touch of the silk tying your wrists only confirmed that.

The softness of the sheets contrasted with the gentle tension of the ribbons that held your arms above your head, firmly on the back of the bed. Your legs, equally spread and immobilized with delicacy, made you feel vulnerable... and deeply desired.

Ayato was kneeling between your legs, impeccable even in that intimate moment. No part of him seemed out of control — everything was calculated, refined, even the way he ran his fingers through the ties to check if they were tight enough without hurting your skin.

“You trust me, don’t you?” He asked softly, leaning down to kiss your forehead, then your lips sweetly.

“Of course I do.” You replied, your voice trembling with anticipation.

“Good girl.” He whispered with a crooked smile that made your stomach turn. “Then let me guide you tonight.” His hands were as gentle as they were firm. He began exploring your skin with light touches, trailing his fingers along the curves of your body, slowly moving downward. He kissed each spot patiently, with a silent adoration that made your skin shiver from head to toe. And then he stopped, observing your bound body as if it were the most precious of works of art.

“You look so beautiful like this... exposed just for me.” He said in a low tone, almost like a prayer. “Every sigh you take, every shiver... it’s all mine.”

You gasped as you felt the tip of his tongue slide down your belly, rising to the base of your breasts, where he stopped to nibble lightly. The restraints made it impossible for you to try to squirm, and that only made each touch intensify. You were surrendered, and he knew it.

Ayato brought his fingers to your intimacy, touching slowly, exploratively. Your hips moved, an involuntary reaction to the growing pleasure, but he held you firmly.

And with that, he bent down, his tongue taking the place of his fingers. Ayato’s tongue was a precision weapon. He knew exactly where to lick, where to suck, when to speed up and when to stop just to watch you writhe, begging for more.

The tension of the tapes on your wrists made each sensation even more vivid. Your senses were heightened, your body reacting to each stimulus as if it were the first. Your moans became pleas, and when the first orgasm came, you practically cried out in pleasure, trembling under his touch.

He climbed up your body, his chest pressed against yours, his eyes staring into yours with a glow that was both hungry and calm at the same time. 

"You're not done yet," He whispered, his lips almost touching yours. "Not until I say so."

And then he positioned himself and penetrated you slowly, with an almost cruel slowness. You were so sensitive that the simple act of feeling him inside you drew a loud moan. He moved firmly, controlling each thrust, watching every expression on your face, as if memorizing every nuance of yours.

The silk ribbons held your arms in place, and that only intensified everything. You couldn't touch him, couldn't pull him closer, only feel — and obey.

“You’re mine.” He whispered, his breath hot against your ear. “So obedient, so perfect for me…” The climax came again, even stronger, making your vision blur for seconds. Your entire body trembled, sweat stuck the strands of hair to your forehead, and all you could do was call his name, as if it were all that mattered in the world.

And when he finally came undone on top of you, with a low, satisfied groan, Ayato wrapped his arms around you, whispering praises, loosening each bond with affection. His kisses were now tender, and he murmured between one touch and another:

“You were wonderful... as always.”

Aphrodisiacs. (Fem!Reader) 

The evening began with a treat. Ayato appeared with a small, ornate wooden box adorned with the Yashiro Commission seal and a delicate silver-blue bow. He handed it to you with a restrained smile, but his eyes — always so serene — gleamed with something more mischievous.

“A special Sumeru delicacy.” He explained, sitting down next to you. “Sweets made from the nectar of a flower called the Nilotpala Lotus. They are known for their… stimulating properties.” You looked at him with a mix of curiosity and amused trepidation. 

“Stimulating how?” Ayato smiled, taking one of the small candies with graceful fingers and bringing it to your mouth. 

“Why don’t you try it and find out?” Your distrust didn’t last long. You always trusted him — and besides, the scent emanating from the little box was sweet, delicate, and enveloping, like jasmine with a hint of honey. When you bit into the first sweet, a warm wave ran through your body. It wasn’t just the taste — melting on your tongue like silk — but the sensation that was slowly spreading through your limbs. Heat. Sensitivity. A silent awakening in every spot of your skin. Ayato watched, enchanted by every expression that took over your face. 

“It’s starting to take effect, isn’t it?”

You nodded, taking a deep breath. 

“It’s like… my body is more alive.”

“That’s exactly what I wanted to hear.”

He moved closer, his fingers gliding along your bare thigh with reverence. The contact made you hold your breath — a simple touch sending shivers that seemed to run down your spine. Ayato smiled with silent pleasure, as if appreciating the fruits of a carefully laid plan.

“You’re so sensitive… so receptive.” His lips touched your collarbone, then your neck. “Every part of you is begging for attention.”

Gently, he laid you down on the sheets, pulling the fabric of your robe with slowness. The cool air against your exposed skin contrasted with the heat building inside. Ayato took his time — he explored every inch of you with kisses and caresses that set you on fire. He knew your body like no one else and seemed determined to enjoy every second.

When his mouth found the curve between your legs, you gasped. His tongue was patient, meticulous, eliciting reactions heightened by the sweets. It was as if his every touch was magnified tenfold — and you couldn’t escape the sensation.

“Ayato—!” You moaned, your hands gripping the sheets.

“Yes,” He murmured between kisses, “I want you to say my name like that. I need to hear you come undone for me.” His fingers gripped your thigh more firmly, preventing any movement. Each lick was a delicious torture, each pause a subtle punishment. You felt the muscles in your stomach contract, the heat between your legs growing until it became unbearable.

“Please... more...”

“More?” He teased, looking up with that calm smile. “But I’ve barely begun.” When he finally entered you, with the same careful rhythm, your bodies fit together as they always did — perfectly. But now, with the aphrodisiac coursing through your veins, it was all too much. Too intense. Too pleasurable. Each thrust was deep, calculated, and you whimpered in pleasure, completely surrendered to this man who never lost control — except when he wanted to make you lose yours.

“You’re so beautiful like this... all surrendered, all mine.” He whispered against your ear, the sound of his voice like velvet on your skin.

Your orgasms came in waves, shaking your body with force and he was there, steady, attentive, guiding you through it all, as if it were the only thing that mattered in the world. In the end, he held you against his chest, running his fingers through your sweat-dampened hair.

“Maybe we should bring more of those sweets home.” He whispered. “Or maybe… you only react like that to me.”

Overstimulation. (Fem!Reader) 

The night was silent inside the Kamisato residence, and the intimacy of Ayato’s room seemed separated from the rest of the world. Candles in thin holders cast soft shadows on the walls, and the light scent of sakura petals invaded the room through the half-open window. You knew him well — every subtle expression, every restrained gesture. And you knew exactly how to make him lose that control.

Ayato lay on his back on the futon, his hair slightly messed up by the silk pillow. The blue yukata he wore was loose, his chest partially exposed, rising and falling with his already irregular breathing. 

“Are you comfortable?” You asked, your voice soft as you caressed his abdomen with your fingertips.

“Yes,” He replied, his tone low, almost a whisper. “But you… are playing a dangerous game, my dear.” You smiled, leaning in to kiss his collarbone. 

“Maybe I am.” Your fingers slowly moved down, tracing the length of his cock before wrapping your hand around it with precision. The moan that escaped Ayato’s lips was suppressed, but you felt his body shudder.You  started slow, almost lazy, and his eyes closed as his hips lifted, seeking more. 

Your tongue collected the pre-cum that leaked from the tip of his cock, tasting it before taking his length into your mouth, sucking just the tip before sucking him completely — the head of his cock hitting your throat and making you choke on sinful sounds.

“You’re already so sensitive…” You murmured, watching his skin react, his entire body arch in response.

“You… always know how to disarm me, don’t you?” He said with a crooked smile, trying to maintain his composure even though his toes were already twitching.

The first time he came was quick: he’d been on edge since the very first touch of you — hot spurts of cum hitting your throat, and you drank all of him with need. But you didn’t stop. You continued to stimulate him, now with slower, delicately torturous movements from your hand, that stroked his cock with devotion. Ayato gasped, his neck and back arching. 

“Wait… ah! You’re teasing me—”

“I’m taking care of you.” You whispered, caressing the side of his face. “You always take care of everyone and everything. Now it’s your turn to surrender, Ayato.”

The second time came with more difficulty. He groaned your name, his hips shaking as the pleasure coursed through him again, this time more intense, more desperate. His eyes were watering, and you leaned in to kiss away the silent tears that trickled from the corners of his eyes.

“You’re doing so well,” You praised, and he shivered all over at the compliment whispered in his ear. “So beautiful, so obedient.” Ayato smiled, his lips trembling, his cheeks flushed. “You’re cruel, love…” You just laughed softly. 

“Cruel? Never. I am devoted. To your pleasure, at least.” And when he reached his third orgasm — shaking, sobbing, completely lost in the touch, in the words, in the suffocating intimacy of that room — you wrapped your arms around him, kissing his forehead tenderly.

“You were perfect,” You whispered, stroking his hair as he caught his breath. Ayato smiled, tired, satisfied. 

“I love you.” He murmured against your neck.

“And I love seeing you like this… All mine.” 

Ningguang 

Exhibitionism. (GN!Reader) 

It was night in Liyue, and the high moon was shedding its silvery light over the rooftops of the Jade Chamber, making everything even more luxurious and enchanting. You were there, alone with her, after a long day. Ningguang, as always, maintained her impeccable posture, sitting elegantly on the divan in the center of the hall with large windows, which offered a full view of the city below.

"Close the door." She said, her voice like silk, low and sure. "And stay where you are. Don't come any closer yet."

You obeyed, not understanding at first, but soon your eyes fixed on the way she stood up. The soft light illuminated her contours as she slowly dropped the white robe she was wearing, revealing the scarlet lingerie, convenient, tailored. It was delicate, lacy, with small provocative slits on the sides. She turned to the side, purposefully, knowing exactly how the curve of her waist and hips would steal your attention.

“I spend my days being admired by everyone. Desirous glances, restrained suggestions. But tonight,” She walked to the glass windows and stood there, facing the city, “Only you will see me like this... and only you will be able to touch me... When I allow it.”

The position was daring. Anyone with a well-positioned around that building could, in theory, see that enchanting silhouette through the windows. But Ningguang didn’t seem worried. She was in complete control of the situation — and you knew she wanted it that way.

She glanced over her shoulder, her red lipstick contrasting with her pale skin and her steady gaze.

“You like seeing me like this, don’t you?” You nodded, your breath catching in your throat.

Then, with calculated slowness, she reached for the clasp of her bra and unclasped it, letting the garment slide off her shoulders. Her exposed breasts were exposed under the moonlight, and the view was as mesmerizing as it was forbidden. She didn’t cover anything, showing herself with all the naturalness of someone who controls her own desires — and those of others.

“You’re so quiet…” She teased. “Did the image of me undressing for you in front of all of Liyue leave you speechless?” Her hands then went down her own thighs, until she reached her panties. She didn’t take them off right away. She just moved them a little to the side, revealing just enough to drive you crazy with desire. Her fingers slid there, and an almost silent moan escaped her lips. She touched herself in front of you, slowly, with evident pleasure. “Stay there. And just look. I want you to learn... that my lust is a gift I grant you.” 

Little by little, her body began to move more rhythmically, her hips undulating slightly against her hand, her moans becoming more frequent, although muffled by her ladylike composure. She arched her back against the glass, knowing that this accentuated every curve, every tremor, every breath.

You wanted to touch her. You wanted to be part of it, but she hadn’t let you yet. Then she stopped all stimulation abruptly, earning a curious look from you. She turned slowly, her hair fanning out over her bare back as her gaze met yours — steady, warm, with a glow of victory. 

“Come.” She said, holding out a hand. “You’ve endured my teasing well. Now you can worship me up close.” 

Scaramouche (Wanderer) 

BDSM, brat-taming. (AFAB!Reader) 

You teased him. You knew exactly what you were doing — every defiant look, every insolent retort, every cheeky smile. You knew Scaramouche wouldn’t let you off the hook. And that was exactly what you wanted. 

He sat cross-legged, watching you with feigned boredom and a sharp glint in his eyes. The silence was thick in the room, until he leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees, and spoke in a low, harsh voice: 

“Say one more word in that tone, and I’ll make you regret every syllable.” You smiled. Sweet, defiant. 

“What if I want to be punished?” It was too fast. In the blink of an eye, he was on his feet. You barely had time to step back before you were gently pushed back against the bed, your body restrained firmly. His fingers gripped your chin, forcing you to look at him. 

“You don’t want punishment. You want attention. And you’re begging for it in the most childish way possible.” He growled. “But I’ll give you what you want. Only my way.” He tied you up with leather handcuffs attached to the corners of the bed. There was no rush. He made sure to maintain control over every movement, every touch. The straps tightened just right — security and submission. You bit your lip, already feeling the heat building between your legs, and he laughed mockingly. 

“Look how you look just being restrained... so easy to read. So predictable.” He leaned down to your ear, his voice a whisper full of promise. “And you love it. You love challenging me just so I can bend you.” Scaramouche then slowly removed his blouse, letting you watch — like a small visual punishment. Without being able to touch, without even being able to brush your fingertips. He came closer again, his eyes sparkling, his fingers tracing your exposed body with a sharp caress. 

“You’re going to beg today, you know?” He said, his hand squeezing your thigh firmly. “And I won’t give in until I hear you ask for it. No smiles. No sarcasm. Just you, little  brat, surrendering.” You shivered under his touch, feeling his power wrap around you like an invisible chain. And for the first time that night, you were speechless. He smiled. A victorious smile, dark, hungry. “Good, you finally understand who’s in control here.” 

Scaramouche pulled away just enough to let you feel the emptiness of his absence. The handcuffs forced you to stay exactly where he wanted you — exposed, vulnerable, irritatingly aware of your own arousal. His gaze slid over you like a cruel caress, and the smile that formed on his lips promised no relief, only torment. 

“Did you really think you’d get what you wanted that easily?” He knelt between your legs, his fingertips sliding along the inside of your thigh but never reaching where you needed him most. “Not after all that petulance.” He leaned in, his lips brushing your skin — a touch that was almost chaste, almost pitiful. Almost. You arched your hips, desperate for more, but he pressed his hands against your thighs, keeping you still. 

“Tsk.” His tongue ran a lazy path, too hot and too light at the same time. “So sensitive... Already shaking from that? And you think you’re strong.” You moaned softly, trying to press yourself against him, but the chains wouldn’t let you. And he smiled, cruel and calm. 

“Not until you ask. Not with the boldness from before. I want your real voice. I want your surrender.” He then brought his hand between your legs, running his fingers over your sex without actually touching. Just the heat of the contact hovering there, making you cry out in frustration. Your body begged, throbbed, but he just watched. “Do you really think you’re going to cum before I let you?” He laughed, soft, contempt slipping through every syllable.

“You have no control here. I’m the one who decides when and if you deserve it.” Then he went down again, with his tongue, his fingers. The pleasure flared like fire. You arched, trembling, almost reaching… And he stopped. Nothing. Cold, suddenly. You gasped, desperate. 

“N-no… please, Scara, don’t do this—” He looked at you, and his gaze was pure dominance.

“You’re going to beg for real. You’re going to moan my name and call me master in that sweet little voice. Or you’re going to spend the whole night like this — trembling, wet, and empty.” His finger came back, teasing. Another slow kiss, a warm breath. But it was all superficial. Punishment disguised as affection. And you were already starting to give in. You bit your lip, fighting back the tears that threatened to fall. Your entire body ached with need, and yet he hovered there, cruel and serene, as if your suffering was entertainment.

Scaramouche tilted his face, his eyes narrowed in pure delight as he watched you squirm.

“Almost, aren’t you? That cheeky little mouth has lost its power. Where did all that teasing go, hm?”

His fingers slid in again, this time touching exactly where you wanted it most — but only for a second. A warm, lingering touch and then emptiness again. You gasped, sobbing, your hips trying to follow the absent touch. 

“P-Please…”

“Please what?” He murmured, with a satisfied smile. You hesitated, pride throbbing in your chest. But it was useless. You were already defeated.

“Master…” The word escaped in a broken voice. “Please, master… let me cum. I need…”

“Ah…” He sighed with pleasure, as if those words were sweeter than any moan. “Now my little brat knows how to behave.”

He returned with his fingers, his mouth, his body — all at once, without mercy. The touches came fast, intense, too skillful to resist. You moaned loudly, feeling the orgasm build up like a colossal wave. The tension made you tremble, the pleasure bordering on unbearable.

“Cum for me. Now.” He ordered, his voice low and hoarse. “Show me who you belong to.” And you broke: your body buckled, the chains rattling with the force of your climax. A hoarse cry escaped your lips, his name lost between sobs and moans. He held you tightly, whispering praise, guiding each spasm of your body. 

“Look at you… So beautiful, begging and cumming like this, all mine…” When the tremor passed, you could barely breathe. But his smile said he wasn’t done with you yet. “Now that you’ve learned your lesson… let’s see how many more times you can obey.”

Wriothesley 

Breeding kink, praise kink. (Fem!Reader) 

There’s something about the way Wriothesley watches you that goes beyond lust. It’s control, care, and such a genuine desire to see you rendition to him — completely vulnerable — that makes it impossible not to surrender to him.

When he praises you, his voice is low, gravelly, almost a whisper as he explores your body with caresses, touches, and kisses. His cock brushes against the folds of your sex, which is crying out to receive him after so much teasing, but penetration doesn’t happen — he continues using the tip of his cock to stimulate your hard, swollen clit, occasionally putting just the tip inside you, but never penetrating you completely. Your sanity was running out. You needed him, you needed him to fill you, stretch you, mark you as his.

“Wriothesley… please!” You moaned in frustration, your hands gripping his biceps, your nails digging into the skin. “Fuck me already.”

“Patience… Didn’t you say you’d be a good girl for me?” His words silenced your desperation — you wanted his approval, his praise — even if it meant your frustration would only grow. You nodded, biting your lip and leaning your head back against the pillow as you felt your orgasm approaching. It was almost strange how just the act of grinding against each other could completely break you. More moans left your lips and he smiled. 

“You’re perfect.” He murmured, thrusting into you without warning, reaching the deepest point inside you in seconds. That was enough to make you cum, your walls contracting against his cock, milking him. “Fuck, always so tight… and so warm…” He pulled you into an urgent kiss, his orgasm approaching as well. 

“Cum inside me…” You begged against his lips, your nails scratching his back, your body jerking against the sheets with every thrust of his hips. “Please, I’ve been a good girl.” 

“You look so beautiful like this, begging for me… Your body knows you belong to me, can you feel it too? It’s begging me to fill you completely, to plant my seed in your womb.”

“I…” You could barely speak, a second orgasm quickly approaching. “I want to feel you stay in me for hours, I want to feel you dripping out of me just so you can fill me up again.”

“So tight, s-so hot…” He bit his lip, his words failing and his eyebrows furrowing, a clear sign that he was about to cum. And he did: hot and deep. Spurt after spurt of his seed invaded your womb, marking you completely as his. “Good girl... My girl. So obedient, so perfect, so… mine.”

Zhongli 

Edging, use of vibrators. (Fem!Reader) 

The room was calm, silent, as if the world had stopped to watch you both. Zhongli always treated pleasure with reverence, as an art that required patience, study and devotion.

You were lying between the silk sheets, your body already covered in a thin layer of sweat, the sheets messy beneath you. Your legs trembled slightly, and your breathing came in ragged pants. The vibrator in your intimacy vibrated in a soft, continuous rhythm — but never enough.

Zhongli was beside you, on his knees, his golden eyes fixed on each of your reactions. His expression was calm, almost solemn. As if he were praying with his eyes, adoring each sigh that left your lips.

"You're doing so well, darling." He murmured, his voice deep and calm, almost a whisper that touched your core. "So sensitive... so obedient."

The vibrator was lightly pressed against your clitoris, and you gasped, your hips arching reflexively. But, as he had done before, he pulled the toy away before your climax. Again. Once more. You moaned in frustration, almost tearful, feeling your own essence drip down your thighs. 

"Zhongli… Please…" Your voice was a raw, trembling plea. He smiled gently, caressing your face with his fingertips, as if you were made of porcelain.

"Patience, my dear. Pleasure must be built, polished… almost like a rare jewel." He slid the vibrator over you again, this time with a light circular motion, unhurriedly. "When I allow it, it will be the kind of pleasure that will completely break you. Isn't that what you want?"

You whimpered in response, feeling every inch of your body tremble under the touch of the toy and his words. The moans came low, almost desperate, your mind clouded between torment and ecstasy. And he watched, mesmerized by how beautiful you were as you lost control for him. And then he finally whispered those words against your ear. 

“Come for me…” You knew you were lost — and at the same time, exactly where you wanted to be. 

The permission came as a blessing, and you came hard, your body arching in pure bliss. The sounds that escaped your lips were hoarse, beautifully uncontrolled. And Zhongli didn’t look away for a second: he matched every spasm of your body with his firm hands on your thighs, keeping the vibrator gently pressed against your clit even as you shuddered in extreme sensitivity. You gasped, breathless, and yet… yet you wanted more.

“You look so lovely like this.” He murmured, tracing the contour of your belly with his fingertips. “So surrendered… So mine.”

You tried to push the toy away with trembling hands, but he held them easily, his fingers intertwined with yours. His gaze was calm, but there was a spark of raw desire burning behind the gold of his eyes.

“I’m not done with you yet.” And then he turned the vibrator back on — a lower intensity, but focused, insidious, teasing exactly where you were most vulnerable. You let out a sob of pleasure, your body convulsing in immediate response.

“Zhongli… It’s too much, I can’t—”

“Shh…” He leaned down, kissing your lips tenderly. “You can, I know you can. Trust me.”

He knew your body like he knew the stories of every era of Teyvat— deeply, with respect, with adoration. Every pause between moans, every quiver of your muscles, every new limit crossed was memorized by him — memorized with mastery, just like the stories he had once told you.

“You deserve every drop of this pleasure.” He whispered in your ear, as his cock finally replaced the vibrator. “And I will be here to guide you through it.” You whimpered — a beautiful, husky, indecent sound — as your second orgasm came fast, violently, stealing your breath, your strength. But he didn’t stop his thrusts, because Zhongli didn’t love in a hurry. He loved like a god who had all eternity to worship his favorite mortal.

Breeding kink, DD/LG and praise kink. (Fem!Reader)  

The candles cast a soft amber light over the room, dancing over the contours of the antique furniture and heavy curtains. Zhongli was meticulous even in his intimate moments — everything around him seemed carefully prepared to make you feel adored. And it worked.

You lay between the silk sheets, your breath held as he knelt between your legs, his golden eyes fixed on yours with an intensity that made your entire body shiver. 

He leaned forward, his hands firm on your thighs, spreading heat wherever he touched. “You’re perfect like this, you know that?” His voice was deep, sweet, enveloping like a balm. “So receptive, so mine… Just like the good little girl you are.” His kisses began softly, almost reverently, on your abdomen, then below your navel, until he was inside you again — slowly, deeply, filling you as if each movement meant more than just physical pleasure. 

“Zhongli, please…” You whimpered, your hands finding their way to his back. 

"You drive me crazy." He murmured against your neck, his thrusts deep and slow, his hips pressed against yours as if he wanted to merge the two of you into one body. "Every time I feel you like this, so hot, so tight... All I can think about is filling you to the last drop." Your moans were interrupted only by the words he whispered in your ear, between kisses and caresses that left your skin on fire. 

"I’ve been thinking about fucking a baby into you…" Zhongli brushed his lips against your ear. “Every single day, every now and then, I catch myself thinking about knocking you up, making you round with my child, tying your soul to mine because of our heir…” His thrusts became more rapid, almost violent as he continued his monologue. “Would you like me to do so, my girl?” Your eyes widened — you suspected he had some kind of breeding kink, but having him finally admit it… it made your heart warm up in adoration.

“I’ll happily nurture your heir inside my womb.” You reassured him. 

"You deserve to be praised, adored… You deserve to be filled with me, like the good girl you are." You felt him grip your waist, keeping you in place, as if he wanted to make sure you wouldn’t disappear. The pleasure was intense, pulsating — and he knew exactly how to handle every second of it. "Atta girl... Just like that, love, you're taking me so good.” 

“Daddy… I’m…” That name slipped from your lips unintentionally, and you felt aroused by it. You had never called him that, even though you fulfilled the role of being his little girl. “I’m so close, please, daddy… Cum inside of me.” 

When he finally reached his limit, his moan was muffled against your skin. His orgasm provoked yours: your cunt convulsing around his cock, milking every last drop of his cum out of him, the contractions of your walls helping his seed reach deep inside of you, invading your womb without warning. 

The silence that followed the climax was thick and full of meaning. Zhongli didn’t pull away immediately — instead, he remained above you, his body still entwined with yours, his fingers slowly tracing your waist, as if he wanted to memorize every curve again.

Your breathing was irregular, your eyes half closed as you felt the heat of his body mixed with yours. There was still the sensation of his semen inside you, hot and abundant, as he had promised.  

The kiss he placed on your forehead was slow, like a seal of care. Zhongli then pulled out of you calmly, carefully observing your reactions, as if any discomfort you felt was a crime he would never forgive himself for committing. He lowered his gaze to where your bodies separated, and the sight made him let out a heavy sigh — satisfied, possessive, enchanted. And even breathless, he still whispered with possessive caress:

“Look at you…” He murmured, his fingers tracing the inside of your thigh, where his cum dripped lazily. “So full of me…”

You moaned softly, shuddering at his touch, and Zhongli smiled. A small smile, but full of tenderness. He rested his forehead on yours, his nose lightly brushing against yours, before murmuring in the softest voice you had ever heard as his fingertips caressed the skin of your lower bell in an instinctive, protective way. 

“You make me want a future.” He murmured, kissing the top of your head. “With you. With the two of you.” 

[rynwrites4fun]

Across The Hall (3) | Michael Robinavitch x Neighbor/Teacher ! Reader

Michael Robinavitch x F! Neighbor/Teacher ! Reader

Summary: Michael offers to help you carry a large box, but when the elevator’s out, you end up climbing six flights of stairs together. The climb is tiring but playful, and it leads to him spending time with you in your apartment.

Word count: 2180

Warnings: Age Gap (Mid 20/ Early 50s)

Authors Note: part 3!!! the story Michael tells is based on a actual story from someone in my life lol. if I forgot to add you to the tag list, very sorry! let me know if I didn’t add you and I’ll add you on. again thanks for the love! I enjoy reading your comments :) - ryn

Wednesday 7:20pm

“You need a hand with that?” Michael asked, walking up to the mailboxes, key in hand. He slid it into the lock and pulled out a small stack of mail. He looked tired—fresh off a long shift, still in scrubs.

You had just come back from a coffee shop, where you’d stayed after work to chip away at lesson planning. Now you stood by the mailboxes, eyeing the large box at your feet.

“Oh hey! Yes, please! It’s pretty heavy. Like, definitely a two-person job.”

“Alright, let’s go for it.”

The two of you hefted the box together, making your way toward the building’s single elevator—only to find a sign taped across the doors: Out of Order.

You both set the box down and stared at it in silence.

“Crap,” you muttered.

You exchanged a glance. It was obvious—you’d both just gotten off work, bags in tow, and neither of you had the energy for this.

“Okay… well, I guess we’re hitting the stairs,” Michael said.

“I can just leave it…”

“And let someone in our building steal it?”

“Who’s dumb enough to steal a box that weighs, like, over fifty pounds?”

“Hey, you never know. People are desperate these days.”

He bent to grab his side of the box, and you followed suit.

Together, you maneuvered the large box toward the stairwell, bumping it against the doorframe with a dull thud that made you both laugh, tired and amused.

Then began the slow, painful climb—six flights of stairs ahead.

They two of you made it about halfway.

“Okay—wait, wait,” Michael huffed, setting his side of the box down with a dramatic grunt. He leaned over the banister, catching his breath. “I need a minute. I’m not as young as I used to be.”

You laughed as he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, shaking his head.

“How old are you, anyway?” you asked, playfully squinting at him.

“Fifty-three,”

He was twenty-nine years older than you. He’d lived more life, seen more, carried years of experiences you hadn’t even brushed against.

“How old are you?” he asks back.

“I’m twenty five”

“Geez,” he mumbled under his breath, masking his reaction with a slow exhale. He’d known you were young…just maybe not that young.

“Should I be worried about you throwing out your back?” You tease.

He gave you a hard, playful look as he looked up at you from leaning against the banister.

“Careful,” he said, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I might just leave you to drag this thing up yourself if you keep it up.”

“You wouldn’t do that." you say.

“You’re right, I wouldn’t” he chuckles.

He was teasing, sure—but he meant it. He’d never leave anyone hanging, especially not a woman. That’s just the kind of man Michael was. Caring. It was something his mother had instilled in him from the time he was a kid: look out for others, be kind, be useful.

It was why he became a doctor in the first place. He didn’t just want to fix things, he wanted to help people.

“Okay… halfway there,” he said, standing up straight.

You mirrored him, both of you grabbing your sides of the box as you began the final climb—three more flights of stairs.

By the time you reached the sixth floor and made it to your apartment door, the box hit the ground with a heavy thud.

You and Michael both let out loud huffs, panting like you’d just run a race.

He dropped his backpack beside the box and hunched over, hands on his knees.

“Shit,” he breathed.

“Okay—we… we did it. We made it,” you said, dropping your own bag, one hand braced against the wall, trying to catch your breath.

“What even is that?” he asked, squinting down at the box like it had personally offended him.

“It’s a shelf,” you replied.

“Do you wanna come in? I’ve got water… beer.”

He was still hunched over, catching his breath, but he pointed a finger at you when you said beer, wagging it up and down like it was the magic word.

“Beer… a beer sounds good.”

“Okay,” you exhaled, leaning your shoulder against the doorframe.

“Do you think we can just… take a minute?” you asked, gesturing vaguely at the hallway—at the idea of not moving at all for a bit.

“I’m right there with you,” he said, like he’d read your mind.

You both stayed there a second longer, just breathing. Neither of you moved to open the door.

—

Eventually, the two of you made it inside your apartment. The box lay on your living room floor. You and Michael slouched on the couch, beers in hand, too exhausted from not only lugging the box up six flights of stairs but also your jobs.

“Are you gonna build it?” Michael asked, glancing over at the box.

“I was gonna have Aiden do it,” you said with a shrug.

Michael raised an eyebrow. Well, if Aiden didn’t even unjam your window, he most likely won’t be assembling your shelf either. The box was probably just going to sit there until you caved and did it yourself. He thought about it for a second, then sighed.

“Well, since I’m already here, I can put it together for you,” he offered.

You blinked. “What? No, come on, Michael. You just got off a 12-hour shift, you just helped me lug this thing up six flights of stairs—and your back—”

“My back will be fine,” he said quickly, waving it off.

It was a lie. His back was definitely hurting, but he wasn’t about to admit it. He’d pushed through worse and, honestly, he didn’t mind helping you out. Plus, it gave him an excuse to stay, to linger in the space for a little longer.

“Well, if you’re gonna build it, at least stay for dinner,” you said, giving him a pointed look.

“Okay, deal,” he agreed, grinning.

“I can also supervise you as you cook. You know, so you don’t smoke your apartment out again,” he said, teasing you, nudging you with his elbow.

You rolled your eyes. “Very funny.”

“Hey, I take this supervising gig seriously.” He leaned back, a mischievous grin on his face as he took a swig of his beer

“Oh, I’m sure you do,” you replied, getting up from the couch, heading to your kitchen.

__

You start cooking dinner, the comforting rhythm of mixing and stirring filling the air. Michael sits on your floor, his glasses on as he carefully reads the directions. His second beer sits not far from him, and tools and scattered pieces of the shelf are spread across the floor.

You glance over your shoulder, watching him as he concentrates, fiddling with the screwdriver in his hand, his brow furrowed in focus. The scene feels oddly domestic.

For a moment, you let yourself savor the quiet comfort of it—how natural it feels, how easy. You wish you and Aiden could have moments like this, too. No rush, no tension, just small, simple acts of being together. But the thought lingers, bittersweet, before you return to the task at hand.

“How long have you been a doctor?”

He huffs out a laugh “A long time”

“Uh well I started working in the ER when I was around your age–” he says picking up a piece and screwing it to another part. “I was assigned to the ER as med student…never really left after that. the department I wanted to be in”

“What made you want to be a doctor?” you asked, stirring the food in the pot, the wooden spoon clinking softly against the sides.

“I knew from a young age I always wanted to help people,”

“I was raised by a single mother,” Michael said, his voice steady but thoughtful. “She taught me to be kind, to be useful. Helpful in any way I could—whether it was something big or small. Her rule was: take action. Don’t just stand there waiting for someone to tell you what needs to be done. If you see it, do it.”

Michael said, his voice softening a bit and tinkering with the now half-built shelf, fitting a wooden panel into place. “There was this time when I was a kid—my friend and I were messing around with his BB gun, and he ended up getting shot in the torso. It was lodged in there, and he was too scared to tell his parents because we weren’t supposed to be playing with it”

You looked at him, eyebrows raised. “What did you do?”

“I panicked, but then I remembered her rule. I went into full rescue mode. I kept running back and forth through my house grabbing supplies—Band-Aids, peroxide, even tweezers. My mom was yelling, ‘What are you doing?’ and I just kept saying, ‘Emergency!’”

You laughed quietly, picturing a younger version of him in full crisis mode.

“Long story short,” he continued, “she was proud of me for wanting to help him, but also told me, very clearly, to leave it to the professionals. And right then and there, I knew I wanted to be one of them.”

He looked over at you.

“What about you? What made you want to be a teacher?”

You stopped stirring, turning the burner to low before resting the spoon on the edge of the pot. And grabs bowls from the cabnit.

“Kind of the same thing, I guess,” you say. “I just knew as a kid I always wanted to be good and do good. I thought I could do that by being a teacher. Impacting kids, inspiring them. I remembered how some of my favorite teachers made me feel… seen, safe, like I mattered. I wanted to do the same for someone else.”

“Look at us—working two of the most underrated, underappreciated, and undervalued professions,” he laughed, shaking his head.

“Tell me about it,” you said, cracking a tired smile as you scooped rice into the bowls.

“The food’s done. Come eat,” you called over your shoulder.

Michael paused mid-screw on the shelf, then set down the tool and picked up his beer. “That’s the best thing I’ve heard all day.”

He made his way into the kitchen, peering into the pot with interest.

“Red beans and rice,” you said, ladling it into bowls. “It’s a Louisiana dish. I’ve got family down there. This is kind of my go-to comfort food.”

“Smells good,” he said, taking the bowl from you with a nod. “Thank you.”

—

The two of you sat at your island table like the first time the two of you had dinner, natural conversation flowing between you. Eventually, you both cleaned up the kitchen and made your way to the living room. Michael returned to the half-built shelf, you helping this time, passing him screws, holding panels steady, the quiet kind of teamwork that made the space feel warmer.

“How long have you been with Aiden?” Not looking at you right away, his focus on aligning two wooden panels.

You paused, caught a little off guard by the question, but not in a bad way.

“Since college,” you said, handing him a screw. “That was a different time though.”

He glanced over at you then, curious but not prying.

“Different how?” he asked, his tone careful, curious.

“We’ve changed a lot, I guess…” you said, your voice briefly tinged with sadness. But you quickly deflected, flashing a teasing grin and adding, “Not as young as we used to be.”

You mirror his earlier words, throwing them back at him when he had stopped to rest while carrying the box up the stairs.

He notices the brief shift in your mood but doesn’t push, sensing you’re not ready to dive into the heavier stuff. He figured maybe Aiden had been the one to change since then.

Instead, he chuckles, the sound light and familiar. “Says the 25-year-old. If you’re old, then what does that make me?”

You raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Ancient? A fossil? Practically prehistoric?”

He lets out a sigh and shakes his head “You wounded me.”

After finishing up the shelf, you both set it carefully in the corner of your living room.

“Now I have a place to house my books and not leave them lying around,” you say, stepping back to admire the shelf.

He crosses his arms, looking at the shelf with a proud nod. “Well, look at that. Mission accomplished.”

You glance over at him, your expression softening. “Thank you, Michael, can I repay you?

“Hey, you paid for my manual labor in beer and food, so we’re even.”

You laugh, raising an eyebrow. “Okay, so pay you in food and beer—got it. Noted for future reference.”

He picks up his bag off the floor, signaling that he’s heading back across the hall, giving you a mock-serious look. “I expect my shelf to be filled with books and knick-knacks and whatnot.”

You give a mock salute. “I promise, it’ll be a shelf worth showing off.” The two of you walk toward the door.

You pause at the threshold, glancing at him with a soft smile. “Good night.” He says.

“Good night, Michael.”

With a final, lingering glance, he steps out into the evening, and you close the door behind you. You heart feels warm.

Tags: tag: @im-nowhere-but-also-somewhere @beebeechaos @antisocialfiore @delicatetrashtree @xxxkat3xxx @homebytheharbor @woodxtock @letstryagaintomorrow @livingavilaloca @elkitot @annabellee88 @hagarsays @emma8895eb @the-goddess-of-mischief-writing @jazzimac1967 @lafemme-nk @kmc1989 @whos6claire @harrysgothicbitch @trustme3-13 @qardasngan @silas-aeiou @k3ndallroy @ohmystrawberrycheesecake @ay0nha @404creep

Across The Hall (1) (2) (3)

[charmed-asylum]

Running a my pants down to my ankles ahhhh lord omg I know I had idea of how it was gonna go but I just want it dramatically throw it out the window or flip a table bc that’s how it felt reading it I was ready but damn again u got me out the blueeeeee. Ahhhhhhh girl idk how and when and where to start.

Let’s start with the getting ready for this par tay now u mention something on the line of take your beta blockers what do u mean and why that. Now I double check this ain’t no beta alpha omega story so that a play on words for her anxiety pills ( I know doechii anxiety song playing in my head right now) but yeah what that I need to know lol please and thank u I wonder how often even though she doesn’t like going does she have to go bc of viv love of it. That being said can you maybe give me an idea of w makeup how she was looking I have ideas im just wondering if it’s matching bc I bet when Rafe saw her it wasn’t matching what he was thinking but then again viv was talking about her mouse friend so how do we know and AND she the one who talk her into doing on so again I got a lot of red string and no straight lines !!!! But back to the story I love how u slowly intro everyone into the fold because it’s a nice easy way interwoven everything. And I love it. Oh oh oh . I love she enjoy her self now I see she didn’t do any keg stand but it was fun to read lol . I wonder what Rafe was doing during the party a POV in his head. U know. I love viv and reader relationships even tho people looking outside looking in would be like wtf that strange and weird it makes so much sense and I love it . They like perfect mix. And while she all about fun I love she very protective of reader like yazz turn around w a jump yazz

Back to where I was a few minutes ago of I feel like bestie in turning red

Even as it is they seem to just talk so chill irl as they did on line and again like I wonder I wonder reader it’s who she is but Rafe I’m shock he didn’t u know try or be like the others or Caleb and flirt but was chill like no we gonna take u away and talk and be normal . And he just smitten by her so bad oh my god I can’t give me more lol

Abhhhh girl girl girl mmm mmm mmm if only she wasn’t drunk but u bet Rafe kn…. HE DID HE DID THE LAST PART CONFIRMED IT OMG OMG I CANT CALM DOWN IM FREAKING OUT VIV SAVE THEM N SHE GOT HIS CAP I wonder if Rafe gonna see her just bc of that cap

─── YOU'VE GOT MAIL .ᐟ

...or the first time they meet.

★ pairing.ᐟ frat!rafe x nerd!reader

★ summary.ᐟ rafe cameron is the golden boy of kildare university; certified frat boy, captain of the football team, relentless party animal with lines of girls to sleep with.

reader couldn't be more different; while she has the best grades in the whole school, she suffers from social anxiety disorder, and her social life is limited to her three best friends and the cat she secretly snuck into her dorm room.

both of them decide to join the anonymous chatroom for their campus, and start talking to one another, a friendship starting to form between the two; but neither of them know how different the other is.

★ author's note.ᐟ not much chatting in this part but rafe and reader finally meet! vivian parker thank you for being the comedic relief and extrovert friend this series and reader needs.

YOU'VE GOT MAIL!

"are you sure this isn't too much?" you asked as you stood in front of the body-length mirror, looking at the skin-tight black dress that was basically the least amount of fabric you'd ever had on your body; including a towel, your tits basically bursting out of it and calling out for freedom.

"come on, it's sexy." vivian hummed as she took another chug out of her white claw, her hands snaking around you waist, the girl wearing a matching dress, just in baby pink, "you're just not used to looking hot, that's all."

"hey!" you chide, "i wear hot things."

"like that maxi skirt with all the flowers? c'mon, you didn't even show a bit of ankle." vivian grinned, pulling away from you, grabbing a mini-bottle of fireball from her bag and handing it to you, a small grimace on your face, "just down your beta blockers with this and you'll be good."

you took the orange pill bottle you kept at your bedside, twisting the cap off and shaking two pills into the palm of your hand, before cracking the cap off the bottle of fireball, you downed the cinnamon whiskey without thinking, shooting the two white pills into your mouth, washing the slightly tingling liquid into down with your medication.

"atta girl!" vivian grinned and clapped her pink, manicured hands together as you felt warmth creeping up your neck to your face, letting out a squeal when you felt the palm of viv's hand make contact with your ass in the form of a smack. "now, let me do your makeup."

"i'm still pissed you insisted on... that." vivian noted, referring to the long, dark green cardigan you'd worn over the dress she basically put on you as she took another sip out of her flask, offering it to you. when you accepted, you took a sip and nearly immediately coughed it out when you realized it was vodka, a grimace on your face, "i mean, you're supposed to look hot."

"dancing on a table and popping a titty in front of a bunch of random frat boys is definitely hot and wouldn't make me the subject of ridicule for the next year." you chuckled sarcastically, still trying to gain your bearings on the four-inch heels your friend had insisted you wear, feeling the slight burn of the vodka at the back of your throat.

"... alright, that's a low blow. it was freshman year."

it wasn't long enough until the frat house for the infamous sigma phi came to view, music blaring so loudly you knew you couldn't be able to even hear your thoughts inside, a few people outside chatting. vivian took your hand in hers, tugging you closer to it until you were both at the entrance.

"wow, viv!" one of the frat guys standing at the door exclaimed, looking your best friend up and down, "didn't think you'd show up. you-know-who's been bitching about you all night." the boy's words causing an exasperated groan to leave your friend, before his eyes trailed to you, the tall brunette looking at you up and down as if you were his next meal while you crossed your arms in front of your chest as if to pull into yourself, lowering your gaze, "who's this?"

"that's my best friend." vivian's arm snaked around your waist and tugged you into her, "and if you try anything with her, caleb, i'm gonna scratch your eyes out until there's nothing left but holes. y'know i'm capable of it." she winked.

"don't i know it." the boy, caleb, tsked, cocking his head to the side and shaking it, before turning back to vivian, "shame. be sure to show some girl-on-girl action later, yeah?" he winked, less smoothly than vivian.

your best friend rolled her eyes, tugging you by your hand into the kitchen, "ignore him. ignore most of these guys. they're dicks." vivian carelessly poured vodka and a small splash of diet coke into two red solo-cups, a breath of a chuckle leaving your lips when you realized it reminded you of all those high school/college party movies you'd seen. "here's to girl-on-girl action." vivian snorted, holding up her cup and handing you yours, "and if you don't chug it down, i'm telling everyone you like to sniff your socks after using them."

you laugh, rolling your eyes as you let the top of your cup make contact with vivian's, "cheers." you mumble, knowing the girl couldn't even hear it over all the commotion, only following her lead as you took the cup to your lips and downed the liquid down your throat, ignoring the searing taste of vodka that was poorly masked by the coke, a slight trail dripping from your mouth down your chin.

"whooo!" vivian shook her head of long, pink locks, looking to you with a grin as she grabbed your now-empty cup, already starting to refill both of them, and as soon as they were full once again, she pulled you to make your way through the crowds of sweaty people grinding against each other.

honestly, you were starting to understand why people drank. your head felt so empty of everything, of worries, of thoughts, of anything that usually plagued, haunted you. all you could focus on was swaying your body and bobbing your head along to the music. that was, until you noticed that your best friend was nowhere to be seen. you might've been drunk, but you were sober enough to worry.

"vivian?" you called out, your lips twisted into a pout as you took a sip from your drink, wandering through the vast hallways of the fraternity house, the floor underneath you shaking with the force of the bass. "viv, this isn't funny."

you took out your phone, your head down as you were going through your contacts in search of the contact 'pink slut ♡' (affectionately set by your best friend), only to feel the top of your head hit something solid. you let out a slight yelp, looking up and seeing a boy who was basically the height of a tree looking down at you.

"you good?" the boy asked with a slightly humorous expression on his face. "yeah. yeah, sorry." you sighed, taking a step back, your lips pursed in thought, "this is probably a long shot, but have you seen vivian parker? girl with pink hair-"

"viv?" the boy sucked in a breath, "yeah, her and topper just went into his room."

"unbelievable." you groaned, putting your phone back into the pocket of your cardigan and running a hand through your hair, "i was supposed to stop her from doing that."

"good luck with that." the boy snorted, taking a swig straight out of a bottle of jack daniels before looking at you up and down, "you're the best friend, right? the mouse?"

"the mouse?"

"y'know, all shy and shit. viv sometimes hangs out with us, and she talks about you guys." he scratched the bridge of his nose with his thumb, "this is a shitty first introduction. i'm rafe." the boy said, and you told him your name, making him nod, "y'wanna go outside for a bit?"

the two of you were sitting on the patio connected to one of the rooms in the frat house, passing the bottle of jack daniels back and forth, the music blasting downstairs almost drowned out.

"are you sure we're allowed to be here?" you asked with a small chuckle, taking a swig out of the bottle before it passing it back to rafe, pulling your cardigan closer to your body. "pretty sure that's someone."

"it is." the boy chuckled, taking a large swig out of the whiskey before placing it down on the space between you two, taking his backwards cap off and fixing his hair before putting the hat back on. "it's my room."

"damn, you're not afraid i'm gonna go rummage through your underwear drawer?" you snorted, rafe letting out a laugh along with you, "you have a lot of trophies. you're on the football team, right? nine?"

"well, i'd like to think i'm at least a nine and a half." rafe grinned, making you roll your eyes and nudge him, "kildare university football captain, at your service."

"maybe you'd be a nine-and-a-half if you didn't wear this ridiculous hat." you grinned, snatching the backwards cap off his head and placing it on yours, only the right way. "this is an awkward moment to tell you i have lice." "that's even better. i can tell people to let me rub my head against theirs for a chance to get one of the bugs that used to live in rafe cameron's scalp."

rafe threw his head forward in laughter, shaking his head before turning to look at you with a smile, "jesus. i can't believe that i actually thought you were like a mouse. your brain is so fucking weird, in the best way possible."

"alcohol lowers your inhibitions and all that crap." you chuckled, "in reality i'm afraid to talk to anyone, let alone some frat god football legend. can't even complain when i get my order wrong."

"frat god." rafe shook his head and looked forward, taking a swig of whiskey. "how come?"

"i've had social anxiety since i was little. i didn't have that many friends when i was a kid, so when i came to college and vivian saw me and decided to adopt me as her introverted friend, it was like a godsend. if it wasn't for her, i'd probably be known as the weird hermit in the corner of the room."

you took in a deep breath, looking up at the stars up in the black midnight sky, and rafe could see them glimmering in your eyes as you quoted, "from childhood's hour i have not been as others were, i have not seen as others saw. i could not bring my passions from a common spring, from the same source i have not taken my sorrow, i could not awaken my heart to joy at the same tone. and all i loved, i loved alone."

"edgar allan poe." rafe said in thought, pursing his lips, and you turned to look at him, eyes slightly wide in surprise, "you read poetry?"

"not usually. but lately i've been getting into poe." rafe said, a fond smile taking over his lips. "it reminds me of someone special."

you looked at him, your mouth opening slightly in surprise, "you have a crush on someone." the boy turned to look at you with wide, blue eyes, "viv was wrong. she basically said you'd never touch commitment with a five foot pole, but you're totally into someone!" you softly smacked his arm, "tell me about her."

rafe rolled his eyes, "it's not a crush. it's just..."

"a girl who you can't stop thinking about, who you read poetry for, who you get all blushy and smiley when you talk about her... that's a crush, my guy."

rafe shook his head and took a large swig of whiskey, "she's... special."

"so whipped. that's a good thing. i'm pretty sure i'm gonna have to bribe someone to marry me by giving him a piece of what's basically an atomic bomb that my mad-scientist father created and left to his kids when he passed." you snorted.

"calm down angela hoenikker." the boy chuckled and shook his head, "cat's cradle. a classic."

you were about to express your surprise at rafe's knowledge of kurt vonnegut, only for the patio door to be opened, revealing a familiar pink-haired girl, pulling her white fur-coat closer to her body, strapping one of her heels on "whew, there you are." she sighed, "we gotta get out of dodge. topper's trying to ask me what we are and i said i'd answer after i get out of the bathroom."

you snorted, standing up and brushing off your skirt, "guess that's my cue." you looked to the boy who'd stood up with you, "thanks for the drinks. and the company."

"you too. get back safe, mouse."

"sleep well, lover boy. dream of your special girl." you saluted rafe with a small smile, the boy shaking his head as you and vivian left him on the patio, making your way inside, starting to make your way out of the party.

and only when you were halfway on your way to the dorm did vivian purse her lips, looking at your head, "what the hell is that?" the girl's words immediately making you remember snatching rafe's hat, "it's a souvenir. now let's get you to bed."

when you finally got to your dorm and to bed with vivian snoring blissfully next to you, you took your phone out, pulling up KILDAREUCHATS and messaging MalachiConstant.

YOU: alright, i admit it. i actually had a good night.

the response came almost immediately.

MalachiConstant: i told you that you would. i'm glad you did.

YOU: goodnight, vonnegut boy.

MalachiConstant: sweet dreams, poe girl. dream of me.

TAGLIST: @yktayy9669 @tinythebunni @dywho @melalsworld @akobx @samwinchesterisawhore @st8rkey @jjasmiineee @ltristessedureratoujours @a-lovers-card @uselessnewt @lunaleah @letstryagaintomorrow @cinnamqnnlatte @papapoy @kay133sposts @wtfisastiles @butterfly1c @emmiesummers @melodyyybubbles @toomanywhitelies @littl3loveydovey @scne-vampire @alwaysmaybank @mysticbby2009 @luna443 @drewstarkeyswife-7 @flowerluvr @kisselxoll - cont. in com.

[junojoel]

Everytime

QZ!Joel Miller x fem!Reader

Summary: Joel needs to use you sometimes. Sometimes.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, unprotected piv, creampie, anal, and a bad understanding of anal prep, vaginal fingering, anal fingering, oral (f!receiving and m!receiving), spanking, choking, fucking everything, loving sex is a warning in this too, mean joel but reader can handle it, he doesnt mean it guys hes a loverboy :(

i'm suffering horrifically from writers block so this is my way of writing like 4 smut oneshots in one lol. end of the semester is kicking my ass

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

He only brings you here when it gets bad.

Not bad like blood-in-the-streets bad, not even when deals go sideways or when FEDRA gets too close. Not because it’s safe, though it is. No—Joel brings you here when he’s bad. When he’s seconds from cracking. When the city feels too tight, and he needs something real to hold on to. Something that reminds him he’s still alive.

And more and more lately, that something has been you.

Inside the city, he keeps his voice low and his hands to himself. Tess gives him side-eyes when you’re around, and everyone else knows better than to ask what you are to each other, knows better than to give you any trouble. But out here? Past the fences, past the dead brush and the broken steps?

Out here, he doesn’t pretend he doesn’t want you.

The safehouse is a crumbling old farmhouse outside the QZ perimeter, long abandoned and half-swallowed by the forest. It looks like nothing. That’s the point.

Clean sheets. Wood stove. Whiskey. A real bed. You and Joel.

He slams the door shut behind you with one hand and has the other already on your waistband, fingers digging into the worn fabric of your jeans.

“Clothes. Off. Now.”

You don’t ask, you never do. You know this version of him. Wild-eyed and breath hot against your neck as he crowds you backwards, the floorboards creaking under his weight.

“You gonna say hello first?” you tease, already peeling off your jacket. The fabric rasps against your skin as you shrug it off, the chill of the room prickling your arms.

He grabs your chin, tilts your face up, calloused fingers pressing just shy of bruising. His eyes burn into yours, dark and hungry, pupils swallowing the hazel.

“Keep talkin’ and I’ll give you something to say.”

You grin, even as your heart thuds heavy in your chest, pulse jumping under his grip. “Promise?”

And just like that—he’s on you.

His mouth crashes into yours, all heat and desperation, lips rough from the cold, tongue sliding against yours with a possessive growl. His hands are everywhere—yanking your shirt over your head, the drag of fabric sending sparks across your skin, then palming your waist, your ribs, his thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. The scrape of his stubble burns your chin, the bite of it sharp and sweet.

The back of your knees hit the bed, and you drop with a gasp, legs falling open, welcoming him in. The mattress groans beneath you, the sheets cool against your now feverish skin.

“Fuck.” Joel mutters to himself as he slides a hand down, pressing between your thighs, fingers slicking through your arousal with a satisfied hum. “Already so fuckin’ wet.”

His touch is electric, rough pads of his fingers circling your clit just once, just enough to make your hips jerk.

“You miss me, Miller?” you breathe, grinding into his palm, the friction sending sparks up your spine.

He doesn’t answer. Just presses his forehead to yours, jaw clenched, breath ragged. His fingers slide lower, dipping inside you with a slow, deliberate curl that punches a moan from your throat.

“You gonna keep talkin’,” he murmurs, voice thick, “or you gonna let me shut you up?”

“I like it when you try,” you whisper, biting back another moan as his thumb finds your clit again, pressing just hard enough to make your vision blur.

He slips two fingers in, thick and unrelenting, the stretch burning and spreading fire through your limbs. Your head falls back, a broken sound ripping from your throat as he crooks them just right, hitting that spot inside you that makes your toes curl.

“Jesus—”

“Say my name.”

“Joel.”

He growls low in his throat and kisses you hard, swallowing your gasp and working you open with brutal efficiency. His free hand fists in your hair, tugging just enough to sting, his mouth moving to your neck, teeth scraping over your pulse point.

When you finally reach for his belt, fumbling with the buckle, his breath hitches. The leather slides free with a sharp hiss, the clink of metal loud in the quiet room. You yank his jeans down, freeing him, his cock heavy and hot in your hand.

He groans against your skin, hips jerking into your grip.

“You think you can handle me like this?” he mutters, voice wrecked.

You wrap a leg around his waist, heel digging into the small of his back.

“Prove I can’t.”

He pushes in with a groan, one slow, steady thrust, stretching you full until you gasp. His hands are planted on either side of your head, muscles trembling with restraint as he holds himself still—just long enough for you to feel every inch of him, the heat of you wrapped around him, the way your body clenches instinctively.

“Goddamn, baby,” he rasps. “Always so tight for me.”

Then he moves, slow and deep. Every drag of his cock inside you is maddening, the fullness unbearable. His hips roll against yours, grinding just right, drawing out your pleasure until you’re writhing beneath him, nails biting into his shoulders.

He watches your face, drinks in every twitch, every bitten-off moan.

“Look at you,” he breathes. “Actin’ like you don’t beg for this every time I call you out here.”

You claw at him, pulling him down to kiss you, your teeth dragging over his bottom lip.

“Only ‘cause I know you can take it.”

He growls, hips snapping harder now, each thrust knocking the air from your lungs. The bedframe rattles against the wall, the headboard thudding in time with his pace.

“Fuckin’ right I can.”

His hand finds your throat; possessive, anchoring. Yours goes to his jaw, thumb brushing the scar that cuts through his temple, feeling the flex of his teeth as he grits them.

There’s nothing but heat between you. The wet sound of skin on skin, his ragged breaths mingling with yours, the creak of the bed beneath you. Your voice breaks around his name, whispering it like a prayer, like a curse, like the only word left in the world.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

You can feel it before he even speaks.

Joel’s pissed. Not the quiet, simmering kind from before, but something sharper. Bleeding off him in waves as he yanks the safehouse door shut behind him, the wood groaning under the force.

You barely get a word out before he’s on you.

His hands slam against the wall on either side of your head, the impact vibrating through the plaster. His breath is ragged, uneven—hot against your cheek. Clothes still soaked from the storm outside, the fabric cold where it brushes your skin. Blood streaks his sleeve. Not his.

“Joel—”

“Don’t.”

His voice is low, dangerous. Not like before. This isn’t foreplay.

You press your back to the wall, chin lifted, eyes locked on his. The flicker of the oil lamp paints shadows across his face, deepening the lines of tension in his jaw.

“What the fuck happened out there?”

He doesn’t answer. His teeth grind, the muscle in his cheek jumping. Eyes won’t meet yours.

“Was it Tess?” You reach out, fingers skimming the soaked leather of his jacket. Cold. Stiff with rainwater.

“No.”

“Then what?”

His eyes finally snap to yours. And it hits you—whatever it was, it rattled him.

“Almost didn’t make it back.”

You inhale slowly, the air thick with the smell of him—sweat, whiskey, the iron tang of blood. “Shit.”

“Yeah.”

For a second, the tension is quiet.

Then suddenly, Joel grabs your waist, yanks you toward him, and slams his mouth against yours like it’s the only way to make the world shut up. His tongue is rough, tasting of salt and smoke, and you whimper when his teeth catch your lip.

You break it, panting.

“What the fuck is this, huh? You almost die and now I’m just—what? Your therapy?”

“No.” He pulls you closer, “You’re mine.”

You barely make it to the bed.

He tears your shirt over your head, the fabric ripping at the seams. Pushes your pants down with one hand, growling when they catch around your knees. His fingers dig into your thighs, callouses scraping skin as he spreads you open. You’re wet already—because of course you are—and he knows it. Smirks when he drags his fingers through your slick, then brings them to his mouth.

“Always ready for me, aren’t you?”

You moan, grinding back against him.

“Maybe I like it when you lose your shit.”

He drags his mouth down your neck, biting at your shoulder hard enough to bruise. “Yeah? You like makin’ me crazy?”

You arch into him, gasping.

“Love it.”

That’s all he needs.

He flips you onto your stomach, hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave marks. The mattress dips under his weight as he kneels behind you. His cock drags between your thighs, hot and heavy, smearing your wetness against your skin.

Then his fingers press against your ass, testing, circling.

“This what you want?” he rasps, voice wrecked.

You push back into his touch with a grin. “Fucking try.”

He spits, the sound obscene in the quiet room, then works a thick finger into you, slow and deliberate. Your breath hitches, muscles fluttering around the intrusion.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, curling his finger just right. “Take it.”

A second joins the first. You bury your face in the pillow, muffling a whimper as he scissors you open.

Then his fingers are gone, replaced by the blunt press of his cock.

“Breathe,” he orders, and pushes in.

The stretch is brutal, exquisite. You gasp, fingers twisting in the sheets as he sinks deeper, inch by relentless inch. His grip on your hips is iron, holding you still as he works himself inside, groaning through clenched teeth.

“Fuck—Joel—”

“Shhh,” he soothes, though there’s nothing gentle about it. His palm rubs slow circles over your lower back. “Just relax, baby. Let me in.”

When he’s fully seated, he stills, letting you adjust. Sweat drips from his brow onto your spine, his breath hot against your shoulder.

Then he pulls out almost all the way—and slams back in.

You cry out, the sound punched out of you as he sets a punishing rhythm, each thrust driving the air from your lungs. The bed creaks under the force, the slap of skin on skin echoing through the room.

“That’s it,” he growls, fingers digging into your flesh. “Take it. Take all of me.”

Every stroke is a claim. You’re here. You’re both alive. You’re his.

His hand slides around your front, fingers finding your clit. Rubbing hard. Fast.

“Come on, baby. Gimme one.”

Your mouth falls open. Eyes squeeze shut. “I—I can’t—”

“Yes, you fuckin’ can.” His voice is rough, possessive. “This body’s mine. You come when I say.”

You shatter with a broken scream, clenching around him so hard he curses, hips stuttering.

He groans and comes inside you with a final, deep thrust, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

You collapse. Boneless. Breathing like you’ve run ten miles.

Joel stays on top of you, his weight pressing you into the mattress, one arm curled under your body like he can’t let you go just yet. His lips brush your shoulder, the touch almost tender.

“Mine,” he murmurs again.

And god help you—you are.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

You should’ve kept your head down.

You know that. Joel told you—explicitly—to let him do the talking. Just like he always does when you’re dealing with FEDRA.

But the guy was being a prick. All attitude and a swinging rifle. And maybe it was stupid, maybe it was reckless, but you couldn’t help it.

Joel didn’t say a word at the time. Didn’t look at you. Didn’t flinch.

Just handed over the rations, gripped your arm a little too tight—his fingers digging in like a warning—and steered you out of there before the guard could decide to make an example out of you.

The walk back is silent.

He doesn’t say a damn thing until the safehouse door slams shut behind you—and even then, it’s not words. Not really.

It’s the click of the lock sliding home. The thud of his bag hitting the floor. The way his boots scrape against wood as he turns, slow and deliberate.

His eyes track you—dark and furious, jaw tight enough to crack.

You feel it before he touches you. The heat. The pressure. The way the room seems to shrink until it’s just the two of you, the tension coiling tighter with every second.

Joel stalks forward, slow and deliberate, until your back hits the wall. He braces one hand beside your head, leaning in close. His breath is warm against your lips and his eyes search yours like they’re trying to burn the lesson into your brain.

“What the hell were you thinkin’?” he says, low and dark.

You swallow hard. Try to keep your voice steady. “He was a dick.”

Joel’s nostrils flare. His jaw ticks.

“You think that matters? You think they need a reason to put a bullet in your head?”

“He wasn’t gonna shoot me—”

“You don’t know that!” His voice rises, sharp and ragged, cutting through the quiet like a whip. “You don’t know what they’ll do, you don’t know what line you’re walkin’, and you sure as fuck don’t get to decide when to run your mouth.”

His hands are trembling. Just barely. But they are.

You stare up at him, chest heaving, mouth dry.

“You gonna hit me?” you ask, soft but sharp.

His eyes narrow. “Don’t,” he growls.

“Then what?” you whisper, stepping in close, chest brushing his.

His expression flickers—something feral and frustrated flashing through before it all slams back into place. That mask he wears so well.

He grabs your chin, thumb pressing against your lower lip, eyes locked to yours like he’s daring you to speak again.

“You think this is a game?”

You smirk, licking the pad of his thumb, slow and deliberate.

“I think you like it when I piss you off.”

There’s a second, only one, then he snaps. Grabs your waist, spins you around, and pulls you over his knee before you can even blink. The sudden shift knocks the breath from your lungs, the rough fabric of his jeans scraping against your thighs as he pins you in place.

“Since words don’t seem to sink in,” he mutters, voice rough, “maybe this will.”

The first slap lands hard, his palm connecting with a sting that makes you gasp. The heat blooms instantly, sharp and bright, and you squirm, but his arm locks around your waist, holding you still.

“You don’t get to gamble with your life,” he growls, delivering another sharp smack, then another, each one landing with punishing precision. “Not in there. Not ever.”

You bite your lip, trying not to whimper, but the sting is relentless, the ache spreading with every strike. Your skin flushes hot under his hand, the sound of each slap echoing in the quiet room.

Finally, he stops, his palm resting possessively on your reddened flesh.

“Still think it’s funny?” he asks, voice dangerously soft.

You swallow, thighs pressing together, the throbbing heat between them impossible to ignore.

“No,” you admit, breathless.

He hums, fingers tracing the curve of your ass, then sliding lower, teasing.

“Good.”

Then he flips you onto your back, his weight pressing you into the mattress as he unbuckles his belt. The leather slides free with a whisper, the metal clinking as he tosses it aside. His fingers grip your hair, tilting your head back.

“Open.”

You do, and he guides himself between your lips, the thick heat of him heavy on your tongue. The taste of him fills your mouth as he pushes in, groaning when your lips stretch around him.

“That’s it,” he growls, fingers tightening in your hair. “Take it. Every inch.”

You hollow your cheeks, sucking hard, your tongue working the underside as he thrusts deeper. His breath comes rougher, his hips jerking when you hum around him.

“Fuck—” His voice is ragged. “You’re gonna learn your lesson one way or another.”

He fucks your mouth with slow, punishing strokes, the head of his cock hitting the back of your throat until tears prick your eyes. You gag, but he doesn’t let up, his grip unrelenting as he watches you struggle to take him.

“Should’ve thought about this before you ran your mouth,” he mutters, dragging himself out just enough to let you gasp for air before shoving back in.

When he finally pulls free, your lips are swollen, your chin wet. He drags his thumb over your mouth, his eyes dark with satisfaction.

“Now,” he says, flipping you onto your hands and knees, “let’s make sure you remember.”

His hand grips your hip, and then he’s pushing inside you in one brutal thrust. You cry out, fingers clawing at the sheets as he sets a relentless pace, each snap of his hips driving the point home.

“This is what happens,” he growls, teeth scraping your shoulder. “You don’t listen? You get punished.”

You whimper, the pleasure and pain blurring together as he fucks you raw, his cock hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision blur.

You shatter with a sob, your body clamping around him as the orgasm rips through you. He follows with a groan, spilling deep, his hips grinding into you as he rides it out.

“Next time,” he murmurs, voice rough, “you keep your damn mouth shut.”

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

You were only supposed to stay the night. Just one.

Tess had taken a bullet on a bad run, nothing fatal, but she needed time to recover. Joel didn’t want you on the street alone. Didn’t trust anyone else to watch your back. So he’d handed you a key without looking at you and muttered something like, “Just until she’s back on her feet.”

You thought maybe he meant to sleep on the couch.

The room’s dim. Just a sliver of golden light leaking through the curtain from the streetlamp outside. You’re sitting on the edge of the bed, wrapped in one of his shirts. It’s soft and faded, hangs loose over your thighs. Joel’s across the room, stripping down in silence. His movements are slower than usual. No tension. No frenzy.

You watch him undo each button, eyes trailing over the strong lines of his body—broad shoulders, the cut of muscle under worn skin, the trail of hair down his stomach that disappears beneath his waistband.

He doesn’t look at you right away. Just folds his shirt and sets it on the chair like he’s buying himself time.

When he finally turns, the look in his eyes steals your breath.

It’s not lust, not really. Not only. It’s want, yes—but it’s wrapped in something deeper. Something unspoken. Something aching.

You slide back beneath the blankets and hold them open for him.

“Joel,” you say, soft.

He gets in beside you without a word. The bed dips with his weight, and his arm immediately comes around you, pulling you in like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

You settle into his chest, fingers tracing slow circles across his skin.

“You ever done this before?” you murmur.

He huffs a soft laugh. “Had sex?”

You glance up at him with a crooked smile. “No. Had someone in your bed. Like this.”

His face shifts. “No,” he says quietly. “Not in a long time.”

You nod. You knew the answer before he said it.

Joel’s hand finds your jaw, tilting your face to his. His thumb strokes your cheek, slow and reverent, like he’s still not sure you’re real.

“I want this to be different,” he murmurs.

You lean into his touch.

“It already is.”

And then he kisses you.

Soft. Careful. Like he’s trying not to break you. His lips linger, his breath warm against your skin. He kisses you like he has all the time in the world.

Your hands drift to his body—familiar and unfamiliar at once. You’ve touched him before, felt him everywhere, but not like this. Not when there’s no fire to put out. No edge to ride.

Just him. Just you.

He slides the shirt off your shoulders, slow as molasses, like he’s unwrapping something delicate. Like the heat between you needs to simmer tonight.

“Want you,” you whisper, tugging him closer. “All of you.”

“You got me,” he says, voice hoarse.

Joel kisses you like it’s the first time all over again. Slow, aching, unhurried. His hands explore every inch of you like a man trying to memorize something fleeting.

And then he starts trailing down—kisses ghosting over your jaw, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts. He pauses to mouth at one, sucking softly, tongue flicking over your nipple until your back arches. His hand massages the other, fingers pinching just enough to draw a whimper from you.

“Joel,” you breathe, your voice already wrecked.

“I got you,” he murmurs against your skin.

You feel him shift lower. His kisses follow a path down your ribs, over your stomach, reverent and slow. He’s in no rush—he’s savoring. And when he settles between your legs, spreading you open with calloused hands, it’s with a look that’s nothing short of worship.

You’re already dripping for him, aching, and he just stares for a second—eyes dark, mouth parted slightly.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “So fuckin’ pretty like this.”

You reach for him, fingers threading into his hair, but he gently presses your hips down, keeping you still.

“Let me.”

He lowers his head, and the first drag of his tongue over you nearly breaks you.

Soft. Wet. Slow.

He hums against you like he’s tasting honey, and you can feel the sound in your spine.

He flattens his tongue and licks a long, slow stripe up your center, then does it again, lips wrapping around your clit with practiced care. He sucks gently—just enough to make you gasp—then releases with a soft pop before diving back in, tongue circling and teasing, building you slow.

“Jesus, Joel—”

Your hips buck, but his grip tightens, holding you steady.

“Stay still, baby,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “Lemme take care of you.”

And he does.

He devours you like it’s the only thing he wants in the world. Like your pleasure is something sacred. His tongue moves in perfect rhythm—languid, focused—while one of his hands slides up your thigh, then down, two thick fingers easing into you as he keeps his mouth on your clit.

You keen at the stretch, hips grinding against his face now, too far gone to care.

Your hands fist the sheets. Your thighs tremble.

“You’re gonna come for me,” he murmurs into your skin. “Come on, sweetheart. I know you can. Just let go.”

You fall apart with his name on your lips, coming hard against his mouth, thighs clenching around his head as he groans like he’s the one being wrecked.

He doesn’t stop right away. Keeps licking you through it, tongue gentle now, coaxing you down from the edge like he doesn’t want the moment to end.

When he finally comes up, his mouth is glistening, beard wet with you, and his eyes are dark—wrecked—like the sight of you falling apart has undone him completely.

You tug him up by the shoulders, breathless and shaking, pulling him into a messy, deep kiss. You taste yourself on his tongue and moan into his mouth, hips already rolling against him again.

Joel grins into the kiss, rough thumb brushing your cheek.

“Didn’t know you could sound like that,” he murmurs.

“Neither did I,” you say, still dazed, still breathless.

He presses his forehead to yours, chest heaving.

“Wanna hear it again.”

When he finally sinks into you, it’s like exhaling after holding your breath too long. No rush. Just the warmth of him, stretching you full, grounding you to the mattress like he’s pressing you into something sacred.

His forehead rests against yours, and he groans—quiet, almost pained.

“Jesus, baby…”

You wrap your legs around his waist, hands tangled in his hair, holding him impossibly close.

He starts to move, slow and steady, each thrust purposeful and deep.

Your fingers drift over his back, nails tracing lazy lines into his skin. His name leaves your lips in a breathless whisper—no begging this time, no teasing.

“Look at me,” he says, voice low. “Wanna see those eyes.”

You do. And what he sees there makes his rhythm stutter. He’s not used to softness like this. Not used to being allowed to want without fear.

You touch his face, thumb tracing the crease of that familiar scar.

“I’m here,” you whisper.

“I know.”

Joel’s hand finds yours and threads your fingers together, pressing them into the pillow beside your head. You don’t say anything else. The way he moves inside you—slow, aching and reverent—says everything.

He kisses you through it. Again and again. Mouth gentle, tongue soft. When you finally come, it’s quiet and full-body, radiating out until your fingers curl tight around his.

He follows close behind, hips grinding deep as he buries himself with a low groan, your name on his tongue like it’s holy.

After, he doesn’t let go.

Just holds you to him like something he’s afraid to lose.

You curl into his side, lips brushing his chest.

“Feels real,” you whisper, afraid to break it.

Joel kisses the top of your head, pulling the blanket higher over your shoulders.

“That’s ‘cause it is.”

[thegingerwriter]

I would literally die for avengerz tower, fluffy Bob smut pls and ty. Like the team go out on a mission (not realising that reader/ Bob are together) and they have the whole tower to themselves!! Like anywhere they like to be together!! Maybe even the group couch!! Or the shared kitchen!! Or their games room!! The possibilities are endless 💞💞

A supposed 3-4 hours

Summary: Basically what the ask says lol I really liked it. Bob Reynolds x Fem!reader.

Warnings/content: Some smut! Very fluffy, very sweet. Some dom/sub undertones if you squint.

Word Count: 1.3k Little story. Support me on my Ko-fi so I can write more!

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"How long will you guys be gone?"

Yelena looked up at you as she picked up her bag off the ground next to the kitchen counter you were sat on.

"Uhh...Buck, what do you think?" Yelena said as Bucky walked into the room, and she threw her bag at him which he easily caught with his vibranium arm.

Buck thought for a moment. "3-4 hours give or take? We'll pick up Ava and Walker on the way back. Alexei...No idea when he'll be back up."

Your heart fluttered with hope at the idea they would be out for a big chunk of the day. You looked over at Bob, reading on the couch and gave him a slight smile. "Well, hopefully I don't disturb Bob's reading. But I doubt he'll even notice I'm the only one here, he's been stuck in that book for days" You joke, and nearly laugh as Bob sits up, clearly a little offended.

"Excuse me, I am not deaf and also I have not been 'stuck in my book for days'. It's been like...1." Bob says, sending a smile back as he defends himself.

"At least 2." Bucky says matter-oh-factly, heading towards the door with Yelena in tow. "Alright you two- we're out. Don't cause any trouble, don't burn the tower down."

You decide to sell it just a little harder as you call at them right as they enter the elevator. "You sure you don't need our help with this one?"

"We know the people involved, we got it. Enjoy the break." Bucky replies, and Yelena sends you a wink right as the doors close.

A beat. Silence. The elevator makes a soft humming sound as the others descend down to the bottom of the tower and you make brave the storm, choosing to look over at Bob.

He's so red. You waste no time, barreling towards him on the couch, tackling him in an instant as he yelps, tossing his book on the floor before it accidentally gets bent.

“Woah-Jesus.” Bob has barely enough time to get the words before you tackle him on the couch, forcing the book out of his hands and tossing it gently on the floor next to you. You pause on top of him, his face red and his body heating up beneath you.

He sucks in a breathe. “Uh-hi…sweetie.” Bob’s voice cracks a little and you give him a smile.

“Hi Bob.”

“Can I um…can I help you?”

“I think you can.”

You pull him up by the collar of his shirt, and he finally takes the hint, his body pressing up against yours as he cups your face and crashes his lips against yours desperately. You run your fingers through his hair- the length longer now but still somehow knotless and silky.

You let out a quiet moan, trying to repress it. The two of you are desperate for each other, kissing and grabbing at hair and whatever skin is available. It’s not like you two haven’t done anything lately. But the desperation around the excitement of being alone in the tower was great.

Just two nights ago, Bob had been fingering you through your 3rd orgasm of the evening, his other hand free for you to suck on his fingers in a desperate attempt to keep you quiet at 2am.

You bring yourself back to the present as you let Bob tilt your face up so he can slip his tongue in your mouth. It’s warm against yours and you let out a quiet moan at the action. You whine softly as he pulls away from you to look at your face.

“Why are you being quiet?” Bob asks plainly. Your heart flutters as you try to find an answer.

��Um,” You swallow, steadying your voice. “Force of habit I guess. We’re not properly alone often.”

Bob looks you up and down, his hands sliding up under our shirt and you shiver, sucking in a breathe and waiting. But he stops right before his hands can glaze over your nipples.

You go to speak, but stop yourself and Bob tries not to smile.

“Yes?” Bob asks, feigning innocence as you hold back a whine.

“Bob…” Your voice is barely above a whisper. His fingers just brush delicately over the hardened tips before pulling back again.

“I can’t hear you sweetheart. I want to hear you.” His voice is low but more audible than yours and words send heat right to you core.

“Robert.”

“Yes sweetie?”

“Please.”

He takes pity on you, his fingers finally pinching the sensitive flesh , pulling you towards him as you fall into little him ravish your mouth again. You kiss him back, breaking the kiss only for a moment to tear his shirt off and throw it carelessly behind you.

You continue to whine quietly, and Bob finally has enough, breaking the kiss and gently pushing a hand into your hair before closing his fingers and gripping it harshly, pulling your head to the side so he can kiss the spot right below your ear.

“What did I say?” His voice sends shivers absolutely everywhere as he whispers directly into your ear and you try not to squirm, the firmness not new but still surprising.

“I-I can’t help it-.” You stutter, and Bob grips your hair harder and you finally let out a moan, echoing into the empty tower.

“I want to hear you.” Bob says again, continuing to kiss down your neck. He pulls away, grabbing the bottom of your shirt and giving you a look that says he’s asking for permission. After a quick nod, your shirt is off and on the floor next to his.

“Fuck-“ You whine loudly as he grips your nipples again, the cool air hitting them and making you squirm in his lap.

“That’s my girl.”

Bob makes quick work to flip you over on the couch, the air rushing out of as you hit the soft surface with surprising strength and force, his arms staying at your sides. You try to calm your beating heart, but the way he’s looking at you- like he wants to eat you- it’s too much.

“Pants. Now.” You demand, and Bob laughs, his hands reaching for your waistband, undoing the buttons slowly.

But it’s not him undoing the buttons on your jeans that makes you freeze. It’s what you hear that makes both of you freeze.

“Dude, we all hang OUT ON THAT COUCH!” You immediately recognise Bucky’s voice.

You look past Bob’s shoulder, seeing Bucky, Yelena, Walker and Ava. Ava has her hands over her eyes, and your face heats up so much you think you might actually combust.

“OFF!” You yell, pushing Bob a little too harshly off of you, but he’s already on it, tumbling onto the floor and throwing you your shirt as he scrambles for his as well.

“Oh this is so funny.” Yelena says, the biggest smile on her face. “Wait till I tell Alexei.”

“Fuck…” Walker says, reaching into his back pocket, pulling out a wallet and a $10 note, dropping it into Ava’s open hand, the other still over her eyes.

“I-what are you guys even doing here!?” You shirt is on, and you try to desperately smooth out your hair as well but it’s really no use.  

“Turns out they were already on their way back, and we don’t have to go anymore.” Yelena shrugs.

You look at Bob, standing there with his shirt too big hanging off of his body, scrunching his arms around his body to keep himself from being perceived. You reach out and grab his hand and he relaxes slightly.

“They were gonna find out eventually.” You try to comfort him, and he gives a smile back.

“Wish it wasn’t like tha-.” Bob starts but is cut off by the elevator dinging and a loud voice with a Russian accent cutting him off.

“I FUCKING KNEW IT!”

[honeydippedfiction]

Heyy bestie!! I've got a long one for you (sorry lol). Can I get from the established list 15, 21, 30, and 33 with Joe and Angel. Love you sweet cheeks - 🐯

Looooved writing this so much like you have no idea, need me a man like Joe is with Angel or I'm going to crash out😭

1k & Birthday Bash nav | main navigation | reqs | table of contents

#15. Sighing and pouting loudly because you haven't paid them any attention. #21. Playing with your hands or jewelry while they're focused on something else, #30. Falling asleep within minutes of you playing with their hair or scratching their back. & #33. Becoming your shadow and following you around the entire day.

Joe Burrow x Angel

• you DO NOT have my permission to copy my work, upload as your own, translate, or repost on any other website •

The morning sunlight filtered through gauzy curtains, casting a warm, dappled glow across the Burrow family’s living room. The soft hum of Zariyah's bouncer filled the space as her tiny feet kicked excitedly at the air, toes wriggling in polka-dot socks. She let out a delighted squeal, the kind only six-month-old babies could make—half-laugh, half-song.

Angel moved effortlessly around the room, folding a baby blanket with one hand and reaching for a pacifier with the other. Her locs were pulled into a loose bun, gold hoops glinting in the light as she swayed with an easy rhythm that only came with sleepless nights and practiced grace. She wore one of Joe’s oversized LSU hoodies—stolen without apology—and a pair of biker shorts that left her legs bare and toned from carrying a baby on her hip all day.

Joe Burrow, NFL quarterback, playoff warrior, and franchise golden boy, lay sprawled on the couch like a bored teenager. His arm hung dramatically over the back cushion, mouth twisted in a pout as he watched his wife with the same intensity he reserved for breaking down defensive formations.

He let out a long, theatrical sigh.

Angel didn’t even look up.

Another sigh, louder this time. She still didn’t turn around.

“Angel,” he finally said, his voice low and pitiful. “You haven’t even looked at me today.”

She chuckled quietly but kept folding Zariyah’s onesie. “Joe, it’s barely 9 a.m. I looked at you when you tried to floss your teeth and missed your mouth.”

“That doesn’t count,” he grumbled, sitting up straighter, resting his chin in his hand like a child in time-out. “You didn’t look at me with love. You looked at me like I was some man struggling with dental hygiene.”

Angel turned at that, finally giving him a full glance, one eyebrow raised with mock suspicion. “You’re not gonna start crying about it, are you?”

He didn't answer. He just gave her that boyish, lopsided grin that used to light up Baton Rouge and now haunted opposing defenses every Sunday. But here, in the quiet hum of domesticity, it was aimed only at her.

“You’re so clingy when it’s the offseason,” she muttered, shaking her head fondly.

“I miss you,” he said, standing up and stretching his arms like he hadn’t been draped over the couch for an hour. “During the season, I’m too busy to realize how much I need you. Now? It’s like withdrawal.”

He padded across the room in socks, stopping behind her to wrap his arms around her waist and press his face into the crook of her neck.

“You saw me twenty minutes ago,” she teased, leaning into him.

“Too long,” he murmured. “I get separation anxiety.”

“You’re worse than Zariyah.”

Joe chuckled softly, the sound rumbling against her back. “At least she can’t talk yet. I have to express my feelings verbally.”

She turned in his arms, eyes narrowing. “You followed me to the pantry earlier.”

“I thought you might need help grabbing the cereal.”

“To the laundry room.”

“Folding moral support.”

“To the bathroom, Joe.”

“That was an accident,” he said quickly. “Okay—a happy accident.”

She gave him a look, then stood on her toes and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. “There. Better?”

Joe blinked, momentarily stunned into happiness, his lips twitching into a pleased little smile.

But then he frowned again. “Wait—that’s it?”

Angel pulled back, blinking. “I kissed you.”

“Yeah, but it was a cheek kiss,” Joe whined. “A friendship kiss. A cousin kiss.”

Angel burst out laughing. “Not a cousin kiss, Joe! Boy, if you don’t—”

“I want a real kiss,” he said, dramatically touching his chest like she’d betrayed him.

“I gave you affection and now you’re rating it?” she teased, turning toward the kitchen. “You are so spoiled.”

“I’m in love,” Joe corrected, trailing after her without hesitation. “There’s a difference.”

They moved into the kitchen, where Angel began warming Zariyah’s bottle. Joe leaned on the counter beside her with a deep, martyred sigh—his sixth of the morning.

Angel smirked but said nothing at first, pretending to focus on adjusting the formula. Meanwhile, Joe kept glancing at her from the corner of his eye, lips pushed out in an exaggerated pout. He drummed his fingers on the counter like a child waiting for his turn at the arcade.

“You’re really gonna keep pouting?” she asked, finally looking at him.

Joe didn’t even try to deny it. “I’m just a man,” he muttered, “standing in front of his wife, asking for one real kiss.”

Angel exhaled through her nose and turned fully to face him, bottle still in one hand. “You are too much.”

She stepped in closer, her free hand sliding up to the back of his neck, drawing him down slightly. Joe’s eyes lit up instantly, his breath catching like he knew what was coming.

Angel smiled—then kissed him.

Soft and slow, lingering. Her lips brushed his with a familiar rhythm, something warm and deep that wrapped around the heart before it ever touched the skin. Joe responded immediately, one arm slipping around her waist, the other resting on the edge of the counter behind her like he needed something to hold onto.

By the time she pulled away, his eyes were half-closed and a little dazed.

“Better?” she murmured.

Joe looked like he’d forgotten the day of the week. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Way better. That was like... an entire holiday.”

Angel laughed and gently tapped his chest. “You’re ridiculous.”

“But loved,” he said smugly, following her as she turned back to finish the bottle.

“Barely,” she teased.

“Still counts.” Joe beamed like she’d just handed him a championship ring.

｡･::･ﾟ★,｡･::･ﾟ☆ ｡･::･ﾟ★,｡･::･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:

By midday, the house had settled into a rhythm of soft domestic hums—baby monitor static, the faint shuffle of slippers, and the bubbling hush of warming milk. Angel stood in the kitchen, gently bouncing Zariyah against her chest, the baby's soft curls pressed to her collarbone. Zariyah let out a content sigh, half-asleep in her mother’s arms, her chubby fist curled around a lock of Angel’s hair.

The warmth of the bottle slowly crept into the glass as it rested in a pot of hot water on the stove. Angel shifted from foot to foot in a slow, practiced rock that had become second nature, her other hand resting on Zariyah’s back, rubbing gentle circles through her lavender onesie.

Joe was planted just a few feet away, leaned against the counter like it was the only thing keeping him upright. Not because he was tired—he wasn’t—but because he had absolutely nowhere better to be. He hadn’t taken his eyes off Angel in at least ten minutes.

Every movement she made, from adjusting Zariyah’s position to tucking a stray loc behind her ear, he tracked with quiet attention. His fingers, meanwhile, had found her left hand, the one nearest him, and were toying idly with her wedding rings—sliding them up her finger, twisting them gently, then letting them fall back into place.

“You know that’s annoying, right?” Angel said casually, not even glancing his way.

Joe didn’t stop. “What is?”

“Messing with my jewelry like it’s a fidget toy.”

He finally looked up at her with the faintest smile. “I like your hands,” he said with a shrug, his voice low and calm, like he was sharing a secret. “They’re soft. And warm. And they’re yours. I get bonus points if I keep touching you.”

“Bonus points for what?” Angel asked, raising an eyebrow but fighting a smile.

“Affection. Hugs. Maybe some forehead kisses later if I’m lucky,” he replied, now stroking the inside of her wrist with his thumb.

Angel laughed quietly under her breath, shaking her head. “You really are something else.”

“Something amazing,” he corrected, grinning as he slid his fingers between hers, letting their hands rest together on the edge of the counter.

The warmth between them lingered as Zariyah finally finished her bottle and dozed off in Angel’s arms. After settling the baby into her crib upstairs, Angel returned to the living room to find Joe already back on the couch, stretched out and waiting like a man who had ordered comfort and knew it was en route.

This time, he didn’t sigh or pout. He just looked at her with patient hope, tapping his lap twice like a drumbeat.

Angel gave him a look, one hand on her hip. “You need me to carry you to bed too?”

“No,” he said, tilting his head and cracking a small smile. “Just need you to do the thing.”

“What thing?”

Joe widened his eyes like a puppy caught in the rain. “You know the thing.”

Angel huffed out a soft laugh and made her way over to him. She sat down, legs tucked underneath her, and guided his head into her lap with practiced ease. As soon as his head hit her thighs, Joe exhaled like he’d been holding his breath all day.

Angel began threading her fingers gently through his short curls. Her nails skimmed his scalp, slow and deliberate, with the kind of care only a woman in love could offer. Joe melted. His muscles unwound in waves, his breath slowing with each pass of her hand.

She shifted slightly to make room, and her other hand found his back. Fingertips traced lazy patterns beneath his T-shirt—light scratches that sent little shivers down his spine. Joe let out a soft sigh, the kind that barely made it out of his mouth before it disappeared into sleep.

Angel glanced down at him—this 6’4”, broad-shouldered man who’d gone toe-to-toe with some of the NFL’s best and looked like he wanted nothing more than to stay wrapped in his wife’s touch forever. There was a softness to his face when he was like this, eyelids fluttering, lips parted just enough to show the vulnerability underneath the calm, confident quarterback the world knew.

She leaned back into the couch cushions, her hand still gently raking through his hair, and let herself fully exhale for the first time that day.

Upstairs, the baby monitor crackled softly, then quieted. A moment later, Zariyah let out a sleepy, squeaky sigh from her crib—one of those tiny baby sounds that always made Angel smile.

“I swear, Zariyah,” Angel murmured, brushing her thumb across Joe’s temple, “you and your daddy are in a competition to see who can be more clingy.”

Joe shifted slightly, mumbling something incoherent in his sleep. Then, as if pulled from a dream he refused to let go of, he mumbled again—soft and sure:

“Me… Always me.”

Angel blinked, startled by the timing. She stared down at him, lips twitching with disbelief before laughter quietly escaped her.

“Well,” she whispered, still smiling, “at least you’re self-aware.”

As if responding to her voice, Joe let out a deep sigh in his sleep. His arm slid across her lap and curled around her waist on instinct, fingers gently gripping the hem of her hoodie like a child clutching their favorite blanket. His body relaxed even further, molding into her like he was subconsciously afraid she might get up and slip away.

Angel’s smile deepened, her heart pulling tight in her chest.

“Lord,” she whispered, shaking her head gently, “you’re hopeless.”

She leaned down slowly and pressed a gentle kiss to his temple, lips lingering there a moment longer than necessary.

“Yeah, baby,” she whispered. “I know.”

｡･::･ﾟ★,｡･::･ﾟ☆ ｡･::･ﾟ★,｡･::･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:

Extra - Angel's Turn

The morning light spilled softly across the hardwood floors, stretching its golden fingers through gauzy curtains and warming the quiet Cincinnati home that had grown used to baby coos, sleepy sighs, and the gentle cadence of an NFL offseason. The house, at least for now, was still—peaceful in the way only a house with a six-month-old rarely was.

Zariyah sat nestled in her bouncer in the living room, humming her own tune between a pacifier and the swirl of colors on the screen in front of her. The television murmured with the low energy of toddler cartoons, their cheerful voices bouncing off the walls like soft echoes.

In the kitchen, the coffee pot gurgled and hissed as it finished brewing, the rich scent of dark roast wafting through the air like a morning hug. Joe stood at the counter, freshly showered, clad in grey joggers that sat low on his hips and a fitted black T-shirt that clung to his shoulders. His damp hair curled gently, still tousled from the towel he’d raked through it minutes earlier.

With one hand wrapped around his mug, the other lazily scrolling through his phone, Joe looked every bit the picture of offseason ease—relaxed, grounded, and completely unaware of the quiet storm approaching him from behind.

Angel padded into the kitchen on bare feet, moving slower than usual, wearing one of Joe’s flannel shirts over her tank top and a pair of soft cotton shorts. Her locs were still slightly frizzy from sleep, half-pinned, half-wild, and her face was bare, beautiful in that effortless way Joe always noticed most when she wasn’t trying.

She didn’t say a word.

She simply walked up behind him and wrapped her arms tightly around his waist, resting her cheek between his shoulder blades with a long, dramatic sigh that practically melted into him.

Joe paused mid-scroll and looked down at the mug in his hand, then at her arms curled around him.

“Well, good morning to you too,” he said, setting his phone down.

“Mmm,” Angel hummed, her eyes closed, her body fully pressed into his back. “You smell good. Like soap… and unearned confidence.”

Joe blinked, caught off guard. “Unearned?”

She sleepily smirked without lifting her head. “You walk around like you’re the main character in a sports movie. Meanwhile, I’m the one raising your daughter and keeping you moisturized.”

Joe let out a low laugh, turning slightly in her arms. “I’ll have you know, this confidence is very earned. I’ve survived SEC defenses, Super Bowl pressure, and you in a mood.”

“Mmm,” she drawled, kissing the middle of his back. “Barely.”

He chuckled, taking her hands in his and spinning her gently around until she was facing him. “What’s your problem? You think I don’t deserve a little swagger?”

“Oh, I’m not saying you don’t deserve swagger,” she teased, her eyes gleaming mischievously. “You definitely earned it... but how you wear it is what cracks me up. It’s the subtle flex every time you walk by a mirror.”

Joe raised an eyebrow, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “And what’s so funny about that?”

Angel gave him a pointed look. “It's the ‘I’m so humble, but look at me’ vibe you give off. You don’t even realize it.”

Joe’s lips twitched, but before he could defend himself, Angel was already wrapping her arms back around him, her face settling back against his back like she hadn’t just launched a full-on roast.

“You can’t even deny it,” she said with a soft chuckle. “It’s endearing, though. In a way only you can manage.”

“Endearing?” Joe echoed, a hint of playfulness creeping into his tone. “I’ll have you know, I’ve got more swag than you’re giving me credit for.”

“Mmm,” Angel hummed, her arms still tight around him. “I’ll believe it when you manage to make the bed without me reminding you first.”

Joe turned his head slightly, looking at her with mock exasperation. “Not this again. I’m a grown man, Angel.”

“I know,” she grinned. “Which is why it’s so impressive that a grown man can’t remember the bed’s got sheets.”

He rolled his eyes but laughed. “Alright, alright. I see how it is. You’re just here to tear me down, huh?”

“You’re so easy to tease,” she said sweetly, standing on her toes to press a kiss to the side of his neck. “I love it.”

Joe gave her a sidelong glance, his voice lowering. “You’re lucky I’m so in love with you, or I’d start fighting back.”

“Oh, please,” she scoffed, taking a few steps back with a sly grin. “I’d love to see you try.”

He chuckled softly and relaxed into her embrace, one of his hands covering hers where they rested at his stomach. “You okay?”

“Nope,” she murmured without lifting her head. “I’m in a mood.”

Joe shifted, concerned but not alarmed. “What kind of mood?”

Angel pressed a lingering kiss between his shoulder blades, her voice muffled by the fabric of his shirt. “A Joe mood.”

He smiled then—one of those slow, lopsided grins she always caught glimpses of on game days and quiet mornings like this one. “A Joe mood, huh?”

She gave a tiny, sleepy nod and began to sway from side to side, still holding onto him like a weighted blanket. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I just wanna be close to you. I feel... clingy.”

“You’re allowed to be clingy,” he said, twisting in her arms until he faced her fully. “You’re always holding me together. You think I don’t have days where I just wanna be wrapped up in you like this?”

“Well, now it’s your turn to deal with me like that,” she said, her voice teasing but her eyes soft and honest. “I need cuddles. Touch. Booty rubs. Head kisses. Blanket nests.”

Joe blinked. “Booty rubs?”

She smirked. “Don’t act brand new.”

He raised both brows but leaned down to kiss her forehead anyway. “Alright. I got you, baby. Come here.”

He reached down, lacing his fingers through hers, and led her to the couch like they were dancing slow steps to an invisible song. Zariyah, still entranced by the flashing screen and singing animals, offered them a gurgling coo as they passed by her to the couch.

Angel didn’t hesitate. As soon as Joe sat down, she curled into his lap like it was her rightful place, legs tucked beside him, her head immediately finding his chest. Joe pulled the throw blanket over them both, wrapping his arms around her as she melted against him with a contented sigh.

His hands were warm as they slid under her shirt, his fingers tracing circles on her bare skin, moving slowly to the small of her back. He gently kneaded her lower back with one hand, his other arm wrapped around her waist.

“Better?” he murmured.

Angel closed her eyes, nodding against his chest. “Mmm.”

“This,” she mumbled, cheek resting just above his heart, “is exactly what I needed.”

Joe kissed the crown of her head, rubbing slow circles into her lower back, his hand drifting comfortably and deliberately south, kneading her hip and gently cupping her as she relaxed deeper into him. “You okay for real?” he asked, voice low.

“I think I’m just tired,” she admitted. “Like emotionally tired. A little anxious for no reason. I just needed to recharge.”

Joe didn’t answer with words. He just held her tighter, hand still moving in a rhythm that made her hum with satisfaction.

“With physical affection?” he asked after a moment.

“With you,” she whispered. “I don’t even care if we talk. Just being next to you helps.”

The room settled around them. The only sounds were the low hum of the TV and the occasional rustle of the blanket as Angel shifted, burrowing even deeper into Joe’s warmth like she couldn’t get close enough. He rubbed her gently, deliberately—because he knew exactly what comfort felt like to her.

Which is why he gave her the much needed and begged for booty rubs.

“Mmmm, Joe,” she hummed, pressing a kiss to his chest and nuzzling deeper into him. “You can’t be out here flexing your fine self while I’m over here like a loose chihuahua.”

He chuckled. “So you wanna keep me all to yourself today?”

“I can’t help it,” she mumbled. “I’m just emotional as hell today and I need my husband to be my personal space heater.”

“Emotional?” He smoothed his hand over her hair, voice softening. “What are you emotional about?”

She sighed. “Everything. Nothing. I don’t know. I’m just feeling…”

“… in my feelings,” he finished, smiling.

“Yeah, exactly. And you’re gonna have to put up with me being all up under you because I just need…” She paused, searching for the right word. “I just need you, I guess.”

“Well, you can have me,” Joe said, pressing a kiss into her hair. “Just don’t try to keep me here when I’ve got a Zoom meeting in an hour. I know you like to get clingy when I gotta work, too.”

“Shut up,” she laughed, pinching his side. “Don’t make me bite you.”

Joe only grinned and pulled her closer, his large hands gently kneading her ass through the fabric of her shorts, his chest rumbling under her ear when he chuckled.

“See, this right here?” Angel murmured, her words half-slurred with sleep. “This is the shit they don’t put on ESPN. They don’t tell you about the booty rubs, do they? Or the way you hold me just because?”

“Nah, they don’t,” he said, smiling as he trailed his lips across her forehead. “They don’t know shit about how I love you.”

“Mm… I know how you love me,” she hummed. “And I love how you love me.”

“Do you, though?” He grinned, squeezing her ass just enough to make her squeal. “Or are you just a sucker for the booty rubs?”

“Oh, I’ll suck something—” Angel started, but suddenly stopped short, feeling a pinch to her backside. “Joe!”

“Don’t say that shit in front of my daughter,” he scolded, pinching her again.

She rolled her eyes, smacking his hand away. “She’s six months old, Joe. She don’t know what I’m saying and how do you think she got here in the first place with your freaky ass.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he shrugged. “I’m not risking it.”

She sighed, rolling her eyes again. “Fine. Spoilsport.”

He only grinned, his lips grazing her forehead.

It was peaceful there, wrapped in the quiet of their morning. The house felt like a sanctuary, a place where the rest of the world could stay outside for a while. Zariyah babbled occasionally, her laughter punctuating the soft cartoon voices still floating from the TV screen.

Angel closed her eyes, listening to the steady rhythm of her husband’s heart.

Minutes passed.

Maybe an hour.

Zariyah eventually drifted off in her bouncer, her pacifier lolling sideways, a soft snore escaping her tiny chest.

When Joe tried to gently move Angel aside to grab his phone off the coffee table, she instantly tightened her grip around his waist.

“Nope,” she said into his chest. “Trapped.”

“I just need to—”

“Nope. I told you, you’re on emotional support husband duty.”

Joe smiled down at her, amused and fully surrendered. “Alright. You win.”

She let out a small, smug hum and began idly playing with the hem of his shirt, then tracing soft patterns across the toned skin of his stomach beneath it. Her fingers wandered higher, skimming the curve of his ribs and the dip between each breath he took.

“Now who’s the clingy one?” Joe asked, cocking his head.

Angel tilted her face up to meet his gaze, eyes half-lidded and playful. “I never said I wasn’t capable. I just like to pretend I’m the emotionally stable one.”

Joe laughed. “I like this side of you.”

“What side?”

“The melted marshmallow version. It’s soft. I kind of love it.”

Angel grinned and let her eyes fall closed again. “Good. ‘Cause you’re stuck with it all day.”

“I can live with that.”

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her temple, holding her close as the sun shifted in the sky and the house fell into a quiet, golden kind of peace—the kind made not by silence, but by being completely seen and utterly safe in someone else's arms.

“Do I get a scorecard for my cuddle performance?” Joe murmured.

“You’re doing great so far,” she whispered sleepily. “But I’ll need more data to confirm.”

“Got all day,” he said softly.

And he did.

[kxsagi]

OMGGG HII😘😘😘

Can I have a hc of the blue lock guys of your choice (with our one and only goatsagi ofc) with a fem-present reader who likes to rough house them?? It's literally one of my love languages😍😍

“𝐰𝐨𝐤𝐞 𝐮𝐩 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞”

a/n: HIII

i have a friend who's like this with her bf (they’re always trying to kill each other) so this was easy to write lol

ft. isagi yoichi, itoshi rin, itoshi sae, kaiser michael, shidou ryusei, mikage reo, nagi seishiro, bachira meguru

isagi yoichi

“love… LOVE, why are you tackling me before i’ve even had breakfast???” 

he loves that you’re so physical with him, but he’s also constantly being blindsided. 

you’ll jump on his back while he’s brushing his teeth and start trying to wrestle him and he’s like, mouth full of toothpaste: “???” 

he’s so competitive that once you challenge him to a wrestling match, it’s on. you’re both locked in battle on the floor like it’s the final round of the world cup. 

sometimes he lets you win but other times he’ll flip you onto the couch and smirk like, “not this time.” 

once tripped over a chair trying to dodge your flying tackle. he told people it was a training injury. 

itoshi rin

“what is wrong with you,” he says, deadpan, as you pounce on him mid-stretch. 

you are the only person allowed to manhandle rin without getting death-stared into oblivion. 

he pretends to hate it but secretly lets you get away with everything. throw a pillow at his head? he’ll just glare and then pat the couch next to him. 

“you’re so annoying,” he says, wrapping an arm around your waist when you wiggle into his space. 

the first time you full-body tackled him while he was reading, he just laid there like a corpse until you gave up. then he pinned you and said, “my turn.” 

he does that thing where he grabs both your wrists with one hand like, “you’re weak,” and it always drives you feral. 

itoshi sae

sae.exe has stopped working. 

genuinely doesn’t know how to process the way you show affection. like, “you just punched me in the arm and smiled. are you mad or in love?” 

he figures it out eventually, and starts teasing you by egging you on. “is that all you got?” “you hit like a baby.” you’re on sight. 

he always stays annoyingly calm while you attack him. you’re throwing fake punches and he’s like, “mhm. cute.” 

once bear-hugged you from behind when you tried to run. dropped you on the couch like, “gotcha.” 

kaiser michael

oh he LOVES it. he lives for it. he is SO ANNOYING about it. 

you roughhouse him once and suddenly he’s picking you up like a sack of potatoes every chance he gets. 

“aw, you’re trying to fight me? that’s adorable. here, have a noogie.” proceeds to mess up your hair for five minutes straight. 

he lets you wrestle him because he loves how fired up you get. “careful, liebling, you’re looking a little obsessed.” 

once you bit his arm and he paused, blinked, and said, “… kinky.” 

sometimes you pin him just to kiss him. it’s effective. he stops talking. 

shidou ryusei

soulmate behavior. i repeat: soulmate behavior. 

the man is insane. he’s chasing you through the halls, trying to tackle you back. you two are feral. 

“finally, someone who understands me,” he says, mid-headlock. 

you start play-fighting and it turns into full-on wwe. clothes are flying. someone’s upside down. neighbors are calling the cops. 

he keeps score. he writes it on the wall in sharpie. he has a celebration dance when he wins. 

accidentally put a hole in the drywall once. he high-fived you. 

mikage reo

“wait, ow! baby?! what are you doing??” 

rich boy is NOT used to being handled like a rag doll but lowkey finds it… hot??? 

he acts offended when you tackle him but his eyes are sparkling. 

"you’re so violent when you’re in love. i respect that." dodges your next punch. 

once you tried to wrestle him in public and he yelped dramatically like, “AH! i’m being assaulted by my gorgeous girlfriend! someone call for help!!” 

he always gets his revenge later. usually via tickles. you regret everything. 

nagi seishiro

“ugh. do we have to move?” 

you’ll try to wrestle him and he’ll just go limp. like a cat being picked up by the scruff. total dead weight. 

“you can roughhouse me all you want if i don’t have to do anything.” 

one time he randomly activated and bodyslammed you onto the bed when you least expected it. “you started it,” he mumbled. 

he likes it when you sit on him like he’s a beanbag chair. even if you're elbowing him. “comfy,” he says, arm flopped over your waist. 

roughhousing turns into napping 90% of the time. 

bachira meguru

literal golden retriever energy. he is obsessed with you. obsessed. 

he tackles you at the same time you try to tackle him. it’s chaos. 

“you love me SO much, you just wanna fight about it!” 

full-on play wrestles you in public. doesn’t care who’s watching. he will chase you down the aisle at the grocery store. 

he calls it “love battles.” and yes, there’s a running leaderboard on the fridge. 

sometimes you’re cuddling and he randomly flips you and says, “round two!!” like bro we were NAPPING. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[waynes-multiverse]

Professor Dean, here I come!!! 🤓🎓😍

You finally got to see a play on Broadway, an excellent production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

Yes!!! Midsummer Night’s Dream is my favorite! Good choice 😁

Also, those descriptions of New York in the beginning drew me right in. The weed and piss got me, especially as someone living in a big city. It’s everywhere 🤣

A man saved you by grabbing hold of your arm and waist before you fell, bunching the fabric of your coat beneath his hand. You gasped when you stared up at a familiar face. A sharp jawline covered with stubble, just neat enough to be respectable; dark brows shaded over green eyes, trained on you; bowed lips pursed with confusion.

Gah, I love that she fell right into his arms! It’s always my favorite meeting for two characters 😝💕

You’d told him about it a month ago, after his lecture on fairy lore.

*snorts* God, what I wouldn’t give to hear Dean’s lecture on fairies 😂 (It’s my favorite comedic episode of SPN lol)

“Oh, incredible. That was the best Bottom I’ve ever seen.”

You’d heard some of the girls in your class whispering about it after class one day—a full-on engagement that fell apart two years ago.

Oh? Interesting. Wonder what happened there… 😏 And of course all the girls in class are talking about him. If he’d been my professor, I either would’ve been a straight A student and listened to every word that left his lips or I would’ve failed because I would’ve stared at him and daydreamed too hard to pay attention

That was another thing. He didn’t really talk like any professor you’d met in your life.

Man after my heart lmao

And I love how you characterized this AU Dean here because the professor profession is not easy to pull off for him if you’re leaning toward fancy university (I’ve always wanted to write a community college prof AU for him lol), but you still kept his essence alive in this one with the way he dresses more casually at school and speaks, and you can still see the “professor” part as well. Bravo, friend!! 👏

“I don’t want to be her, I just think she did so well at showing that vulnerability,” you explained. “There’s nothing worse than being in love with someone who doesn’t even see you, you know?”

He tilted his head, his amusement fading as he listened. You felt emboldened to continue your thought.

Is it just me or did he think of himself there because he’s already crushing on reader? 👀 (I mean obviously he is – he went to a Shakespeare play because she told him about it. That’s love lol)

You offered a polite thank you and went to take it back, but he held it out of reach at the last second, giving you a teasing smile.

“How about I put my number in first, so you can call me when you get home,” he said. “I’m Brady, by the way.”

How about I put a dent in your face and call the cops for harassment and stealing my fucking phone???? God, I hate people 🤬

But of course Brady’s an ass 😅

This was why you kind of hated the subway.

Same, girl. Too many weirdos and rude people 🙈

“Hmm. Is it like beginning stages, or...?”

Omfg, I snorted so loudly. I told you that story, right? 🤣🤣

But I love that Dean tried to let her handle it on her own before stepping in when the guy couldn’t take a fucking hint. Also bonus points for bringing her home too because I worried Brady would follow her and try something 😒

It was one of your many quirks, but only now did he realize how much he’d actually noticed about you.

Uh-huh… Only now you’re realizing this, Professor? 😝

He bounced a tennis ball against the wall, as was his habit. (Mostly because it bothered Benny, who had the office next to his.)

Typical 😂😂😂

“Well, there’s the famous Lysander line, ‘The course of true love never did run smooth,’” you said, “but that’s not even my favorite. That’s boring. That’s every rom-com ever, from Harry Met Sally to While You Were Sleeping, all the way to He’s Just Not that Into You, and Crazy, Stupid Love.”

This English major is geeking out throughout this entire exchange and nodding along 🤓 (Although I was surprised you’re calling rom-coms boring, my hopelessly romantic Alex 😜)

“Right? And what did he do? He dumped me the week before prom because he knew Ruby Summers would put out.”

Any relation to Buffy? What high school did she go to? Would explain all her interest in mythology 😂

Your mind seemed to be a hamster wheel on steroids, but he kind of liked that too.

Died at this description 🤣 Oh, he’s smitten, alright

In his mind’s eye, he could imagine them popping the buttons of his dress shirt, carving shaky lines of heat and pleasure across his skin.

Fuck. He bit the inside of his cheek hard to rid himself of that image, his jaw ticking in response. But another one just replaced it when his gaze met yours, half-lidded and shocked, but…contemplating.

Uh-oh. Professor Dean is wading into dangerous waters now… 😏

But no. Fucking no. He dismissed that thought as soon as it came. He was almost ten years older than you.

N’aww, but ten years isn’t so bad. Women are more mature anyways. I bet she’s even more mature than him lol

As in, forbidden fruit.

What did they all have in common? There was always a consequence for the taking and sampling part. The question was, is the price worth how good it tastes?

Omfg, I’m rolling my on the floor 🤣🤣🤣

And I always love Dean’s lack of self-awareness when he goes all “she doesn’t see me that way.” Like dude, have you never looked in a mirror or heard an audio recording of your voice?! 😆💚

Man, I can’t fucking wait for this little miniseries!!! 🤩 (I’d take a full one too, y’know? ^^) And please, gimme all the lit nerd references 🙏🤓🎓📚

10 'Til Midnight

Pairing: Professor!Dean Winchester x Student!Reader

Summary: A chance encounter outside of the classroom shifts the way you see your professor. Forever.

AN: Here’s a one-shot for @chevroletdean's 500 follower celebration! This also fulfills a request for one of my lovely Patreon members, @redhoodieone, who wanted to see AU Professor!Dean with a plus-sized student!reader. The reader is a graduate student (mid-20s) and Dean is in his 30s in this, so not really a wide age gap, but we’re still flirting with a gray area here lol.

Word Count: 4K

Tags/Warnings: graduate student!reader, plus-sized!reader, Shakespeare geekery, mythology and other nerdy classic lit. references, AU Brady sighting, sexual tension, mutual pining(?)

The ash cloud of exhaust rose up from the sidewalk steam grates. It infiltrated your nose as you hurried down a few well-worn concrete steps and into the bowels of the subway, a transition into deeper darkness.

To you, that acrid, mini plume of pollution was the smell of New York City; old cigarette buds and weed hash, fresh tequeños and hot dogs wafting from the open door of the bodega on the corner, mixed with a whiff of piss.

This was the city of broke creatives clinging to their fragile dreams with both hands, usually while the natives rolled their eyes. You were one of those shiny happy people with a dream and the battle-tested will to make it happen, especially tonight. You finally got to see a play on Broadway, an excellent production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

You replayed your favorite scenes in your mind like 1940s movie reel, except it was live in technicolor. An unconscious smile spread across your lips, but you had to hurry. Your train was about to leave in…

You checked the time on your phone—ten minutes to midnight—and compared it to the digital sign up ahead. Your eyes widened.

Shit! One minute?!

You had no choice but to try and run in your heels. That had you skidding to the open doors as they began to close, but you just managed to slip inside, albeit literally slipping with a yelp.

A man saved you by grabbing hold of your arm and waist before you fell, bunching the fabric of your coat beneath his hand. You gasped when you stared up at a familiar face. A sharp jawline covered with stubble, just neat enough to be respectable; dark brows shaded over green eyes, trained on you; bowed lips pursed with confusion.

“Professor?” you said, breathless and shocked.

He was just as baffled, but he finished helping you up as your name fell from his lips.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded and thanked him for the save, still catching your breath.

“Here, sit down,” he said, gesturing to a couple of empty seats on the subway. You joined him in sitting, though you ignored the stare of the guy standing closest to you who was holding onto a rail. He wore jeans and dirty hipster Vans, a brown bomber jacket and a gray beanie. The stench of weed and cheap cologne clung to him.

And his gaze followed you until you sat down. Slightly unsettled, you were subtle in the way you angled yourself toward the man beside you.

Professor Dean Winchester.

He really was the last person you expected to see on your way home tonight. You still couldn’t believe you ran right into him!

But then, you noticed the playbill sticking out of his coat pocket (his coat looked more expensive, a dark charcoal gray with a high collar, and it suited him).

“Oh, you…you saw the play too?” you said in excitement, showing him your own playbill that you fished out of your purse. You’d told him about it a month ago, after his lecture on fairy lore. You thought he might enjoy a play that was all about the convergence between the fairy realm and the human realm.

He’d admitted that he’d never seen a Shakespeare play live, but he said he’d look into it. You didn’t think he was actually taking you seriously though.

“Uh, yeah, I did. I’ve never been a big Shakespeare guy, truth be told, but you hooked me,” he said. When he smiled, it made the corner of his eyes crinkle a little.

You couldn’t help but smile too every time you noticed that…even though it made your cheeks warm in a blush. He really had no business being this handsome. And the suit? All crisp and black, paired with a classic, off-white dress shirt and a black pinstripe tie.

Clearly he’d dressed for the occasion of going to the theater, because usually he was one of the chillest professors you knew. He showed up to class in jeans, boots, plain henleys and jackets, though never without his watch, a classic leather time piece with a silver watch face and bold black numbers. It was so vintage, you’d asked about it once when you met with him to talk about one of your essays on Native American burial practices. He’d told you that the watch belonged to his father, who passed away a few years ago now.

“So what’d you think?” you asked. “Weren’t the sets beautiful? It was so ominous and creepy in the ‘forest,’ and ethereal too, like the fairy realm part of it.”

He nodded, smiling slightly wider at your enthusiasm. “Yeah, was a good production. The actors were top-notch.”

“Oh, incredible. That was the best Bottom I’ve ever seen.” You paused, realizing what you said, and a nervous giggle tumbled out of your mouth. “Well, the character. Not the ass—donkey—whatever. You know what I mean.”

The man laughed, rich and deep and washing over you pleasantly, even though you half covered your face in embarrassment.

“Can’t argue with you there. The ass was hilarious,” he smirked.

Another giggle, and you flipped through the playbill again to distract yourself from looking at his ruggedly chiseled face. Why, oh why did he have to be so fucking attractive? And somehow he was still single. You’d heard some of the girls in your class whispering about it after class one day—a full-on engagement that fell apart two years ago.

“But really, the actors who played the couples in the love quadrangle were awesome,” you said. “Helena was my favorite.”

He raised his dark brows. “Really? The girl who gets shit on the most in the play?”

That was another thing. He didn’t really talk like any professor you’d met in your life. You let out a snort.

“I don’t want to be her, I just think she did so well at showing that vulnerability,” you explained. “There’s nothing worse than being in love with someone who doesn’t even see you, you know?”

He tilted his head, his amusement fading as he listened. You felt emboldened to continue your thought.

“In her mind, she’s probably thinking, ‘Well, even if he’s yelling at me, at least he’s acknowledging I exist,’” you said, “which is incredibly sad and isn’t giving Shakespeare many brownie points for feminism, but it’s a reality that some women go through.”

After a moment, he seemed to see your point with a nod of his head.

“That’s fair,” he said, arching a brow. “Though I gotta hope you don’t let any guy talk to you like that.”

You shook your head with a smile, but before you could answer him, your phone slipped off your lap and tumbled to the dirty subway floor. You twisted away so you could reach down and grab it, but you caught that whiff of cheap cologne again. Gray beanie guy let go of the rail and bent down to scoop up your phone before you could. You offered a polite thank you and went to take it back, but he held it out of reach at the last second, giving you a teasing smile.

“How about I put my number in first, so you can call me when you get home,” he said. “I’m Brady, by the way.”

That oh-so-gracious offer was followed by a glance down your dress. You sat up straighter, adjusting the collar of your coat back over your neckline with a weary huff.

“Ah, you know what, I’m good with just my phone…please.”

This was why you kind of hated the subway. You didn��t know when you were going to have to interact with a creep trying to steal your phone, shoot his shot, or look down your dress as a consolation prize.

You held out your hand expectantly, but still, “Brady” didn’t take the hint.

“Aw, what, you have a boyfriend or something?” he asked.

“Oh my God. Are you fucking serious?” You sighed and decided a white lie was best here. “Yes, I have a boyfriend. Now give me my phone, please.”

“Hmm. Is it like beginning stages, or...?”

“Jesus Christ, dude.”

“Hey, I’m just saying, maybe we can grab a bite to eat, theeen you know. If things are going well, we could take things back to your place,” he said, his brows popping with sleazy suggestion. He still held the phone away from your grasping hand in frustration.

“Hey,” a deep voice cut in. 

You hesitated, glancing back at Professor Winchester. He glared up at Brady with a stony look that you’d never seen on him before.

“Give her the damn phone,” said the professor. His tone boded no argument.

Still, Brady pushed his luck.

“What, you her boyfriend or something?”

The professor didn’t bother to answer the question, but he stood from his seat, his long coat draped down all six feet and change of him, broad shoulders and calm confidence. He stared down at the lankier, scruffier pothead. Then he held out his hand.

Brady shifted back on his heels, seeming to realize that he didn’t want this version of Midnight on the Orient Express—the kind that ended up on the 6 o’clock news the next morning. With a roll of his eyes, Brady dropped the phone into your professor’s hand, complete with a dickish quirk of his lips. Professor Winchester gestured at him to fuck off.

“Walk away,” he said.

To your astonishment, the Brady just tossed him a “fuck you, bro,” and went to the other end of the car. You stood up too, just as the subway pulled to a stop. Professor Winchester handed you the phone.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

“Is this your stop?” he asked, still glancing back with a suspicious eye at the asshole still glaring at your backs.

You nodded, biting your lip.

“Okay, come on,” the professor said. He laid a guiding hand on the small of your back and joined you in stepping out of the subway car. To your relief, Brady stayed on the train.

“Thank you,” you said again. “Really, you didn’t have to miss your exit for me.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean said, with a shake of his head. His frown was still in place just thinking of that fucking loser. “I’ll have better peace of mind knowing you got home safe.”  

Once you told him that your apartment was another few blocks away, he knew he was going to be walking you home. You told him you weren’t that new to the city, but in his mind, it still wasn’t a safe neighborhood for a young woman to be walking around by herself at this time of night.

He had no other motive than that, however…

He’d been pleasantly surprised to see you tonight. You were a flash of scarlet that tumbled into his arms, the scent of your floral perfume teasing his nose before he caught sight of that little dress clinging to your curvy form, ending just a couple inches above the knee. But you drew your wool coat closer to your body, hiding the tantalizing flash of red from view.

It was for the best, he thought, as he cleared his throat and tried to find something else to focus his eyes on while you two walked together. He couldn’t help but land on your face again, on your pretty painted lips.

A deep, full-bodied red.

It was a familiar shade. You’d worn it before, while chewing the end of a pen absently in concentration during one of his lectures on the difference between skinwalkers and shapeshifters—those long, pointed nails tapping a quiet rhythm against the plastic. It was one of your many quirks, but only now did he realize how much he’d actually noticed about you. If nothing else, he always knew he had your attention.

He also knew you were getting a master’s degree in English, and you were taking his class as an elective. You’d actually sought him out before the semester started to make sure you got a spot in his class.

“Sorry, sir, I know it’s early. I’ve just been trying since last year to get into this class, and I really wanted the chance to take it before I graduate this year.”

He’d shifted in his swivel chair with his jean-clad legs casually crossed. He bounced a tennis ball against the wall, as was his habit. (Mostly because it bothered Benny, who had the office next to his.)

The repetitive bounce really helped him to think sometimes; it was basically his version of a fidget spinner.

“You like mythology that much, huh?” Dean asked.

“Oh, yeah!” you said, as your eyes lit up. “I find it so fascinating how every culture in the world has their own stories that have still survived for thousands of years. Some of them even overlap. Like, maybe it’s technically a different creature, but they have the same name, just in another language. Or it’s the same creature, different backstory. It’s like any novel I’ve ever read—similar tropes, but the style, the packaging. That’s what becomes new and creative.”

Amusement tugged at Dean’s lips.

“Same candy, different wrapper, right?” he offered. His reward was your bright smile.

“Yeah, exactly.”

He’d approved your request without a second thought. Unlike 95% of the students who came and went through his classes, you weren’t just smart. You cared. You had a passion for this stuff…and it mirrored his own.

“So, uh, you liked that play, huh?” he asked. Wanted to rub his hand over his face right after. Smooth, Winchester.

But it succeeded in brightening your eyes again.

“Oh yeah. People tend to think of it as one of Shakespeare’s sillier plays, but it drops some interesting ideas about love, for example.” All while you spoke, you spun vivid gestures with your hands.

Dean’s remained in his coat pockets, but watching you made his smile deepen. He liked when you got like this, so animated and alive with your thoughts. It threatened to draw him out of his somewhat jaded shell.

“Oh, yeah? Like what?” he asked. Not because he really wanted to talk about what some sixteenth-century ye olde-y English douche thought about love, but because he wanted to hear you explain it.

You didn’t disappoint.

“Well, there’s the famous Lysander line, ‘The course of true love never did run smooth,’” you said, “but that’s not even my favorite. That’s boring. That’s every rom-com ever, from Harry Met Sally to While You Were Sleeping, all the way to He’s Just Not that Into You, and Crazy, Stupid Love.”

Dean had to interject. “You watch a lot of chick-flicks, don’t you?”

Your lips puckered, but the amusement in your eyes answered his question.

“Like I said, I think Helena is the most underrated tragic figure in the whole story. Yeah, she’s pretty much a doormat, following Demetrius around even though he claims he’s in love with her best friend. Even though he curses at her, threatens to kill her if she keeps annoying him, following him around like an abused puppy. We can agree, he’s like, the biggest asshole in existence, right?” you said.

“Oh, very much agree. You want some coffee?” Dean asked, pointing to a guy selling warm pretzels and drinks from his vendor cart on the side of the road. It had stopped snowing a few days ago, but the February air was still sharp and bitterly cold at this time of night. If only it were midsummer.

“Uh, you know what, I could go for some tea. Thank you,” you said. But you didn’t let that derail you from your thoughts on Shakespearean love. You were still waxing literary analysis while you dug into your purse to find your wallet, but by the time you got it out, Dean had already paid for both drinks and a large soft-baked pretzel.

Your brows furrowed. “Oh! I meant to pay for my part—”

“Don’t worry about it. Here, take half,” Dean said, and he shot you a smile while handing over your hot tea and half of his pretzel. He got your eyes to light up for a different reason as you took the treat. You thanked him with a sweeter smile.

Then you took a bite, and you kept talking.

“But then she says, ‘Love can transpose to form and dignity.’ It can make us act like idiots, right? I mean, back in high school I wrote my boyfriend’s essays for a whole year because I didn’t want him to fail English, and let’s face it, he could barely spell his own last name.”

“Yikes,” Dean chuckled. Sounded like a GED and a gas station job in that guy’s future.

“Right? And what did he do? He dumped me the week before prom because he knew Ruby Summers would put out.” You rolled your eyes, accepting Dean’s sympathies with a gracious nod and a dismissive hand wave. Still, he hoped all you’d given to that guy was your time.

"Well, the guy you're seeing now better be treating you right," he said.

You blinked, your brows furrowing a bit in confusion, until realization dawned on you.

"Oh, I don't have a boyfriend," you said with a small chuckle. "That's just what I tell pushy weirdos on subways."

Dean was tripped up for a second, but he eventually quirked a smile.

“So anyway, my favorite bar of the whole play is what Helena says in Act 1,” you said. “‘Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind.’”

In that moment, Dean’s eyes were a little too captivated.

But you broke the spell.

You glanced ahead to continue along the crosswalk with him, taking another warm, soft bite of pretzel.

“And that’s why Cupid’s always painted like a blind baby…or something like that,” you said. You laughed a little, and you seemed to realize just how long you’d been yapping his ear off. You came to a stop at what he assumed was your apartment building, but you suddenly got quiet. Embarrassed.

“Sorry, once I open my mouth on this stuff, I can’t really stop unless someone stops me and tells me I’m literally killing them with words that don’t make sense.”

“You’re making a whole lotta sense to me,” Dean replied. And he realized that he meant it. He rubbed his chin in thought. “Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind. I like that.”

Your mind seemed to be a hamster wheel on steroids, but he kind of liked that too.

“Well, did you like the play?” you asked, smiling in embarrassment. “Sorry, can’t remember if I even asked you that yet.”

He laughed softly. Even if you had, he didn’t mind answering again.

“I like it more now, hearing you talk about it,” he said. But maybe that was too honest. He padded it with something more appropriate, as your instructor. “It makes sense, since you’re an English major, but your passion always comes through in your essays. I’m really glad you decided to take my class this semester.”

You demured further at the praise. “Oh, thank you. It really is my favorite class so far this year, but…that’s because you’re the one teaching it. You're really good at telling stories. You make them simple and easy to understand, even when we're talking about hell hounds and old ghost stories, or the uh, Oedipus complex, or something.”

Dean smiled in amusement, but it was his turn to be touched, even if it surprised him too. You were just so honest and free enough to speak your mind. It was refreshing.

“Well, thank you. Glad to hear at least one person’s getting something out of it,” he said, his smile warming for once.

You smiled too, looking at him through your lashes. “All right well, thanks again for walking me home. I’ll, um…see you on Monday-ayy!”

You stepped up onto the first stair leading up to your apartment and caught an icy patch with your red-bottomed heels. A gasp fell from your lips as your arms spun out to catch yourself on anything that could keep you from falling, and that happened to be Dean—specifically his coat, and then his biceps when he moved in fast to keep you upright.

He ended up gathering you into his arms while you clung to his coat. Your red nails bit into the dark fabric. In his mind’s eye, he could imagine them popping the buttons of his dress shirt, carving shaky lines of heat and pleasure across his skin.

Fuck. He bit the inside of his cheek hard to rid himself of that image, his jaw ticking in response. But another one just replaced it when his gaze met yours, half-lidded and shocked, but…contemplating.

Hot breaths mingled in between, puffing visibly on the cold air.

“God, I’m sorry!” you breathed.

“Don’t worry about it.” He cleared his throat past the slight roughness in his voice. “You all right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, um…Take Two,” you said, laughing weakly.

You aimed to let him go and continue on up the stairs by yourself, but Dean couldn’t stop himself from trying to help you. He held your elbow at least, with a hovering hand by your waist in case you slipped again. When you finally made it to the door, you paused and turned to look at him over your shoulder. Again, that look in your eyes said you were debating something in your mind.

“You okay?” he asked again.

You nodded. “Yeah, I just, um…you know what? Never mind. Uh, good night!”

Dean nodded, giving you a casual salute. He didn’t leave until you got in the building safely, but for his entire long walk home, your face wouldn’t leave his mind. That look of internal conflict, like you’d been weighing some kind of pros and cons. He had to wonder…

Had you been about to invite him up to your apartment?

But no. Fucking no. He dismissed that thought as soon as it came. He was almost ten years older than you.

Didn’t stop Catherine Zeta-Jones from hooking up with Michael Douglas. She’s barely pushing fifty while he’s halfway into Senior Depends.

Second problem. Career ending and reputation ruining and his own clock punch at the local 7/11—kind of a problem.

You were a student.

Grad student, came a whisper from the back of his mind.

In Greek mythology, the golden apples of Hesperides in Hera’s garden were guarded by a dragon. The Norse gods also believed in their own version of immortal golden apples, harvested by the goddess Idunn. Sounded a bit like Eden, right? As in, the Judeo-Christian Garden.

As in, forbidden fruit.

What did they all have in common? There was always a consequence for the taking and sampling part. The question was, is the price worth how good it tastes?

Remembering the feeling of your soft curves under his hands, Dean had a feeling it would be more than fucking worth it.

But he shook the thought from his head, his fingertips digging into the soft insides of his coat pockets.

He was your professor. That was where those thoughts should end.

You didn’t even see him that way…did you?

You shucked your heels off as soon as you got inside your apartment. You heaved a deep sigh and shed your purse, your coat, your earrings and necklace, which you set down on the nightstand in your bedroom. You sat on the edge of the bed and fell back onto the creaky mattress.

Your hands came to rest lightly over your stomach, a safe place, while you thought back to how Professor Winchester held you so tight. Secure. Gentlemanly.

How he looked at you, his green-eyed gaze falling to your lips, like he was contemplating the best way to close that distance, bowing his head those last few inches and…

You forcibly shook your head. He was your goddamn teacher.

It didn’t matter that he was probably the youngest faculty member on campus, and you were a twenty-five-year-old graduate student. Whether or not the man was “age appropriate,” he was still your professor. You couldn’t think about him like that.

And he absolutely didn’t look at you like that…

Did he?

AN: Sorry again for all the nerdy lit. tidbits, but I had fun. 😂 I'm thinking about expanding this into an actual little series, so let me know what you think! ❤️

⋆˙⟡ Follow @zepskieswrites (with notifications on) to get notified every time I drop a new chapter. ❤️

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[sh4nksslvt]

Hii, I was waiting for the requests to open.

You had an exam right? Hope it went well.

So I've been thinking about katakuri a lot lately and about shanks and Shamrock too lol.

Could you please write something about katakuri? Like the reader is engaged to katakuri or maybe married to him, but then sanji comes to the whole cake island, to marry pudding, and he ends up having a crush on the reader, or maybe just forms an innocent friendship with her. But katakuri doesn't like it and gets all jealous🤔

stawp, coz im thinking abt making a fic for the twins cozz 😩😩 anw, here ya go tis not much but hope u like it!

Sweet Possessiveness

When Sanji arrives on Whole Cake Island and charms you with his friendly nature, Katakuri finds himself struggling with a new, unfamiliar emotion—jealousy.

katakuri x reader | ONE SHOT tags: fluff, ,sfw, slight possessiveness, wci arc, jealous katakuri, arrange marriage, ooc(?) a/n: this js me trying to write ffs, this is experimental and for fun only, so expect this ff cringe, and akward word count: 1.2k

masterlist | ko-fi

: 𓏲🐋 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔ 🌊

The sun over Whole Cake Island gleamed like melted caramel, casting golden rays through the thick candy-glass windows of Sweet City’s castle. You stood on the upper balcony of your private quarters, arms resting on the edge of the railing, enjoying the faint scent of cocoa fields wafting on the wind.

“Miss (Y/N),” a soft voice called from behind. It was Galette, holding a delicate tray of tea. “nii-san sent this.”

You smiled, eyes flicking to the steam rising from the porcelain. Katakuri always sent you tea after his training sessions, as if wordlessly reminding you to hydrate and rest—because he wouldn’t.

“Thank you,” you murmured, picking up the cup. “Is he still in the training hall?”

Galette nodded. “And still scaring the walls half to death.”

You chuckled. “That’s our Katakuri.”

Your engagement had been arranged at first—Big Mom’s doing, naturally. A political match. You were strong, from a smaller but reputable family within Totto Land, and the Charlotte Matriarch deemed you suitable for her most powerful son.

But over time, real affection grew. Katakuri wasn’t one for grand declarations or flamboyant gestures. But his actions—silent protection, warm glances, small offerings like this tea—spoke louder than any words.

You sipped quietly, closing your eyes. Until a voice, bright and golden and unmistakably not Katakuri’s, broke your peace.

“Excuse me, mademoiselle,” the voice said, accompanied by the crisp rustle of fabric and the scent of freshly baked bread. “But are you the goddess responsible for making this castle look even more beautiful than it already is?”

You blinked, turning. Standing at the archway of your balcony, one hand over his heart and one knee bent in a dramatic bow, was none other than Vinsmoke Sanji.

Your brows lifted in amusement. “Are you always this dramatic with strangers?”

He looked up with a twinkle in his eye. “Only with beautiful women~”

You snorted and leaned back against the railing. “That line might work better if I weren’t engaged.”

He visibly startled. “Engaged? Oh no. What a cruel twist of fate!”

You laughed again. “Relax. I’m not offended. You’re charming, in a theatrical kind of way.”

Sanji sighed, placing a hand over his chest. “You wound me. But I’ll take what I can get. May I ask your name, mademoiselle?”

“(Y/N). And you’re Sanji from the strawhats, and the groom-to-be, right?”

He grimaced, but quickly masked it. “That’s me.”

You tilted your head, studying him. “Don’t look so thrilled.”

Before he could answer, another voice—low, gravelly, and dangerous—cut through the warm air like a blade.

“(Y/N).”

You turned to see Katakuri standing at the end of the hallway. His arms crossed, scarf wrapped high as always, and his mismatched eyes locked directly on Sanji.

Sanji straightened. “Oh. You must be—”

“Katakuri,” you said, walking toward him with a calm smile. “Sanji was just being friendly.”

Katakuri’s jaw ticked as he stared down the Vinsmoke. “Friendly.”

Sanji held up his hands. “No disrespect meant. I didn’t know she was—”

“Engaged to me,” Katakuri finished for him. “Now you do.”

You placed a hand on Katakuri’s leg gently. “It’s fine. No harm done.”

Katakuri didn’t respond, but his stare lingered for a beat too long before he nodded once and walked with you back inside.

That evening, you found Katakuri sitting in the shadows of your shared garden, back leaning against a lollipop tree. His scarf was lowered just enough to reveal his lips—soft, tense.

You approached quietly, barefoot, and sat beside him. “You’ve been brooding.”

He didn’t answer, just looked away.

You tilted your head onto his shoulder. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you my love. You’re too pretty when you’re calm.”

He grunted. “He looked at you like—like he could. Like you weren’t mine.”

You blinked, surprised at the raw honesty. “Katakuri…”

“I know I don’t always say things right. But I meant it when I told Mama I agreed to this marriage. You’re not just part of a plan to me.”

Your chest warmed. You reached up, gently touching his jaw. “I know. I never doubted that.”

“He flirts like breathing,” he muttered, still glaring into the distance. “You smiled.”

You chuckled. “I smiled because it was funny. You really think I’d trade you for a guy in a suit who flings hearts with every wink?”

He huffed, but the corner of his lip twitched. “You could.”

“But I won’t.”

There was a long pause. The air was warm. His fingers brushed yours. You leaned into him, pressing a soft kiss to the side of his mouth, just shy of where his scarf would normally rest.

“Hey,” you said softly, drawing his gaze. “I chose you. Out of everyone here, even if this started as politics, it turned into something real. Don’t let one flirty cook ruin your peace.”

His voice was quiet. “You’re mine.”

“I am,” you whispered, and kissed him again—deeper this time. His hand found your hip, pulling you closer with a sudden need that made your breath hitch.

It didn’t go further. Not yet. But it left you breathless and glowing, curled up in his arms under the sugar-pink sky.

The next day, Sanji found you in the castle’s kitchens, humming while tasting a fresh fruit tart.

“You again,” you said with a grin.

“Guilty,” Sanji replied, adjusting his rolled-up sleeves. “I was told you’re the one who perfected the berry-glaze layering on the top-tier wedding cake.”

“Guilty,” you echoed, licking a bit of jam from your thumb.

Sanji stared just a second too long. Then caught himself. “Incredible work. I’m honestly impressed.”

“Thanks,” you said. “I like baking. It’s relaxing. Even more so when a certain someone’s not glaring holes through the walls.”

Sanji winced. “Right. About that. He doesn’t like me much, huh?”

“Katakuri’s just… protective. And quiet. He’s not the type to compete. He’s the type to eliminate threats.”

Sanji paled. “Oh. Good to know.”

You handed him a spoonful of the tart’s custard. “Taste?”

He blinked. “Seriously?”

“You’re a chef. I trust your opinion.”

He tasted it—and promptly moaned. Loudly. “This is divine. Like kissing a cloud of vanilla.”

“That’s the rosewater,” you said with a smile.

Of course, that was the exact moment Katakuri entered the kitchen.

He stopped short in the doorway.

You and Sanji froze—Sanji still holding the spoon near his lips like he was mid-proposal.

“...You’re dead,” Katakuri said flatly.

Sanji yelped and backed away, hands up. “I swear it’s just custard!”

You stepped in between, laughing. “Katakuri, stop. He’s not doing anything wrong.”

Katakuri didn’t look convinced.

Later that night, you found a tray in your room: a small custard tart, your favorite. In the center was a tiny sugar plaque that simply read:

“Only let me feed you sweets.” – K.

You flushed hot, grinning like a fool.

Things calmed after that. Sanji kept his distance (though he still greeted you warmly), and Katakuri eased up—slightly. Enough that he didn’t seem seconds away from smashing a wall every time your name and Sanji’s were in the same sentence.

One evening, a few days before the wedding, you and Katakuri found yourselves alone on the quiet balcony of his quarters. The sky bled crimson and honey, and the world was still.

“Your scarf’s down,” you noted, brushing your fingers over his cheek.

He didn’t reply—just leaned in and kissed you, slow and deep, as his large hand settled on the small of your back.

You melted into him, sighing into the kiss. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t possessive. It was… secure. As if he was finally certain you were his.

When you pulled back, your cheeks flushed, he murmured, “Don’t smile like that at anyone else.”

You laughed softly. “What kind of smile?”

“The one you give me. The one that makes it hard to think.”

“Then stop thinking,” you whispered, kissing him again.

He did.

[saddershades]

My Love, You Are My Everything

Pairings: (Bucky Barnes x Fem reader)

---

Word count: 654

---

Summary: Bucky wakes from nightmares and you comfort him. This is just a short little fic, full of sweet comforting fluff.

---

As my eyes fluttered open feeling a cold absence. I roll to my right to look for my red lit clock, 3:47am I rubbed my eyes feeling the bed next to me and didn't feel your husband in your king-sized bed. I smeared my face with my hand and looked up at the sound of the sink and my heart sank, God how I wish he would get some steady and peaceful sleep.

“Buck?” I whispered as I pushed the door open from being half closed; I walked sleepily into the dim lit bathroom from a night light, “are you okay babe?” I asked as I was met with Bucky leaning over the sink, he had splashed his face with water and breathing heavily. My hand met his back with a tender touch and slowly rubbed circles as he nodded.

 I wore his old T shirt, the neck cut off exposing one of my bare shoulders. It hung mid-thigh covering my flower tattoo, I looked down at my bare legs and feet, only wearing his shirt and panties. The evening before this was so much fun, you both went out to dinner and came back spending quality time together. But no matter how good a day was or not, the nightmares always remained for him.

My head cocked to the side and the front of my brows furrowed up sadly, as I gave a sweet but sorrowful smile up at him. “Come back to bed babe, I’m here” I reassured to him as I grab his arm gently and guided him back to our shared bed.

He sat back against the headboard propped by pillows, I turn on the lap that was on the dresser and rounded the bed to my side, getting under the covers sitting crisscrossed facing Bucky. “Do you want to talk about it?” I ask as I tuck my hair behind my ears. He slowly shook his head “no” he responded in his low soft tone.

I reached forward and held his large hand in mine, my thumb caressing his softly, “that’s alright dear” I smiled just being there for him.

After awhile of sitting in silence he spoke up, “I had nightmares again.” He started; it was just as I assumed. He sighed heavily not even able to start talking about it. He put a hand over his face wiping it, I couldn’t tell if he was crying or not. My expression dropped further and I slowly scoot closer, wiggling in at the back of him, holding him from behind.

“You don’t need to talk about it, my love.” I cooed in his ear softly and rocked back and forth slightly, my hands running down both his shoulders, my attention on his metal arm as I ran my hand down it. I could slowly feel his muscles throughout his body relax and I kissed his hairline at the nape of his neck. Bucky hummed softly and slowly leaned his head back placing it against my shoulder. Reaching up, I pushed his hair back, resting my palm gently on his forehead.

“Y/N, you make everything so much better” he whispered, a tear slipping slowly from his closed eyes. I took my thumb and wiped it away, “Bucky I love you and if just holding you is all I can do to comfort you then I must” my voice rung in a mothering and soothing way, giving him chills slightly.

Bucky slowly rolled over laying on his stomach looking up at me. I reached down cupping his face in my small hands. He leaned up and placed a tender kiss on my lips, laying his head back down on my chest, closing his eyes. I rubbed his back a bit and played wish his hair softly humming a quiet tune.

Bucky sighed with comfort, “my love you are my everything” slipped from his lips before we both drifted off to sleep.

---

Authors notes: Thank you all so much for the read I know this is short but it was a little piece i have done while trying to overcome writers block lol. I’ll have more Bucky fic's to come! Have a great day/ night my loves <3

[husbandjoel]

baby, i | jesse tlou

summary: pregnant with jesse’s baby, you navigate the task of telling him plus everything that happens after the fact

pairing: jesse x fem!reader (no use of Y/N)

word count: 3.6k

trigger warning: bad language, kissing, sexual themes, mentions of smut and a breeding kink lol. pregnancy and child birth. this is just corny fluff tbh

a/n: there’s one thing i eat up more than husband!joel and that’s a devoted!dad. this is set in a world where dina and jesse never got together but jesse is still an avid no wrap but still tap guy x

gif credit: @pedgito

Two lines. Two perfect red vertical lines.

You thumped the test on the palm of your hand thrice, hoping a little shake of the urine saturated strip would miraculously alter to a singular vertical line with some shaking.

This was the fourth pregnancy test taken in the span of a week.

Positive, positive, positive and — yup — positive.

You snatched the box up, flipping it around to check for an expiration date. You did this for all four tests, you were amidst, essentially, the apocalypse so these little plastic things had a shelf life.

In date. For another year. OK. That could've been the issue for all four tests. Faulty the longer it had been unused. You were being optimistically obtuse.

Head hitting the tiled wall behind you as you sat on your bathroom floor, you thought back to the moment that you were pretty sure landed you in that exact predicament. If it were a police line-up, nine times out of ten, you would be able to pick it from the line without question; it was that blatantly obvious to recall.

Jesse had been announced as a new council member. He had worked hard, endless hours to ensure that Maria Miller and her band of council members could put their trust in him to be unbiased in the face of debates that could strike a nerve with his own personal views. He was the epitome — in your opinion — of what a council member should be.

You two celebrated by christening the council table after hours.

Legs held up by his hands, you were sat atop the wooden table, stark naked, as it juddered beneath you. Perhaps you got lost in the moment, Jesse was just so excited and in turn, that spiked your adrenaline levels as he came close to finishing.

        "Jesse—" You grabbed the nape of his neck, sweat taped his hair to his forehead, "—Put a baby in me."

        OK. You didn't think he would take your words so literally that he did, in fact, impregnate you that one and only night that you had begged for it. You cringed at the memory.

        If the bathroom could depict how you felt as you stared at yet another positive pregnancy test, it would be aflame with wails of terror.

        As your inner turmoil peaked, the front door opened and slammed shut announcing Jesse's arrival back to your shared home within the Jackson Commune. It was a new thing, a foreign concept to you both as you navigated how to live with the person you were in love with. Jesse had been the one to ask you to move in, and you — without hesitation — said yes.

        He even had pointed out the spare bedroom whilst moving your boxes in, suggesting that it would make the perfect nursery if you ever wanted to have a baby with him. Ah. That suggestion may have also been a contributing culprit.

        Now? Now you were scrambling to pick up the evidence of your fourth pregnancy test, profanities muttered under your breath as you looked around to rid the evidence. There was nowhere that wasn't an easy find, so, you resulted in stuffing it down your bra — wincing at the contact due to the soreness of your breasts.

        You went to stand as Jesse opened the bathroom door, the top of your head smacked against the ceramic of the sink bowl making both you and Jesse wince at the harsh contact. You cradled your head as Jesse rushed to your side, knees on the tiles as his large palm cradled yours.

        "Hey, baby." You squeezed your eyes shut. You had to tell him. After you were one hundred percent certain you didn't have a concussion.

        "What were you doing on the floor?" God, did he have to be so observant?

        Your head throbbed, "Oh. I was feeling a little sick again, sometimes just sitting on the bathroom floor cools me down."

        It was no secret that you had been throwing up. Profusely at that. It started after you had eaten your favourite dish, going green after the first bite, you hurled the contents of your stomach into the toilet bowl whilst Jesse rubbed your back, confused at what he had done differently to your favourite dish that made you puke your guts up.

        After that, you had been sick more times than you could count. It made you miserable. Debilitating when it was near impossible to keep even water down.

        "We should really get you a check-up with the doctor." Jesse frowned, the pinch of his brow offered an insight to you that meant there was more on his mind than just you throwing up. Not that it didn't worry him throughout the day whilst he worked that you couldn't sustain a meal. But, you knew him.

        Something was afoot.

        "Is everything OK?" You perked up, tender headed but assured that there was no sign of concussion. You weren't seeing double of Jesse, as brilliant as that would have been.

        This had Jesse lean back onto his backside, his back against the tiled wall with his arms rested atop his bent knees. He exhaled deeply and shook his head with disappointment. Oh god. You thought. He's going to break up with me.

        Being a first time single mom wouldn't be so bad. Right? Right.

        Shaking the thought, you placed a reassuring hand on his bicep and he offered a weak smile. Oh fuck. He's really going to break up with me.

        "I made a mistake on Patrol this morning." Oh good! He wasn't going to break up with you. You were going to tell him you were pregnant after a few consoling kisses. He continued with gritted teeth, "It almost cost the life of another Patroller."

        You bared your teeth. Not so good. Maybe it wasn't the best time to tell him you were pregnant.

        You had to be considerate. Jesse took his job seriously. He was a perfectionist to the bone. If he made a mistake, which was rare, he would punish himself for a couple of days before he got over it. Usually it was minor things that he had slipped up on and you did your job as the doting girlfriend to assure him he was human and mistakes were little reminders that it was OK to not be pristine perfect at every given moment.

        Nevertheless, he was meticulous about rules and if it was at the expense of another life, you could presume that Jesse would carry the burden on his shoulders for weeks.

        An unexpected pregnancy announcement probably wouldn't have the effect you thought it would.

        Another time.

        Your nose bumped his side-profile, your hand rubbed the length of his back as he leant into your touch.

        "The key word is almost, here." You noted and he turned to look at you, noses just a kiss away from each other. You tilted your head and smiled, "They're still alive because of your quick thinking even after you made a mistake. That's what separates you from your error. Don't let it haunt you."

        Jesse mulled your words over.

        He nodded, a small quirk of the corner of your lips told you he would be over it much sooner as he swallowed your words of wisdom.

        "Since when did you become a prophet?"

        You'd tell him you were pregnant another time. For now, you were going to make his favourite dinner — nose tucked into your t-shirt whilst you did.

        -

        It was becoming more apparent that you were pregnant. It had been two gruelling weeks and one more pregnancy test for good measure that you had solidified the idea that you were carrying Jesse's baby. A small foetus that rained terror on your day to day life.

        You were still incredibly nauseous, even the scent of Jesse smelt like vinegar to you, making you screw up your face when he pulled you in for a morning kiss — it hurt his feelings but he loved you enough to not bring it up there and then. You had become overwhelmingly tired even when performing the most mundane task such as giving the horses at the stable some extra snacks. Not that, that was classed as a job but you enjoyed being the horses favourite.

        You'd pass out upright at council meetings. Everyone close to you knew that you preferred to be horizontal to sleep. It had annoyed Jesse, for the first time in your relationship, as they were discussing resources to vote on, there you were next to Ellie and Dina who had elbowed you after you let out the softest snore to alert those nearby that you had drifted off.

        You yawned into the palm of your hand as you sat with Dina as she prepped for her next patrol that afternoon. Her eyes flitted upward to your face before she halted her inspection of her gun; a smug smile on her face.

        "What?" You asked when she didn't stop staring at you. It made you feel as if there was something on your face.

        "Are you fucking pregnant?"

        Your eyes almost popped out of their sockets, "Dina—What the fuck?" You gawked, "You can't just ask a woman if they're pregnant. Who knows their background with it."

        "You're right. But you are pregnant. Aren't you?" She folded her arms across her chest in succession of her deduction.

        "You can't tell Jesse."

        Her hand slammed down on the table which made you jump. She externally celebrated with a fist pump, immediately calming herself by clearing her throat and clasping her hands together with her lips pulled into a thin line — as best as she could of course.

        "You have my word." She broke into a grin again, "Oh my god. He is going to shit!"

        "Yeah. I know. I'm working on it." You ran your hand down your face. It seemed whenever you had cemented the idea of telling Jesse your little, but growing secret, something else cropped up that overruled it.

        It was OK. You thought every time. You were patient and Jesse needed you. Although, you could only keep this kind of secret for so long before the swell of your stomach spoiled it for you.

        Dina sensed your apprehension and leant forward to squeeze your hand briefly before returning to clean her gun. "You know he will be ecstatic. Fuck, he will raise a second Captain Wyoming."

        "I know." You beamed, "I'm so happy."

-

        There was no time like the present and at that present moment of time, you had solidified the decision that you would tell Jesse when he got home from his Patrol meeting. Albeit exhausted, you were giddy to see his reaction, to finally spill the beans on your behaviour that deviated from your usual self with the Jackson Commune.

        You kicked the wet mud off your boots, scuffing the remains onto your doormat before entering. There was a dim light that glowed from the kitchen and you frowned, you were overly cautious at making sure that all electricity was turned off prior to exiting the house.

        Quick to check, you found Jesse sat at the small table you had inherited from Joel Miller, one leg shorter than the other, it was a mock-up table for one he was going to create for his and Ellie's home. He called it a 'house warming gift'. You loved it. It had character.

        He had a glum look to his face. Despite his resting face usually equating to one that read dismay, Jesse was putting this face on. Your shoulders fell; another night of not telling him.

        You were starting to think you'd tell him when you went into labour.

        "We need to talk." Jesse stated coldly and you felt the nerves creep up your throat. He never intimidated you, just those around you. Like a dog pissing on an object to claim their territory. Now, however, he was using his scary dog tactics.

        "OK. . ." You put your bag down on the table and sat across from him.

        He swallowed. "You need to be honest when I ask you this." Oh. Did Dina spill the beans? "I've noticed a few changes to your behaviour that have had me questioning things. For instance, you don't want to kiss me, and when you do, you grimace as if it pains you to do it. You've been a little withdrawn, you never tell me how your day was—" As Jesse listed the details of his concerns, the realisation creeped on your face, "—Not to mention, you've not been turning up to fulfil your duties for the Commune. These are all key factors to someone who may be possibly having an affair."

        What the fuck?

        You blinked at his accusation. Mouth agape, you had been accused of cheating on Jesse. The man you looked at as if he strung the stars. You, the woman who was head over heels, hopelessly devoted to Jesse — Captain Wyoming — were sat across from him with a finger pointed claiming to be a cheater.

        You couldn't help the laugh that escaped.

        "What is funny?" Jesse glowered.

        You swallowed the rest of the jest, "Nothing is funny. I promise—"

        "—Then answer me!" His voice was raised an octave. A rarity for someone like Jesse, but not impossible when pushed to the edge of his emotions. He wasn't so sure what he would do if he found out that you had been cheating on him.

        "Don't shout like that. You'll scare the baby." You said flippantly.

        "What?"

        "What?" You repeated as you digested what you had just slipped up on. Your hands gained clamminess, rubbing them against the fabric of your pants whilst a nervous giggle left the back of your throat.

        There goes the speech you had been reciting every morning for when you told Jesse the news.

        "Are you pregnant?" Jesse almost demanded with wide eyes and baited breath. His fingers twitched on the table as if he wanted to hold your hand.

        You scratched your neck, "Remember that time when you were appointed council member?" Jesse thought back to that moment as you nodded at his realisation, "Yeah. Turns out I kind of manifested it from begging that hard."

        The legs of the chair screeched from underneath him as he stood. He slowly rounded the table and knelt before you, hands coming to your stomach that hadn't reached the milestone of protruding from your clothes as of yet, but your jeans no longer fit your frame. He looked to you in awe, lips parted as he manually computed this revelation.

        It was a double whammy. Relieved you weren't cheating on him, but in fact, pregnant with his child. It all made sense now.

        "I'm a little offended you thought I was cheating." You feigned hurt as his thumb stroked your abdomen.

        He ignored you, "I'm going to try and be the best dad ever. Whatever it takes."

        You thread your fingers in his hair as he rested his cheek on your lap, "I know you will."

-

        The seasons changed and your stomach grew rounder, you bid a farewell to your feet, unable to see them from the protruding belly holding your baby.

        From the moment he found out, Jesse had been exceptionally thriving in the aspect of fatherhood. After the the night he found out, you had woken up to his side of the bed cold, and everyone knew that Jesse was a stickler for an early bedtime routine to ensure maximum hours of rest. Bare feet padded through your shared home, you had found Jesse hunched over his desk, muttering to himself as he shuffled a few priorities around in his life to give his full undivided attention to becoming a father.

        He would come home after Patrol, books on pregnancy, breastfeeding and babies stacked up to his chin. Quick to press a chaste kiss to your lips before delving deep into his studying on how to perfect all three — despite not being able to breastfeed himself, Jesse still wanted to be as knowledgeable and supportive to you when the time came.

        One time, as you were drifting off on the couch, Jesse strolled through from the kitchen, a half eaten apple in his hand that was browning, a book balanced between his fingers as he looked up with the concentration still apparent on his features.

        "Did you know about Perineal Massages?" He asked as you rubbed your growing stomach. You shook your head and he hummed, "It helps prepare the perineum for childbirth. We should do that tonight."

        You were positively glowing by the end of the Perineal Massages he suggested, that never ended up being just a Perineal Massage.

        OK, Jesse was relatively obsessed with the idea of you being pregnant with his baby. Come your third trimester, he would catch you waddling through, hand on back to support it before it crumbled beneath the weight of your child. He licked his lips, flipping the pages of the pregnancy book he had nose-dived into, to see if there was a possibility to keep a woman pregnant for the rest of their lives. Maybe it was a selfish indulgent fetish but he's sure he'd be forgiven.

        "I swear my throat might actually have caught fire from this heartburn." You had stated as you clutched your neck, "If your baby doesn't have a head full of hair, my suffering has gone amiss."

        Jesse looked up from the pages of the book, disheartened not to find anything on keeping a woman pregnant. He narrowed his eyes, "I read that's a myth. Hold on. I can find exactly what it said — I think I bookmarked it—"

        "—Jesse." You interrupted him with no guilt. Patience had been lost in the third trimester. Fingers pressed to the ache coming from your pregnant belly, you pleaded, "Knowledge break, OK?"

        Knowledge break meant stop explaining pregnancy to you through the bookmarks of the tenth book he's read about pregnancy and the astounding myths that came from it.

        Jesse closed the book in his hands, "Ah. Sorry." He was so inexplicably nervous to become a father that the extensive research where he read pages ten times over to digest the knowledge, became an irritant to you in your late stages of pregnancy. 

You smoothed your hand over your stomach, Jesse’s eyes flitting to your the stretched skin. Oh god, he was so obsessed with it. You smirked, he wasn’t so subtle with his wide-eyes as the corners of his mouth watered over you.

Who wouldn’t take advantage of that?

“Will you take care of me?” You feigned innocence, a slight pout of your bottom lip and Jesse pounced on you like a savaged animal. Head between your legs, you leant your head back and thanked the Council Members for choosing Jesse for the Council that night.

Timing was everything. And then you heard it before you felt it. A ‘pop’ before you felt a gush of water flush from between your thighs and all over Jesse. You eyes wide as he raised his head, hand swiped at his sodden face as he blinked the liquid out of his eyes.

Oh my fucking god. You stared wildly.

Jesse gasped, “Did you just—?”

“—No, Jesse.” You pushed yourself up onto your elbows, “My waters just broke.”

You had never seen Jesse crumble under pressure. He was the epitome of cool, calm and collected even back when you had patrolled the outskirts of the Commune with him, prior to the pair of you dating. Now, when the words escaped your mouth, Jesse was close to the term of a headless chicken, rug slipped beneath his feet — thankfully, catching himself — as he rushed to the bedroom to snatch the bag Maria Miller had helped you with that accumulated all specific needs for giving birth.

You winced, teeth gritted as your stomach tightened, before you managed to push yourself off from the couch. Eyes caught Jesse sprinting between rooms as you waddled toward the door.

“Whew. OK.” The contraction had passed, your hand still tightly pressed to where the striking pain had located from.

Jesse, in a thunderous panic, slid past your frame, bags tenfold in his muscular arms, before he swung the front door open, “Fuck, it’s happening!” He exclaimed into the night sky before the door to your home slammed shut, leaving you stood perplexed.

“Jesse?”

After a few seconds with baited breath, Jesse swung the door back open, wide-eyed with his broad chest heaving under his black t-shirt. He was by your side in an instant, hand under your elbow as he guided you through the threshold into the open air. You grinned knowingly.

“You forgot about me.” You teased and he tried to make face by sternly shaking his head.

“I didn’t. I was checking for any possible threats.” He was reading off his patrol script whenever he deviated from his own plan out in the wilderness. You knew. You had been there when Maria told him off.

You felt the contraction coming as he spoke. No time to retaliate, you hunched over and Jesse almost screamed in panic. There was no debate who was more calm, even when you were the one about to push a tiny human the size of a watermelon — or bigger, considering the height of Jesse.

Reassured with a smile from you, the pair of you continued your trip to the medical facility.

Jesse was going to be such a good dad.

Oh, and the baby had hair. Lots of it.

[sungchoi]

Stay in | 🏔️

pairing: choi san x sick!fem!reader

synopsis: sick and stubborn, you insist you’re fine until san shows up with soup, warmth, and quiet affection, proving that love means never having to be okay alone.

genre/tags: fluff, sick, est. relationship, cuddling, reassurance, a little fun teasing here and there, comfort, domestic fluff, emotional intimacy

wc: 1k

Your phone buzzed with a message from San just as you were reaching for another tissue.

Sannie: You okay? You sounded off earlier.

You hesitated before replying.

You: I’m fine. Just a little tired lol.

Which was true… If “a little tired” meant your head was pounding, throat on fire, and your nose going from slightly stuffy to aggressively useless in the last hour.

You shuffled back to the couch and pulled your blanket up to your chin, silently cursing your immune system. Just as you sank deeper into the cushions, your phone buzzed again.

Sannie: Okay. I’ll be there in 5.

You blinked.

You: What? No!! I told you I’m fine! Go hang with the guys!!

Sannie: You’re not fine. And I’d rather be with you anyway. ♡

You were still typing a feeble protest when a knock on your door interrupted you. You opened the door, still wrapped in your blanket like a half-defeated burrito, only to find San standing there on your doorstep with a grocery bag in one hand and a soft, knowing smile on his face.

“I brought soup, tea, and those M&M’s I know you like,” he said and pressed by, stepping into your apartment.

“You really didn’t have to—”

“I know.” He turned and gave you a look, eyes soft but unwavering. “But I wanted to.”

You followed him back into the living room and San into the couch as your body gave in. San knelt beside you and lightly pressed the back of his hand to your forehead, frowning.

“You’re hot,” he murmured. “Let’s get some fluids in you, okay?”

You silently watched as he padded around your kitchen like he’d done it a hundred times, humming under his breath, fixing the tea and soup from earlier, and making sure to pour the soup into your favorite mug. When he returned, he settled next to you, carefully pulling you into his side.

You let your head rest against his shoulder. He felt solid and safe. His thumb rubbed slow circles on your arm.

“I hate when you're sick,” he whispered.

You let out a weak laugh. “I’m still cute though, right?”

He tilted his head and grinned. “Always. Even when you look like you’re one sneeze away from collapsing.”

You groaned, hiding your face in his hoodie, and he merely chuckled, kissing you on the top of your head.

And as you slowly drifted off against him, warm and cared for, you realized you didn’t have to be “fine” around him at all.

You didn’t mean to fall asleep.

But with San’s warmth, the gentle hush of his breathing, and the comfort of being wrapped in both a blanket and his scent made it impossible to stay awake. When you stirred again, the room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of the TV’s paused screen and the tiny lamp he must’ve turned on.

Your head still rested on his shoulder. He was running his fingers through your hair lazily, while the other lightly rested over your hip, keeping you close.

“You awake?” he murmured, voice low.

You hummed. “Kind of.”

“Good. I was beginning to think I’d be spending the night as your personal pillow.”

You blinked up at him. “You already are.”

San grinned, brushing a few hairs away from your face. “True. But I don’t mind. You look cute when you sleep.”

You groaned. “Don’t say that. I probably snored. And drooled.”

“Yup,” he teased, lips twitching. “You drooled a little right here.” He tapped his shoulder dramatically. “Marked your territory, huh?”

You whined and buried your face into his chest again. “You’re the worst.”

“And yet, you’re cuddled up on me like I’m your favorite body pillow.”

You swatted his side, but your heart fluttered. He knew exactly what he was doing.

After a quiet beat, he said more softly, “You don’t have to pretend you’re okay, you know.”

You glanced up.

“I know you hate feeling like a burden,” he added, rubbing your back slowly. “But taking care of you? Being here when you need me? That’s not a burden to me.”

Your throat tightened, this time not because of the cold.

“...Thank you.” you whispered.

He smiled, leaned in, and kissed your forehead gently. “You don’t have to thank me, baby. Now drink your tea, before it gets cold, then I’ll put on that dumb rom-com you secretly love.”

You laughed. “It’s not dumb.”

He gave you a look. “The guy proposes by jumping into a shark tank.”

You grinned. “It’s romantic.”

“It’s reckless.”

“Just press play, San.”

He did. And when you leaned into him again, he pulled the blanket over the both of you and held you tighter, like you were exactly where you belonged, fever and all.

𝜗𝜚

Hours passed like minutes. The movie ended and the next one started on autoplay, but you were barely paying attention. The ache in your body had dulled to something manageable, thanks to San. His warmth, his quiet attention, and the steady way he held you like you wouldn’t break, even when it felt like you might.

You were half asleep again when he gently shifted to get up.

“Where’re you going?” you murmured, voice raspy.

“I was gonna grab an extra blanket and sleep on the floor,” he said softly, glancing back at you. “Didn’t wanna crowd you.”

You frowned. “San, just… stay.”

He paused, then smiled a little. “Yeah?”

You nodded, already pulling the blanket back to let him slide under with you. He slid in behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his chin on the curve of your neck.

“Better?” he murmured, his voice warm against your skin.

“Way better.”

You felt his fingers rubbing gentle circles over your stomach, soothing you back toward sleep.

“If you get me sick,” he whispered, “I’m making you make the soup next time.”

You laughed, soft and drowsy. “Deal.”

And with that, you let yourself slowly slip away to sleep, breathing in sync with the boy who loved you too much to leave, sick or not.

[papayainsectorone]

teach me on the other side of the world

════════════════════════

summary: oscar is off racing somewhere in the world, but finds himself in the same situtation of quirming at your words again

content: 18+! smut, nsfw FaceTime sex, masturbation, praise kink, mutual pining, suggestive texting, desperate!Oscar, post-race tension, playful domination, light dom/sub dynamics, mild teasing, dirty talk, slow burn payoff

word count: 2,7 k

pairing: oscar piastri x fem!reader

a thought: this is my first time trying a little smau situation and i quite liked it, also this part is not as long as the others but that man needs a break (somehow) lol

part 1 - part 2 - part 3 - part 4

════════════════════════

You’ve kept in touch since he left not just polite check-ins, but real conversation. Long threads of messages, soft voice notes exchanged when the timing aligned, and the occasional late-night call that left you both smiling into your pillows.

When he was away again for the next races, you watched him on TV. Eyes glued to the screen, heart stuttering when they cut to him adjusting his gloves, eyes dark and focused beneath his visor. You could almost feel the energy he carried, the calm precision with that edge of something more.

Later that evening, just after the podium ceremony, you send another message

His typing bubble appears. Then disappears. Then again. Then gone.

You stare at the screen, waiting, a little amused, a little smug. But instead of a reply, your phone lights up with an incoming FaceTime call.

You answer without hesitation, already grinning and there he is. Flushed cheeks, tousled hair, breath just slightly uneven, and that wrecked sort of look in his eyes like you’ve completely undone him from half a world away.

You giggle. “What are you doing?”

Oscar groans softly, dragging a hand through his hair. “What are you doing to me.”

Your smile grows. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You raise a brow at the way he’s shifting like he can’t get comfortable, like every part of him is on edge. “You’re in the driver’s room? Not at the hotel already… what are you doing?” you ask softly, already knowing the answer, but wanting to hear it.

Oscar swipes a hand through his hair, cheeks a full, telltale pink now. “Trying not to lose my fucking mind.”

You grin. “Why’s that?”

He glares at you, but there’s no heat in it. Just desperation. “You know why. Jesus.”

You lean back slightly, resting your chin in your palm as you watch him squirm. “Oh, I know. Maybe tell me anyway.”

“Fuck,” he groans again, dragging the word out. “You’re unreal. I’m—God, I’ve got engineers like twenty meters away and I’m sitting here trying to act normal while you’re saying the filthiest shit to me through a phone.”

You smile sweetly. “I haven’t even started, baby.”

He shudders, hand flexing in his lap. “Don’t. I’m serious.”

“You don’t sound very serious.”

“I can’t stand up right now,” he mutters like it’s a confession, gaze flicking down, then back up at you. “And it’s your fault.”

You pout dramatically. “Aww. Poor baby.”

“Stop it.” His voice cracks, and he covers his face for a second.

“You love it.”

He pulls his hand down, eyes hot now. “Yeah. I fucking do.”

There's a pause—quiet but loaded—then he shifts again, thighs visibly tense, and exhales sharply. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You tilt your head, voice dropping just a bit more. “Only if you let me.”

He groans, and it’s low, throaty, utterly unguarded. “Fuck. Stop talking. Please.”

You just smile.

You let the silence linger for a beat, watching the way his breath hitches through the screen, the faint rustle of fabric as he shifts in his seat.

Then, slowly, deliberately, you say, “You know what I was thinking about while you were racing today?”

He looks like he might combust. “Don’t—”

You cut him off, voice soft and syrupy. “The way your mouth felt on me. How focused you were. Like you were trying to win me, not a race.”

His hand grips the edge of the seat now, knuckles white. “Baby—”

“And how when you finished, you looked so proud,” you murmur, letting each word drip. “Like you just set a personal best.”

Oscar closes his eyes, tilts his head back against the wall with a sharp exhale. “Holy fuck.”

“Bet you’d break your own record if you were here right now.”

His eyes snap open again, dazed and dark. “You have got to stop.”

“You say that,” you hum, “but your hand hasn’t moved from your lap once.”

He doesn’t answer just groans again, deeper now, and drags his hand over his face like he’s trying to scrub away the urge. When he lowers it again, his eyes are glassy. “I’m gonna lose my job.”

You laugh softly. “Only if they catch you.”

He leans in closer, jaw clenched. “You’d be the death of me. You know that?”

You smile, slow and dangerous. “Then die a happy man.”

He lets out a breathless, strangled sound, and you can practically feel the tension buzzing through the screen. “I need—fuck. I need you.”

That stirs something low in your belly, but you keep your voice light. “Mm. I know.”

Oscar blinks at you, totally wrecked. “This is so unfair.”

You soften your voice, just slightly, still playful but laced with something darker. “Then close your eyes, baby.”

He swallows hard, lips parted, gaze flicking between your face and the faint outline of his own reflection on the screen. “What?”

“Close them,” you repeat gently. “And pretend it’s me.”

His breath catches, but he obeys, lashes fluttering down, jaw tense.

“Think about my hands on you. The way I sounded when you made me fall apart last time,” you say, slow and deliberate, letting the memory stretch between you.

He exhales shakily, knuckles flexing. You keep going, voice soft but firm.

“Undo your pants, nice and slow. Just enough to feel it. Imagine it's my fingers instead of yours.”

A groan slips from him, quiet and desperate.

You hum, smile curling. “Good. Now don’t move yet. Just let your hand sit there. Feel how hard you are. For me.”

His hips twitch, and he presses his lips together in a failed attempt to stay quiet.

“You’re doing so good, baby,” you murmur. “Tell me how it feels.”

His voice is barely more than a breath. “So—fuck, it’s—”

You smile, heart racing, entirely in control now. “That’s it. Just like that.”

His hand shifts, just slightly, and you catch the hitch in his breath. “You didn’t tell me I could move,” he whispers, teasing but barely holding it together.

“Oh, you want permission now?” You tilt your head, savoring this.

He grins, flushed and flustered, but you can see it how badly he wants you. How worked up he already is from just your voice, your words.

“You’ve got no idea what you do to me,” he murmurs.

“I think I do,” you say, just above a whisper. “You’re hard and aching and trying to be good, just like I like.”

He curses again, softly, biting his lip.

You shift a little on your end, just enough to let the hem of your sleep shirt ride up. You’ve been aching, too—have been since the second you saw his flushed face light up your screen.

He doesn't notice at first. Not until your breath hitches.

His eyes flick up, sharper now. “Wait—are you…”

You smile, slow and wicked. “What do you think, baby?”

He swears under his breath, eyes darting down as if he could see through the phone.

“I can hear you,” he murmurs, voice almost reverent. “Those little sounds.”

You hum softly, fingertips ghosting between your thighs, just enough to make yourself gasp. “All for you.”

His mouth drops open slightly, breathing ragged again. “Fuck. Don’t stop.”

You don’t plan to.

“I’m touching myself,” you whisper, letting the words wrap around him like silk. “Thinking about how you sounded when you begged last time. How your mouth felt when you made me come.”

Oscar’s jaw clenches like he’s in pain, his hand twitching again, still resting in his lap.

“Still gonna be a good boy for me?” you ask sweetly, just as you press a little harder against yourself.

He nods, fast and breathless, lips parted. “Y-Yeah. I’m trying.”

You moan, soft and needy, and that’s all it takes—he jolts, like the sound shot straight through him.

“Jesus Christ,” he chokes. “That noise—fuck, that’s not fair.”

“I told you,” you murmur, circling slow. “You’re not the only one suffering.”

He groans again, that same low, desperate sound from earlier. “You’re gonna break me.”

“Then break, baby,” you whisper. “I’m right there with you.”

“Okay,” you murmur. “Now you can move.”

The tiniest movement of his hand and he shudders, face tipping up toward the ceiling. “Fuck—”

“Slow, baby,” you remind him, gentle but commanding. “You’ve got to earn it.”

“Earn it?” he pants, glancing back at you through heavy lashes.

“Mhm. Think about my mouth. The way I’d look up at you, tongue out, eyes begging. You’d be so good for me, wouldn’t you?”

He nods without thinking, then chokes out, “Yes. Fuck, yes.”

“Good boy,” you purr, and his hips twitch again at the praise.

You watch him fall apart in slow motion, breath ragged, pleasure written all over him.

“Just like that,” you whisper. “That’s it. Let me see how pretty you are when you come.”

His breath catches—shaky, shallow—and you know he’s close.

You see it in the way his eyes lose focus, how his hand trembles slightly just out of frame. His breath comes in short, desperate gasps, and then—

“Oscar,” you murmur, just as your own voice cracks around a moan.

He lets out a low, broken sound, hips stuttering once, twice, before he falls apart with a groan so raw and wrecked it makes your stomach flutter. His body jerks forward slightly, face twisting in pleasure as he spills over his hand and stomach, chest heaving, pupils blown wide.

And it’s that, the way his voice fractures, the sharp, helpless grunt that punches from his chest as he gives in, that does it.

Your breath catches on a whimper, body tightening as the pleasure crests sharply inside you. You press your fingers down just right, and then you're spiraling, back arching, hips trembling. You bite down on his name as it escapes, raw and breathless, your own high crashing through you in waves that steal the air from your lungs.

He hears it — that final, broken moan — and his eyes fly open, dazed and shining, locking on your screen just in time to watch your face twist in bliss, to hear the wet, desperate sounds of your release.

“Holy fuck,” he breathes, completely undone all over again, like your orgasm just knocked the wind out of him.

You ride the wave out slowly, body twitching, breathing hard, trying to pull yourself back into your skin. The phone wobbles slightly where it’s propped up, catching just enough of your aftershocks — the way your hand lingers between your thighs, your chest rising and falling in ragged swells.

Silence settles, heavy and warm, the kind that only comes after you’ve given someone every inch of yourself and they’ve done the same.

You finally glance at the screen again, cheeks flushed, lips parted. “Hi.”

Oscar stares at you like you just pulled the stars from the sky.

Your grin is slow, amused. “Well, that was a performance.”

He groans, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re gonna kill me one day. Actually kill me.”

You giggle. “Messy boy.”

His face burns brighter. “You’re so mean.”

“You like it.”

He shakes his head but can’t stop smiling. “I really do.”

You tilt your head, voice going soft. “You okay?”

He nods, still catching his breath. “Yeah. That was… yeah.”

“You’re kinda glowing, babe.”

He huffs out a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Shut up.”

“Aww, no. Don’t get all shy now,” you tease gently. “You just came so hard for me. Made a mess.”

He groans again, hiding his face in his elbow, but there’s no real protest behind it.

“Next time,” you say with a wink. “In person.”

His head drops back onto the chair with a sigh, and this time his smile is soft. “Can’t wait.”

You settle into the quiet with him for a moment, watching his flushed, sleepy face on the screen. There’s something sweet in the silence, like a held breath after something beautiful.

Then, gently, you ask, “So… what are you up to tonight?”

Oscar blinks a few times, still catching up to the question. “Uh—right, yeah. Debrief in a bit. Gotta go over tire degradation, strategy calls, sector times—Carlos was mega in Sector 2, but I think we missed something on the outlap. And my entry into Turn 10 felt okay, but the data shows I was still hesitating. Might just be setup, but I’ve got a theory…”

His words pick up speed as he talks, eyes sharpening with that unmistakable focus. He sits up straighter, hands gesturing as he gets more into it, completely unaware of the way you’re watching him — the way your chest swells at how much he cares, how deeply he thinks it all through.

“I love how passionate you get about this,” you say softly, cutting in before he can spiral into corner analysis.

Oscar stops. His eyes flick to the screen again, his mouth quirking into a crooked, bashful grin. “Yeah?”

You nod. “It’s really hot.”

He laughs — short and surprised — then ducks his head, trying to hide how much it means to him.

And neither of you hang up for a while — the conversation drifting from strategy to weekend plans to nothing at all, just breathing in each other’s presence across the screen, the way people do when the feeling is too good to leave.