#i need to burn into my brain the first image of him

[hoshifighting]

— Synopsis: Where you “unfortunately” caught your best friend's roomate—your unsaid enemy—masturbating in their shared apartment. — WC: 4.6k — WARNINGS: smut, monster cock!seungcheol, explicit language and content, overstimulation, dry fucking, oral as a tongue massage (f. receiving)—a reward <3, body fluids (cum), dry humping, cock riding, dumbfication, degradation, aftercare, exhaustion, and DIRTY TALK.

here’s how it always goes with seungcheol:

you walk into a room, he immediately finds something to scoff at. maybe it’s the way you dress, maybe it’s the way you talk, maybe it’s just the fact that you exist in his general vicinity. but it doesn’t matter what you do—he hates you. or, at the very least, that’s what he insists on showing you.

joshua, your best friend and possibly the only person in the world who can tolerate both of you without losing his mind, always tells you to be the bigger person. “he’s not that bad,” he says, as if seungcheol didn’t practically hiss at you last week for sitting on his side of the couch.

but whatever. you don’t go out of your way to piss him off, and he doesn’t go out of his way to be nice. that’s just the way it is.

which is why you hesitate when joshua calls you:

“i swear, i wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. i left my keys at your place before i flew out, remember?”

“okay, but i literally don’t want to step foot in his apartment,” you stress, cringing at the thought.

“it’s my apartment, too,” joshua deadpans.

you groan, already feeling a headache coming on.

“just go in, grab the folder on my desk, and leave,” he insists. “cheol probably won’t even be home.”

which is how you find yourself standing outside their apartment door, holding joshua’s keys and hyping yourself up like you’re about to enter enemy territory. which, in a way, you are.

you unlock the door, push it open,

and immediately wish you hadn’t.

seungcheol. on the couch. fisting his cock.

your brain short-circuits. like, full shutdown, blue screen, cease all functioning mode.

the man is spread out—legs wide, head tipped back, theres a drop of sweat that drips from his neck aand land in the middle of his chest. hes exposing his toned abs that clench with every up and down of his hand. and his cock is huge. thick from the base to the top and flushed deep red at the tip, veins prominent as his fist works over it.

he’s so lost in it that he doesn’t even register your presence at first, not until he finally cracks his eyes open and sees you standing there, frozen stunned into silence.

the next few seconds happen in slow motion.

his eyes widen. his entire body stiffens. his hand stops.

“WHAT THE FUCK—”

seungcheol scrambles to cover himself, reaching for the nearest thing—which, unfortunately for him, is a shirt that does nothing to hide the absolute tent he’s pitching. his face goes red, splotchy from the neck up, and he looks so flustered that for a split second, you almost feel bad.

“why the fuck are you here?!” he practically barks at you, voice ragged from whatever the fuck he was doing before you ruined his life.

you blink, still processing the image that’s now burned into your brain for eternity. “uh. joshua?”

“what about joshua?!”

“he… he needed a document.”

seungcheol lets out a sound that is so frustrated, so exasperated, that it almost doesn’t register as human. “and you didn’t think to knock?!”

“why would i knock?! i didn’t think anyone would be jerking off in the living room like a fucking pervert—”

“IT’S MY APARTMENT.”

“IT’S JOSHUA’S TOO.”

“HE’S NOT HERE.”

“WELL, NEITHER AM I, NOW.” you turn on your heel, hand reaching for the doorknob. “i’ll just get the doc later—”

but before you can escape, he rasps, “don’t you dare tell joshua about this.”

you pause. smirk. oh, this is fun.

back still facing him, fingers still wrapped around the doorknob. you should leave. should pretend none of this ever happened. but something—some sick, wrong part of you—doesn’t want to.

so you turn. lean back against the door. cross your arms.

“what?” he snaps, shifting on the couch, the shirt still pitifully draped over his lap.

you tilt your head, dragging your gaze slowly down his body—his hard nipples, the taut muscles in his arms, the way his thighs tense like he’s fighting the urge to close them. you can see the way he twitches under the shirt.

“you’re still hard,” you note, your voice syrupy sweet, but your eyes gleam meanly.

seungcheol tenses. “so?”

“so… you’re mad at me for walking in,” you say, cocking a brow, “but you’re still hard as fuck.”

he grits his teeth, but his silence is loud as hell.

so you take a step forward. just one.

his breath hitches.

“cheol.” you coo at him. “you sure you hate me?”

he glares, but it’s weaker now, faltering under your scrutiny. you can see it—the slight tremor in his fingers, the way his pulse jumps in his throat, the way he’s not telling you to stop.

so you take another step.

and another.

until you’re standing right in front of him, the shirt the only barrier between his cock and your eyes.

his jaw tightens. “don’t.”

“don’t what?” you murmur, reaching forward to trace your fingers over his wrist—the one that was just wrapped around his cock. “don’t call you out? don’t get closer? don’t—”

in a flash, he grabs your wrist, yanking you down.

you gasp as you land on his lap, his hands firm on your hips, his cock pressing against your ass through the thin barrier of the shirt and your clothes.

his lips are right by your ear when he growls, “don’t fucking test me.”

you shiver, but you’re not scared, you’re thrilled.

so you shift, pressing back against him, and smirk when he lets out a sharp breath through his nose.

“or what?” you whisper.

his grip tightens. “you really wanna find out?”

your fingers curl into his hair, tugging just enough to make him hiss.

“yeah,” you breathe, lips brushing his jaw. “i do.”

he snaps.

the shirt under you is gone.

his mouth crashes into yours, hot and angry, his hands gripping your waist like he’s trying to burn the shape of you into his palms. his teeth nip at your bottom lip, his tongue prying your mouth open, swallowing the gasp you let out when his fingers dig into your hips.

you grind down, moaning into his mouth when you feel just how fucking thick he is, leaking against your skirt. 

his hands are rough when he yanks your skirt up, bunching the fabric around your waist with no intention of letting it fall back down. you barely have a second to breathe before his fingers push past your thighs, finding the front of your panties hooking his thumb into the damp fabric and pulling it to the side.

the rush of cold air makes you gasp, thighs trying to snap shut, but his thighs pins them open. and maybe, he has a shred of decency in him, because he lets out a low breath and murmurs, “this is gonna be rough.”

no warning. just that.

you should stop him. you should tell him to go slow, to prep you, to at least spit on it—but you don’t, you need to feel this big cock stretching you until every single thought inside your head gets completely erased.

there’s no lube, no prep besides the mess between your thighs, just the torturous process of sinking down.

seungcheol watches all of it. watches the way your lips part, how your lashes flutter, how your nails dig into the skin of his shoulders the lower you go. he’s leaning back against the couch, one hand gripping the plush of your ass, the other wrapped around his base, guiding you onto him like you’re something delicate. like he’s trying to help.

but he’s not.

because he knows what he’s doing when he taps his cockhead against your clit first, dragging the tip through your slick, coaxing out little whimpers that make him smirk. he knows what he’s doing when he presses up, just the tip slipping inside, barely enough to be satisfying but more than enough to make your thighs twitch.

your breath catches in your throat, your whole body twitching up as you take the next inch too fast. your brain is empty, your body is working on instinct, thighs shaking as you brace yourself against him, trying—failing—to push down further.

and he sees it. sees how you’re struggling, sees how your muscles twitch like you’re about to give out, sees how you want to take it but your body is fighting the stretch.

so he helps.

his hands clamp down on your waist.

and then he slams you down.

the sound that leaves your throat is so ruined that he cant help but feel a bit of compassion.

because suddenly you’re full. suddenly you’re sitting completely in his lap, completely engulfed in him, your thighs flush against his, his cock buried so fucking deep that you can feel it pressing up against every nerve inside you.

but when you try to move, try to lift yourself even an inch—nothing.

your thighs won’t cooperate. your muscles won’t listen.

you can’t move.

“oh?” seungcheol tilts his head, smug grin curling at his lips as he grinds up, watching the way your mouth falls open at the sensation.

“too big for you, baby?”

you whimper.

“thought so.”

and then he takes control, because you can’t move—so he does it for you. his hands lift you effortlessly, dragging your hips up before slamming you back down, setting the pace, forcing your body to take what it’s given.

and you can’t think straight anymore. every thrust knocks the air from your lungs, every time he slams you down it punches little whimpers from your throat that only make him hungrier.

“awww… thought you were so tough. but you can’t even fuck yourself on my cock, huh?”

you cry out, body giving up, melting against his chest as you desperately try to follow his rhythm, hips twitching with little, pathetic attempts to keep up. your body isn’t even yours anymore—just a toy, something for seungcheol to use, something he’s breaking in with every brutal roll of his hips. 

his fingers dig into your waist, gripping you so tight it hurts, but the pleasure drowns it out. you’re so deep into it, into him, that every ounce of shame has left your body, every shred of dignity gone. because you can’t do anything but take it, can’t do anything but let him use you like you were made for this.

he tilts his head, watching you fall apart, watching how your thighs tremble with every slap of his hips against yours.

“damn,” he laughs, licking his lips, voice mocking. “you’re making such a fucking mess of yourself.”

you whimper, forehead pressing against his collarbone.

and then he grabs your chin, forcing you to look at him.

“mm-mm, don’t hide now,” he says, smirking. “be a good girl and let me see that dumb little face while i ruin you.”

a sob rips from your throat, high-pitched and wrecked.

he groans, grinding up into you.

“fuck. bet the neighbors can hear you, huh? joshua’s gonna be so fucking embarrassed when he gets a noise complaint for his dumb little best friend getting dicked down like a whore.”

your whole body jerks, a whimper escaping your lips at the humiliation, the filth dripping from his tongue.

and he sees it.

his grin turns cruel.

“oh, you like that?” he taunts, thrusting up so deep your back arches. “you like knowing that you’re loud enough to make it everyone’s fucking problem? that you’re such a good little fucktoy for me that i can’t even keep you quiet?”

you nod, because you can’t lie. his fingers tighten around your jaw, his lips brushing against yours as he coos.

“poor little thing.”

he thrusts up again, so hard, so deep that your whole body bounces, hands scrambling against his chest, voice cracking in a choked-out sob.

and he moans, deep and satisfied, because you’re so fucking perfect for him. because your body is his to use, to mold, to ruin.

“joshua’s gonna kill me c-cheol.”

his hips snap up again, knocking the breath from your lungs.

“but you’ll tell him it was worth it, won’t you, baby?”

he smooths one over your back, pressing down so your tits rub against his burning skin, while the other stays firm on your hip, keeping you still. your body jerks with every pulse of his cock inside you, twitching as you flutter around him, so overstimulated you can’t tell where the pleasure starts or ends.

“s-seungcheol—” his name is nothing but a broken cry, muffled against his neck, but he’s relentless. he doesn’t even let you finish, just shifts his knees slightly and thrusts up into you with all the power in his core.

“fuck,” he hisses when you clamp down, crying out into his skin, and he wraps an arm fully around you to hold you up. “shh, baby, you’re being so loud.”

his hand snakes up your back, fingers tangling into your hair, forcing you to lift your head. you meet his gaze, and it knocks the breath from your lungs. he looks fucked, mouth parted, sweat dripping from his hairline, chest heaving, but he still manages to look at you like he’s about to devour you whole.

“c’mon,” he coos, tilting his head, his grip tightening just enough to make your scalp tingle. “tell me it was worth it. tell me how good my cock is.”

he punctuates it with a sharp snap of his hips and you keen, trying to lift yourself, trying to relieve some of the intensity, but your thighs betray you. seungcheol laughs, breathless but smug, and his fingers press bruises into your skin as he maneuvers you like you weigh nothing.

“see? can’t even move, huh? my poor baby,” he murmurs, voice syrupy sweet, his free hand cupping your cheek now. “you’re just gonna sit here and take it like the perfect fucktoy you are.”

heat prickles at your skin at the words, your brain too fogged up to be embarrassed, too fucked out to do anything but let him guide you. he rocks you against him, making sure you feel every inch of him dragging against your walls, rubbing at all the right places, pressing into you deeper than you thought was even possible.

“you take me so well, baby,” he praises, leaning in to press his lips against yours, just enough to tease. “so fuckin’ tight, so warm—fucking heaven.”

his hand slides between your bodies, two fingers finding your swollen, neglected clit, rubbing slow, deliberate circles over it. the sensation makes your thighs twitch, your nails dig into his back, a fresh wave of tears pooling at the corners of your eyes.

“shhh, i got you, baby,” he whispers, kissing your jaw now, your temple. his fingers on your clit work in time with the slow, torturous grind of his hips. “i got you, yeah? you gonna cum for me? hm?”

he kisses you full on the mouth when you sob, swallowing the sound like he wants to keep it forever. and then he speeds up just a little, rolling your clit with more pressure, meeting every rut of your hips with a firm thrust up.

you shatter.

your whole body seizes, a strangled moan tearing from your throat as you clamp down so tight on him that it sends him tumbling over the edge with you. he groans, long and low, holding you so tight against him that you can feel every pulse of his cum inside you, hot and deep. his hips jerk once, twice more before he stills, forehead pressed against yours as you both gasp for air.

it’s quiet for a moment, the only sounds are the distant hum of the city outside the window, and the soft squelch when he finally shifts, making you both moan.

your body trembles like a leaf caught in the wind, and seungcheol drinks it in, the heat of your overstimulated form twitching against his chest as he presses slow, lingering kisses into the curve of your neck. his lips move down, sucking at the pulse point that hammers beneath your skin. your breath stutters. his fingers, nails just barely grazing, trail down the arch of your spine, featherlight but enough to make you shiver. you barely even realize you’re moving, the last bit of strength in your boneless limbs used to weakly push yourself up, to let his cock slip free from where it’s buried inside you. 

the second it leaves you, your body gives out. you collapse right into his chest, heavier than before, spent and trembling, the exhaustion hitting all at once. you can’t even pretend to be embarrassed about it. you just sigh, your lips brushing the base of his throat as you settle against him, body limp.

seungcheol holds you steady with both hands, like he’s afraid you might melt right into the couch and disappear. his broad palm cradles the back of your head, fingers splaying across your scalp, scratching at your roots. he keeps the other hand wrapped around your waist, thumb stroking absentmindedly against your ribs. the tension in his body hasn’t left yet. his shoulders are still tight. you know him well enough to know what’s coming before he even says it.

“you good?” 

you hum in response, nuzzling into his chest as your fingers curl weakly against his pecs. “just a little sore.”

he exhales through his nose. shifts beneath you. you can feel his fingers flex where they rest on your waist, like he wants to squeeze but holds himself back. then, with zero effort, he grips the back of your neck and lifts you up, just enough to force you to look at him. your lids are heavy, half-lidded, dazed, and fuck, that shouldn’t make him feel so possessive, but it does.

his thumb sweeps across your cheek, his jaw tensing. “shit. i’m sorry,” he murmurs, eyes scanning over your features like he’s searching for anything more than just exhaustion. “lemme take care of you, hm?”

you don’t have it in you to resist, don’t even want to. you let him move you, let him handle you like you weigh nothing as he lifts you from his lap and shifts you onto the couch, laying you down as if you’re something delicate. and maybe you are, now, after the way he ruined you. maybe that’s why you don’t fight him when he presses your thighs apart, watching as they just fall open on their own, spread wide like a doll.

you don’t have the strength to do much else than whimper softly as his thumbs spread you further, gaze locked onto your swollen cunt, still so slick from where he fucked you. his jaw clenches.

you don’t even get a warning before he moves in, before his hands grip your thighs to keep them open as he dives between them, mouth sealing over your clit in one slow stroke of his tongue.

you jolt, a weak little gasp punching from your lungs. your fingers barely find the energy to tangle into his hair, and the grip is nowhere near as firm as it usually is, but he groans anyway. whether it’s from the feeling of your grip or from the way you instantly react to him, you don’t know. but he doesn’t stop.

his tongue moves slow, warm and so fucking wet as he licks broad, flat strokes over your sensitive flesh, working you open again with patience. he isn’t trying to overstimulate, isn’t trying to get you off again—though you can already tell it wouldn’t take much. his focus is entirely on easing the ache, on massaging every tender inch of you with his mouth, his lips, his tongue.

“feels good?” his voice is muffled against you, but it vibrates in just the right way.

you nod, breath hitching when he sucks your clit into his mouth, tongue rolling it in slow circles. your body twitches, heat curling at the base of your spine. “cheol…”

he moans against you, and presses you down harder against his face. your hips jump, an embarrassing whimper breaking free as his tongue dips lower, tracing around your entrance before dragging back up, collecting every bit of slick along the way.

you whine, fingers curling tighter in his hair. he doesn’t tease. doesn’t prolong it. just keeps his pace slow and steady, gentle enough to soothe, firm enough to keep you on the edge of something, even if you’re too sensitive to chase it. and if the way he’s grinding his hips into the couch tells you anything—it’s that he’s just as affected as you are.

he’s not eating you out to get himself off, but fuck if it isn’t working.

the obscene sounds of his mouth working between your thighs filling the entire apartment, mixing in with your breathless moans and the way he groans right into your cunt. you don’t even have it in you to be embarrassed about the way your cum is smeared all over his chin, his jaw, his cheeks—how it drips down onto the couch below with every intentional roll of his tongue against your entrance.

his tongue works in circles, pressing flat to your hole before dragging up again, tasting every bit of your arousal as it gushes out onto his lips. his mouth is open the entire time, tongue rolling and flicking, nose nudging against your clit as he angles his head lower. he flattens his tongue, groaning as he drags it up through your folds before plunging it into you, so messy that you swear you see white behind your eyelids.

your back arches, chest rising in sharp, hiccupped gasps, every single nerve in your body on flames. your thighs twitch in his grasp, and he squeezes them tighter, keeping you spread open just for him. his hands slide up, one wrapping firmly around your waist, keeping you pinned in place, while the other travels up, up—his fingers finding the stiff peaks of your nipples.

your eyes snap open, a gasp catching in your throat as he rolls one between his fingertips, twisting just enough to make your eyes roll. you swear you hear him chuckle against you, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

“breathe,” he murmurs, lips brushing against your clit before sucking it between his teeth, tongue rolling in lazy, teasing circles on the swollen bud. “breathe for me, baby.”

you try. you really do. but the way his mouth moves, the way his fingers tweak and pull, it’s too much. you’re spiraling. you feel another orgasm creeping up so fast it steals the air right out of your lungs.

he sees it. he knows.

his grip tightens on your thigh, his tongue flicking faster, working you open as his free hand continues to play with your tits, kneading the soft flesh, fingers rolling your nipples in rhythm with the lazy grind of his tongue against your clit.

your moans turn high-pitched, desperate. your body twists beneath him, unable to keep still as the pleasure builds, climbing higher and higher.

but then—a whimper.

not from you.

from him.

you force your heavy lids open, head lolling to the side as you try to focus on him. and fuck, the sight that greets you is almost enough to make you cum then and there.

seungcheol is rutting against the couch. grinding, fucking humping it like a damn dog, his hips rolling in slow thrusts, his rock-hard cock straining against his stomach, smearing precum all over his abs and the fabric beneath him.

he whimpers again, this time louder, his brows furrowed, his breath coming in short, uneven pants.

“fuck,” he groans, mouth still pressed against you, voice muffled by the way his tongue keeps working you over. he pulls back just enough to speak, his lips glistening, his chin soaked. his eyes are dark, glassy, pupils blown wide as he looks up at you. “can’t—fuck, i can’t stop. you taste too good.”

your chest tightens, a desperate, aching cry slipping from your lips as you clutch at his hair, thighs twitching in his grasp. “cheol—gonna—gonna cum, oh my god—”

he moans, actually fucking moans, his hips grinding down harder against the couch as he redoubles his efforts, tongue circling your clit in precise, teasing flicks, his fingers pinching your nipples just hard enough to send you over the edge.

your body locks up. your back arches. your mouth falls open, a silent scream tearing from your throat as your orgasm crashes over you, all-consuming.

seungcheol doesn’t stop. doesn’t slow down. he works you through it like it’s his mission, licking you clean, his tongue rolling over your entrance, collecting every last drop as your body trembles violently beneath him.

your chest heaves, your vision blurring, but even through the haze, you can feel him still grinding against the couch, still so fucking hard and desperate, all because of you.

your brain is slow. dial-up connection slow. everything feels like it’s underwater, your body floating somewhere between consciousness and the best orgasm-induced coma of your life. it’s warm, so warm, like your body is still riding out the fever of your high, tongue pressed against the roof of your mouth, throat dry, muscles heavy like they’re full of sand.

you don’t even remember when it happened—when you blacked out, when you got moved. just flashes of cool wipes dragging over your skin, a damp cloth pressed between your thighs, seungcheol’s hands gentle, careful, murmuring something you were too gone to comprehend. like déjà vu, like something out of a dream.

but you’re awake now. sort of. and you’re in his bed.

the sheets are soft, cool against your fevered skin, and it feels so good that you can’t help the tired, pleased moan that slips past your lips, involuntary, barely conscious.

but it’s enough to make him look at you.

you blink, vision still a little hazy, but yeah, that’s definitely seungcheol, sitting at his desk, dressed in a loose shirt and sweats, hair damp, probably from a shower. there’s a slight smirk on his lips, but his eyes are soft as they sweep over you, taking in the way you’re still half-buried in his sheets, limbs heavy, body relaxed.

then it hits you.

the documents.

joshua.

fuck.

your eyes widen, and you jolt up too fast, regretting it immediately when the soreness between your thighs protests, a sharp ache shooting up your spine. “fuck—”

seungcheol’s already up, one hand pressing to your shoulder, guiding you back down before you can do any more damage. “hey, hey, relax. you’re gonna hurt yourself.”

“the—documents,” you mumble, eyes fluttering shut again as the exhaustion creeps back in. “joshua.”

he chuckles, and you open your eyes just in time to see him shaking a small stack of papers in his hand. “yeah, yeah. i got it. sent them over while you were passed out.”

you frown, groggy. “i was supposed to send them.”

“and joshua needs to get used to me handling shit for you,” he says, grinning as he sets the papers down. “besides, he’d probably prefer not to get another noise complaint under his name.”

your face heats up instantly. “oh my god.”

“mhmm,” seungcheol hums, tilting his head. “wanna know how loud you were?”

“no.”

he laughs, reaching out to brush a stray strand of hair from your face, thumb tracing your cheek. “then go back to sleep, baby.”

you glare at him. or, at least, you try to. it’s weak, and he knows it, because all it takes is one more stroke of his thumb before your eyes flutter shut again, body sinking further into his bed.

yeah. you can fight him about the joshua thing later. maybe. probably not.

[lauraneedstochill]

can’t pretend

pairing: Jack Abbot x resident!reader summary: He is puzzled with you first, then vexed, and he can’t understand his feelings. In an attempt to get to know you better (or maybe to get you out of his head), Abbot accidentally crosses the line. (or, alternatively: what if Jack met someone similar to him in many ways. traumatic past included) »»» part 2

warnings: <rivals> to friends to lovers, slow burn, mentions of blood and injuries / I’m hinting at the age gap but you can ignore it / some complicated feelings and a LOT of Jack’s thoughts (his poor therapist will need a raise); assault. ANGST. / words: 7K author’s note: this is my first fic for “The Pitt”. I binge-watched the show in 2 days and didn’t plan on writing anything but my inspiration decided otherwise. I’ve never had a beta reader in my life, please be kind. ♡

Early at dawn, the sky is just the right color — the darkness slowly dissipates, deep purple at the edges, black fading into blue. If he squints and looks above the roofs, he can pretend he’s looking at the ocean. He’s been toying with the idea for some time but it’s more of a dream, a comforting mirage: him getting a small house by the beach, waves crashing softly in the distance, clean blue water blending into the bright blue sky. He’d wake up to the sunrise, take lugs full of cooling salty air, walk in the sand that glistens under the foaming swash. He’d probably adopt a dog — someone to pass his days with, just so the silence doesn’t get too heavy, doesn’t weigh on him when he can’t sleep at night.

A passing car honks down the street, loud and sudden, and Jack flinches, opening his eyes. That’s when the perfect image always falls apart. He is afraid he will get lonely with just a dog and with nothing to do, he will be going up the walls, bored out of his mind. But he doesn’t know how not to be alone. And some days he wishes that he did.

The air in Pittsburgh doesn’t carry any scents at this morning hour, and Jack’s gaze wanders down to the tree leaves writhing in the wind. He absentmindedly rubs his wrists when he hears the door creaking behind him.

“You know, security is getting worried about you,” Robby chuckles, his steps slow. “I heard the guys making bets on how many times a week you’ll come here.”

“Says the man who likes to brood in my spot,” Jack huffs without looking at him.

“Me, brooding? No idea what you are talking about.”

Robby gets to the roof edge but stays behind the railing, leans on it and slowly stretches his arms. His tone lets empathy in when he speaks up:

“Tough night?”

The sky is overcast, a mush of white and grey clouds the blue barely peeks through, and Jack sighs as he turns away. “Remember you told me about the kid who OD’d on Xanax laced with fentanyl? The parents sat by his bed hoping he’d wake up by some miracle,” Robby only nods when Jack throws him a glance. “I’m dealing with one of those.”

They both lost patients before, and both know that it doesn’t get easier with time. You have to tuck your grief away to walk into the room with their loved ones, offer apologies that carry little meaning, take even more grief in because this isn’t about you and this loss is not for you to carry. But they do carry it — Robby memorizes lifeless faces, Jack never forgets the names of everyone he couldn’t save.

“Brain dead?”

“Yep,” Jack drawls, hands gripping the metal rails. “He’s got three sisters, and all three were begging me. And I stood there feeling absolutely useless.”

Robby watches as his friend’s knuckles turn white. “If you couldn’t do anything then there was nothing that could’ve been done. And I’m really sorry.”

If only words could bring people back from the dead, Jack thinks bitterly but doesn’t say it out loud. He doesn’t want to sour Robby’s mood. And he can’t help but notice — it used to bother him way more, it sometimes would eat him alive; now Jack is mostly numb.

“I’ll sleep it off,” he mumbles.

“Not staying for the welcoming party?”

It takes a few seconds for the reminder to pop up in Jack’s head: a new senior resident, today is her first day. After Collins took maternity leave, Robby spent hours on the phone, glasses pressed to the bridge of his nose as he flipped through the applications, always unsure, never satisfied. And then he got a call and drove across the city to another hospital to meet her in person — he came back beaming. Jack must’ve zoned out so he didn’t catch the details.

“Don’t think I have a very welcoming face.”

“Should’ve seen the guys she worked with. I thought her chief of surgery would literally fist-fight me after I offered her the job,” Robby cackles.

It stirs Jack’s curiosity a bit. “She’s that good?”

“I believe she is. Skilled, confident, haven’t heard a single bad thing about her,” and even though his voice is certain, Robby dithers, bringing a hand to the back of his neck.

“But... ? I sense a but coming.”

“No-no, she’s great, really, and I made up my mind. It’s just that… She comes off as quite stubborn, and I feel like she is used to flying solo,” his eyes dart to Jack. “Reminds me of someone I know,” a smile grazes his lips, an unvoiced comparison he can’t help but draw.

Jack doesn’t see it, his gaze set somewhere on the horizon. “We all have to be team players here, that’s how it works,” he says dismissively. “I’m sure she’ll learn.”

The streets are getting busy, filling with people talking, rushing, making endless calls — and with more honking and more sounds that all merge into one unpleasant noise. And Jack is getting really tired.

“I should go back. Don’t want anyone to scare her off,” Robby puts a hand on Jack’s shoulder, a friendly but firm grip. “I’d also rather not waste my time on scraping your frail body off the pavement. Let me walk you out.”

“Frail body? You are three years older, you bag of bones,” Jack quips, and they share a laugh, and it warms up his heart a little.

But the warmth fades as they get inside, into the weave of corridors, into the crowd of nurses and other doctors pacing, the lighting bright and harsh, the smell of antiseptics clinging to the walls like mold. And it is not as overwhelming as it’s tiresome; once he is out on the street, Jack takes a few deep breaths. It’s hardly a relief.

As he passes by the park, exhaustion already on his heels, he suddenly picks up a sound, something between a whine and a small woof. Jack looks around to find the source peeping out from behind the bushes — brown eyes, wet nose, grey fluffy ears, one marked with a white spot. When Jack takes a step closer, the stray puppy immediately runs off.

On his way home he gets some dog treats and throws them in his bag. He tries thinking of pet names but nothing comes to mind. And when he falls into his cold bed, thick curtains not letting any light reach him, he dreams of standing on a long road framed with grass, a murmuring of waves heard through the mist. But he can’t see the ocean.

It keeps raining, and they have to close the roof — “Merely a precaution, sir, we don’t want anyone to slip. I heard the weather is supposed to clear up in a few days,” one of the guards assures Jack. His mood these days is just as gloomy as the sky. But he’s a man of habit, so every time Jack wants to get out to the roof, he instead gets more cases, drinks more coffee, barely a few words squeezed in between that aren’t work-related.

At first, he only catches glimpses of you.

On the days when your shifts overlap, he sees you tearing along the hallways, your hair up and your face focused, removing gowns to quickly put on fresh ones, your hands either in gloves or carrying the charts. You don’t speak much, and very few times Jack gets to walk past you, he is slightly puzzled by this combination of quiet and fast-paced.

Your first week is nearing its end when Dana prompts Jack to make a proper introduction. She calls him uncooperative and calls for you herself when she sees you leaving trauma#1. You swiftly come by the nurses' station and glance up at the board — and then you finally face Jack, your gaze so piercing, it catches him off guard. He clears his throat and manages a greeting, a bit coolly.

“Nice to meet you, Dr. Abbot,” you tell him calmly, offering a hand. And you don’t look away, and your handshake is firmer than he would expect. The next thing you are holding is another chart, eyes following the lines of words and numbers as you step away, Whitaker barely keeping up.

“She is so fast, she’s almost flying. Beautiful,” Princess notes approvingly, and Perlah hums in agreement.

Their voices snap him back into reality, and Jack inhales sharply, only now realizing his gaze is still on you. He looks down, pretending he needs to fix his watch. “What is this, a fan club?”

“Aw, no need to be so jealous. You will always be our favorite old white doctor,” Princess teases.

Perlah gives her a side-eye. “I thought Dr. Robby was our favorite.”

“Well, yes. But I have a soft spot for men in existential crisis,” Princess winks at him.

Perlah rolls her eyes. “They are all in existential crisis.”

“And I wonder why,” Jack deadpans, then picks a case just so he’s got an excuse to leave. And maybe an excuse to pass by the room you’re in, your gloved hands already stained with crimson.

He starts watching you more often, an impulse he can’t necessarily explain.

He’s careful, he’s not staring, but his hazel eyes always pick you out from the crowd. He’s taking mental notes: you lean on doors with your right shoulder when you rush in, you scan the injured head to toe in every case, hands moving quickly in tandem with your gaze. You never raise your voice but you keep eye contact — with the interns when you give instructions and with the patients to make sure they understand what’s going on. You are efficient with your work-ups, you’re the first one to come in and you stay late to turn your patients over to the night shift. You are meticulous and disciplined in a way he finds relatable; in three weeks' time there’s a foundation laid for him to grow respectful. But sometimes Jack can’t stop the thought: he is yet to see your smile. He is also yet to see you slip up, and that is bound to happen because no doctor is without fault.

A month in, he thinks you finally come close to failure.

A patient is wheeled in on a gurney, gesticulating, red in the face from how displeased or pained he is (probably both); still, as you talk to him, he makes pauses to listen. There’s blood on his chest and his speech is slurring, and Jack’s gaze follows you. From where he’s standing, he can see you clearly, so he can’t help but glance up a few times from his computer screen. It’s all the same routine and it seems to be working smoothly — but when he takes another peek, he sees you frozen.

Jack instantly draws near, alert and observing through the glass: the man is intubated, his shirt cut and chest bared — and with a nail sticking right out of where his heart should be. The monitors go off as the blood pressure drops. When Whitaker makes eye contact with him, Jack takes that as an invitation to come in.

“What do we got here?”

Whitaker looks half worried, half relieved. “Um-m, 41 years old male, nail to the chest, intracardiac. Prepped for the thoracotomy. Cardio is tied up with another surgery, and it’s at least 15 more minutes until we can get an O.R.”

Jack knows the patient doesn’t have that long. His gaze flickers to you but you do not meet it, and he can’t tell what you are looking at. There is no time to guess — if you’ve never cracked into someone’s chest, he’ll gladly guide you. And his guidance is assertive, if a little cocky.

“It’s not every day that you get to do a thoracotomy. And it can be daunting — also, pretty risky if you ask me—”

“Then it’s a good thing I’m not asking,” you retort abruptly without even sparing him a glance.

And then you pick the scalpel and make the first incision, your hands steady and never hesitating, the confidence of a tsunami sweeping rocks away.

Jack has to take a step back because it would be childish to argue when someone’s life is hanging by a thread. And all his doubts are crushed before his very eyes the way ribs are under the pressure of a steel retractor you are holding, the metal sinking into flesh and blood to give you access to the heart. After the nail is out — long but intact, you deal with excess fluid and with the bleeding — and you are more nimble than he is, than he’s ever seen the other doctors be.

“Well, call me impressed,” Jack says earnestly.

The silence is a little awkward — a couple of seconds before you give reply: “Thank you, Dr. Abbot.”

He wonders if maybe his compliment might’ve come as patronizing. What he knows for sure is that you do not need his help. But when he backs away, he sees a glint out of the corner of his eye — dog tags left in the pile of the man’s belongings on the floor. Jack has the same tags hanging on a chain around his neck. He almost doesn’t feel the weight of them but the memories they bring are heavy — sometimes an image flashing through his mind, sometimes a nightmare stirring him awake. And mostly it’s the latter.

But today, as his shift goes on, he isn’t thinking of torn limbs and collapsing buildings and bombings that looked like firecrackers in the night. Those weren’t the reasons he kept going back — he never once craved violence, never really cared about the money. For him, it was the roar of the adrenaline and the belief that even amidst the death and ruins, he could make a change. He hasn’t felt that for a while: the rush, the determination, the power held in your hands when you are cutting into someone’s body, fixing the organs and sewing the skin together, bringing the life back in. He lacks that spark, he misses it, he wants to get it back. To prove to himself that he still can do that — or maybe not only to himself.

So now he isn’t watching you but studying, with a diligence of a man who once had to learn how to walk again.

He starts work earlier just so he can get more patients — but also to listen in on your case reports and trail your steps, peek into trauma rooms you run in and out of. He often finds himself holding back the questions: damn, how did you do that? How come you easily catch things others take so long to figure out? You take on complicated cases: a feeble woman who can’t hold her food down, her arms marked with a red rash; a young jogger who keeps fainting, short of breath; a man whose neck hurts, the pain radiating to his chest. And you examine them and pick the clues to solve the tangle of the symptoms — it’s Celiac disease, it’s kidney failure, it’s spondylodiscitis and you know exactly how to treat it. But Jack knows all these answers too. And even if they don’t click in his mind as quickly as they do in yours, it’s still a victory: he’s not as rusty as he thought he was, he is enjoying this. He can’t believe he almost let himself forget.

When he decides to try a day shift for a change, he’s met with Dana’s worried face, her wondering out loud if he feels okay. She then proceeds to ask the same question two more times, just to make sure.

“You on day shifts may be the thing that saves Robby from a heart attack, you know,” her face softens.

“Are you saying you guys get way more action than us night owls?”

Dana grins. “What, you are already reconsidering your choices?”

“Like hell I am,” one corner of his mouth hints at a smirk.

The day is busy, and he can barely catch a break, but it isn’t a chore: he’s equally enthusiastic about a road accident that left a guy with a skull fracture, an appendectomy, a stoned teenage with a knife stuck in his thigh, a street worker with a leg broken in two places. An hour before his shift ends, they get a lacrosse team of middle schoolers, and the staff shares an exasperated sigh; but not Jack. He fixes broken noses and split eyebrows and some nasty shoulder dislocations, then goes to talk to their coach — a woman in her fifties, robust and perhaps too loud with her scolding. But her blaring voice cracks as soon as the kids are out of her sight. At some point, Jack finds himself holding her hand in reassurance, and she jokes that she’d gladly marry him if only she didn’t have a wife. She also promises that all the kids' parents will give the hospital the highest ranking. And they do.

Jack clocks out when the sky is colored orange, the shadows bleeding on the pavement, and his limbs hum but this weariness is pleasant. He is content, he’s almost joyous — the almost comes from you having a day off. He got to work with so many people, why would your presence make a difference? Jack persuades himself it’s not the reason he takes a few more mornings.

But when he comes back the next time, and you’re already there, there is this weird feeling in his ribcage — a spill of heat, a flutter of his heart. He blames it on the caffeine. You stand with your eyes glued to the chart while Princess lets out a big yawn.

“If another lacrosse team comes in today, I might actually quit,” she laments.

“Send them my way,” you say with ease, without missing a beat.

“That’s ten people,” she punctuates, incredulous. “We got lucky they were just kids. Grown-up men who slam into each other while voluntarily chasing a ball scare me.”

“I’m not easily scared,” you carefully tap on the screen, scrolling through some case report, someone’s illnesses broken into signs and terms; but you do pay attention to what she’s saying. You glance up at the nurse, your voice kind: “If you ever need help, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

And then you look over your shoulder as if you can feel him watching — and it’s the same as the first time: your gaze startles him, like would a fire eruption or a ball lightning. But Jack’s greeting stays rooted in his mouth because Mateo sprints in:

“Hey, there’s something wrong with my patient’s veins, can someone take a look?”

And you are by his side and following him out of the hall in what feels like barely a second.

“I’m so grateful for you!” Princess calls after you. Then she spots Jack too, her face expression turning smug. “Oh, hello there, boss,” and she grins like she knows a secret Jack wasn’t let in on.

Turns out, Robby showed his gratitude by taking a sick leave, the first in three years (Jack would’ve sent him home himself if he heard Robby’s muffled coughing one more time). And it left Jack with way more shifts to cover. He readily gulps coffee from his to-go mug as he skims through the list of patients. The others join him soon: Mel smiles at everyone, the ever-optimistic one, Whitaker looks like hasn’t slept in months, and Santos teases him about something Jack doesn’t care to listen to. McKay is running late. Langton walks briskly to the nurses' station, taps on the tabletop right next to Jack.

“Ready to get back in the game?”

“I’ve been in the game for more years than you can count on your fingers,” Jack gives him a cold stare.

Frank sighs, his fingers drumming on the wooden surface, although he sounds barely concerned. “Love the positive attitude. Dr Robby surely won’t be missed.”

“As if you are such a pleasure to work with,” Dana cuts in, hands on her hips. “You guys should redirect that buzzing testosterone into your work. No one is getting paid for whining.”

“Preach,” Jack huffs as he steps away.

He stops himself from immediately going to check up on you. And twenty minutes later, he is glad that he did — you walk back, unruffled as you always are, Matteo tagging after you. His patient is an old lady with thrombocytopenia she probably ignored until it got too bad: there are bruises sprinkled on her arms and legs, a splotch of dried blood under her nose from how often it’s been bleeding. You gave her a platelet transfusion but you suspect it’s cancer; you order more blood tests and bring her a blanket before she even asks for it. Her eyes well up, voice shaking with heartfelt gratitude. And Jack has to remind himself that he can’t pick any favorites, he isn’t in it for the long run; but if he was to pick, it would’ve been an easy choice. And no one lags behind today — he’s got a well-coordinated team, like gears interlocking in a clock, the harmony built out of weeks of practice. They make jokes, share work stories and snacks; but every time Jack’s eyes get back to you, he can’t catch even a ghost of a smile.

He finds that you are very hard to read. And it unnerves him, maybe just a little.

He tries for his attempts to look brief and nonchalant — a kind word here and there, a quick approving look, a dry joke — and you offer nothing in return. As thorough as you are with diagnosing, you take no part in other conversations, you rarely take breaks or stand around. By the time the noon rolls in, Jack is fighting the urge to grab you by the shoulders: hey, take a seat and have something to eat. And tell me how can I cadge a laugh out of you, just one will be enough.

Dana waves a hand before his face, the phone up to her ear. “There’s been some gang fight at the North Side. Four victims coming in, two critical — one shot in the stomach, the other has his head smashed in. Don’t think they both will make it.”

Jack’s bet is on the first guy but it’s the head injury that’s fatal — the victim is pronounced dead, face so disfigured they’ll need a DNA test. Mel looks away in shock, and Santos frowns. Your stare is blank and unimpressed. You volunteer to take the third guy with a pelvic wound — he’s rambling incoherently, the tight bandage over his hip already soaked; you press your hand to it on the way to trauma. Jack leaves the worst case to himself.

“Who’s down for an ex-lap?”

“Can I run the bowel? I’ve never done it,” Santos asks, hopeful.

“Sure. Once we open the abdomen and remove the bullet, you can have your fun,” he offers, and she runs along with joy.

Although Jack can’t imagine a procedure less joyful. Yet, he is fueled by his new-found appreciation for his job so he walks her through the steps: identify the entry wound and cut in, look for the bleeding and what the bullet might’ve hit. It missed the liver by an inch; but to confirm the damage they need to evaluate the area by hand.

Perlah peeks into the room. “Is he stable?”

“Well, unless Dr. Santos gets too excited and makes a bow out of his intestines,” her hands stop, and Jack breathes out a chuckle. “I’m just joking, keep going. I’d say, his vitals do look promising.”

“Then you can keep him down here for a bit. We have a guy with a balloon in his aorta, he’s gotta go up first.”

Jack blinks at her once, twice, the meaning of her words settling in. “Did someone do a REBOA?”

“You bet she did. And it was awesome,” the nurse then scrunches her nose. “Apart from the amount of blood. And by the way, the fourth one only has a broken rib, so no miraculous procedures needed.”

He doesn’t find it funny and he can’t find the word for it: it’s something in between confusion and offence. As soon as Santos’s done with stitches, he strides out to find you.

His turmoil momentarily recedes when he sees one of the cubicle curtains stained, the deep red lurking through. Jack pulls at the material and barges in — and then he’s silenced at the sight. The area looks horrifying: bright streaks of blood left on the floor, the anesthesia trolley, the table with the instruments that you are now collecting, a few droplets smudged over your cheek. Before he’s even angry, there is another feeling — a thought, a pull: if only he could brush that splatter off your face, a few brief seconds for one briefest touch. Of course, he doesn’t.

Jack keeps his hands behind his back. “You didn’t think you should consult with anyone first before doing a damn REBOA?”

“Why would I?” your eyes are on the tools.

“Because it’s dangerous as hell and since I am the attending—”

“I do know protocol. But I also know how fast a human can bleed out. It was a truncal hemorrhage, and you were hands deep in someone’s abdomen. Was I supposed to wait?”

He wishes you were meaner, rougher, anything that would give him an excuse to snap. But you aren’t doing this to show off — your tone is measured and your reasoning is simple: a man was dying and you knew how to save him. Jack realizes it is the same logic he often uses. And he can’t tell what is it that bothers him so much. If Whitaker pulled off something like that, Jack would’ve chosen to commend him. The same goes for Santos, Javadi or King, for any other intern or resident that he can think of... Except, they would’ve asked for his opinion or his help. You didn’t even think to.

Well, Robby warned him you’d be stubborn.

“I want to be informed about any life-altering decisions. At least give me a heads-up so I am not blindsided when a nurse gushes over it in passing,” Jack insists, head tilted slightly so he can catch your gaze.

What he really wants is for you to look at him. You grant him that one wish.

“Will do,” you tell him simply.

But your eyes are still unreadable, a book written in a foreign language, a manuscript he doesn’t know how to decrypt.

And either out of incomprehension or rejection, his brain makes an assumption: maybe you believe that you are better, maybe you think the rules weren’t made for you. You never really gave him cause for rivalry — you are in your final year of residency, and Jack is put in charge. But you are so bluntly independent and reserved, his every try to understand you feels like leaping in the dark. Later that day he can’t help but glimpse into your file — there’s hardly anything of interest: you previously trained in a small clinic, in a nice neighborhood, your letters of recommendation all consist of praises.

What adds to his moroseness is that you fit really well with literally everybody else. Langdon tones down his sarcasm, listens to you like he only does to Robby. Santos discreetly brings you cases she needs advice on, McKay and Mel enjoy your company when you get a free minute. Whitaker seems to be your favorite although Jack isn’t sure why — he deems him soft and insecure; but Dennis does a better job under your guidance. On rare occasions when he’s got a day off, Javadi always takes his place.

Jack figures out everyone’s relationships by his fourth morning shift; he hasn’t gotten any closer to figuring you out. He’s fighting the grimace at how bitter his coffee is when Javadi pops out in the hall and you follow suit. He catches scraps of your conversation: something about a teen with a gashed forehead. Javadi rambles — until you ask her nonchalantly, unprompted. “You don’t like the sight of blood?”

“What? Oh no, it’s fine! I’m totally fine,” Victoria stumbles over the words, but her denial is too meek.

From how nervous she is, Jack guesses that she’s lying. He almost wants to laugh — before a thought comes to his mind: how come he never noticed her fear of blood?

“It’s just a little disturbing sometimes... But I only passed out, like, once or twice.”

“I used to be like that. Fainted many times during blood tests,” you tell her quietly while entering some data.

Jack is so caught in disbelief, he can’t help a glance in your direction. But your sincerity doesn’t seem feigned. Javadi gapes at you.

“And how did you... what did you do to overcome it?”

“I found myself in a situation where someone needed help and there was no one else around to help him,” you shrug. And Jack discerns the subtle reticence behind your tone.

It only spurs Javadi’s interest. “Was there a lot of blood? Like, a heavy bleeding, a deep wound?”

Your fingers freeze over the tablet screen, your facial profile not betraying your true feelings. But Jack swears he can see the tension crawling down your body. You don’t give the answer right away, you weigh the words carefully before you say them.

“A drug overdose, he still had a needle in his arm and I must’ve missed it. Took barely a minute of chest compressions for the needle to fly out across the room. It was a lot of blood to me.”

Javadi’s hopefulness grows dim. “Yeah, I don’t like needles too. I tried drawing blood a few times but the process kinda makes me nauseous, and I can’t force myself to —”

“It’s different when it’s someone you care about.”

Your comment slips out involuntarily — and immediately you look like you want to take it back. But you get it together and meet her eyes, your voice carrying just the right amount of firmness.

“Listen, I’m not suggesting you should torture your family members. But you may not always have attendings by your side or someone else to take your place in case you feel like fainting. If you fall, you can hurt your head, you can hurt a patient, you can disrupt a surgery when every minute counts. I think you have a good head on your shoulders, and I don’t want to downplay your efforts. But please, figure it out. Otherwise, you won’t make for a good surgeon.”

You reassure her you won’t tell anyone her secret. Javadi manages a small smile, a hushed “thank you”. It is a sweet moment, a heart-to-heart chat you bond over; it’s also three times more words than you’ve spoken to Jack in weeks.

But he accepts your silence — as a challenge.

Jack keeps an eye on you, now critical, resisting the gravitation that’s been attracting him to you. Although it’s hard to find the reasons to be hard on you. Whenever he has questions — or more so when he can come up with some, you give detailed replies, and he’s left with nothing to complain about. Your patient satisfaction score is high, you are never facile or reckless with your judgment; with how smart you are, you can give odds to many doctors, him included. And Jack knows he is older, with years of experience under his belt — but he can’t in good faith wish for anyone to go through the same things he did to gain the same knowledge.

On his second week of day shifts he is still clueless about what to make of you. And Jack tells himself that he is simply looking for a connection — except, all his attempts look like he is trying to pick a fight.

“This is a teaching hospital. You are supposed to teach them things,” he grumbles as he meets you outside the trauma room. You got a guy who came in spitting blood — post-tonsillectomy hemorrhage, and things went south pretty quickly. He started choking, crashed, his airways flooded with liquid; you had to intubate him blindly. Whitaker spent an hour by your side, his questions endless — to which you did give answers, barely ever breaking focus, but you only allowed him to use suction.

“He’ll learn plenty if he is attentive enough,” you say, throwing away the gown, trying to put some distance in between you.

Jack doesn’t like it, he keeps pace with you. “Whitaker needs more practice, as much as he can get. He’s not supposed to stand there like some deer who wandered into the yard.”

You whirl around, so fast that Jack comes to a stop when you are separated by merely an inch. And your gaze burns, like lava seeping through the mountain’s restrain.

“And I needed the patient not to die on the table,” you bite back, then breathe in — and then add more coolly. “Dennis will get his chance to shine.”

“And when exactly is that gonna happen?”

“That’s for me to decide,” you state, like you would do a fact that can’t be questioned. “Thank you for your input, Dr. Abbot, but I have to get back to work.”

You turn your back to him and leave him standing there, and Jack almost feels helpless. And that’s the feeling he can’t stand. It simmers in him, it must be the reason his cheeks suddenly feel hot.

Dana tsks as she comes near, her brows furrowed and face visibly concerned.

“You know how I’ve been calling Robby a sad boy? I’m gonna start calling you a pissy boy.”

“Not the worst thing I’ve been called,” he dismisses, a humorless escape attempt. But her fingers grab at his elbow, and he pauses with an annoyed exhale.

“I’ve been watching you hammering away at her for days,” Dana makes sure to lower her voice. “If she was a student, I’d maybe let it slide, but she is a resident, a senior one. And nothing I am seeing suggests she isn’t doing well.”

His eyes dart to her hand; then he glares stubbornly at her. She looks unfazed.

“Jack, you will take it too far one day — and you will regret it,” Dana tries to reason. “She is a good kid and she’s really good at her job. Just let her be.”

“Thank you for your input, Evans. I’d prefer to get back to work,” he frees his arm, and she allows it. But Jack can feel her worried gaze as he walks away.

He doesn’t come home until the twilight hugs the sky, until he feels like he’ll pass out on the next step. Jack wastes hours on attempts to wear himself out: he walks the entire park three times, peeping about in case the puppy comes again. It doesn’t. He stops by the bar he hasn’t been to in a few weeks, orders a beer and sips on it, his musings soon drowned out by the blasting music. The alcohol tastes weird, and the bass guitar gives him a pounding headache. He takes a walk instead of taking a bus home, two miles on foot in hopes he falls asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow.

But the thought of you cuts into his mind as easily as a nail does into a human body, and it stays there, vexing and robbing him of whatever little peace he’s had.

He barely gets any sleep.

And his nights are dreamless.

It’s just another Friday, and these bring in a lot of drunks — from parties and family gatherings, from business meetings that ran late and tense until someone reached for whiskey. Jack stays behind for paperwork, a tedious pastime that keeps him pinned to an uncomfortable chair. He briefly takes eyes off the screen, stretching his neck — and then a noise catches his attention. It’s someone talking in a raised voice, someone who sounds too wasted to be reasoned with. Which sounds like a problem.

Jack finds the source with ease — the nurses all glance in the direction of the trauma room, and in support of their agitation Mateo all but flies out, his face hardened at the edges. Jack gets up and gets closer, his ears open and eyes watchful.

“Should we call security?” Dana asks warily.

Mateo brushes the suggestion off. “No, it’s fine,” — but it sounds like it’s not. “I just need a short break.”

“What’s wrong?” Jack interrupts.

And it isn’t a question but a demand for explanation Mateo can’t reject. He lets out a tired sigh.

“The guy got drunk and couldn’t hold his liquor, some passersby saw him sprawled out in an alley and called the ambulance. Came in with a nasty arm fracture. He’ll live though,” Mateo looks back at the room with obvious disdain. “Unfortunately.”

Jack promptly moves forward. “I will deal with it.”

“Hold on, Rambo,” Dana interjects. And she keeps her eyes on him while she talks to Mateo. “Did he get physical?”

“Nah, he’s too inebriated. Keeps trying to get up from the gurney but mostly he’s all talk.”

More can be heard from where they are standing — it’s some drunken yelling, a disarticulated chain of curse words. And then they hear something break, a dull sound of an object hitting a wall.

In a few seconds comes another one.

“I can’t just let him trash all of our equipment,” Jack gives Dana a pointed look.

She clucks her tongue at his persistence. “It’s not the equipment that I fear for.”

“Rest assured, Evans, I won’t give him another arm fracture.”

“I didn’t think you would, but now that you suggested it so easily—”

“Finally someone decided to take action instead of all this talking,” Perlah remarks, her gaze isn’t on either one of them. And Jack turns to follow it just in time to catch you running right into the room.

His heart falls. Why the hell are you even still here?

And it’s barely three heartbeats before a realization strikes: you can’t go there alone. He can’t let you.

Jack bolts to you without waiting for anyone’s permission. He comes in just in time to see you dodge the trolley the patient pushed at you — it slams into the wall and rolls over, the instruments scattering loudly across the floor. You don’t seem scared, but you are all tensed up, gaze fixed on the guy who’s screaming his lungs out.

“You won’t trick me! I won’t let you experiment on me!”

And you don’t look away once but you must’ve noticed Jack; your voice comes out low. “I think he’s having an episode. He needs benzodiazepines but I can’t get close to administer them.”

“And you should not,” Jack retorts, eyeing the guy with discontent. “You absolutely shouldn’t deal with him on your own. Not when he’s flapping around and yelling like a fucking psycho.”

“Silently watching him wreck the room didn’t seem like a good tactic either.”

In an instant Jack’s gaze is drawn to you, pulse racing as he is struggling to bite down his emotions: why would you put yourself in danger, why can’t you ever back down, why can’t he stay away? And unexpectedly you look at him, and your gaze isn’t a puzzle or a dare but an explanation: you can’t be mad at me for the thing you would’ve done yourself. I know you would have.

The room goes quiet but only for a moment — before another cry comes, and the patient lunges straight at you. Jack’s eye catches the movement, and at the very last second, he moves to stand in the guy’s way.

The drunkard crashes into him, hands swatting at the air, too uncoordinated to land a proper punch. And then all of a sudden he headbutts Jack. The pain is sharp, shooting toward his nose, but Jack manages to stay upright. He can’t see you stopping cold or the security approaching in a hurry and in worry.

Because Jack is only seeing red.

He breathes in through the mouth and grabs the man with both hands, rough and unflinching. Jack pushes him back to the gurney, then throws him on it, face flat against the pillow; his angry cries tone down to weak whimpers.

“Shut the fuck up. Stop moving,” Jack hisses into his ear.

He can taste the blood that oozed down to his lips and he can hear the sound of footsteps in the room. But he doesn’t let go.

Jack feels a hand on his shoulder — he turns to see one of the guards, Ahmad. “Man, let us handle this. C’mon, step away.”

Begrudgingly, Jack does. Ahmad quickly takes his place, he and two other guards strapping the patient down; Mateo wriggles in the middle to sedate the guy. He dozes off, a dark purple bruise already blooming on his forehead, drool at the corner of his mouth.

You are still standing at the exact same spot, but then your eyes land on Jack’s blooded nose, and you immediately fall out of the stupor. You rummage through the nearest drawer and get a few clean cloths, then call for Dana to bring an ice pack. The guards leave but Mateo hangs back; he pulls up a chair for Jack to sit on.

“Are you okay? Any headache or dizziness or—”

“I’m fine, no need to coddle me,” Jack waves off his concerns crankily. Mateo looks at you for some support.

“He needs a head CT,” you say, gaze glued to Jack. “Ask the radiology if they can squeeze him in.”

Mateo nods and takes off with no other questions asked. The silence is now laced with tension, and while Jack’s pain gradually subsides, his anger doesn’t. He’s not the one for chit-chats, and it’s not a 'thank you' that he wants — but an admission: he was right, and you were careless, and maybe this is the one time you can agree with him.

You lean over wordlessly and wipe the dried-up blood, pushing his head back to examine his nose. Your touch is light, fleeting, but his skin heats up under your hands. You take a penlight to check for septal hematoma; then your thumbs move from his cheekbones to his nostrils. Jack doesn’t wince or look away, eyes dark and boring into you, unblinking. You put a finger to his nose and move it slowly from side to side, watching closely as his gaze follows it.

And then you pull away, and something cracks in him, a line formed on the ocean floor after it’s shaken by an earthquake, a force that pushes waves to crash onto the shore. And all his feelings surge up, unstoppable like a tsunami.

You look for more cloths, and only with your back to him, you finally decide to speak:

“Doesn’t look like a fracture but—”

“Are you out of your mind?!” Jack bursts out, the stridency of his voice barely contained.

Your hands flinch at the sound. Jack misses it or maybe chooses to ignore it, too adamant in his displeasure, too wrapped up in it.

“Do you realize how dangerous it was for you to go here alone? What could’ve happened to you if security came late? Or do you just assume it’s not a big deal if you get hurt? Can you for at least a second consider the consequences of your relentlessness, can you imagine how dire they might be? And what it’s like for someone else to throw themselves between danger and you?”

But then you turn to him, and his tirade breaks off, the anger ebbing instantly as he sees your face expression.

It would be easy to assume he must’ve hit a nerve. Except, it looks way worse than that.

Your gaze is swept with pain, eyes wide and bright with tears you are holding back. An inhale quivers at your lips, chest heaving like you are scarcely managing to curb your feelings. Like there’s been a wall you’ve built meticulously over the years, and he didn’t just put a crack in it — no, he tore it down completely, drove through it with a bulldozer, only a mess of rubble left behind. And he knows that’s not something an apology will fix.

Jack feels the guilt already swirling in his chest as he sits straighter, eyes not leaving yours.

“Listen, I didn’t—”

“I heard you loud and clear, Dr. Abbot,” your voice is lacerating, a blade you’ve armed yourself with, steel that cuts him deep. “If my company displeases you so much, I will make sure to limit our interactions. Apologies for any inconvenience.”

You turn away, and when he sees you wipe your cheeks with one quick motion, Jack knows he is the only one to blame. But you don’t let him see your tears nor do you wait for him to talk again. You rush out of the doors, and the words he catches aren’t meant for him:

“Dana, please help Dr. Abbot with the ice pack.”

He hears her coming in and he’s almost ashamed to look — Dana meets his gaze with arms crossed over her chest, shaking her head in disapproval. She doesn’t say a thing and puts ice on his nose with a face that looks like she would rather punch him. Jack doesn’t even try to come up with excuses — he knows that he has none.

He fails to find you after the shift ends: you must’ve sneaked out to avoid him, and he can’t say that he’s surprised. Jack walks home in the rain, not bothering to open the umbrella, the street lights drowning in the puddles underfoot, the wind biting his wet face. He can barely feel it. And in the privacy of his apartment — a cold, half-empty space, walls void of any color — a thought that has been lurking in his mind finally takes shape:

Jack loathes being alone.

And he messed up so badly.

»»» part 2

🎵 the title is a quote from Tom Odell’s “Can’t pretend” (the song is just so Jack-coded to me! highly recommend you give it a listen. the small part from 1:29 to 1:49 gives me heart palpitations and is very fitting for this chapter lol).

by “rivals” I meant it’s all in Jack’s head, he’s silly like that 😩 you’ll learn about the reader’s past in the next chapter!

I didn’t specify how big the age gap is exactly. google search told me you get into residency when you are in your 30s, and Abbot is def over 40. but some like to imagine the reader younger, so I didn’t want to ruin that for you.

there are definitely some medical inaccuracies (pretty sure ex-lap isn’t performed in the ER) but I am begging you to ignore that.

dividers by me & plum98.

» I plan on writing 3 parts in total (a prayer circle for my inspiration to stay with me, PLEASE). of course, there will be smut... they just have to learn how to talk to each other first. » read on AO3 » English is not my first language, so feel free to message me if you spot any major mistakes. reblogs and comments are very appreciated! tell me if you want to be tagged ♡

[jj-one]

STUDY HARD, GET EDGED HARDER!

this is smut, do not interact if under 18

jisung’s trying to finish this code, but the minute you sat on his lap, he knew the only thing getting finished today was him.

pairing: nerd!han jisung x popular!f!reader, established relationship genre/tags: college au, smut with very little plot, semi-public s*x, sub!jisung, he whines and begs a lot (how i like my men tbh), thigh riding, overstim, light degradation, handjob, orgasm denial, oral (m. receiving), cum eating words: 5.2k

[ note. ] — another jisung fic, are we surprised ?? (no.) it’s the way this was supposed to be under 2-3k but clearly i’m incapable of writing anything short sooo..

He checked his phone sixteen times within the past hour. At first, Jisung told himself it was fine, you were in class, you needed to focus, you were probably taking notes or doodling a series of hearts in the margins of your planner like you always did. But now it was 2:34 pm and he was one ‘are you mad at me?’ text away from losing his goddamn mind.

Usually, you’d text him the second class was over. A little “miss you” here, a blurry selfie there, a not-so-subtle thirst trap when he least expected it, something to let him know you were thinking about him. But today? Nothing. Not since that teasing message you sent earlier at 11:47 am:

you left a hickey above my bra strap, you menace ;(

i’m wearing a tank top. if anyone asks i’m blaming it on a curling iron burn.

That had launched him into a full-body crisis in the middle of Comp Sci lecture. Now he was half-hard, suffering from sleep deprivation, and trying to tackle three weeks’ worth of broken functions with his already fried brain— while simultaneously spiraling over why you hadn’t texted him again yet.

Which brings us to his current dilemma.

The library’s unusually quiet for a Thursday afternoon, except for the faint rustles of pages turning and the occasional exasperated sighs from stressed out students spread throughout the space.

Jisung sat tucked into the farthest corner, wearing a slightly oversized hoodie with the sleeves bunched up to his elbows, staring blankly at the same lines of code on his laptop. He’d been stuck in the same recursive function that kept crashing his entire program— something about an ‘undefined base case’, but he couldn’t focus long enough to fix it. The error messages meant nothing when all he could think about was the flash of your thighs in that skirt you’d been wearing this morning.

And across from him, not helping even a little, was Jeongin, who was currently detailing the world’s most cursed porn plot with way too much enthusiasm.

“So then the girl just spits on it like it’s no big deal and starts- bro, are you even listening?”

Jisung snaps out of his trance, looking up too fast. “Huh?”

Jeongin rolls his eyes, shaking his head, “knew you weren’t listening.”

“I was,” he lied, voice slightly cracking, and it only made Jeongin raise an eyebrow and gesture pointedly toward his friend’s phone, which lit up for the third time in under a minute.

Jisung snatched it up before even checking the name, heart already doing backflips.

sungie, where are youuu

i’m done with class and i’m boredd, wanna see you

He was now internally screaming. If Jeongin wasn’t here right now he’d be kicking his feet and giggling like a school girl right now. But instead he tries to keep his composure, though he’s failing miserably.

He swallows thickly, ears immediately turning red as he reads your message over and over. Recollections from last night were now running through his head, the mental image of your body under his, breathy moans in his ear, the feeling of your lips on his neck— it was burned into his memory forever.

Jisung’s brain short-circuited. His heart launched itself straight into his throat. And his dick? Yeah, it had ideas..

Jeongin tilts his head, catching the panicked expression on Jisung’s face. “Dude,” he muttered, scrubbing a hand over his jaw. “Just go meet up with her already. You’re useless like this.”

“I’m not useless,” Jisung said defensively, even as his fingers fumbled to type out a reply with hands that were very much trembling. “I’m trying to debug this stupid loop!”

“You’re trying to not bust a nut thinking about her,” Jeongin deadpanned. “You’ve copy-pasted the same broken function like six times in ten minutes. I’m still confused how you even managed to bag the hottest girl on campus.”

“I didn’t bag her,” Jisung mumbled, his face growing hot once again. “She… likes me.”

“No shit she likes you. She owns you.” Jeongin pointed at the now purplish-red bruise on Jisung’s neck. “That’s a leash, not a love bite.”

“Stop talking, I’m trying to finish this code.”

Jeongin leaned across the table, squinting at his screen. “You haven’t written a single working line in the past thirty minutes. The cursor’s been blinking in the same empty function this whole time. You typed ‘y/n’ in the comment section of your code, and then drew a dick in ASCII next to it. You know damn well you’re not debugging anything except your feelings.”

Jisung groaned loudly as he slumps forward, his forehead hitting the keyboard with a soft ‘thud’. “She just- she’s distracting, okay?”

“She’s not even here right now.”

“She lives rent free in my head.”

“You pay her rent,” Jeongin quickly corrected, “with your dignity.”

Jisung barely had time to fire back before his phone buzzed again. His posture instantly straightens, reaching for his phone like it contained the meaning of life.

so why haven’t you kissed me today? why do you hate me?

He wheezed. “She thinks I hate her—!”

“You’re literally wearing the hoodie she gave you,” Jeongin cuts in dryly. “You made her a playlist last night called ‘songs that remind me of her moaning.’ She’s obviously fucking with you, bro.”

Jisung was only half-listening, already typing like his life depended on it.

i’m in the library, baby. i thought u had another class??

also i don’t hate u i’m OBSESSED w u

Your reply came not even a minute later.

mhm. obsessed? prove it. where exactly in the library are u?

He froze, looking up like a deer caught in headlights.

Jeongin didn’t even flinch. “Don’t panic,” he responds flatly, reaching for a pretzel stick. “Just give her your location and accept your fate.”

Jisung completely ignores him, fingers moving fast, typing out a rushed response that was borderline devotional.

back left corner by the windows. alone. i mean, with jeongin. but like mostly alone.

u coming?

depends.. are you gonna leave me another hickey this time or nah?

He slammed his forehead against the table.

“You good?” Jeongin asked casually, chewing on his pretzel like his friend wasn’t in the middle of a full-blown mental breakdown.

“No,” Jisung mumbled into the wood. “I’m gonna die right here. On this table. Tell my computer I love her.”

“Death by horny girlfriend.” Jeongin chuckled, “you’d be the third one this semester.”

Jisung turned his face, still smushed against the table, eyes glazed with academic doom. “I’m so gonna fail this exam..”

“You’re gonna fail life if she sits on your lap again and you cream your pants in front of me.”

Jisung glared. “I didn’t cream my pants last time.”

“You moaned when she kissed your jaw, bro. Out loud. In public..”

“It was a low moan.”

“A moan is a moan, my guy.”

Before Jisung could argue back, he receives yet another message.

look up, dummy.

His entire body went rigid, hands hovering midair, pupils dilating like a cat spotting a nearby predator.

“Bro?” Jeongin asked, watching the color drain from his face.

“She’s here,” Jisung whispered. “Oh my god, she’s actually here.”

And just like that, his palms were sweating. His heart beating abnormally fast as if a bomb was about to go off in his chest. He knew what was to came next. You were going to strut over here in something tiny, say something filthy, and sit in his lap like you owned both the chair and the man in it.

Jeongin turned just in time to see you coming.

“Oh nope. Nope.” He grabbed his stuff immediately, like a man narrowly avoiding trauma. “I’m not third-wheeling this lap dance sequel. I’ll be in the café. If I’m not back in an hour, it’s because I died of secondhand embarrassment.”

Jisung was still trying to stammer out something when Jeongin patted him on the shoulder with mock sympathy and left him for dead.

You were in a tiny black pleated skirt that flared when you walked, paired with a white, paper-thin tank, barely clinging to your frame. The outline of your lace bralette clearly visible beneath it under the warm library lighting. Your lips were glossy— glistening with that pink shimmer you knew drove him crazy, a hint of eyeliner, and that signature flirty sparkle in your eye made Jisung forget his own name, and why he ever thought he could handle you.

His mouth slightly parted as you spotted him and waved with a little grin that caused him to hold his breath. Every guy in the vicinity turned to look. Of course they did. You looked like you’d walked straight off the cover of a playboy magazine.

Except you weren’t paying attention to anyone else, walking straight towards him— past the tables, past all the stares, and before he could even think to slide over and offer the empty seat next to him, you climbed right onto his lap like you belonged there.

You casually slung your arm over his shoulders, settling against him like it was a normal day and you’d done it a hundred times before. Your thighs framed his, the sweet scent of your perfume clouding his senses while the softness of your chest against his front made him see static.

“Hi, baby,” you leaned it, trailing your fingers along the edge of his jaw. “You looked like you were missing me.”

“I-I uh-” He blinked rapidly, trying to process literally anything. “You’re- you-”

You couldn’t help but giggle at how much of a nervous wreck he was, but kept teasing him anyway. “Use your words, handsome.”

“You’re wearing that.”

You raised a brow, wide-eyed, feigning innocence. “This?”

Shifting slightly on his lap to get more comfy, your hips tilted just enough for your warmth to press more directly against the growing tent in his jeans. His soul left his body once again.

“I was gonna sit in the chair,” you said, glancing lazily at the empty seat beside him, “but you looked so cute and lonely over here. So serious. So tense.”

“I am tense,” he squeaked.

“You wanna know why?” he added quickly. “Because you’re literally sitting on me in the middle of a public—”

Your fingers slid into his hair, playing with the strands at the nape of his neck. “You don’t want me to sit here anymore?”

Jisung’s hands flew to your waist without realizing, fingers splayed against the thin material of your top like he was trying to will himself into self-control. “No- I mean, yes- I mean- I love when you sit here.. but—”

“But?” You echoed sweetly, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“People are looking,” he hissed through clenched teeth, heat blooming all the way to his ears. “Everyone’s looking. I-I can feel my GPA dropping just from this. My professor probably sensed it through the air.”

You didn’t seem fazed at all by his comments, letting your nose brush his cheek. “Let them look. You’re my boyfriend. I wanna show off what’s mine.”

He whimpered— actually whimpered. In the middle of the damn library.

You were just smiling, completely calm, perfectly poised, one hand lazily tracing the edge of his hoodie while your weight shifted subtly again, your thigh dragging ever so gently across his cock, already painfully hard beneath you.

You weren’t even grinding that hard.

You didn’t have to.

Because his sanity’s already slowly unraveling.

“Y/n…” he whispered, barely coherent. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“I barely did anything yet.”

“That’s the problem..”

You looked down at him, lips curved into something wicked. “You’re such a dork.”

He huffed, letting his head fall back against the seat.

“But you’re my dork,” you added, embedding a kiss to his cheek and then his temple. “My cute, squirmy, overstimulated little dork.”

“I’m not overstimulated.”

“You’re rock hard.”

“I’m emotionally vulnerable.”

You cackled. Loud enough for a student at the next table over to side-eye you, which you promptly ignored.

Jisung, meanwhile, tried to slowly roll his hips under you, praying to all gods that no one could tell how close he was to combusting. Your thighs were so soft. Warm. You smelled like vanilla and something sinfully feminine. The way you sat on him like nothing was happening, like your soaked panties weren’t dragging back and forth over the flexed muscle of his thigh— made his whole body lock up.

“If you’re this worked up now…” you murmured, voice sultry and featherlight, “…how are you gonna survive when I ride you later?”

His eyes rolled back.

A shaky breath punched from his chest. He choked on it, hands gripping your waist even tighter as his legs jerked beneath the table.

You pulled back just slightly to watch him come undone with a satisfied little smirk. “Color’s back in your cheeks. Must be working.”

“I’m begging you,” he croaked, “please just let me finish this. I need to pass this class.”

You thread your fingers up into his hair again, tugging gently at his roots. “Mm. If you get an A, I’ll let you do whatever you want to me. Desk. Mirror. Kitchen table. You name it.”

Jisung whimpered again.

Someone coughed in the next aisle. You didn’t care.

He tried to keep his cool. He really did. But when your lips would brush up against his ear, and your fingers slipped just slightly beneath his hoodie to rest on his bare skin, he knew he was beyond the point of no return.

You stayed perched on his lap, the model of calm— like you had no idea what you were doing to him. Like his cock wasn’t straining in his jeans so hard he thought he might pass out. His jaw was tight, lips bitten red, and his entire body’s trembling with effort.

The worst part of it all was how deliberately slow your hips circled over his thigh. It was so subtle. Calculated. The tiniest roll forward, just enough to let your clothed core drag across the curve of his thigh. Not bouncing. Not humping. Just that slow, lazy grind of slick heat over denim— completely hidden from view beneath the table.

“Shhh,” you muttered, completely unaffected. “Thought you wanted to finish your code?”

He was trying to finish this script. He really was. But the lines of code on his screen were blurring together, his glasses fogged-up and slipping down his nose. He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, stifling a noise he didn’t even recognize.

“I-” he gasped, the only thing anchoring him being the white-knuckle grip he had on the edge of his laptop. “I can’t think like this-”

“Like what?” You asked, lips brushing his jaw as your hips picked up it’s pace. “Like your girlfriend’s grinding her needy little cunt on your leg while you’re trying to finish your sad excuse of a Python script?”

He bucks into you helplessly. His cock throbbing in utter desperation. His jeans were already soaked. You were soaked. The cotton clinging between your folds as warmth spread across your thighs like wildfire. His thigh pressed perfectly against your cunt with every slow grind, grazing over the sensitive bud just right.

Jisung clenched his jaw, eyes fluttering shut. He could feel it. The outline of you. The mess you were making on him. The sharp, desperate ache in his cock that had him this close to snapping. The denim of his jeans felt tight, unbearably tight, and every shift of your hips sent him teetering over the edge.

“H-holy shit, y/n…” Jisung’s voice cracks, sharp and frayed. “You’re so wet. I can feel it through- fuck- through everything.”

“Mmh?” You hum softly, “what was that, baby? Speak up.”

“You know what,” he whined. His thigh twitched again, and you seized the opportunity to grind harder, dragging your soaked center over the thick muscle.

“You’re gonna get us caught,” he hissed, looking around uncomfortably. “You’re seriously gonna.. I can’t, baby—”

“No one’s looking,” you interrupted calmly, your hot breath fanning over his neck, fingers curling into the back of his hair like a gentle command. “Unless you make them look. Unless you start moaning like a little slut who can’t control himself while his girlfriend gets off on his leg.”

“I’m not-” He swallowed, but his voice was weak. Broken. “I’m not a slut.”

“No?” You mocked, your voice all honey and knives. “Then why’re you twitching every time I say something filthy? Why are you leaking through your boxers when I haven’t even touched your cock?”

He let out another pitiful sound.

“Please,” he begged. “Please, I’ll do anything. Anything, just let me cum, please. I can’t- fuck- I can’t take it anymore.”

The way he looked up at you, all teary-eyed and trembling, it sending a rush of heat pooling to your core. His cheeks were flushed a baby pink, lips slightly parted, chest heaving like he’d just run five miles. Your good boy— smart, nerdy, sweet Jisung— reduced to a desperate, needy mess just from the way you were riding his thigh in public like it was your seat.

“You’d do anything for me?” You asked, rolling your hips again, slowly, letting your clit drag perfectly over the seam of his jeans.

His hands spasmed on your legs.

“Yes,” he gasped. “Yes, please. I’d do anything- I’ll get on my knees right now, I’ll eat you out under this table if you let me. I’ll fucking worship you, y/n, just pleaseplease let me cum—”

Your lips curled into a smirk. “You sound so pathetic,” you scoffed. “So needy. And all I did was sit on you.”

He nodded frantically, his breathing ragged.

“I am pathetic. I know I am. I can’t help it, ’m so obsessed with you. I think about you all the time. I jerk off thinking about you sitting on my face. I came in my hand the other night just imagining you calling me your good boy.”

You clenched at that.

“Oh, baby,” you cooed. “You’re so fucked up.”

You spread your knees a little more over his leg so you could rock harder, now deliberately dragging your wet pussy over the wet patch of denim he’d soaked through. Tensing up as he fought not to move, to grind up into you like he wanted.

His breath came in short, silent bursts now. Chest rising and falling beneath you, lips parted, sweat beading at his brow.

“Y/n…” he breathed, trying so hard to sound composed, but nearly sobbing from how fucking good it felt.

“What is it, baby?” You bat your lashes at him, hips rocking forward again. “You’re not gonna cum in your jeans, are you?”

His entire body shivered.

“I-I will,” he stuttered. “I swear, if you don’t stop.. mmph, ‘m already so close, you’re- your pussy’s so wet—”

You leaned in slowly, lips grazing over the shell of his ear. “If you cum now…”

He gasped, throat catching on the first syllable.

“…you’re not fucking me later.”

His breathing stopped.

You pulled back just enough to see the panic settle in his eyes.

“You hear me, Ji? If you cum in your pants like a desperate little virgin, I’m walking out of here and locking my legs until next week.”

“I want you to feel how wet I am for you,” you whispered. “I want your thigh soaked. I want your cock leaking. But you don’t get to cum unless I say so.”

Jisung was panting now. He was actually trembling— not shaking, not twitching— trembling, like he was barely surviving.

“Y/nnn,” he whined. “This isn’t fair.. ’m not gonna make it.”

“You will,” you said, rolling your hips harder, dragging the mess between your thighs across the thick ridge of his leg again. “You will because you want to fuck me. You wanna cum inside me, don’t you?”

He groaned, mouth agape, eyes half-lidded and glazed over.

“Yes,” he pleaded. “God.. yes.”

You rewarded him with one more slow grind, your drenched panties catching perfectly on your clit— and it took everything in him not to buck up or spill into his boxers right then and there.

He almost disobeyed. Almost gave in. But somehow by some miracle of sheer desperation and willpower, he held back. Barely. Just barely.

You could feel him clenching under you. His cock twitching behind the zipper, leaking so much precum he’d made a dark patch on his jeans, mixing with the slick you’d left behind.

“You’re so good for me,” you praised, pressing light kisses against his jaw. “Sitting still, letting me use you. You’re so close, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” he strained. “I can’t take it anymore, please—”

You smiled against his skin, kissed him again, then pulled back.

“Then come with me.”

His eyes widened. “W-What?”

You stood up, skirt fluttering down your thighs, straightening your tank top like you weren’t dripping down his leg seconds ago.

“Archives section.” You whispered, voice honeyed and commanding.

And just like that, Jisung— flushed, throbbing, soaked, and desperately blue-balled, let you pull him through the rows of books, already dizzy with the promise of what’s to come next.

+

Jisung’s wrist was still pulsing with warmth from where you grabbed him, dragging him down two flights of stairs with no explanation and zero resistance. He followed like a lost puppy, notebook half-open, backpack swinging awkwardly behind him as you led him past the “ARCHIVES ONLY” sign and into a forgotten aisle of books no one under 65 had ever touched.

The hallway past the microfilm cabinets was barely lit, tucked behind a wall of outdated journals and abandoned thesis papers. No one ever came back here. The security camera hadn’t worked in months and you knew that because you checked the first week you started fooling around with Jisung in public. It was the perfect spot for what you had in mind.

His hoodie was crooked. His hair was a mess. His jeans were stained — not enough to be obvious to anyone else, but you saw the evidence of your slick and his precum smeared across the thigh you’d just used like your personal toy minutes ago.

His eyes were blown wide. Glazed. Wild with the kind of desperate frustration that came from being edged and denied so thoroughly he could barely think. Your skirt was still slightly rumpled and your lip gloss a little smeared like you planned it. You looked wrecked in the prettiest way and he couldn’t stop staring.

You gently pushed him up against the bookshelf, meeting the cold tiles as you dropped to your knees, looking up at him with the sweetest, filthiest smile he’d ever seen.

“W-What are you doing?” He blinked like rapid fire, turning into an even blushier mess. “Wait- wait, are you—?”

Without a word, you reached down and pulled his jeans further open, just enough to free his cock. It sprang up against his stomach— angry red at the tip, twitching, wet with a fresh bead of precum leaking from the slit.

“Ohh, Ji,” you cooed, brushing your thumb across the tip, smearing the slick mess down his shaft. “You really are about to cum, huh?”

“Y-Yeah,” he choked, breath hitching as his needy hips jerked into your hand. “Please touch me, ‘m so fucking close—”

“I am touching you,” you teased, wrapping your fingers around him slowly, deliberately. “What, not good enough?”

He let out a ragged moan, head thunking back against the wall.

Your grip tightened just enough. Your fist started moving slowly, not enough to bring him over, but enough to torment him. Just enough to keep him right there, on the edge, nerves strung taut like piano wire.

“F-Fuck, that’s—” he gasped, hips stuttering. “That’s so good.. please, faster. Baby, please—”

You smiled while looking up at him. “You begging already?”

He whined, high-pitched and wrecked, his hands twitching like he didn’t know where to put them, like if he touched you, he’d explode.

“I’ll do anything,” he whispered. “Just let me cum- I’ll eat you out for hours, I swear- please y/n—”

You tightened your grip and gave a long, twisting stroke that made his whole body jerk.

“Mm-mm,” you hummed. “Didn’t I say you don’t get to cum unless I say so?”

His hips bucked wildly into your fist. “I’m trying,” he moaned. “I’m trying so hard, but it feels so fucking good- your hand feels so good..”

“Yeah?” You whispered, pumping him harder, “my hand feels good? Poor baby. Can’t even handle a handjob without crying.”

“I’m not crying—”

You glanced back up.

His eyes were glassy. His lashes were damp. And his cock was throbbing so hard in your fist it looked painful.

“You are,” you murmured. “You’re crying ‘cause you want my mouth, huh?”

He whined like a kicked puppy.

You grinned.

“You want me to suck you off so bad you’d get on your knees and beg, wouldn’t you?”

He nods frantically, gasping for air. “Yes, yes. I would- I’d do anything- please, y/n, I need it. Need your mouth, wan’ it so bad—”

“You’re so cute,” you giggle, twisting your wrist mid-stroke just to make him squirm. “So fucked out and needy over something you haven’t even felt yet.”

“I’ve imagined it,” he blurted. “I’ve thought about it so many times- your lips, your tongue, I touch myself to it- fuck, ‘m gonna cum—”

Your hand stops immediately.

He let out a strangled, broken moan, the kind that came from the soul. As his cock throbbed helplessly in your hand, right on the edge, aching for release.

“Don’t you dare cum,” you hissed. “Not unless you want me to walk away.”

He whimpered. You watched the muscles in his abdomen tighten, his thighs shaking as he fought it— struggled against his own body, literally holding back an orgasm with every last shred of willpower he had left.

His eyes fluttered open again, desperate, ruined.

“You did good, baby,” you whispered. “But I’m not done with you yet.”

You let go of his cock and pulled your hand away, sticky, soaked in his precum, still warm with the weight of him.

He sobbed— a tiny, wrecked sound that made your thighs clench.

You hadn’t even taken him in your mouth yet, and Jisung was already about to cry.

The flush on his cheeks crept down his throat, his hands struggled to stay put, not knowing what to do with them. His cock was hard. So hard. Red and slick and visibly throbbing as you pumped it slowly in your hand. Every now and then, his hips jerked subconsciously, helpless, like his body was trying to chase something even his mind couldn’t form words for.

You looked at him from between his thighs, chin tilted, lips parted just enough to tease.

“Still with me, baby?”

He nodded a little too fast. “Y-Yeah. I think. Maybe. I don’t know.”

You smiled. “You’re doing so good.”

And then you slowly licked a stripe from base to tip, watching his entire body flinch.

“Nngh,” his mouth flew open, head tipping back to hit the shelf behind him. “Oh my god.”

“Not yet,” you remind, letting your tongue flick beneath the head, collecting every drop of precum you’d pulled out of him. “But you can pray if it helps.”

He let out a strangled laugh, cut off halfway by a moan as your lips finally wrapped around the tip and sucked— lightly, just enough to watch his knees buckle.

That’s when you gave him what he really wanted.

You slid up and down, slowly, letting him feel every inch and crevice of your mouth, your tongue pressed firm against the underside of his cock, and didn’t stop until you had him nearly down your throat.

You look up through your lashes, gaze dropping to his lips, then back up to his eyes.

His eyes were already rolling back when yours locked with his. The second he realized you were watching him— deepthroating him while holding eye contact, he let out the filthiest, most guttural groan you’d ever heard come out of him.

“Y-y/n fuck- fuck, your eyes- your mouth- baby, please, please don’t stop—”

You moaned around him, the vibration making his thighs shake.

You sucked harder now, faster, bobbing your head as your hand stroked what your lips couldn’t take. Drool started to peak out from the corners of your mouth and dripping down to your chin. Your jaw ached. Your eyes were watering. But you loved every second of it because he looked absolutely wrecked.

He was trembling like a virgin sacrifice, hips twitching, mouth open in a soft, breathless ‘o’ as his hands finally came to your head— not pushing, not guiding, just holding, as if he needed something to cling to so he doesn’t burst at the seams.

You were soaking wet.

Your thighs pressed together under your skirt, heat thobbing between your legs. Every time he moaned, every time he whimpered your name with that desperate, wrecked voice, you felt another pulse of wetness soak your panties.

You loved this.

Loved watching him come apart because of you.

He was a babbling mess now, muttering nonsensical praise and pleas spilling from his lips.

“Your mouth’s so warm, oh my god. So good, so fucking good, feels better than anything.. Think m’gonna cum, please let me cum in your mouth..”

You pulled off just enough to say, voice breathless, “then do it. Cum for me.”

And then you swallowed him whole again, deep and wet and perfect, not stopping until his entire body went still, shaking, before bucking up into your throat as he finally came.

“Fuckfuckfuck, I’m cumming—!”

His head dropped forward, eyes wide and panicked as his cock twitched hard, spilling thick spurts of cum hot and heavy down your throat. You sucked him through it, not letting up until he was whimpering, thrashing, his knees buckling as he slumped back against the shelf.

You swallowed everything, not a drop of him wasted.

Then licked your lips, smugly grinning.

When you stood back up, he was still dazed. His eyes followed you like you were gravity itself.

“That was—” He wheezed. “I think I just- did I die? Am I dead?”

You leaned in close and whispered, “You died a slut.”

He choked on his own saliva.

And then, of course.. came the sound that ruined everything.

His phone buzzing. Loudly. With that stupidly obnoxious ringtone.

A Zelda theme remix.

“Oh my god,” you muttered, eyebrows lifting. “Is that your mom?”

Jisung turned redder than you thought humanly possible.

He yanked the phone out of his pocket and hissed, “Yes.”

“Answer it.”

“I will not—!”

You reached for it and put it on speaker before he even had the chance to protest and stop you.

“Jisung?” His mom’s voice rang out. “Did you remember to eat something today?”

He turned paler than a ghost.

You smiled sweetly, reaching over for a tissue and using it to wipe the corner of your mouth.

“He’s getting plenty of protein,” you said, and swiftly hung up.

Jisung let out a noise that could only be described as dying baby animal.

“I’m never recovering from this,” he smacks his forehead with his palm.

You peck his cheek. “You’ll recover. Eventually. After I sit on your face.”

He whimpered again. “You’re gonna be the reason I fail out of college.”

“And you’ll love every second of it.”

[mercy-burning]

Greedy

PAIRING: Spencer Reid x fem!Reader

SUMMARY: You give Spencer head for the first time as he guides you through it.

CONTENT: (18+) Blowjob. Praise. Crying. Gagging. Bon Appetit.

WORD COUNT: 1.8k

MASTERLIST

NOTE: this is totally formatted weird because i did this on a whim in my car at work without my laptop. i also didn’t proofread, sooooo if you see any typos, no you didn’t ❤️

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

"Do you like having your dick sucked?"

Spencer is silent for approximately seven seconds before you continue, shock rendering his brain utterly useless.

"Sorry. That was a stupid question."

"N—no, it's not at all, I'm just... I didn't expect you to say that out of the blue."

You shuffle your position next to him, coming up to lean on your arm as he looks up at you. You bite your lip and avoid his eyes, his hand coming up to stroke your arm as you consider your words. "Well, I just... I've been thinking about it. I mean, we've been sleeping together for a while now and I've never done it, and I didn't know if it was something you actually cared about or... or what..."

Hearing you ramble and trail off makes him laugh to himself, his hand trailing up to lock your fingers with his. "Do you want to?"

It's your turn to laugh, the breath laced with worry, and regret for even bringing it up. "I'd love to, but... I'm not good at it."

Spencer pauses again, far less than seven seconds this time, the pieces slowly starting to come together. "I doubt that's true, but even if it is, there is not a single thing you could be bad at, in bed or otherwise, that would make me like you any less."

Still, you're relentless in your insecurity over the matter. "No, you don't understand, I'm astronomically bad at it— I can't even brush my teeth without gagging and crying!"

Somehow, despite the laugh that tumbles from him, the brief image of your pretty face flushed and puffy, eyes wet with tears, causes something wicked to stir in him. Still, he aims to comfort you first and push it aside in the meantime—perhaps forever if it would mean your contentment and happiness. To reiterate this point, he leans up and kisses your jaw. "Well, I'm not going to force you to do anything you don't want to until you're ready. Or at all.”

Your body relaxes a little, though your voice remains unsure and small as you ask him, “Can I try?”

Spencer kisses you again, pulling you on top of him and letting your lips bring him one step closer to Heaven. You kiss him softly, sensually, and his body reacts to it with such visceral need that he wonders how he’s lived so much of his life without you.

“Do anything you want, my love,” he whispers against you when you pull away for air. “Whatever you want, it’s yours.”

You melt at his words, literally, as your body comes down over him. It’s like a tidal wave, trust and love and desire all crashing into him at once. There isn’t a single ounce of him that isn’t set alight at the mere phantom of your touch. So, when you’re on him in full force, a careful methodical mission to please him, he may as well be a living embodiment of the sun, burning and blinding and hot.

He watches you intently, trying not to let his eyes close as you continue your descent down the length of him. Your lips are slow and molten, each and every kiss sending a shockwave of excitement coursing through his body. Every so often, your tongue darts out to taste his skin, and the closer it gets to his waist, the harder it is for him to focus.

God, he thinks with a grin, you haven’t even undressed me and I’m already a fucking mess…

Your hand comes up to trace along the seams of his underwear, occasionally slipping underneath, teasing, as you nip and lick at his lower abdomen. And then, when you finally press your palm to the hard and aching weight of his desire, he can’t help the sound that escapes him—desperate, low, and downright pornographic.

Spencer half-expects you to laugh and tease him for being needy, but his need for you only builds your confidence; You gently squeeze him through that pesky thin cotton layer and swipe your thumb along where the underside of his tip is. Your mouth moves lower, teeth tugging at the waistband of said cotton, and he thinks you might actually be the death of him.

Watching you intently and steadying his breathing, Spencer lifts his hips as you tug the fabric down, at first with your teeth and then, finally, with your hands. The slight whimper that leaves your mouth at the sight of his flushed cock is a sound he never wants to forget, though the sound you make when you finally press your warm, welcoming tongue to his shaft is even better.

You moan and lick, slowly and all the way up to the tip, like you’ve just tasted Heaven. Your tongue explores and swirls, and your lips occasionally close around his balls, never fully taking him into your mouth but making him wet and aching all over.

Your exploration is slow. Deliberate. Sultry. Your eyes flick up to meet his every once in a while, never faltering your movements, but Spencer can tell every time that your body is physically crumbling under the weight of his gaze. The pure unabashed lust swimming about in his entire being is at a level that is new and overwhelming, threatening to sweep him away in a tidal wave and take you with him.

He wants to be greedy, but for now, he will wait.

You seem to sense this, pausing the movements with your mouth to talk while you strike him gently in your hand.

“Can I confess something?”

Even if he had an answer, he couldn’t have given it, his ability to speak rendered utterly useless when your fist squeezes firmly over his tip. His mouth falls open in a silent sigh of pleasure as you continue.

“The thought of choking on your cock is making me really wet…”

You punctuate your confession with a gentle, searing kiss to his belly. Right where his greed is pooling and aching to be set free.

All he can do is groan, throwing his head back and clutching at the sheets below him.

“Would you like that? Fucking my throat and making me take it until I’m crying?”

Spencer’s hips jerk involuntarily, and he barks out, “Yes. Fuck.”

You do laugh this time, but only for a second before bracing yourself. Your mouth parts, taking the tip of him between your lips and getting yourself used to having him inside you this way. Your tongue finds a comfortable way to caress him as you go down slowly, lower and lower, until—

You tense and retreat, barely making it down his cock half-way before you’re choking, a line of drool following your poor, pouting lips.

At first, Spencer thinks maybe you’ve changed your mind, and he’s ready to tell you it’s okay and that you can stop.

And then, you’re going again, your eyes never leaving his as you take him in your mouth once more. Slowly, and this time more relaxed. Your tongue glides around him differently, trying something new, making more room for him, but it’s still not enough to keep you from gagging.

Your eyes gloss over and your throat contracts, but you make yourself stay for two seconds longer before you’re audibly gagging, going back up and blinking away tears.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, catching your breath. “I’m trying.”

Spencer reaches and caresses your jaw with the back of his knuckles, his dick practically throbbing in your fist.

“I know, pretty girl. And you’re doing such a good job.”

The words are merely meant for comfort and reassurance, not to make you keep going, but they seem to encourage you anyway. Your watery gaze rises to lock with his, and you start to lazily stroke him again.

“Really?”

“Yes. You’re so perfect. I mean it.”

“I can’t even make it halfway down,” you whine in protest, but he’s immediately shaking his head.

“So what. You still feel incredible.”

You look up at him like you don’t believe him, but you’re determined to keep trying anyway, shifting yourself and bringing him to your lips one more time.

His hand is there for comfort at first, cradling your jaw, but then he finds himself guiding you, lifting your head back up once you start to go down too far. He keeps you right on the edge of your limit, feeling your throat tense every once in a while, but not enough to overwhelm you.

Spencer can feel your excitement, your movements getting more rhythmic and your tongue finding a perfect mold to the intruding length of him.

“That’s it,” he coos, trying to keep his breathing even. Both of his hands are on your face now, keeping you steady as you look up at him. “You look so pretty like this.”

His words are fuel, something darkening in your eyes as he expels them, and then you’re taking the reins, gripping his waist and plunging yourself lower onto his cock in one swift motion.

“Fuck!” he yelps in surprise, still holding your head as you hold yourself to the base of him and gag, for one, two, three seconds before lifting.

It’s not long before you’re going down on him again, finding a new, quick and sloppy rhythm that takes him deeper down the back of your throat each time. You choke, you gag, you drool, and you cry.

God, do you cry…

Spencer’s thumbs catch your falling tears, a steady stream that paints your cheeks beautifully and fulfills that deep-brewing greed thrashing around in the pits of his belly.

“You’re so fucking pretty when you cry,” he rushes out, close to orgasm.

At this, you whimper, which causes you to choke, which causes Spencer to finally let go, and he holds your head and thrusts up into your mouth. Over and over again.

He praises you through it, swiping lovingly at fresh tears and feeling his cum trail down his cock with your saliva, because of course there was no way you’d be able to swallow it all.

“That’s my good girl,” he chokes out, his thrusts softening. “Taking my cock so well… Just like I knew you would.”

Eventually his orgasm fades, and your mouth finally has reprieve. Still, Spencer cradles your face in his hands as he studies the aftermath.

He hadn’t been aware that you were wearing any mascara, but now it’s evident, watery black streaks cascading down the slopes of your cheeks. Your face is red all over, eyes puffy and lips even more so. You smile faintly, exhausted but happy—proud—and he can’t help but think—

“God, you’re beautiful…”

And right then, looking at him look at you, with adoration and wonder in his eyes, the thin fog of lust settled like firework smoke around you, you can’t help but think back—

“Mmm, so are you.”

[arminsumi]

tattoartist!suguru losing nonchalance when reader flirts with him?

im down bad for him holy hell

Oh, he's falling to pieces, got it bad for the girl he just met 'n he's gonna make a drunk little bet — y'think he's crazy enough to get your name tattooed on him? Or crazy enough to ink his name into your skin?

ㅤ★ wc; ~3k

ㅤ★ note; continuation of tattoo artist Suguru Geto!

ㅤ★ an; aaa!! you got my brain whirring like a laptop... tysm and i hope this makes u blush and kick ur feet as much as i did while writing!! 🍰✨

ㅤ★ tagz; @ohimsummer 💗@fairiesthrum💗 @heartofjasmina 💗 @kwonan 💗 @ghost-buddies 💗 @madamecorbie 💗 @mima0127 💗 @moggleatlife 💗 @natasaa13 💗 @yemmuishomeforthementallyunwell 💗 @wakashudou 💗 @khaothick 💗 @candy-s72 💗 @creamflix 💗 @starriesworlds

ㅤ★ warnings; sum alcohol/drunkenness

“So, was she joking, or am I your type?” Suguru asks, black eyes staring right into your soul.

“Mm, well…” you hum, giving his form a look-over – god, if only you could feel how hard his heart’s beating when you do this. “Maybe.” You reply teasingly.

“Aw, just ‘maybe’?” he groans, now leaning his hip against the edge of the display case that housed the studs and gauge earrings.

“Yeah, just ‘maybe’ – I’m teasing. No, she wasn’t joking; I’ve always had a thing for the black hair, black nails, bad boy look…”

“The ‘bad boy’ look…?” he questions, recalling what your friend had said earlier about bad boys being just your type.

“Yeah, the ‘bad boy’ look.” You giggle.

His heart beats even harder, muttering a naughty little “Well, lucky me.”

“Nah, not so fast – I’m a smart woman.” You warn.

“Oh, are you?” he clicks his tongue in defeat, “Damn, would you believe that my type is smart women? No, no I’m serious… I’ve got a thing for smart women.”

Your cheeks grow hot, the heat spreading to your ears.

“I can assure you that the ‘bad boy’ look is just an aesthetic; I’m really an artsy dork making a living off doodling on people’s bodies.” He shrugs.

“Hm… maybe, maybe not.”

You rub your lips together. He briefly licks his bottom lip. You look him up and down. He looks you up and down. Body language open and alive with attraction, the both of you stand in this air of electric tension that Shoko spies from the other end of the room.

She watches as the two of you giggle like little flirts, observing how totally absorbed the two of you are in each other’s company. When you catch her eye, Shoko gives you a wink and points at her wrist, mouthing “five more” – fair enough, the two of you have promised to get pizza.

Pizza first, boys later, right?

Five minutes more go by – adding to the total of four hours spent at the tattoo & piercing parlor. But despite her discomfort and need for a change of scenery, Shoko decides to linger around just a little longer so that the two of you can indulge in each other just a little more.

But now you're getting nervous – Suguru has you breathless, holding you in a battle of who can flirt harder? which you're starting to lose.

He's captivated by you. This 6’3, tattooed, goth-grunge, slightly dorky man chuckles and smiles like he hasn’t had this much fun talking flirting with someone in years.

It's going well, then your smile trips him up. I know, it’s always the smile, huh? If you see enough of it, you slip… and that’s exactly what's happened to Suguru. He quickly grows obsessed with the way your cheeks look when you smile – the image burns into his memory without him even realizing it in the moment.

No, in the moment he doesn't realize the magnitude of your effect on him. He's just thinking about himself, about you, about —

“I’ve gotta go,” you say goodbye finally, “I don’t want to keep my friend waiting. But you’ll probably see my face here again… she loves dragging me along for these kinds of things.”

He stutters, “Oh! Oh… yeah – yes. Of course. Looking forward to it… maybe next time, you’ll be the one getting ink in your skin.”

“Yeah right.” You smile.

It’s your French exit that makes his heart throb in need.

No, don’t leave yet… I like you – don’t you ever wonder how many acquaintances in your life have thought this when leaving your company? And you’ll never even know.

Oh, Suguru was thinking so hard about asking you to exchange numbers or to meet up for coffee, but he didn’t want to come off as too forward – no, no… he had to maintain his mysteriousness. Or at least, he had to cling to whatever was left of it after revealing his inner dorkiness to you.

*****

After you leave, he wanders in and out of his studio, has small interactions with his co-workers, and doodles ideas for tattoos down.

Throughout all of these things, your face is at the forefront of his mind. Your voice echoes in his head as he recalls every detail of the conversation you two shared. Then he starts smiling softly as he applauds himself for being so gutsily flirty with you… a stranger, just someone, who he probably won’t see again…

A girl with no name.

God, why was he so slow? He didn’t even ask for your name. Suguru groans.

Yes, he probably won’t see you again… not unless your friend brings you along for her next visit. How long does he have to wait? Weeks? Months? That’s insane.

Suguru stops doodling, stares at the scrap of paper, and then looks up at the wall displaying his works. He rubs his fingers back and forth across his mouth.

I gotta.

He looks over to his phone. He reaches for it, takes it into his veiny hand, unlocks it, and scrolls through his list of contacts.

And then he dials his client’s number. Shoko Ieri.

*****

Now, it’s been just under an hour since you and Shoko left the tattoo parlour. She’s complained three times about the pain because exactly three times she has leaned back on the seat – squishing the fresh ink wound against her chair. You just cruelly laugh at how her eyes twitch in pain and each time.

The two of you sit eating pizza.

“He liked you. Why don’t we go back and you ask him for his number?” she teases.

“No way… he’ll think I’m too forward.” You shake your head.

Then three minutes later, Shoko's phone goes off. She reaches into her backpack. She looks at the caller ID, then at you, then at the caller ID, then –

“… is that him?”

“It’s him.”

“What’s he calling for! Me?”

“Absolutely he’s calling for you – I can bet gold on that.”

It stops ringing. She tells you she’ll text him back but guess what? She doesn’t even need to, because he calls again.

“Relentless.” She giggles. “I’m answering.”

“Pretend I’m not here!”

She winks at you and answers, “Hey, Suguru, what’s up?”

The two of you lean in until your foreheads press together – it’s still hard to make out every word.

“Yo.” You hear his smooth voice coming from the other side, “Sorry to bother you… (muffled)… your friend (muffled)… so embarrassed, so don’t tell her that I’m calling… (muffled)… what was her name?”

You clap your hand over your mouth when you hear those snippets.

She gives you a devious look before saying, “Oh! Well, she’s right here with me, actually, so you can ask her yourself.”

Mouth full of pizza, you freak out and X your arms to signal a fat NO WAY SHOKO! and fall to pieces all with the taste of pepperoni on your tongue.

But she just hands the phone over to you anyways, then proceeds to silently laugh as you spit out your pizza before talking.

“Hehlooo?”

“H-hey.”

You get right to the point. “My name’s Yn…”

“Oh… I like that… I’m Suguru.”

“What was that? I couldn’t hear you.”

“Suguru. Suguru Geto.” He raises his voice.

Cheek hot against the screen of his phone, Suguru is silently freaking out at the tense silence. He can feel his stomach starting to flip. His mind blanks.

“Anyways! Um, that’s all.”

No. That’s not all. He has a novel’s length worth of things to talk about with you.

At this point, Shoko rolls her eyes at the two of you being so awkward on the phone and decides that she needs to take matters into her own hands.

So she snatches the phone from you.

“ – Suguru? Say, you wouldn’t be free on Saturday, would ya? Yeah, I’m going on a date with this guy… and I’d love to make it a double date with you and Yn if you’d like to –”

You hear him stutter out a yes, absolutely before Shoko can even finish her sentence. She grins.

Suguru can sense that the two of you are smiling and giggling. He can predict that the two of you are probably going to gossip about him being the 'dork from the tattoo parlor that called not once, but twice for the name of a girl he just met' – but he doesn’t care. He’s been presented an opportunity and taken it.

To hell with seeming too eager.

When the call ends, Suguru blows out a breath through his lips. Then he promptly texts his best friend. Dark strands of hair slip out of his sloppy bun as he puts his face over the screen, thumbs swift and eager.

Toru 🤞😜 lol bravo... but i thought u said she was out of ur league??

Sugu i mean... yes. she's way too pretty and smart for me. but i'm not gonna pass up this opportunity

Toru 🤞😜 still can't believe u called ur client just to get her friend’s name... lol

Sugu you would understand if you met her ok

Toru 🤞😜 damn she must be something else

Yes, yes you are something else — Suguru can’t even begin to describe why. Translating his thoughts into words isn’t his thing; he translates them into art.

****

It's later in the day. You're lazing around Shoko's apartment.

She confirms the time and place of the double date, and cackles on her couch while kicking her feet, teasing you for being so crazy about a guy you just met – her tattoo artist.

You just couldn’t stop talking about Geto Suguru.

“Shiiit, should I even let you and a bad boy like him be alone in a room together?”

“I can control myself.” you assure her.

She slowly shakes her head at you.

“Yeah right… but can he? I don't trust neither of you... miss crazy and mister crazy... you might just wake up with his name in your skin.”

You giggle to yourself, biting your thumb. “Maybe…”

“Oh girl…” she groans, causing you to giggle into yourself, “You’re gonna be licking the tail of his dragon tattoo by the end of the date tomorrow.”

“H-h-he has a what? And where?” you stuttered, lashes quivering.

She shakes her head at you. “God, you’re screwed…”

*****

It's Saturday night. The bar's more alive than ever.

You've learned that Geto Suguru does, in fact, have a dragon tattoo inked up his toned arm – and a tight-fitting black tank top that shows it off along with his martial artist’s physique, too.

He’s got a glint of the devil in his black eyes. Softly-delivered dirty jokes ready to roll off his pierced tongue. A habit of tilting his head and looking hungrily at your lips and neck.

“Martial arts, huh?” you ask with stars in your eyes.

“Mhm, I could teach you a few things.” He purrs in reply.

Your stomach starts squeezing and flipping – that’s got to be the flirtiest 'mhm' that you’ve ever heard in your whole life.

“You think so?” you purr back.

Now it’s his turn to feel that squeezy, flippy feeling in his stomach.

Fuckfuckfuck is all he could think when he looks into your eyes.

I’m gonna fall to pieces. You’re gonna be the death of me.

“Uh…  do you two need some privacy?” Shoko teases.

Oh. It’s a double date. How could you forget? Shoko is literally sitting beside you at the bar with her date. But for a second there, it really felt like it was just you 'n this deliciously tattooed bad boy.

“Maybe.” Suguru chuckles coyly.

“There’s a hotel just next door…”

“Shoko!” you scold, playfully shoving her arm.

She giggles into herself, sipping down her cocktail innocently as if she didn’t just electrify the air between you and Suguru. His throat’s tensing, foot’s tapping up and down on the bar stool – boy’s got long spider-legs, huh?

Now after that, Suguru grins wider – showing off his pretty canines – his posture assuming something self-soothing; he holds his elbows, arms squished against his ribcage, which just makes his biceps more pronounced. Oh why, why did he have to wear a tank top like that? Surely he’s aware of the effect it has on girls. Or maybe he’s oblivious…

Nah. He's not.

*****

“Did it hurt?” you ask, trying to blink out the tipsiness from your love-drunk eyes but you’ve got three cosmopolitans surging through your veins.

“Not really… I’ve got great pain tolerance.” Suguru replies.

“Oh really?” you blink up at him again and his mind goes blank.

“Look at that...” He murmurs softly, not breaking eye contact with you. Where’s your friend and her date? Who knows. It’s just you and him now – and that’s all he wanted.

“Hm?”

“Not every day I see eyes like that…”

You widen your lips into a smile, “You’re laying it on thick.”

“Am I? Sorry – see, this is what happens after you feed Suguru too much rum. I just can’t keep my mouth shut.”

“That’s terrible… need someone to shut ya up?” you flirt.

He tilts his head at you, loose strands of hair shifting across his cheek. His left brow quirks up – he’s so taken aback by your forwardness but he falls right into it.

You just giggle flirtatiously after making that comment and pull the straw of your drink between your lips, sucking the remnants of a cosmopolitan into your mouth as sensually as you dare to in front of a bad boy who’s got bedroom eyes on you.

“I think I could do with some shutting up…” he admits.

“Mm,” you hum, “y’think by our third date you’re gonna snap and kiss me hard like we’re in a movie?”

Suguru smiles bashfully and looks down into his drink, swirling the melting ice cubes with a straw – slowly, round and round, they clink. Then he draws his gaze back to you, catching you with a sultry side-eye, and now it’s not just the ice cubes that are melting.

“Nah-uh…”

“Nah-uh?” you question.

“… I think it’s you who’s gonna snap first.” He says.

“Wanna bet?” you tease.

“Sure. What’ll be at stake?” he asks.

He keeps his sultry gaze on you as you look off to the side in thought for a moment. Your friend’s joke echoes in your mind.

“… you might just wake up with his name in your skin.”

Then you look back to him – his heart throbs but he’s trying to keep it together here, pulling his straw to his lips to get a sip of whatever rum still exists in his glass.

“Loser gets a regrettable tattoo?” you suggest.

He looks at you with a little bit of disbelief at your boldness.

“How regrettable?” he questions, one eye squinting shut in suspicion. He's wondering just how wild you actually are.

“Like my name on you? Or vice versa.”

He covers his mouth and lets out a chuckle hearing this. “You want me to tattoo my name on ya skin?” he teases. “Sure, I’ll bet on that.”

You can’t believe that he’s matching your crazy.

You stutter, replying only after a lingering moment of hot eye contact, “… there’s no way I’m gonna snap first…” you say boldly, proceeding to pop the cherry of your drink into your mouth and eating it right in front of the poor boy’s eyes. “ ‘m gonna have you walkin’ around with my name on you.”

Eyes glued on your lips, his breath catches in his throat.

“Yeah?”

Ooh, there it was. That feeling. That body singing electric songs feeling… that tummy-tightening, blood-rushing, skin-flushing feeling – it hit him all at once. He knows that if he were standing, his knees would have buckled now for sure, or at least he would have felt the tremor of your words under his feet.

He’s unsteady – smiling uncontrollably, looking dishevelled and softly drunk. Those rouge lips are begging to be kissed.

The bar grows quieter and quieter.

You’re hardly able to call each other anything more than strangers, and yet you’re leaning into him, closing the distance.

The tips of your noses are just inches apart now. You’re in each other’s air. He eyes out your lips, feels your hot, liquor-scented breath tickle his face.

But when you try and close the distance, he raises his hand and presses his thumb against your soft lips, stopping you.

“What happened to that bold statement, huh? Keep it together, baby; the bet’s on.” He feathers against your face.

*****

Tumbling into Shoko’s apartment after a night out drinking, you smile and giggle into the pillows of her bed.

She’s letting her hair down and swapping out her tight dress for jammies when she looks at you in your gleeful state.

“Someone’s in love.” She teases, coming over to tickle you.

“I’m not in love!”

“Oh, quit the act; I saw how the two of you said goodbye – you could barely hold yourself together. Drunk or not, I ain’t seen two adults giggling like that before.”

“Sh!” you swat her, “Not! In! Love!”

She takes a look into your eyes and observes your smile, then shakes her head. You're drowsy, so you make a dive into her bed and fall asleep almost instantly.

Shoko pulls a blanket over you, affectionately ruffling your hair.

“Madly in love, at the very least.”

[mariasont]

mariaaa!! i have another idea!! > 3 <

ok, so…

sleepy, needy, & clingy bimbo!reader with hotch

either before they together or when they first get together <3

Hot & Bothered (No, Like, Literally, You Have a Fever) - A.H.

summary: bimbo!assistant!reader is feverish, clingy & just a little delirious, except, not too delirious to shamelessly flirt with your very attractive, very exasperated boyfriend. pairings: aaron hotchner x bimbo!assistant!reader warnings: sick!reader, no use of y/n, established relationship, soft!hotch, flirty banter, suggestive-ish content, clingy!reader, hotch ignoring all cdc guidelines, reader is kinda being a baby about everything (just like me fr), theatre kid hotch. wc: 2.3k

You started off playing it cute. All little sighs, sending Aaron pouty texts filled with emojis, making sure he knew you missed him, but in a haha, just kidding (unless?) kind of way. Now you're way past that. The cute phase had dissolved into something far more desperate.

You were sick-sick. The terrible kind of sick where your limbs feel like they're made of granite, and your skin somehow manages to burn and freeze at the same time.

Worst of all, Aaron wasn't here.

And really, what was the point of having a boyfriend as stupidly gorgeous, painfully competent, and naturally overprotective as Aaron Hotchner if he wasn't going to be around when you need him most?

You knew you were being dramatic. You knew this was your own fault. Aaron had practically ordered you to let him come home with you, standing there in his office with his disapproving frown, telling you that you shouldn't be alone if you weren't feeling well.

But in your infinite wisdom, you had waved him off, told him to stay at work. Because at the time, you were fine. Or, more so, fine-adjacent. And because sometimes, your brain tricks you into thinking you are a capable, independent woman who does not, in fact, require Hotch-shaped supervision.

So now you're curled up in bed, drowning in the well-worn fabric of his FBI academy hoodie, the one that smells like him. And it helps. But not enough.

Because if he were here, he'd be so good at taking care of you. He'd probably be all bossy and stern about it, telling you to drink your water, go to sleep, and stop pouting. But then he'd turn around and betray himself completely by smoothing your hair back so, so softly, by tucking the blankets up to your chin like you're something delicate. Contrary to popular belief, he did have a soft side.

Maybe you should call him. Maybe you should be really, really pathetic about it and beg him to come home.

Maybe you're just a little too codependent. (Just a little.)

The second the front door opens, you think you must be imaging it. You convince yourself it's the fever, twisting reality into want instead of what actually is. Because Aaron shouldn't be home yet.

You squint at the clock, but it's just a bunch of blurry numbers, and math is already hard enough without feeling like your brain is actively melting.

But then there's the sound of leather against hardwood, and not just any leather.

You know those shoes. The custom Italian Oxfords you forced him to let you buy. He'd grumbled about the price, all exasperated and dramatic (as if he had any real concept of what good leather actually costs), but he still let you drag him to the store. Still let you lace them up for him. Still let you kiss him senseless in the parking lot because he looked too insanely sexy in them to be allowed to exist without immediate compensation.

You'd told him once that good shoes take you good places. And now look where they took him.

Straight home to you.

The relief is so instantaneous, it makes your head spin. And suddenly, he's there, shoulders broad against the door frame, arms crossed, eyes warm despite the unimpressed look he's attempting to pull off.

"My poor baby," he says, half-teasing, but mostly just achingly soft.

Your bottom lip wobbles. "It's not that bad."

Aaron sighs loudly, already loosening his tie as he strides over, assessing the damage, which, in this case, is you, buried under what is objectively a very reasonable amount of blankets.

"Uh-huh." Flat. Dry. But he's already reaching to fix them, like he can't help himself. "That why you're buried in every blanket we own?"

You burrow deeper into said blankets. Maybe if you commit hard enough, he'll stop looking so smug.

"They're comfy."

He crouches beside the bed, undoing the last button on his cuff before pressing the back of his hand to your forehead. His touch is cool, and you lean into it immediately, shameless at how much you enjoy his skin against your overheated own.

"You're hot."

You blink at him, dazed, and—without thinking—mumble, "So are you."

The moment the words leave your mouth, you regret them. Not because they're untrue, that's indisputable, but because of the sheer pathetic delivery of it, all scratchy and pitiful and nothing like the effortless flirtation you usually bring to the table.

You groan, squeezing your eyes shut like that might somehow reverse time.

Aaron, of course, is completely unbearable about it. His lips twitch, and you can see it happening in real time, his struggle not to laugh directly in your face.

"Flattered," he drawls, his thumb brushing over your temple, fingers carding through your hair in slow strokes. "Have you been drinking enough water?"

You wrinkle your nose. "Water is boring."

"You're boring."

You gasp, sniffling as you try to look offended, despite the congestion ruining your tone. "Boring? You weren't calling me boring last night when I—,"

"Okay."

Aaron cuts you off immediately, already leaning down, pressing kiss after kiss to your face—forehead, cheeks, anywhere he can reach. You squeal in protest (or, well, try to, your voice is too weak for it to be truly effective), but he just laughs against your skin, relentless.

"Okay, I take it back," he murmurs, kissing your nose like an apology. Like a bribe. "You're the most exciting person I know. Now be exciting and drink some water before I have to force it down your throat."

"Force it down my throat?" you rasp, a weak smirk pulling at your lips as your fingers prod into his dress shirt. "You promise?"

"So inappropriate." He lets out a breathy laugh, shaking his head, but his hands are already cupping your face, his lips pressing to yours, like he loves kissing you too much to stop himself.

You barely have time to enjoy it before your brain remembers how sickness works.

"Wait, germs!"

Aaron just smirks, tilting your face up with a knuckle under your chin. "Since you brought up last night, that's an interesting concern, considering where your mouth was last night."

You should say something flirty in return. Something about how that was different because it was basically an act of public service (one you love providing). Because that's what you do. You throw him off, make him sigh like you're exhausting and adorable at the same time, watching his ears flush pink when he pretends he's not affected.

But the words never come, instead, your brain hands you a far worse visual. Aaron, like this, but worse. His face pale, head pressed against a pillow, forehead creased with discomfort he wouldn't acknowledge. You can see it clearly, the way he'd insist he's fine, the way he'd make it through a workday half-dead before even considering rest.

And suddenly nothing is funny.

Your fingers clutch at his shirt without thinking, like holding onto him will somehow fix the terrible, awful, no-good mental image you just had.

You're frowning, and you don't even realize it, not until Aaron does, his thumb pressing lightly against the center of your forehead, like he can smooth it away.

"I don't want you to get sick."

"My sweet girl," he murmurs, fingers threading through your hair once before he stands. "I can handle a cold. What I can't handle is you being miserable and dehydrated. Be good and let me take care of you."

Aaron disappears before you can argue and by the time he returns, a glass of water in hand, you've barely had a chance to process how much you missed him in those few seconds.

You watch as he puts it down on the nightstand beside you.

"There. Now drink."

"Yes, sir," you mumble, taking a few small sips just to prove that you're listening.

But if he really wanted you hydrated, he should've just kissed you again.

Aaron's eyes narrow, shooting you a pointed look.

You sigh, loud and put-upon, then take another sip, longer, just to appease him. You make a show out of it, before immediately reaching out, patting the empty space beside you with undeniable urgency.

Aaron snorts. "Didn't last long, did you?"

"I'm sick. I need warmth and love."

He exhales so dramatically, shaking his head. "If that's what my poor, suffering girl needs, then I suppose I have no choice."

Alright, theatre kid.

You bite your tongue, not because you're wrong, but because self-preservation is a skill, and you'd like to see another sunrise. And, fine. If he wanted to pretend like sitting still for five minutes was his own personal crucifixion, then who were you to deny him. It wasn't your fault, he ran himself into the ground, like he was trying to beat time himself, working to the bone until someone (you) had to physically drag him to bed.

You watch, maybe a little too intently, as he kicks off his shoes, undoes his belt, and swaps out his boring, stuffy work pants for the sweats. Your sweats. The ones you have a deeply personal attachment to.

You have history with those sweats.

"You know, you put those on and suddenly I start feeling a whole lot better." Call it divine intervention, maybe. "Do you think if you let me sit on your lap, I'd be at full strength again? Because I think we should at least try. For medical purposes."

Aaron settles in beside you, pressing one, two, three kisses to your lips, because he can, because he wants to. When he pulls back, he's smirking.

"Cheeky girl," he murmurs, thumb skimming your jaw. "And here I was, thinking you needed me to take care of you. Turns out you just wanted an excuse to climb all over me. How tragic. I've been completely fooled."

You brain-to-hand coordination is questionable at best, but that doesn't stop you from attempting to very subtly slip your fingers along the waistband of his sweats.

Aaron grabs your wrist instantly laughing—an actual, real, Hotchner laugh.

"Sweetheart," he muses, so damn amused, his thumb tripping over the pulse point of your wrist. "You can barely hold your head up, and you're trying to start something?"

"With a boyfriend like you, I'm like, legally required to start something."

Aaron lets out the longest, most suffering sigh known to man.

Like you said—theatre kid.

"Don't I know it. You're insatiable."

You open your mouth, fully prepared to launch into a passionate defense of you very reasonable levels of attraction to him, but a sneeze—tiny, weak, kind of embarrassing—ruins it.

Aaron's smirk evaporates. It happens fast, like a switch flipping, like he's just remembered, really remembered, that you're not at full strength, that beneath all your teasing, you're a little delicate, too easily worn down.

For a second, he just stares, jaw tight, brows furrowing ever so slightly, like the sight of you, flushed cheeks, fever-glazed eyes, pathetic sneezy, physically pains him.

And then you're moving, no he's moving, pulling you in, tucking you into his chest, as if you were something his hands were built to protect.

"And yet, here you are," he murmurs, kissing your temple, breathing against your hair, "disease-ridden and tragically adorable."

You sigh, shoving your face as close as humanly possibly, like some kind of human limpet. His heartbeat is strong beneath your ear, soothing, a constant thump thump thump that makes your eyelids droop.

"I really missed you today."

Aaron's arms tighten around you, but then you sniffle. Not the same pathetic little sound from earlier. This one's different. This one is softer, wetter.

He tenses just enough for you to feel it, enough to make you regret it, because now he knows.

You blink rapidly, tilting your face down, trying to breathe past the sudden, stupid sting behind your eyes, willing it go away before he—

Too late.

His arms loosen just enough to tilt his head down, scanning your face like he's already trying to figure out how to make it better.

You turn, burying your face in his chest. "I'm fine."

A lie. A bad one at that. So laughably transparent that even you wince a little.

Aaron doesn't call you on it, however, just pulls back slightly, just enough to cup your cheek, catching the tear before it falls.

"Oh baby," he breathes, voice a little rough, like he wants to pull the sadness out of you and keep it for himself.

He presses another kiss to your temple, then another, then another, like he needs to fix something unfixable, his fingers curling around the nape of your neck.

"You're killing me here."

You sniffle. Again.

"M'sorry," you mumble. "This is probably like... super unattractive."

Aaron shifts again, tilting your chin up as his thumb brushes against your cheek.

"Still the prettiest girl I've ever seen," he murmurs, but his jaw is tight, his fingers flexing against your skin. "I should've come home sooner."

"You wouldn't have lasted," you mumble, voice slowing, words dragging just a little.

Aaron raises an eyebrow. "And why's that?"

"Because you'd stress yourself out." You hum sleepily, tracing absent circles against his shirt. "You'd take my temperature every hour. Make me drink disgusting tea. Then, once you ran out of things to fuss over, you'd start deep-cleaning the grout just to feel useful."

He snorts, shaking his head. "You make me sound unbearable."

"You are unbearable," you murmur, but your grip tightens around him, contradicting yourself entirely. "But in a very sexy, very productive way."

He laughs and presses a kiss to your temple.

"You know what would make me feel better?"

Aaron's chest rises with a deep inhale, like he already knows. His arm tenses around you. "Sweetheart—,"

You grin against his shirt, weakly.

"A very hands on wellness check."

Aaron chokes out a laugh, tightening the blankets around you. "Christ."

He presses one last kiss to your forehead and you think you hear him mumble should've seen that one coming under his breath.

You hum in agreement, mentally ranking all the times he should've seen something coming.

This moment, obviously.

The time he let you fall asleep on him once and then acted surprised when it became a permanent thing.

The time he told you to be serious and then immediately realized that was the worst possible way to get you to stop joking.

The time he tried to fight it, tried to keep you at arm's length, tried to act like this thing between you wasn't inevitable.

You should tell him. You should. But then he tucks you closer, breath hot against your temple. And before you can launch into your incredibly important findings, you're already too far gone.

💌 masterlist taglist has been disbanned! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

[cloudedangels]

Caleb accidentally finds your vibrator and curiosity gets the best of him... MDNI 18+ !!! DUH!

3,929 words!! Oops!!! This was supposed to be a one-shot but I got extremely carried away (・・;)

This one is different than usual it took like 6 days... happy birthday birthday boy ily

Tags/cws: voyeurism, app-controlled toy, vibrator play, remote control, mutual consent, soft domination, emotional tension, powerplay, grinding, lap sitting, overstimulation, teasing, orgasm control, begging, post-orgasm intimacy, dirtiest dirty talk, filthy sweet, deeply intimate, character-driven smut, creampie, desperate sex, body worship, (nicknames including pips(queak) duh sorry not sorry.

It starts innocently.

Caleb’s folding your laundry like he always used to—perfect corners, sleeves aligned, like the fabric might get offended if he didn’t treat it right. You’re in the shower, steam softening the air, and he’s out there, helping. Like nothing’s changed.

But then he opens the wrong drawer.

Not wrong exactly. Just not where you’d have wanted him to go.

You weren’t hiding it, exactly. Just... tucking it away. Inside a sock.

Stupid. Lazy. A mistake. Because now he’s holding it in his hand.

You don’t hear any of this, of course. You’re humming softly under the water, dragging shampoo through your hair, while Caleb—sweet, curious, too-smart Caleb—stares down at the bright pink, silicone curve resting in his palm.

It vibrates when he touches the button.

He jumps, and then freezes.

His first thought isn’t what it is. Not really. He just stares at it, confused, before his brain catches up.

“Oh… fuck.”

Definitely a vibrator. Yours.

He sets it down like it’s radioactive, rubs his hand on his pants, and immediately picks it up again. His face burns hot. His throat’s dry. And he shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t. But his fingers move faster than his shame.

He opens his camera and scans it.

The image search is mercilessly fast.

“Lovense Lush 2: App-controlled wearable vibrator. Remote-operated. Hands-free.”

Remote-operated.

His stomach knots.

He reads. Scrolls. Reads more.

Synced vibrations. Custom patterns. Long-distance partner control. Phone access. Live syncing. Music-matching mode.

His cock twitches in his jeans.

Has someone else used it with you? Has someone controlled it for you? Did you sit on this very bed and let someone else make you come from miles away?

Or… did you just do it yourself?

Did you pull up the app with trembling fingers, thighs clenched, face flushed, and think of… him? When he was away?

He shouldn’t even be in this drawer, but now he’s hard, his mouth’s dry, and he needs to know.

He downloads the app—just to see... Just to understand. At least, that’s what he tells himself as it installs. That’s the excuse.

When it opens, the interface is sleek and pink, deceptively innocent. A smooth control dial. Pattern options. Bluetooth connection.

And one bright button:

“Connect to Device.”

He hesitates… then clicks it.

The toy hums faintly in his hand.

And then: “Caleb?”

Your voice cuts through the air like a knife.

He panics, dropping the vibrator into the pile of laundry like it’s on fire, locking his phone screen too late. When you walk into the room—damp, towel-wrapped, soft from the shower—his face is red.

You slow when you see him. You pause.

Then you see the drawer, and the sock, a little too unfolded, and him, sitting on the edge of your bed, face flushed, thighs spread.

“Oh my god,” you breathe. “You didn’t.”

He tries. He tries to play it cool. But his voice is too calm, too even.

“Didn’t what?”

“You found it?”

He glances toward the drawer. “Maybe.”

“You weren’t supposed to—Caleb!” You grip the towel tighter, heart racing, throat dry. “You were supposed to fold T-shirts!”

“That drawer was open.”

“And you decided to… investigate?”

He tilts his head. “I was curious.”

Your jaw drops. “Curious? You downloaded the app?”

“I didn’t say I did.”

“You totally did.”

He smirks, just a little. It’s smug. Dangerous. Too aware. “It connects through Bluetooth, you know.”

“I KNOW HOW IT WORKS.”

His eyes drop—slow, lazy—to your bare legs under the towel. He doesn’t move from the bed. His phone is still in his hand.

“Why’d you hide it?” he asks softly. “Were you embarrassed?”

You go stiff. “I—I wasn’t hiding it—just—just—storing it. In a sock. For… safety.”

His gaze is devastating, his eyes bore through you. “...Safety?”

You hate how hot your face is. Hate how shaky your voice is when you try to take the upper hand.

“You’re… seriously? You’re such a perv, Caleb, you can’t just—just dig through my drawers and—and play with things—”

“Play with things?”

You glare. You want to sound furious. You probably just sound breathless.

“Who controls it when you use it?” he asks, voice quieter now. “Is it just you?”

You stare at him, trembling.

“Do you give access to anyone else?”

Your chest tightens. Your breath stutters.

The towel suddenly feels too thin. You don’t know what to say.

You’re too exposed. And he hasn’t even touched you yet.

“Answer the question,” he murmurs.

“W-Why are you even asking?”

“Because the thought of you using that,” he says, voice hushed and thick, “without me knowing… kills me.”

He opens the app.

Your eyes widen.

“Caleb, don’t—”

The toy hums from the laundry.

Your legs tremble. The vibration is faint—but you can hear it. You know it.

You gasp, knees nearly buckling. “You—!”

He doesn’t move from the bed, he just sits and watches you. His voice is careful. Curious.

“What do you think?”

“Turn it off!” you snap, voice shaky.

“Say please.”

Your jaw drops.

“You—” You can't finish. The flustered heat crawling up your spine makes your words fail.

He stands slowly, towering in front of you now, his phone still in hand, his cock hard beneath his jeans. He leans in close, his voice a husky whisper.

“…So this is what you like, hm?”

Your stomach flips. You can’t speak.

Your mouth opens—no words come.

He’s too close. Close enough to smell the faint hint of clean laundry on his shirt, the musk of his cologne softened by the heat of your skin. Your heart hammers in your throat like it wants to escape.

“Should I get it for you?” Caleb repeats, his voice quiet, careful, curling with heat at the edges. “Is that what you want?”

You shake your head, once, sharp. “You’re an ass.”

He smiles at that—lazy, dangerous. “And yet you’re trembling.”

“I just got out of the shower.”

“Sure,” he murmurs, eyes flicking down to your legs again, where the towel’s started to shift with the motion of your thighs. You’re pressed so tightly together it’s like you’re trying to stop the vibration that’s not even touching you. Just hearing it has you on edge.

He taps his phone screen. The hum fades.

You exhale shakily, trying to step back—but his hand lifts. Doesn’t touch. Just hovers in the space between your bare shoulder and the towel’s edge.

“...Was it for you?” he asks quietly. “The toy. Was it for when I wasn’t here?”

You go still.

His eyes flicker up to yours, something almost nervous beneath the teasing now... a real question... and maybe that’s worse.

“I—” you start, but your voice catches. You clear your throat. “I don’t owe you an answer.”

“No,” he says, gently. “You don’t.”

You hate that he respects that. Hate how it makes you want to answer anyway.

You glance at the bed. It's rumpled from laundry, and the drawer is still half open. That stupid fucking sock, limp. The vibrator, pink and obscene in its neat little pile of folded cotton.

“You weren’t supposed to find it,” you say, voice thin. “It’s… private.”

Caleb nods slowly. “But you kept it close.”

Your brows knit. “What’s that supposed to mean?"

His eyes are soft. Hungry. “You could’ve hidden it better. Somewhere I’d never look. But you didn’t. You left it where I’d find it… maybe.”

“I didn’t—” You stop. Realize the truth of it halfway through your denial.

Maybe you hadn’t hidden it very well on purpose.

He sees the flicker in your expression. His gaze darkens.

“I think you wanted me to know,” he murmurs. “Or maybe just… wanted me to wonder.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Every inch of you is tight and hot and pulsing. You're wet and not wearing anything to catch it. Self conscious.

Caleb leans just a little closer, head tilted, breath warm against your ear, “Let me try it… I've been very bad, let me make it up to you…”

You almost say no. You want to say no. (You don't. You're trying to lie to yourself though).

But your thighs are clenched. Your breath is shallow. And you hate how close you are to saying yes just because he asked like that.

“…You’re ridiculous,” you whisper, voice cracking.

He hums, low and amused. “Maybe. But I’m still asking.”

You close your eyes. His breath ghosts your cheek. You feel him before he even touches you—heat and presence and the slow throb of your pulse answering his.

“And if I say no?”

“I’ll turn it off,” he murmurs. “Put it back. Never speak of it again.”

Liar.

You open your eyes. He’s close, but not touching. His hands are still at his sides. His phone glows faintly in his palm. He looks flushed, a little wild, but he hasn’t pushed.

He’s letting you decide.

But his gaze… his gaze is asking all the questions his mouth won’t. Would you let him? Would you let him push that little thing inside you and sit across the room—watching, controlling, listening? Would you whimper if he turned it too high? Would you beg for more?

You clench without meaning to. The ache between your legs is embarrassing.

You’re silent too long.

He tilts his head, and for the first time his voice slips past teasing into soft—sincere.

“…Do you want it, pipsqueak?”

That name. It makes you stupid. Weak. Warm all the way down.

You nod once, tiny. Almost ashamed.

“…Yes.”

He exhales slowly, relief softening his jaw. His eyes flicker toward the bed, the folded laundry, the drawer still ajar.

“Then come here,” he says quietly.

You hesitate.

“I’ll be good,” he promises. “I’ll go slow.”

Your feet move before your brain catches up. You drop the towel when you reach him, and he doesn’t react—not at first. Steel. His eyes stay on your face, and just your face. Like he’s waiting for permission to look.

So you tilt your chin up. Just slightly.

His eyes drop.

And fuck—you feel it, the weight of his gaze like a hand between your thighs.

“You’re not wearing anything under that towel,” he murmurs. “Were you going to get dressed before I saw you?”

“…I didn’t think I’d need to.”

He smiles faintly. “You don’t.”

Caleb kneels in front of you.

No rush, no show, down on his knees like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The phone rests on the bed. The toy sits in his hand.

“You still sure?”

You nod.

“Say it.”

“…I want it.”

He kisses the inside of your knee.

“Sit.”

You do. Slowly. Shaky.

He parts your legs and gently sets the toy on the bed between them. Then he kisses the inside of your thigh. Once. Twice. And then again—higher.

“I’ll put it in,” he says. “You just stay still.”

You nod, dazed, already breathless. The anticipation is worse than anything.

He lifts the toy. Clicks the button. It hums softly in his hand.

“Lay back for me,” he murmurs.

You do. The sheets are cold against your skin, and you’re trembling now, fully exposed, legs open. You hear the shuffle of fabric—he’s taken off his hoodie—and then his fingers are brushing up your thigh again, light.

“Lift your hips.”

You obey.

His fingers part your folds and you gasp—sharp, wet, startled.

“You’re soaked,” he says, almost reverent. “Was it the idea of me finding this? Or the fact that I did?"

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your face is hot and your eyes are fluttering.

“Sorry,” he whispers. “I’ll make it feel good.”

He slides the toy in, your wetness guiding it through. It’s bigger than you remember the egg goes in, bigger and smoother, the tail hanging, curled up against your clit, but it still stretches you slightly, suddenly. You let out a soft whimper at the intrusion.

“Too much?” he asks immediately, hand on your knee.

You shake your head, gasping. “No… it’s okay…”

He exhales. And then…

The toy buzzes to life.

You moan.

Your hips jolt, thighs tensing as the toy hums deep inside you, steady and quiet but so fucking present. Caleb’s still kneeling beside the bed, watching your body react, his hand firm on your thigh.

“Jesus,” he whispers.

You bite your lip and try to squirm.

He touches your knee to still you. “Stay.”

The vibration shifts—he’s changing the pattern.

It pulses now. Short bursts. Then a long one.

You can’t help it—you arch your back, a whimper catching in your throat.

He looks transfixed. His free hand curls into the sheets like he’s grounding himself.

“You like that?” he murmurs. “You’re already dripping. I haven’t even touched your clit.”

You want to snap at him, say of course I like it, but all that comes out is a shaky, “Fuck…”

Caleb leans in. His lips ghost over your stomach, then lower. His breath hits your inner thigh as he speaks:

“I want to know how many patterns it has. I want to know which one makes you cry.”

You moan. You can’t not.

“And I want to be the one holding the dial every single time.”

You reach for him blindly, your hand tangling in his hair.

He growls softly. “Tell me what you want, pips...”

You can't. He pulls back so that he can see you. He’s quiet for a long moment, just watching you.

Your legs are spread, the pink tail of the vibrator curled against your clit like a secret. You’re trying to stay still, thighs trembling, your breathing light and high. The toy pulses again—gentle, teasing. You gasp.

Caleb’s jaw is clenched.

His knuckles are white around his phone.

And he’s hard.

You can see it now, the outline in his jeans obvious, obscene. He’s kneeling beside the bed, but it’s clear in the way he shifts… his hips twitching forward like his body’s begging, even if his mouth stays quiet.

He breathes through his nose, slow, trying to control himself.

And fails.

“Sit on my lap,” he whispers. His voice is strained. Rough. “Just like this. I want to feel it. I need to feel it.”

Your lips part. “Caleb—”

“I won’t touch it,” he promises quickly. “I won’t even move. I just—” His hand flexes against the mattress. “Please.”

You nod, stunned by the heat in his voice, and he helps you—guiding you with both hands, gentle, reverent. You climb into his lap, careful not to jostle the toy too much, your knees on either side of his thighs, straddling him. He leans back slightly, hands on your hips to balance you. His face is flushed, pupils wide, lips parted.

Then the toy buzzes. It's sharp and low and deep inside you. You let out a soft moan and collapse against him, forehead to his shoulder.

“Fuck,” he chokes out.

You feel it—the way your body vibrates through him. The way the hum travels from your cunt to his lap, pressed flush against his cock through two layers of fabric. His hips jerk instinctively.

He groans into your neck.

“Oh my god,” he breathes. “You’re shaking.”

You are.

Everything is hot and melting and pulsing. It’s perfect and torture, a slick, slow throb building in your stomach. You rock your hips just once—barely—and he moans like you bit him.

“Don’t,” he gasps, fingers digging into your hips. “Don’t do that—fuck—”

You grin against his throat. “You said I could sit.”

“You’re greedy,” he hisses. “You’re…fuck…you’re evil…”

You clench around the toy, pressing it in with the bulge of his cock. He bucks up beneath you with a sharp, broken groan, like he’s being pulled apart cell by cell.

You feel drunk on the power for a moment, and he’s falling apart.

“Can you take more?” he whispers, pulling the phone up again with a shaking hand.

You hesitate… but you nod. “Yeah…”

He turns the dial up, carefully and not all the way. Just enough.

It purrs inside you now, every pulse kissing your walls, grinding against your most sensitive places with perfect pressure. Your hips jerk.

You whimper into his neck. “Caleb—”

His hands stroke your back. He’s panting. “I’ve got you,” he whispers. “You’re doing so good for me.”

You moan. Loud. Thoughtless.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he groans. “You’re dripping. Right on me. On my jeans. My cock…”

You bury your face in his collarbone, trying to hold still. Trying not to move. But it’s so hard. It feels so good.

“You’re making a mess,” he pants. “You’re fucking soaked, baby, oh my god—”

You can feel his cock under you, twitching, trapped and leaking. You rock forward a little on accident and he shudders, groaning ragged into your neck.

“Stop—don’t—I’ll come if you do that again—”

“You haven’t even touched me,” you whisper, dizzy.

“I am touching you,” he groans. “You’re on me. You’re fucking trembling all over me, I can feel every—” He cuts off with a moan, hands gripping you tighter. “Fuck—fuck—you’re gonna come, aren’t you?”

“I—” You can’t even form words. The pressure is building too fast, too sharp, and the way his voice sounds in your ear is tipping you over the edge.

“Come for me,” he whispers, raw and wrecked. “Right here. Just like this. Come with me under you, baby. Use it. Use me.”

You do.

You cry out, hips jerking and grinding, legs locking as the orgasm tears through you. It's fast, electric, too much. The toy keeps going, humming inside you while your body pulses around it, breath ragged, muscles tensed. Caleb groans as you come undone in his lap, his cock pinned between you, the wet heat of your release soaking through both your bodies.

You collapse against him, twitching. He catches you instantly. Holds you. Breathes through it.

His lips press to your temple, worshipping.

“You’re unreal,” he whispers. “You’re gonna fucking kill me.”

You smile, dazed.

“I hope so,” you murmur.

He chuckles. Then shifts just enough to press his hips up into yours. You can feel how hard he still is. How desperate.

Your grin returns.

“You want me to take care of you now?” you whisper sweetly.

He groans into your neck.

“Don’t tease me,” he pants. “I begged for that. You know me.”

You tilt your head and kiss him. Once. Soft. Deep.

“I know.”

Caleb's shaky breath is warm in your ear as he pulls you close, arms around your waist. “Are you too overstimulated for…” He pauses, voice breaking as he feels you shift in his lap. “Fuck. I want to be inside you.”

Your head turns slightly, cheek pressed to his shoulder. Your breath is hot. “Then do it.”

His breath catches.

“You’re sure?”

You nod, weak, your voice like silk barely clinging to your throat. “I’m dripping for you, Caleb. What the fuck do you think?”

He groans. The noise is wrecked, shaky, as he flips you so gently you almost don’t feel it until you’re on your back again. His hands are everywhere: your thighs, your hips, your waist. His eyes are molten, blown black with need, but his fingers stay careful, as he's pulling the toy out with a slick pop that makes you whimper.

You feel so empty when it’s gone. But not for long.

He fumbles with his jeans, breath ragged as he yanks them down just enough to free his cock…and then... fuck...

You both look.

He’s so hard. Veined and thick, flushed deep with need. The tip is wet and twitching and leaking, and you stare, wide-eyed and stunned.

You’d forgotten how big he is. Or maybe you just didn’t realize how needy your body was now. How soft and open he’d already made you.

He presses forward, then slides in.

You both gasp. It’s obscene how easy he goes in. No resistance. Just slick, tight, hot pressure and then full, stuffed, stretched around him like your body was already waiting for this. Begging for it.

“Holy fuck,” Caleb chokes. He’s not moving. Just inside, balls-deep, jaw slack, hips trembling. “You’re—you’re already this wet? You—shit, I can’t—I can’t believe this—”

You moan, helpless, legs wrapping around his waist, hands grabbing at his back. “Move—please, Caleb, you have to—”

He jerks forward with a groan and pulls out an inch—just enough to see his cock shining with you—then slams back in. You cry out.

“Oh my god,” he breathes. “You’re taking me—so fucking easy, baby—fuck, this pussy—” Another thrust, sharp and deep. You arch. “You’re already open for me. That toy got you ready, didn’t it? Got you all soft and dripping, just so I could fuck you like this.”

“Y-yeah,” you gasp. “Fuck—please, don’t stop—”

“Greedy little thing,” he growls, voice hoarse with disbelief. “You wanted me to find it. You wanted me hard and jealous and ready to ruin you. You fucking planned this.”

You shake your head, whining. “Didn’t—just—just didn’t hide it—”

“Same fucking thing,” he snarls into your neck, slamming into you faster now. “You know what it does to me. Fuck, you know—you knew I’d lose it. And now look—”

He pounds into you, relentless, each thrust punching air from your lungs. Your nails dig into his back as you try to hold on, but he’s not giving you a break, not now.

“I can’t believe how good you take it,” he growls. “So fucking wet. I’m sliding in like it’s nothing—nothing, baby, you’re sucking me in like you missed this.”

You sob out a moan, your whole body thrumming. You’re stretched wide, filled to the brim, stuffed so good you can’t think.

“I did,” you cry. “I did, Caleb—I missed it… Your perfect cock…”

His rhythm stutters—just a second—and then it gets rougher. Harder. Messier.

“I’ll give it to you,” he pants. “Every time. Whenever you want. I’ll fuck you open and ruin you, baby, I'll take good care of you… you don’t ever have to beg again.”

He pulls out almost all the way and slams back in, and you scream.

He presses his forehead to yours, breath coming in sharp, hot gasps. “You’re gonna come again, aren’t you?”

“I—I can’t—”

“You will. I feel it. I feel you clenching on me—fuck—you love it raw, don’t you? No condom, just skin to skin, me buried in your fucking pussy like I belong there—”

“You do,” you gasp.

That breaks him.

He snaps his hips, brutal and desperate. “You’re gonna come. You’re gonna come with me, and I’m not gonna pull out—I’m gonna fill you up.”

The sound you make isn’t even a word. It’s raw. Wet. Animal.

He’s soaked—you’re soaked—your arousal painting his cock, his thighs, pooling under you. He can barely breathe.

You’re clenching, right on the edge again, thighs trembling.

He sees it. Feels it.

“Come, baby,” he begs, forehead still against yours. “Come for me, pipsqueak. Let me feel you—fuck, I wanna feel you milk my cock—”

You snap.

Your walls spasm around him, tight and fluttering, your body locking up as your orgasm rips through you. You sob, moan, scream—you don’t even know what sound you make. Just that it drags him with you.

Caleb cries out your name like it hurts. Like worship.

His cock jerks and he thrusts once, twice—and then he’s coming. Deep inside. Hot, thick pulses of it, flooding you while your body still twitches around him. He groans into your neck, shaky, broken, lost.

You hold each other.

Breathless. Destroyed. Connected.

After a long moment, he whispers against your skin:

“You’re never using that thing without me again.”

You laugh, weak and giddy, and pull him closer.

“Deal.”

[saltwaterburns]

pairing: brian o'conner x fem!reader

warnings: 18+ SMUT - read at your own discretion

a/n: in honour of rewatching f&f i went through my drafts found this beauty. can't write endings for the life of me. hope u enjoy 😋

He's older, he's cocky, he looks so damn good and he knows it. BRIAN O'CONNER goes through girls like wildfire, leaving utter destruction and chaos behind. He knows what pleasure is, it's his second fucking name. Every girl he leaves behind, he makes sure to have fucked them so good that he's all they think about the next time they go to bed with someone, unable to cum unless it's his blonde, curly haired head they imagine between their legs. But by then, he's far away, having left when the sun was first peeking its rays over the horizon.

Then he meets you. You, who doesn't instantly fall for his pick up lines and sultry smirks and teasing touches and actually makes him work for it and he's enamoured. He doesn't know if the primal urge to be buried in you to the hilt originates from needing you because you're you and it seems that he's finally stumbled upon a girl who could be his everything, or because you're the only one who hasn't given yourself up to him (yet) or because he's trying to get Mia and the scent of her vanilla shampoo out of his head, but does it really matter? It's exhilarating to him either way.

So when somehow after weeks and weeks of trying to get you to cave, he finds himself balls deep in your soppy, weepy cunt, he doesn't know how he ever managed to go without feeling your tight walls squeezing, practically suffocating his cock like that. You're riding him, your head thrown back in pure erotic bliss, your tits on display for him with your gold cross laying flat on your sternum. He's looking at you through his half lidded eyes, desperate to burn the image of your perky tits with gold glinting between them to the deepest, darkest spots of his brain so when you find him gone the next morning, he has something to jerk himself off to when he's pulled over to the side of the road because of the tension in his back getting too much. His hands are warm and big compared to you, callouses slightly rough against the supple skin of your hips as he grips onto you, bruising your blemishless skin while guiding your body up and down on his cock. Every time you come down he meets you halfway there by his hips snapping up, fucking into you. An airy moan is torn from your slightly raw and marked up throat with every thrust and he feels his cock twitch inside you, his precum mixed with your wetness, coating both you and him with a white, sticky layer. It's so fucking hot and filthy that he feels like he could almost combust.

"M'getting close, Bri." You choke out, the pressure in your lower stomach starting to feel unbearable. Your mouth has fallen open, little ah! ah! ah!'s echoing around the bedroom, the corners of your mouth glinting with drool. He growls, his nails leaving little crescent moon shaped marks on the plush of your hips, his balls tightening. He's going to cum, he's going to cum inside you and it's going to be the best fucking nut of his entire life. His neck gives up and his head falls back against the mattress, his chest heaving up and down with the sharp breaths he's taking through his nose, his lips pressed together because god forbid a sound escapes him. He isn't like that, he isn't that kind of man that lets girls know how good their pretty pussy feels around their cock because that's what they thrive on, giving up more and more pieces of themselves for a single world of praise, until he leaves into the horizon and they realise he's taken their souls with him.

He comes inside you with a choked whimper, you following him closely because of the rough pad of his thumb doing tight circles on your clit. You still on his cock, shudders wrecking through your body. You squeeze your eyes shut in pain, the tension in your muscles making you feel like you've just taken a taser, and a cry leaves your lips when you finally collapse on top of his chest. He laughs and runs a hand through your hair, giving your ass a smack.

You let out a soft moan at that and push yourself up to your hands, caging him between them. You bite your lip and lean down, letting the tip of your nose brush against his. "Round two?"

He's taken off before you wake, because some things never change. But for once, Brian O'Conner can't get a girl out of his mind, and when he comes in his palm on the side of the road, your tits with flashes of gold between them stay burned behind his eyelids.

[zorostitties]

Intertwined; 1

⤕ Luffy and you were like two sides of the same coin: opposites in every way, but similar in what mattered the most. Tied by a vow made with the purity of a child's heart, life keeps trying to tear you apart - but the vow that intertwined your destinies would not be broken so easily. Or, Luffy promised to marry you someday when you were kids. This is how he keeps his promise.

pairing: monkey d. luffy x (f) reader

genre: childhood friends to lovers, slow burn, arranged marriage, fluff, angst, eventual smut

warnings: violence/blood, explicit language, toxic family relationships, death/grief, when i say slow burn i mean it

rating: 18+

word count: 6k

A/N: I've had this fic in mind for ages but finally managed to squeeze the words out of my brain thanks to the encouragement of my followers 🥹 This fic is an attempt to write Luffy in love in the most beliavable/close to canon way possible. Let's hope I'll succeed :D - This is a afab!reader insert, so no physical traits will be described EXCEPT that I'm giving you reading glasses because Luffy needs to give you a silly nickname based on your appearance like he does to everybody. - If you like the fic, PLEASE interact with it so I can keep motivated to write the next parts 🥹 And per usual, English is not my first language. Enjoy!!

⤕  Masterlist  ⤕ Also on AO3 ⤕ Taglist open!

- PART 1 -

"A secret shared by us alone, a smile the wind would carry. In the yard, just you and I knew how the world was merry."

- Cecilia Meireles

➛ 8

Heavy rain fell over the Goa Kingdom the night you killed that man.

Alex Husquid was his name. A small nobleman, heir to the Husquid fortune and businesses. Born and raised at the Dawn Island, probably never left the East Blue and probably never would have wanted to, since his source of power and prestige was located here. Married to a woman called Frida. Father of three healthy boys, all around your age.

Just a common, law-abiding citizen in this god forsaken corner of the world.

But his successful whiskey business pissed someone bigger than him, which meant he had to die.

You didn’t know who your contractors were – you never did. They hid behind Den Den Mushis with voice distortion or faceless messengers. Discretion and secrecy was the soul of the business; that went both ways. The contractors didn’t know who you were either. Didn’t know your face, or your brothers’ faces, or your mother’s, or your father’s, or your grandfather’s…

No one should see the face of a Scarpia family member and live to tell the next day.

Your breathing echoed inside the mask made especially to hide your small face. Your grandfather threw the runes made of bones the day you were born, and the runes said that your animal – the one that would represent your soul the most – was the wolf. And so, your mask was the image of a wolf’s face. Eerily white, contrasting with the black raincoat you wore.

The wolf is an auspicious animal, your grandfather said. Lone. Smart. Ferocious. Good to business.

The entire family expected you to honor this mask that night.

It was your first trial – the first time an assassination was assigned to you, the first time you’d have to take a commission on your own. Up until then, you’d only assist your brothers or watch them work from far. But you were eight years old now, and that was the right age to be initiated. You had trained enough. You were ready.

Just a small commission. Alex Husquid was a nobleman, but not that noble. This little and humid archipelago in the East Blue was far from being important. Not a death that would cause a stir. It honestly even felt that your father was belittling your capabilities with this commission. Why were you assigned to kill a short ugly nobleman at the end of the world, while Crowley who was only one year older got commissioned with Marines or troublesome pirates in the New World?

Because I’m the girl, you thought with resigned anger.

Well. Whatever.

It’s not like you wanted to impress them anyway. This was boring. The travel to the East Blue was boring, this commission was boring, having to stare at Landon’s ugly mustache the entire travel was boring. The only good thing that came from this initiation is that it also happened to be your birthday. The only day in the year where you had permission to do whatever you wanted.

So you just had to get this over with.

Alex Husquid was alone in his office, scribbling something on his desk. You watched him intently from the roof of the nearest house. Heavy rain fell over your head, lightnings illuminated the night sky from time to time, thunders roared. This storm would be your perfect ally.

Alex had left a breach on his window, probably to let some fresh air enter the room despite the rain.

That mistake would cost his life.

It wasn’t hard to jump from the roof into his room. Your feet made no noise when they touched the carpet. Your presence, barely a breeze from outside. But despite your best efforts, it called Alex’s attention.

Your father and grandfather had talked about it many times – and you had seen it from far, too, observing your brothers work. Humans have a weird sixth sense. They somehow always know death is near.

And death, to him, came in the form of a child.

Alex got a bit startled, but sat down again on his leather chair. All he saw was a kid wearing a white wolf mask. All he thought was that one of his sons put a funny costume to spook him.

A smile was beginning to take form on his chapped lips.

He didn’t have time to complete it.

You focused on your right hand. Your nails grew, sharpened like blades. When you launched yourself towards him, you made no noise – no disturbance in the room despite your inhumane speed, no wrinkles on the carpet. Silent. Fast. Unnoticeable. Like it should be.

Your nails slit his throat faster than his mind could comprehend. A deep cut, deep enough so he wouldn’t be able to scream. His eyes widened. He gagged in silent despair. He looked at the figure of a child standing over his desk, their face hidden behind a white wolf mask, and tears welled up his eyes.

He would be dead in a minute.

You knew it’d take a long time for anyone to find his body. The entire house was asleep. So you decided to stand there and watch until life completely left his body – until he stopped trembling, until he was soaked with his own blood, until his eyes were empty.

Just an uninhabited corpse.

Boring.

You flew out the same window you used to enter.

While landing on the nearest roof, you looked down at your right hand. Your nails were back to normal; your fingertips were bloody. You frowned. That wasn’t a clean cut. You’d have to work on that.

“Congratulations on your first solo commission, Young Mistress.”

An instinctive huff emerged from your chest. Of course, you knew he’d be around – he was always around, this boring old man. You turned around to face Landon and his annoying mustache.

The butler wore his usual boring black suit and boring white gloves and boring umbrella to protect him from the rain. Despite his words, he had the same blank expression over his features. Hell, was he boring.

“I should note, however, that you were sloppy. Your target noticed your presence. You also caused unnecessary mass bleeding. A good assassin is always–“

“Clean.” You concluded for him with annoyance.

Landon didn’t seem to care. He never seemed to care about anything.

“It’s past midnight. It is now your birthday. What do you wish to do?”

“I wish to be left alone.” You didn’t bother looking back at him as you took off your mask and shoved it inside the bag crossed around your chest. “Do not follow me.”

Landon wasn’t surprised. You spent most of your time trying to run away from him, his lessons, his unstoppable and overwhelming watch. Sometimes you managed to get some time alone. Most times you didn’t.

But it was your birthday, so today he had to obey.

Not that you’d have much to do in this boring island at this boring kingdom at the least interesting part of the ocean.

At least, you’d be truly alone for the next 24 hours.

You jumped from roof to roof away from Landon, satisfied to know that he wasn’t following you for once – and wondering if this island could entertain you in the only day of freedom you had.

The town was boring. As expected.

Small. The buildings weren’t very tall, there weren’t many nice stores or restaurants. It was even funny how the people living at this part of the island walked around with high chins and chests full of pride… their city, their properties and titles were nothing compared to the magnificent islands of the New World. But they were just simple minded creatures, you knew; they never planned to leave this place. They would never understand that the world was vast and that they didn’t matter on the grand scheme of things.

So you didn’t waste much time there.

Then there was the giant junkyard at the other side of the city, separated from it by a high wall. Mountains and mountains of trash, rubble and junk extended for maybe two or three kilometers. It smelled as bad as you’d expect and a strange gray fog hovered in the air. Gray Terminal was a suitable name, indeed.

Surprisingly, that place was a bit more interesting than the town.

Poor people gathered like vermin over meat around the junk mountains. Scavengers looking for anything valuable. In the span of maybe thirty minutes, you saw a few fights popping here and there. It was a bit entertaining to sit and watch how normal people fought. But you decided to leave not only because the place really smelled bad, but because your good clothes and your neat pigtails would probably draw unwanted attention.

So you walked into the woods nearby – and finally, things got interesting.

One or two hours of walking took you deep into the forest. It was very obviously a rainforest with the heat and humidity expected from it, which made you take your raincoat and jacket off, shoving them inside your backpack. You quickly realized you were, in fact, climbing a mountain. The human sounds were replaced with the sounds of nature – leaves shuffling, birds chirping, and the noises of many other unknown animals.

What caught your attention at first was the sheer size of the trees – the deeper you got into the mountain, the bigger they got. Some seemed to be taller than thirty meters. Some branches were thicker than actual tree trunks.

But you soon found out that the trees weren’t the only giant things there.

The floor shook beneath your feet in regular intervals. Steps of something extremely heavy.

You expanded your perception to a wider radius than what your eyes could see and your ears could hear – and came to a conclusion. Immediate danger.

You swiftly jumped up to the nearest tree, standing on its lower branch – which was still pretty high, probably eight meters away from the ground, and waited in complete silence.

What came from between the trees made your eyes widen.

A bear. But not just any brown bear. That thing was colossal. Ridiculously big. Its claws seemed to be as tall as you.

And finally, you were excited about something.

You immediately took the small notebook from your backpack and started sketching the beast, silently regretting not bringing a Den Den Mushi to take a picture of it (you knew Landon would put a tracking device on it if you brought one with you, so you decided not to). You sketched the creature as fast as you could before it could disappear inside the forest again, making quick annotations around the drawing.

You knew that many islands had strange and unique fauna and flora, though you’d only read about it in books. You’d never seen abnormal animals like that, and honestly didn’t expect to find anything like this out of the Grand Line.

A small smile grew on your lips.

Your birthday wouldn’t be that boring, after all.

You looked down at the notebook and tightened your eyes. Oh… the bear came and went so quickly that you didn’t have time to put your round reading glasses on. After taking them from the backpack, you could see with clarity that you missed many details. You sat down on the branch and made the finishing touches.

It was time to move on.

You began to feel a little hungry past noon.

Not that you weren’t used to not eating for long periods of time. A good assassin must be in control of all of their physiological necessities at all times. What if a commission takes place at a critical environment? What if you need to be undercover for long periods of time to study your target? Things like hunger should be brushed aside. You’d only eat when your body begged for it.

But you were so entertained that your rumbling belly was just an afterthought.

Only a day wouldn’t be enough to catalog all of what you’ve found. Who would’ve thought this insignificant island would have so much to offer?

Going deeper into the mountain, you saw even more strange animals. Giant tigers and more bears and alligators in a river nearby. Why did the fauna at this island became so gigantic? What must’ve happened in their evolutionary process? In the span of only a few hours, you filled more than twenty pages with sketches and notes.

Morpho menelaus, you scribbled at the top of the page while checking your Insect Encyclopedia to be completely sure. It was pretty unmistakable: the beautiful blue wings of the butterfly resting in front of your eyes couldn’t be replicated by any other species. You held your breath, made sure to not produce any sound as to not scare the butterfly away. Why didn’t I bring a Den Den Mushi?, you scolded yourself for the hundredth time. It would’ve made your life so much easier.

You were almost finishing the sketch. This butterfly had a very specific black pattern at the tip of its wings and you wanted to convey it perfectly. You rushed to catch its details before it would go away–

“What are you doing?”

You gasped and turned around in a jump.

Of course, you knew there was something approaching – but it didn’t exude immediate danger, so you assumed it was just a squirrel or something.

It definitely wasn’t a squirrel.

It was a… boy.

The stranger looked at you with round, curious dark brown eyes – so dark that they almost looked completely black. A bit shorter than you, but definitely your age; his hair was a mess of black, almost completely hidden under a straw hat that was too big for his head. His olive skin was covered with dirt, just like the rest of his clothes – a red tank top and battered jeans shorts. He had a thin curvy scar under his left eye and a bandaid over the bridge of his nose.

He blinked.

You blinked.

But slowly, your surprise dissipated. A frown set on your face.

...Boring.

You turned around. The butterfly had obviously flown away. An annoyed sigh went past your lips.

You started to walk away.

“Hey! I’m talking to you!” He whined. His voice was annoyingly high pitched. You heard the tap tap of his sandals fast approaching. “What are you doing here? Are you lost?”

“Do I look lost?” You groaned between gritted teeth. Why did you even answer him?

“Well, then, are you stupid?”

This made you turn to look at him.

He didn’t seem bothered by your angry face.

“Why the hell would you want to climb Mt. Colubo alone?” The boy continued. “Never seen you ‘round Foosha or downtown. You’re from High Town, aren’t you? With those fancy clothes and all?”

You went back to walking.

He followed.

“This forest is pretty dangerous, did you know that? It’s not a place for the weak.” Then what are you doing here, too?, is what you wanted to ask, but you resigned to stay silent. “It’s full of monsters and poisonous snakes and bandits. They’ll want to steal you.” More silence. “By the way, my name is–“

“Shhhh!” You shushed him angrily before jumping to the branch of a tree.

You immediately opened your notebook again and started scribbling while crouching down.

To your distaste, you heard him jump after you. “What are you–?”

“Shhhh!” You shushed more aggressively this time. “You’ll scare it away!”

The boy tilted his head to the side and finally found what you were looking at while sketching rapidly.

“Ooooh,” he was surprisingly quiet this time.

Onychocerus albitarsis, you wrote at the top of the page. Commonly known as Scorpion Beetle. The brown, black and white insect moved slowly, its long antennae scooping the wood beneath it.

“This one’s pretty poisonous, did you know that?” He said. You didn’t need to turn your head to know he was looking from over your shoulder.

“Hmm.”

“I learned it the worst way.” He hissed as if remembering the pain of the sting. “You ain’t never seen one before? There are plenty of these here.” Silence. “None at the High Town, I guess? Yeah, I don’t think these stuck up people like insects.” More silence. “Is this why you’re here? To see insects?” He leaned away slightly. “Are you some sort of insect hunter?”

You paused for a second.

Shit. He definitely saw the family crest embroidered on the back of your shirt: the red symbol of a scorpion. You were sloppy once more. No one was supposed to see that family crest.

At the same time, there was no way this boy would know what it meant, so you decided to brush it aside.

“Well, I’m a pirate.” He seemed proud of himself, a sonorous smile in his voice. “Huh, not yet, but I’ll be one day. I’m gonna be the King of Pirates!” Silence. The boy hummed after a few seconds. “You’re pretty boring, did you know that, Four Eyes?”

You whipped your head at him for the first time.

“What did you just call me?”

“Four Eyes.” He was, once again, unbothered by your ferocious glare. His eyes fell over your notebook. “But you draw pretty well. Not better than me, though. Oh! It’s gone.”

You turned back in time to see the beetle flying away.

You sighed deeply and got up again while looking at him angrily. The boy got up, too. He either didn’t understand why you were angry or simply didn’t care.

“...I only wear glasses when I need to read,” you said between gritted teeth.

He blinked.

“And?”

You rolled your eyes and jumped to the floor again.

“Where are you going now?”

“Why are you following me?” You retorted. From the corner of your eye, you saw him rest both hands behind his head in a relaxed position.

“I got nothing better to do and I don’t see other kids here often.” Then, he opened a wide grin – you could probably see all his teeth with that smile. “Let’s be friends!”

You looked ahead again, feeling your stomach twirl.

Your father’s deep voice echoed inside your mind.

A Scarpia family member does not have friends.

Friends are weaknesses. A Scarpia only needs another Scarpia.

You tightened your fists.

No one should see the face of a Scarpia family member and live to tell the next day.

If you followed these rules to a ten, you’d have killed that boy already.

It’s what your father would have wanted. It’s what your brothers would have done. You’d seen them doing that before. This weird straw hat kid had already seen your face unmasked and the family crest on your back. If Landon were here, he would even have finished him for you.

It wouldn’t be hard to kill him. He wouldn’t even notice you slicing his throat with your nails.

But…

He wasn’t a commission. You didn’t want to dirt your fingertips with blood if you didn’t need to. There was no way this boy even knew what the Scarpia family was.

So you quickened your pace without looking back.

He followed.

You started running.

He followed.

You sprinted.

“Hey!” He yelled…

And followed.

You ran in zigzag in between the trees, climbing thick vines and jumping down cliffs, trying to mislead him – but damn, that boy actually seemed to know where he was going, differently from you. He was slower, but that was definitely an advantage. Shit, stop following me! Leave me alone! Why are you following me anyway?! How are you keeping up?!

Why– why are you laughing?!

Actually laughing. Not in a mocking way. He laughed at the top of his lungs, that huge grin never leaving his face.

“I’m gonna catch you!” He yelled.

“No, you won’t!” You yelled back. Why were you yelling?

“Just you wait!” And he laughed again.

That stirred something inside you.

You focused all of your strength in your legs; you visualized the energy in your body gathering there like white lines. The burst of adrenaline. A technique to be used in an escape situation.

When you got impulse to step forward, the floor cracked beneath your feet.

You sprinted away – so fast that it almost felt like flying. The world around you went by in a confusing blur, wind howled on your ears with the speed. As you didn’t know the area, you didn’t know exactly how many meters you ran – five hundred meters? Seven hundred? Your record was nine hundred meters, and you hoped to reach a kilometer soon, preferably before Crowley could do it.

It took a lot of effort to stop.

You rested both hands over your knees, panting. That was the disadvantage of this technique: it was too tiring. You couldn’t do it more than once a day and you still didn’t know how to take turns, always sprinting on a beeline. Your father could do it as many times as he wanted and change directions in the blink of an eye. You hoped to reach his level someday.

Well. That was enough to mislead that weirdo, at least.

You straightened your back and dried your sweaty forehead with the back of your hand. You had aimed north, which meant you went higher into the mountain… you’d have to find your compass inside the backpack to be sure. Luckily, you had been marking the trees as to find the way out easily–

And that’s when someone slapped the back of your neck.

You turned around in a jump, already taking a fight stance–

It was that boy.

He grinned so wide that it looked like his cheeks would rip apart.

“Tag! You’re it!” He announced before turning around and– and–

And running away.

You stood there, completely shocked, following him with your eyes.

How… how…?

Did he reach you in a minute and half?

He ran over five hundred meters in a minute and half?

Who the hell was that boy?!

He realized you weren’t following after a while. He turned around, still smiling – but confusion covered his features.

“You’re it!” He yelled from there as if reminding you.

He was distancing himself from you. You should take that opportunity to run in the opposite direction and finally get rid of him. But something made you stop – something that completely silenced the voice of reason, the voice of your father.

Curiosity.

“How did you do that?” You asked. He frowned.

“Huhhhh??” He put his hand in a shell near his ear. Oh. He was quite far.

“How–“ You cleaned your throat. Screaming was not something you were used to do. “How did you do that?!”

“Do what?!”

“Reached me so fast?!”

“Oh!” He grinned again – but there was something a bit mischievous about it this time.

You watched, confused, as the boy spun his right arm around many times.

You watched, shocked, when he threw his arm after taking impulse and it stretched.

It stretched and stretched and stretched to a tree standing by your side. He entangled his stretched arm around the trunk; his arm distended as if it was a rubber band and he came flying towards you.

You watched, jaw dropped, when he landed in front of you. His arm untangled from around the trunk and went back to normal with a very sonorous snap.

He grinned proudly.

“Like that!”

It took you a few seconds to recover.

“...You ate a Devil Fruit.”

He nodded.

“The Gomu Gomu no Mi. I became the rubber man!” He pinched his own cheek and it stretched too, before releasing it with, again, a sonorous snap. As if he needed to demonstrate it even more.

That was definitely a surprise.

You didn’t even think someone from this small island, so far from the Grand Line, would even know what a Devil Fruit is – let alone eat one.

You frowned slightly.

“My father says Devil Fruits are for the weak. Someone should be strong based on their inherent body capabilities alone.” That was hammered into your head over and over again… and you noticed with some distaste that you kind of sounded like Landon.

The boy crossed his arms. The smile never left his lips.

“Well, your father’s an idiot!”

Your jaw dropped again.

That scrawny dirty looking boy just called Scarpia Drachen an idiot.

And at that moment – something very very strange and very very unusual happened inside of you, something you couldn’t control, and it was like you could hear Landon’s annoying husky voice echoing in your ears that you should always be in control of your body and your reactions–

But you couldn’t help it.

You laughed.

You covered your mouth and bent over slightly, the other hand gripping the fabric of the shirt over your stomach. I shouldn’t laugh! This is so so so disrespectful! I will be scolded for sure!

But– But Landon wasn’t there. Or your father. Or any of your brothers.

Just the weird stretchy boy.

And he thought that was funny, too. He giggled as if proud of himself.

“By the way, how did you do that?” He asked, crossing his arms. “You ran so fast that the ground cracked! That was faster than Ace! Is that an insect hunter ability or something?”

You didn’t know who the hell Ace was and you didn’t feel like asking. You straightened your back after swallowing the laughter. “Yeah. We… we train to be faster than everybody.”

Why were you talking to him? Why did you answer his question? Why hadn’t you mislead him yet? What was wrong with you? No no no– that was wrong. You needed to get away from him as fast as possible.

But, for some reason, you didn’t move.

The straw hat boy grinned mischievously again and rubbed his hands.

“But I bet you’re not faster than me! I already know your technique, it won’t surprise me anymore!” He started walking on his back at a fast pace while still grinning at you. “C’mon, you’re it!”

But you still didn’t move.

“Do you… want me to chase you?”

“Duuuuh, that’s how it works, Four Eyes!”

You still didn’t understand.

“Why? Is this some sort of training?”

He finally stopped running.

“How come, why?” Now he looked confused. “Because it’s fun!”

The boy grinned.

It… seemed so easy for him. So obvious. Like you were the stupid one there.

...Fun?

Fun was the opposite of boring.

You weren’t bored searching for animals and cataloging them. You liked to draw, you liked to be left alone. You knew that the right thing to do would be to distance yourself.

But he was jigging from side to side excitedly and that made your heart beat faster for some reason. The same way it was beating faster when you were trying to mislead him. Because of adrenaline, you knew – that was the obvious answer. But maybe… maybe…

It was because it was fun.

You started to walk towards him. He laughed excitedly and turned around.

Then you were running.

Then you were sprinting.

He changed directions either with his legs or gripping tree trunks with his abnormal ability to drastically take turns. You ran after him, unable to use that burst of adrenaline again, but that wasn’t necessary… if you did it, you’d reach him quicker and it would all be over too soon. It wouldn’t be fun.

So you caught him without cheating. But he wasn’t angry or disappointed when you did – he just laughed at the top of his lungs and yelled, my turn!

And then you were being chased.

And then you were laughing.

And then he caught you and it was your turn to yell you’re it!

And then you were breathless and your stomach hurt from laughing but you didn’t want to stop.

Because… because it was fun.

“I wanted meat!” He whined unhappily.

You side eyed him while munching your slice of watermelon. Even though he kept complaining, he was eating his anyway – and it was a bit scary how fast he ate and how big his bites were. He was finishing his… second? Third watermelon? You weren’t counting.

When both of you got way too tired – and that took a lot: the sun was starting to set – you decided to rest for a bit and eat something. A clearing nearby had a plantation of watermelons. It was obviously cultivated by someone, but turns out he had no idea who it was or if they would mind if you’d take some. You certainly didn’t mind taking them.

You’d been sitting side by side, facing a cliff with a gorgeous view of the forest and sunset ever since.

“And how would you find meat?” You asked absentmindedly while munching.

“Isn’t it obvious? I’d hunt! There are tons of weird animals here!” He took another big bite and tilted his head at you. “You’re kind of slow, aren’t you, Four Eyes?”

“My name’s not Four Eyes,” you said between gritted teeth. You didn’t even realize you were still wearing the glasses… you took them off and shoved them inside the backpack.

“What’s your name, then?”

You froze.

You hadn’t given him a name. He hadn’t told his either, even though you’d been playing for the past few hours.

But you couldn’t give him your real name. That was a basic rule: no one should see your face. No one should know your name. Every interaction with an outsider had to be calculated and well-thought out for the safety of the family.

The straw hat boy had already seen your face and the family crest.

But… it’s not like he had any idea what the Scarpia family was, right? So giving him a fake name would suffice.

“...Wolfie,” you lied after the first thing that came to mind. You immediately regretted it, realizing how silly it sounded after the made up name left your mouth, but it was too late to correct it now.

He nodded and swallowed a big bite before grinning. His mouth was all dirty with watermelon juice. “My name’s Monkey D. Luffy and I’m gonna be the King of Pirates!”

He didn’t seem to notice how stupid your “name” sounded… great. “...You already said that.” You looked ahead again. The sky had pretty hues of pink and orange as the sun disappeared slowly behind the horizon line. The treetops swayed softly with the wind, resembling sea waves of green. “Why do you wanna be a pirate?”

Why were you asking?

You had no idea. You weren’t supposed to find more about this Luffy boy. You weren’t supposed to be interested. But at the same time – you’d never see him again anyway, so what was wrong with making a question?

Right?

“Is it for the treasures?” It should be, you remarked, given how ragged his clothes were. Well, there was nothing wrong with wanting a fortune.

Luffy’s eyes gleamed with excitement.

“Pirates are the coolest people in the world!” He declared, gesticulating widely and setting the half eaten watermelon aside for the first time. “They go anywhere they want, do whatever they want and take what they want! They are free!” The more he talked, the more excited he looked. “My friend Shanks– he’s a pirate, too, and he goes on all sorts of adventures. He told me about it, all the islands and people and enemies he faced!” Luffy held the brim of his straw hat softly. “I made a promise that I’d become a great pirate like him so we can meet again in the sea someday!”

You hummed quietly.

The watermelon tasted sweet, way too sweet. You took another bite and munched it slowly.

“Freedom, huh?” Your voice was just a little bit louder than the wind. “Must be nice.”

“Right?” Luffy elbowed your arm excitedly. “The world is so much bigger than Mt. Colubo or Foosha Village or the Gray Terminal. There are so many islands out there! So many weird monsters and strong guys to fight!” He tightened his hands in fists and punched an invisible enemy. “That’s why me and Ace train everyday. To get even stronger!”

You side eyed Luffy again. He had an interesting ability, you had to admit, even though you were taught to despise Devil Fruit users. And yeah, he was definitely faster and stronger than the average kid your age. But… he was far from being strong. He was very killable, in fact. If he actually wanted to go to the seas someday, he had a long way to go.

Whatever. It was none of your business.

But even so – his speech about how vast the world is was kind of… touching, in a way. You knew about that, too. You’d been to many places, following your brothers in commissions or being taken to harsh environments to train. But you’d never… paid attention to anything. Everything was just training or business. Everything was boring.

But you thought Dawn Island was boring at first too – until you had the time and freedom to explore it and find all these giant animals and insects. Until you could look closely.

Maybe he had a point.

You swallowed another bite before speaking.

“There is an island I’d like to visit someday, you know.” You started slowly. Hesitantly. Luffy was paying attention, which somehow made you nervous. You weren’t used to that – someone actually listening to you. “I mean… an archipelago on the Grand Line. The islands are full of giant insects.”

“Giant insects?!” Luffy widened his eyes. “Do you think there are giant beetles there too?!”

“From what I’ve read, yeah. Beetles larger than houses. Spiders taller than giraffes. And carnivorous plants, too, big enough to eat a person.”

The straw hat boy giggled excitedly and bounced a bit while still sitting. He seemed unable to not move for a long time, you noticed. “You could fill entire notebooks with your drawings there!” Luffy eyed you up and down with somewhat of a smug expression. “Why haven’t you been there yet, though? You don’t look broke. I bet you have enough money to travel wherever you want.”

Your shoulder dropped a bit. “The Boin Islands are far. Very very far. And… I don’t think my parents would let me.”

Because it’d be useless. A waste of money and time. It wouldn’t make you a better assassin in their opinion… so what was the point?

Luffy filled his chest and pointed at himself with his thumb proudly. “No problem. I’ll take you there when I become a pirate! My ship will be huuuge with, like, two masts and a big crew. No storms will sink us. We’ll get there and see all the giant bugs!”

For the hundredth time that day, you had the strange, instinctive reaction to giggle. You had the even stranger thought that, yeah, traveling with him would be fun.

The straw hat boy stretched his arms and cleaned his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Hah… the sun’s setting, I should get back before Ace gets worried.” Luffy got up and looked down at you excitedly. “Come with me, Wolfie! The forest’s even more dangerous at night, but our place is safe. We got meat for dinner, too.”

It was a bit insane how he could think of eating more after chomping so many watermelons.

But… his reminder that the sun was setting filled you with sudden sadness.

It took you hours to get to the top of the mountain… it’d take more hours to get down. If you didn’t leave now, Landon would climb it to find you – he always found you somehow – and to see you with this boy would put you in serious trouble.

It would put him in serious trouble, actually. In danger.

So you sighed and got up, too, taking the backpack from the floor and putting it on your back.

“Sorry, I have to go now.”

Luffy quirked one eyebrow. “You sure? Ain’t you gonna get lost? Is someone coming to pick you up?” He put his hands on each side of his waist. “I’m serious, the forest is really dangerous at night! Not even us go around when it’s dark!”

“I’ll be fine.” It was a bit interesting how this boy, much weaker than you, seemed so worried for your safety. That was also unusual.

You stood there awkwardly, not knowing exactly what to do. You also weren’t used to goodbyes.

“Hm… I’ll… get going then.” You started to walk backwards while gripping the trap of the backpack nervously. “It was… it was nice meeting you.”

Luffy smiled and nodded. “See ya!”

You hesitated before turning around.

See ya. He probably thought he’d see you again soon. That was funny.

No. That was a bit sad.

Your eyes kept glued to the floor, shoulders dropped, as you made your way down the hill slowly. Maybe you could go back and spend a little more time with him… maybe meet this Ace he kept talking about. You could play a little more. Sketch a few more insects.

No no no. Landon was nearby. He’d kill Luffy on the spot. He had permission to kill anyone he deemed a threat to your safety or your education – and he’d do it without consulting your opinion.

It was better for Luffy to never see you again.

...Your steps slowed even more.

For the first time, you remember Alex Husquid – the man you killed as soon it turned midnight. How you stood there and watched as his eyes emptied. How it made you feel nothing but boredom. Just a commission, after all, like any other.

But why the idea of seeing that same thing happen to Luffy bothered you so much?

This… this weird short boy you met just a few hours ago?

Why did the fact that you’d never see him again made your heart tighten like that?

You suddenly stopped on your tracks.

Wait.

Maybe… maybe you could. Maybe you could see him again.

You turned around, ready to run up the hill again to find Luffy– but turns out he was still standing there, watching you go.

Your heart throbbed loudly. Your hands were sweating. That was wrong wrong wrong. But even so–

“Luffy!” You called. He smiled from far and waved. “Can I… Can I see you again next year?”

Luffy narrowed his eyes and put his hands over his knees. “Huuhhh?!”

Oh– right. You were already too far.

You tightened your hands into fists, feeling a mix of anxiety and embarrassment, before screaming:

“Can I see you again next year?!”

This time, your voice echoed through the woods.

Luffy widened his eyes in surprise. “Next year?! That’s too long!”

You were immediately taken aback. Was he brushing you aside?

“I… I live very far!” That wasn’t a lie. “Can I come or not?!”

Luffy straightened his back.

He grinned again – one of his big, big grins, so big that his eyes closed tight, so large that you felt your own lips curving up, too.

“Of course! I’ll be waiting for you!”

Why were you bouncing a bit? Why did a light weird squeal went past your lips?

“Okay! Let’s meet right here!”

“Okay!”

“Let’s play even more next time!”

“I’ll be even faster than you!” He giggled smugly.

“No, you won’t!” Oh no– you still had to leave. You turned around slowly and waved him a last goodbye. “Bye!”

Luffy waved back excitedly.

Finally, you turned completely and walked down the hill.

Then you were running.

Then you were laughing.

It was probably because of the adrenaline, you knew, but you also knew that it was because you had fun. Because you had something to look forward to – someone to look forward to.

And that was far from being boring.

No rain fell over the Goa Kingdom the day you made your first friend.

[goorgeousz]

lacy dreams | aaron hotchner

after hours au

lacy dreams | aaron hotchner

after hours au

18+ MDNI

pairing: aaron hotchner x profiler!female!reader

summary: hotch had been managing to do just fine in suppressing his desire for you, until he caught a glimpse of your lacy underwear peeking over your jeans.

content/tw: perv!hotch, masturbation (male), dirty thoughts, wet dreams, reader has the ass and tanned skin (I try my best not to describe the reader's physics but I just had to be a little self-indulgent on this one, sorry…) 

word count: 2.5k

a/n: again, I attempted to focus on the steamy part of this but I got too invested on the build-up. I liked this one more than I thought, hope you guys do it too <3

my requests are opened, for this series or not!

just a heads up, this series is a slow burn so it will take a while for them to be together. I'm focusing more on the build up, their relationship and the construction of it! so if you want to have requests involving any of that, I'll be happy to write it! I have at least ten drafts in the making for this series, I'm super excited!

after hours masterlist

main masterlist

Between dealing with serial killers, terrorists and, maybe the hardest, FBI bureaucracy, Hotch almost didn’t have time to think about you.

Key word: almost.

The unit chief of the behaviour analysis unit. Hotch deserved that title, he knew it. He was perfect for it. Not everyone is able to fully commit to the job. To lock their feelings into a tiny little black box and keep it hidden. To be entirely selfless, to give themselves – their soul, mind and heart – to the job. To abdicate free time, good rest, personal relationships. No one understands what it takes to be the B.A.U. unit chief. 

Unless, of course, THE B.A.U. unit chief.

No one in their right minds would ever doubt Hotch was perfect for it.

He was kind, respectful, smart, attentive, giving, centrate and ready to give it all for the job. The things he’d gone through… it wasn’t for the weak. But he wasn’t. So he took it. Silently, proudly and steadily. Like a knight, a fighter.

But Hotch was also a man. He ate, he drank, he slept. He had a soul, a heart, a brain. And he had memories. Good memories. Precise, even. And despite being incredibly professional, he still remembered.

Every. Thing.

It was a blessing and a curse.

Every time you stretched, your shirt slightly rose up, showing the skin of your stomach, and he remembered how he licked and kissed that very same part. Or when you laid on your side on the jet, he remembered how he fucked you at that very same position the morning after your night together – and before your first day at the B.A.U. Or whenever you get a papercut because you went through your files too eagerly, and you let out the tiniest, most delicate and breathless sound, and he has to fight every cell on his body not to lean closer and beg you to say it again.

Point is: he remembered.

It wasn’t like he had an eidetic memory – poor Spencer – or anything, but it was hard not to replay that night in his head from time to time. Whenever he had time for it. Or whenever images of you invaded his thoughts, uninvited and demanding. Ruining him, piece by piece.

He didn’t let it show, though. It was harder at first, when you and him were still on thin ice. Poking the water with the tip of your feet to see if it was safe enough to dive in. Not knowing each other's boundaries, wanting, needs. Only one thing for certain: you wouldn’t let that get between your job. Surprisingly, it worked just fine.

You were an amazing addiction to the team, and he was proud to see how good of an agent you turned out to be. Your relationship was strictly professional – unless the filthy thoughts inside his head, but those didn’t count –, even the team started laying off of you two.

Hotch, ever the profiler, noticed how they whispered around, throwing glances at each other and winking here and there. He knew they wondered. He also knew neither of you would give it to them. So they waited. And waited. And when nothing happened, they waited a little more. He was a little smug to see their frustrations, honestly. He beat those odds, surprisingly – again, how he felt about you didn’t count. And eventually, thankfully, they laid off of you. Maybe they gave up, accepted defeat. Giving up didn't fit their profile, but well, he’ll take it!

He was good at suppressing his emotions. A professional, if you will. He even managed to look at you in the eyes with a straight face and discuss about disposal of bodies while thinking about bending you over and fucking you right on the top of the table you were tapping your sharp nails against.

It was a whole other job to contain his thoughts when he was home – whatever he did in the privacy of his own bedroom was his business only. But for now, he was handling just fine.

In some ways you helped him. Despite whatever went through your mind, you never gave him the satisfaction of a reaction. Not even a blush, a stutter, a lingering touch… Nothing. Ever. Every fantasy he had with you was solely the work of his bright and evil mind.

So, long story short, Hotch was kind of a pervert.

Secretly.

With all that said, there was one time Hotch absolutely lost it.

At least as much as someone like Hotch could lose it.

It was a Tuesday morning. The team sat together after a morning briefing, still chatting around. He was deep in conversation with Spencer when he heard Morgan’s teasing.

“So, where is it?” 

You frowned “Where what is?”

Emily and Morgan exchanged a smile “You’re always wearing a red item somewhere” she explained “Today you’re all in charcoal grey.” 

Hotch had noticed it, obviously. From the moment you walked in, a quick inspection of you later and he noticed it. He thought you’d just forgotten it. So much for his profiling skills. He wouldn’t dare to point it out, though. He had boundaries. 

You laughed “You guys take the job that seriously, huh?” 

“They even bet on you” JJ snickered, chuckling. You gasped, faking surprise.

“I’m winning.” Garcia sing-song it “Maybe you should rethink their profiling skills, sir.” she told Hotch, in a mock serious tone.

“Wow. I’ll have to step up my game, then.”

“Come on, doll.” Morgan nudges your hand with the tip of his pen “Where’s the red? Ten dollars at stake today.” you laughed loudly, leaning closer to him.

“Trust me, the money would be the smallest of your winnings if you knew where the red is.” you whispered, loud enough for the whole team to hear.

JJ barked a laugh, walking past you to go grab herself a coffee and giving you a high-five in the process.

Hotch watched it all unfold without a word. He even managed to change the subject after that rather smoothly. No one would have guessed what was going through his mind while he explained statistics and budgets. He didn’t blush, didn’t stutter, didn’t let his eyes wander.

He was a gentleman, afterall.

But when the meeting ended, all the team standing and heading out the door all together, you were right in front of him.

He stayed a few steps back behind you, more to his own safety than to yours. So he witnessed what happened in slow motion — at least that’s how his mind played it.

You were laughing at something Derek said, smacking his shoulder and letting your hair clip fall in the process. With your quick instincts and — good god — your easy flexibility, you bent over to pick it up.

And that’s when it happened.

He wasn’t looking, you see. Blame it on his academy years, his school-soccer years even. His unit chief abilities™, if you will.

It was just like in the field, his senses had to be turned to a maximum to see any possible threats. And that for sure was a hell of a threat.

As you bent over, knees bending just slightly, the rem of your button-up rose up. Simultaneously, the waistband of your pants slide down an inch, to cover the — voluptuous and perfectly round, bless you — curve of your ass.

Then, he saw it. The flash of red blinding his sight like in a lighthouse. Exactly like a gun pointed at him in his peripheral vision, his eye darted to the flash of red in order to eliminate the danger. He was trained for this, he couldn’t just turn off his spider-senses federal-agent-senses.

Peeking over your pants there was a thin, lacy and beautiful red underwear. The exact same kind you wore that night. Not the same, no.

Again, not an eidetic memory – god bless reid – but no matter how hard he tried – not that hard, really – to forget, he couldn’t. His stubborn mind insisted on replaying the view of your bare ass, covered only in those dark-red lacy panties, pushing back against his very expensive suit pants, teasing his hard on still very much covered. A sinful view, your toned body displayed for him across your wooden dining table like a four-course meal. Better than that, honestly.

Back to the subject, the colours were different. This one was a brighter shade of red, its colour very distinguishing from the sober grey of your clothes. So beautiful, calling for him. Begging for him, really. It was a siren’s song, enchanting him and luring his eyes into you. Deadly, dangerous.

As fast as it came, it was gone. You stood back up with an ease that made his backbone jealous. Unfortunately, not fast enough for the sight not to be engraved in his brain.

He stopped mid track, his eyes widening slightly. Thankfully, he was the last one behind, so no one could see his reaction. Not-so-thankfully, you turned around at him, a polite but cheerful expression on your face, the remains of your laughter still on your face.

“Hotch, the file of that Minnesota case I was working on is already on your desk. I left it there before the meeting, forgot to tell you.” the easy smile you had on your face faltered for just a second, confused by the stunned look on his face.

He quickly covered it up, building his walls back up in a record-deserving speed “No problem, thank you.”.

You just nodded, seeing he walk away in that always-hurried way of his before you could manage to ask him what’s wrong.

And just like that, his facade was ruined – it wasn’t really. No one bat an eye at him or his reaction, but he did try to fool himself and pretend he didn’t care. And that facade was, in fact, ruined.

A four-months, twenty three days – the exact time you’ve been on the team – streak of being reactionless vanished with a quick glimpse of your underwear.

How pathetic of him.

How twelve-year-old-boy-just-discovered-women's-breast kind of pathetic of him.

It wasn’t just about how his heartbeat quickened at the sight. Just how the blood rushed to his veins. Just how his eyes widened and his mouth slightly parted. Just how his breath hitched loudly enough that if someone were behind him, they would’ve noticed it.

It was all that, added to the fact that he had to basically lock himself in his office all day. Two bathroom breaks. One coffee break. One lunch break. All of them combined, in order to reduce his breaks at a minimum.

He got work done, somehow. It took him the entire work-day for him to finish what would’ve taken him a single morning? Yes. But it got done, anyway.

His thoughts mid reports wandered towards you. Did you do it on purpose? Of course not, he was that self-assured. But you were a tease, so it was very on character for you. But you seemed so innocent, telling him about your reports. Again, that never stopped you from making the dirtiest jokes he ever heard. Was it all a punishment? Some destiny cruel joke on him? A way for the universe to tell him he doesn’t have control of anything? It seemed like all the options above.

The day passed in a rush, humiliating so.

Deciding – after a lot of guilt and self-deprecating thoughts – he wasn’t being any useful for the country and it was best for him to rest and come back renewed – read free of dirty thoughts of you – the next day, he went home.

His ride home was silent, he didn’t even turn on the radio. Or did he? It didn’t even register. It was a win how he managed to get home safe without causing any accidents in the process.

He ate a quick dinner, an improvised sandwich of everything he could find in his fridge. And finally had the – oh so deserved and waited – glass of scotch. And a second one. And a third one.

After finally having his gain back the control of his own thoughts, because of the shameful amount of work he’d done, he decided to ignore the very prominent and aching volume on his pants. Yes he was that controlling.

So, he took a freezing shower and went back to bed without a single thought of you.

Yes, he was proud of himself.

No, it didn’t last.

It was 02:17 in the morning when he woke up from the most wonderful yet terrible dream of his life, with an aching boner and a stain of cum in his underwear. How lovely.

He opened his eyes and stood there, his chest rising and falling while he tried to steady his breaths. He came to the realization that whatever happened was just a dream. A very wet dream.

You haven’t actually showed up at his house, still in your work clothes. You haven’t really thrown yourself in his arms, kissing him so hungrily he almost fell down. You haven’t really taken your clothes off, your eyes locked in his while you stripped down until you were only in those red lacy panties. You haven’t really laid down on his bed, your legs stretched and your hands touching your perky breasts. He haven’t really fucked you senselles, raw and stupid on his mattress – yes, that very same mattress he was currently laid on – until you both came at the same time while you moaned his name over and over. His first name.

He replayed the dream in his mind, groaning to himself when his hand unconsciously roamed to his shaft, gripping straight under his sweatpant.

It was no use to fight against it. He let himself have it.

Hotch squeezed himself, his cock sticky with barely wet and warm cum. He hummed, half in annoyment, half in satisfaction.

He stroked himself to the thought of you. His dream wasn’t real. But the images of you, the sensation of his cock buried deep inside of you, his names on your lips like a mantra, like a spell. They were all real, all memories.

And he held on to them for dear life.

The feeling of his tight grip to your flesh. Your yelps, moans, hums, groans. Your dirty words, your dirty mind. Your velvety and hoarse voice. Your eyes – oh, your eyes. So beautiful, slightly open, deeply darked and overly glossed. The tear of pleasure that fell after you came for the third time, its salty taste on his tongue when he licked it. Your mouth. Full, glossy and tasteful. Your tanned and smooth skin, little red sports he proudly bruised.

He quickened his movements, his eyes closed shut and images of you behind his eyelids. He memorized all of you. And with the sound of his own heartbeat and the memory of your voice hoarsely begging his name, he came again, letting out a long and dragged groan.

He stayed there for a while, waiting for his breath to get back to normal and his heartbeat to slow down.

Just for a moment he let himself be, not drowning it sorry and guilt. Just enjoying the relief coursing through his body.

But like almost everything in life, the moment passed.

Almost.

[moscatosin]

🖤 lists. mattheo riddle 🖤 oral. studying. fem!reader self insert. tongue in cheek. thank you to @nottscherry for reading this & confirming my idea was sane and @voidofsunlight for her bot that inspired the idea. mdni. raspberry vodka recommended (2.1k)

It was painstakingly obvious that Mattheo's curiosity had clearly gotten the best of him. Slipping down into a seat beside you in the back of the library, he smirked; honey tinted eyes washing over you with a trail of unspoken questions he’d stop at nothing to get answers for. Reaching out, with careful fingers, Mattheo tucked some loose hair which had fallen down in front of your face behind your ear, using the gesture as an excuse to let his fingertips linger beneath your chin and turn your head to face him.

“You know, you really should be more discreet with what you keep in your dorm..”

For a few moments, an array of impulsive thoughts and taunting images raced through your mind. When he had asked earlier in the day about borrowing a textbook you had on ancient runes for a class he wasn't all that committed to, you hadn't thought much about lending it to him. He just wanted to pass - you were nice enough to extend the offer to a friend - end of story. Right? Nope.

That little shit had taken it upon himself to snoop around your dorm as if he owned the place rather than just walking in and walking out the way you'd expected, like a thief in the middle of the night. You'd told him exactly where the book he was after was - top shelf in the bookcase beside your bed in between a stack of parchments you vaguely could refer to as homework and the novelty coffee mug of a dog he'd brought you years ago in Hogsmeade after you mentioned you thought it was cute.

Mind racing; you wondered what he'd stumbled on. Ever so surely, you began to flicker through the mental catalogue of everything you kept in your dorm. Perhaps the lucky red lace bra you always wore on first dates? The novelty candy G-string Pansy bought for your birthday last month? The handcuffs your ex had far too many ideas for? The bullet vibrator you kept in your bedside top drawer shaped like a golden snitch? No, let's be real - all these things were far too safe for someone with the last name Riddle; far too vanilla. Yet whilst you tried so desperately hard to think, your mind just couldn't quite pinpoint what he was hinting at.

“I’m sorry”, you murmured out with a raised brow, half tilting your head to the side to act partially naive and yet to also shift away from his touch. “You'll have to be more specific, Mattheo. I don't quite have the gift of legilimency like you do..”

“The list, sweetheart.”

For a moment you froze as time seemed to stop still. A single blink is what it took for your brain to kick-start back into motion after going offline oh so temporarily at his simple statement. The list. The god forsaken list. A stupid piece of parchment you'd hidden well, you initially thought, between ties and mismatched socks in your trunk which he'd had to have gone digging through to find. What a little shit –

“So you've been snooping?”, you sigh, hands raking through your hair roughly as the breath that escapes you burns raw against your lips. “Mattheo, we're friends - I trusted you to walk into my dorm, get what you needed and get out. Something that really, should not have been that difficult of a task for a wizard like yourself..”

He cuts you off by placing a finger firmly against your lips and scoots the seat he's on a few inches closer towards yours; wooden legs of the chair scraping harshly like nails on a chalkboard against the floor. With his free hand, he plucks the folded parchment out from his robe pocket and sets it out in front of you; his eyes dancing towards it, daring you to open it. You do - with shy, trembling hands; trying so, so hard to keep yourself afloat in this sudden drowning chaos you're finding yourself trapped within. It's okay, the waters only ankle deep - you can still get yourself out of this without needing to swim.

At the top of the list in handwriting which is clearly your own - that perfect cursive that has witches jealous of your quill skills, is Mattheo's name. Beneath it; listed in no particular order, a few dozen reasons girls think he'd be a decent fuck along with their signatures beside the comment. You swallow; the feeling rather uncomfortable and intense which hurts your throat as you listen to him begin to read it.

“Would definitely let me call him Daddy - A. Greengrass. Has 99 problems but that cock sure ain't one - L. Brown. Hands that could choke me into place with ease - H. Abbott. Are you girls bloody mental? Who writes shit like this?”

Would you answer him? Eh… The whole idea of lists had started out as a joke a few weeks ago at a party. Sober thoughts meeting drunken confidence when you'd suggested a list be written about all the boys you knew. Not necessarily sexual in nature but at least suggestive to some degree Somehow, rather unexpectedly; someone brought up Mattheo's name in conversation after commenting on how damn good he looked wearing all black, sipping on firewhiskey like it was nobodies business and bang - the ‘I would fuck him’ list was born.

“Riddle, it was just a little harmless fun. Like you can honestly tell me that you and your mates don't talk about or rank girls you'd like to hook up with or date or –.”

“Your name’s not on it.”

The sound of the library fell into a deep and unexpected silence you could hear a feather drop within. Your posture straightened upright; both brows rising as the faintest shade of rosy peach colouring skimmed across your cheeks. Coughing to clear your throat, you let out a semi-soulless chuckle.

“Yeah, because we're friends and I don't exactly see you in that way Mattheo.”

“But what would you write?”

“Nothing”, you confirmed with a confused stare at him, “We're friends.”

“But if you had to..”

Oh, he was getting desperate for an answer. How interesting. Had the names and comments already listed not been enough to stroke his rather expansive ego. You glance at the list before looking back at him; licking your tongue over your bottom lip to buy a little time to further think.

“You're not being serious?”

“Dead right I am.”

“Matt - almost three quarters of the bloody castle have signed a parchment that declares they'd willingly want to fuck you, and you're caught up on the fact that I, one of your best friends, hasn't signed it?”

The puppy dog look he shot you without warning made it feel like you'd just kicked him. You were well aware that there'd be only one way to suffice him, so picking up your quill you scribbled the first thing that came to mind and signed the bottom of the list. Mattheo had shifted to be staring over your shoulder intently as you scribbled away neatly; the gasp that from deep within his chest sounding like he may or may not have just experienced a minor heart attack.

“Might know how to use that tongue? Might? What the fuck? You think I'd suck at eating a girl out? Are you insane? I'm the best—.”

“Mattheo, seriously - shut up! We're in a library and I'm trying to study and yeah, as a matter of fact, you seem like a guy who wouldn't want to get messy and doesn't have the patience to go down on a girl long enough to please her, so yes. Might - know - how to use that tongue. Take it or leave it.”

Your heart is racing at this point. It was a joke. This whole thing. The list, your comment, the fact the two of you were even having this conversation. He slaps a hand down hard against the desk causing your ink bottle to shake and lets out a gruff sounding growl making your thighs tremble and quake. No. No. No…

“You're a wicked little witch.”

The sentence comes out with a hiss and a little sprinkle of threat and before you know it, Mattheo has slid his chair back, not caring to glance around and see if the two of you have company before dropping to the floor and crawling beneath the desk. Your brain short circuits again, this time; involuntarily as you feel his hands spread your knees apart; lips pressing hot, slow kisses that burn up the inside of your thighs deliciously. God it had been so fucking long since you'd been touched.

“W-what are you doing?”

*Proving that statement of yours fucking wrong.”

His curls tickling against your skin, your hands grasped at the edge of the desk you sat at, knuckles whitening as his teeth sank in to nip sultry at your skin. Your body tensed for a split second before sinking into the seat, his lips continuing to pepper kisses up your thighs before planting a final teasing kiss over your panties against your core that had you seeing stars.

“Hell.. Mattheo - we need to sto-...”

Like he was about to listen. Honestly. Tugging your panties to one side, you felt him chuckle against your clit before pressing the softest of kisses against it; your nerves endings bursting into an electric craze. Tip of his tongue sliding neatly in between your folds, you bit a knuckle painfully between your teeth to stifle a moan and felt your body grow warm.

“Oh my god..”

The words are nothing more than an uttered whisper of submission as Mattheo's tongue flickered teasingly over your entrance, slipping in shallow to torment you as his hands wrap around your thighs in an attempt at keeping you still. Your head tilts back; eyes clamped shut, your own hands tearing your skirt up to find his curls and knot through them, keeping Mattheo's head and mouth exactly where you need it.

“Mhmm.. you taste so fucking good.”

Compliments? Ugh. Your toes curl as his tongue continues to slide between your wet folds, sucking at your clit before diving back into you again. Your hips rock to help fuck yourself against his tongue to which he doesn't object to; devouring you like a feral animal who hasn't had a feed in weeks. You can feel your thighs becoming wet; your arousal evident as it paints his chin, the seat, your legs slick. You try to control it; the coil of heat burning in the pit of your stomach but when he shakes his head, tongue flickering over every inch of you on offer, your mind loses it.

Clamping your thighs tightly around him, Mattheo continues to let his tongue work magic; sucking at your folds before one final hit at your clit that has you not only seeing stars but almost seeing the whites and sparkle of what you can only guess are the pearly gates of heaven. Breathing heavily, you feel your legs lose tension as you unknown your fingers from his curls; face flushed and body quivering as you struggle to regain your breath.

“Holy fuck that was -..”

“Amazing?”, Mattheo asks, picking himself up off the floor to take the seat beside you again.

You blush a little harder; struggling to pick up your quill, yet you manage to, crossing out on the list what you wrote to reconfirm what you'd doubted. Mattheo's gaze turns from hungry to soft as you correct your admittance.

A tongue that belongs to me.

He can't help but gloat; chest puffed out, chin still glistening as he smirks your way. Leaning across, Mattheo presses a kiss to your temple, slinking an arm around your shoulders almost possessively.

“I'll admit baby girl, I'm kind of impressed I was able to change your mind so quickly. Tell me though - are there other lists or am I the only boy oh so fortunate?”

“Oh”, you chuckle, shifting your tie around your neck to adjust it for some breathing room, “There's another list.”

“Another?”, Mattheo spits out immediately. The way you've suggested it and he's said it, making it clear that apart from his laying on the desk in front of you, there's only one other in existence.

“Mhmm”, you mumble in confirmation.

“So who's the guy?”

Oh this is fun - he got to tease you, and now the tables have turned in your favour for you to tease him. Twirling your quill between your fingertips, you reach out to dip the tip into your ink pot and smirk.

“Theodore”, you explain with nothing more than his best friend's name.

“...and is his ‘list’ as extensive as mine?”

“Oh it's longer..”, you giggle, trying to focus back on your studies, “..and before you ask, yeah - I've signed it.”

[sinofwriting]

Insane Person - Max Verstappen (I ❤️ MILFS verse)

Words: 667 Summary: Max wants to be sure he can give Pan kids. (Part of the I ❤️ MILFS verse) Note(s): Takes place during the original I ❤️ MILFS fic, before Max finds out Pan’s age. Max is insane btw, this has been a blurb idea since I wrote the original fic and finally it has been written so enjoy, lol.

Masterlist | Support Me! | I ❤️ MILFS verse

“I’d love to give Logan a sibling or two.”

The words so soft had made his heart speed up as soon as he heard them and now thinking about them, letting them play on repeat.

It’s early in their relationship, though they haven’t yet talked about it yet, no matter how much Max is dying to do so. But Max wants to be the one that she gives Logan siblings with.

Which is why he’s sitting in front of his computer and looking at medical studies.

A lot of it is going over his head. The most schooling he sat through was the first four or five years of it. He can grasp engineering, anything to do with cars and their data, but medical terminology goes over his head.

He powers through, he doesn’t know Pan’s exact age, his mother would smack him over the head if he even thought to ask her age, but she’s got to to be mid to late thirties if not early forties considering Logan is twenty.

The studies say she’d be fine getting pregnant, shouldn’t have trouble conceiving, and his cheeks burn at the word, at the image it puts in his mind. They haven’t quite got there, but they’ve gotten close. They throw out the term geriatric pregnancy which makes him flinch because forty wasn’t old, at least not if you weren’t a driver and to see it be called something like that felt harsh, rude. Another one calls it advanced maternal age which really isn’t any better, but it’s just relieving to see that’s still possible. And then a study mentions that if people are having trouble conceiving that not only does the person birthing need to get checked, but both do and a new panic takes over his brain.

What if when it came time to try, he was the problem? It would really be his luck. Things had been going very well for the past few years, it would be his luck that he couldn’t give the woman he loves more kids.

And Logan wanted siblings, the panic grows as he remembers Logan chiming in that he’d love some siblings. Oh god, what if he failed in giving Logan siblings? He wanted the younger driver to like him, to really like him.

His fingers act quickly, wanting to know how he can know if he can have kids and the results make him blink because it couldn’t be that easy.

He just had to provide a sample in a cup?

Max’s brain struggles to compute that after just reading everything that women have to go through to get their fertility checked.

His hand goes to his phone, he rarely if ever called his doctor, but this was important.

He goes through the motions of confirming he is who he is, wondering how weird it must be for other people to do this for him before he finally gets asked why for the purpose of the appointment.

“I want to check to see if I can have kids.”

“Okay, are you and your partner having trouble conceiving?”

His cheeks burn, “We aren’t trying yet. I just want to make sure that it’s possible on my end.”

“Okay, it’s a simple procedure at our clinic and we could see you in the next three days if that works for you at any time we are open.”

“That’s perfect.”

“Alright, we’ll see you in a few days, Mr. Verstappen.”

He gets the results back five days after his appointment, an email sitting in his inbox, and he forces himself to take a deep breath before finally opening it.

There are words he doesn’t know, ones he doesn’t really want to think about, but there at the end, a note from his doctor that says everything looks great, and he shouldn’t have troubles getting someone pregnant and his fist goes in the air, a quiet but excited yes leaving him.

He could give Logan siblings and Pan more kids, thank fuck.

[thesongoficeandfir3]

Dark!Aegon i x reader

A/n: 18+ ONLY! reader is a Baratheon but race is NOT mentioned however the reader does have the features of a Baratheon (blue eyes and black hair), reader is female with female anatomy

Warnings: SMUT, DC, power imbalance, age gap (reader is of age), innocence kink? Lmk if I missed any

Would rate 🖤 out of three on dark scale

Would rate 🌶️🌶️ out of five on smut scale

This is my first time writhing smut so sorry if it’s shit 🙃

Might do a dark Maegor or Young Tywin next

- Aegon had always prided himself as being a good man or more so a good man if compared to the many of the corrupt men in Westeros

- He would believe he did not have any darkness in him however, this resolve started to crumble when he met you.

- You were married to one of your father’s vassal houses and had a son however, your husband died fighting one of the many battles in attempt to take over Dorne, and due to the laws your son was sent to live with his paternal family thus leaving you alone once again like before getting married.

- You were still young and fertile and it was not uncommon for a highborn widow to be married again, thus why Orys decided to bring you to the capital where he spent so much time being the king’s hand. The capital always had highborns coming in and out so it was a possibility one of them may be your new husband

- When Aegon first saw you, he immediately was enticed by your beauty. Your hair as dark as the soils of Highgarden flowing down your back, sitting atop your head your mother’s sapphire diadem brought even more attention to your blue eyes, and the gold and black gown you wore clinging to your body beautifully

- He burned the image into his brain the way you nervously dipped your head down when meeting him, your blue eyes scanning his face desperate for his approval. It was almost comical to him how opposite you were to Orys, who was the embodiment of your house sigil as large and intimidating as a stag whereas you looked more like a fawn about to be slaughtered by its prey but he found it amusing none the less

- You would be in KL for many weeks but his obsession would be nothing more than a small flame, simply just admiring you from afar, but the small flame would turn into a roaring blaze when he saw you taking care of his son Aenys.

- You often found yourself alone and bored in the Redkeep since you hardly knew anyone there, so to keep you occupied your father arranged for you to take care of Aenys who was only a babe. You did miss taking care of your son who was now with his father’s family, so it was a sweet reminder

- One day after a stressful meeting Aegon was headed to his chambers for a much needed bath when he passed you in the gardens rocking and singing to a giggling Aenys, all the anger and stress vanished in an instant and calmness washed over him. It had been so long since he felt that way almost forgetting the feeling. That day he also felt a switch within him and a strong desire to keep seeing you like that

- He couldn’t help but use the same power he prided himself not abusing to abuse it to keep seeing you do that. He ordered that you become the sole caretaker and wet nurse to Aenys, making claims that the babe was so much calmer in your presence. You were so blinded by the fact that you missed your own son to see how odd his decision was

- Aegon was swift and discrete in chasing away any potential suitors who looked your way, also giving your father, his hand, more work than usual in attempt for him not to notice how much time the king spent with his daughter

- Convincing you to put Aeny’s crib in your room claiming it would be easier for you to take care of him, but it was more for him being able to walk into your chambers whenever he wishes and he could easily hide his reasoning just wanting to see his son

- When you start to feed Aenys, Aegon would often be nearby, watching with a mixture of peace and lust within him. The peaceful feeling coming from the knowledge that you are providing life-sustaining nourishment for his heir and the lustful feeling coming from what if you continued being the one to nurture and further his bloodline

- He would continue to stare when you place the babe down, your chest momentarily still exposed as you prioritize making Aenys comfortable first before fixing yourself. He would start to daydreaming what it would be like for you to be under him bare like that as his seed dripped from you after he’d taken you

- Things were going well for him soon enough suitors stopped talking with your father about potential proposals and you were always so obedient at his side without protest or rather you didn’t think you were allowed to.

- Panic starts to rise in Aegon when one day while having a drink, Orys mentions he wants to take you back to Storm’s End since he can’t find a match for you here, whereas in Storm’s End there was already possibility of three lords.

- That night Aegon summoned you to his chamber during the hour of the wolf you were about to grab his son thinking Aegon wanted to see him as that was always the case, but but the maid who called for you stopped you and said he only wanted to see you. You were extremely confused but obeyed the king’s command not having the slightest clue what was to happen.

NSFW below 18+ ONLY

You let out a strained gasp and whimper as Aegon’s body was pressed on top of you thrusting himself into you without warning. He squeezes his eyes shut at the way your walls immediately tighten around him making his brain turn into mush. He tries desperately to regain control of his spinning mind, burying his face into your neck and mumbling out calming words and hushes in a poor attempt to calm you as well as regain control of himself.

His body shakes as he tries his best not to thrust himself into you again for he knew if he did he’ll be finished before you two even get anywhere. You then hear him mumbling something over and over again in what you assumed was his mother tongue. Fortunately for you his temporary lack of movement allowed you to get used to his size but you still couldn’t help the soft whimper that slip past your lips.

His platinum blond hair already slick with sweat sticking to his forehead and pressing against your jaw.

He then slightly raised his head, his dark violet eyes scanning your features devouring you with just one look that made you feel butterflies in your stomach. It didn’t help when he moves a hand to caress your cheek, the feeling of it was callous due to the years of wielding blackfyre.

“Are you ready to please your king?” He says through a husky voice.

“Y-yes” you squeak out, surprising yourself with how high an octave your voice went.

With the conformation he doesn’t hesitate to begin rocking himself into immediately finding a rhythm. His movements fast yet calculated, as he was with most things in his life.

You nearly choked on your spit as your body involuntarily sucked in sharply the feeling of ecstasy being new to you. The few times you did lay with your now deceased husband was uncomfortable and quick as he valued his own pleasure over your own. Mewls and incoherent words start to slip past your lips. Embarrassed by this you slap your mouth shut with your hands but Aegon is quick to stop that.

Using one hands to keep himself propped up, he uses the other to restrain your arms above your head. He then rest his forhead on yours, his breathing coming out in pants as he continues his movements.

“You look so beautiful taking care of my sweet boy” he says between strained grunts “he needs a mother badly, he needs you to be the mother he lost” he says almost desperately his pace picking up

You hardly registered his words your back arches aching to meet his increased paced all you could get out was a ‘yes my king’ through a broken moan

Aegon can feel himself getting closer and buried his face back to your neck the sound of his grunts increasing.

“No, call me by my name.” He manages to say through them.

“Aegon” you say almost uncertain and soft, the word being foreign to you as you’ve gotten too used to calling him my king or your highness.

The volume dissatisfied him so he moves the hand that was restraining you bringing it down to your bud rubbing against it in a circular motion with his fingers to cause more friction along with his slamming hips.

“You will call me by my name when we are like this… You will scream it while I take you as mine” he says it like a command his tone booming with authority, a sharp reminder you were truly being taken by the king.

At the sudden added friction his name leave your lips faster than you can think it in a loud and desperate moan followed by curses no highborn lady should ever repeat. Yourself a few hours ago before you were summoned to the king’s chambers would be shocked that you had it in yourself to say that.

He lets out a hiss as he forces himself out of you, getting off the bed to stand at the edge of it before grabbing your hips and dragging you to the edge. You were still lying on your back as Aegon stood, preparing to position himself between your legs once more. First taking just a moment to admire you.

You didn’t have the slightest idea how badly Aegon wanted you below him as he pumped you full of himself, how during all those months how he’d dream about every part of you, how his need for you nearly went out of control when he saw you feeding his son motherhood looked so natural on you.

Aegon the cocky bastard knew you would be his eventually he was a conqueror after all, but his first plan was longer and would take time. It was foiled however when one drunk night with Orys, the man said he was going to take you back to Storm’s End as he couldn’t find a single match for you but already found three at your ancestral home.

The conqueror panicked and for the first time he had acted out irrationally. He wished your first time would be at your wedding you wrapped around the black and red cloaks of house Targaryen, a roaring sign of his success.

He is brought back to reality when he feels you arch your back causing your entrance to meet his tip, a moan escaping from the both of you. He grips your hips slamming back into you , his movements a lot more rougher and deeper with the new found stability.

“You should be honored Lady Baratheon, soon enough you will be carrying the seed of the conqueror and bear me many dragons” the headboard slams against the stonewall the loud slams almost challenges the screams of your pleasure and the begging of his name “you will be the queen” his thrust deeper than the last “you will be my queen.”

It doesn’t take long for you both to reach climax, his seed felt warm as it shot inside of you making you shudder. He desperately wanted to stay there but his body jerked and shook to his avail forcing him out.

As you come down from your high realization finally starts to settle in at what you just had done. A widowed woman of your position lying with a man who was not her husband. To fuel to the fire a married man, a married man who was the king. If word got out you would put great shame and mockery upon not only yourself but your house, the house your innocent father had worked so hard to claim.

Aegon senses the shift in your expression and when you try to get up he pushes you back to the soft bed.

“I’m sorry Aeg—, my king but-“ you try to speak out but Aegon silenced you.

“Shhh it’s ok” he mumbles out climbing back on top of you, his limp member rubbing against your sore entrance blood immediately rushing to it causing it to be hard again. “I’ll deal with Orys he’s a prideful man anyways all he’ll see is his blood on the throne so just relax for now” he says completely drunk on lust he’s not even sure of what he’s saying and his movements are sloppy and uncoordinated all he knew was that he needed to feel that over and over again.

[mafiadad5]

Perv!bestfriend!Jisung who..pt.2

Perv!bestfriend! jisung x fem!reader (part 1)

mdni!!! 18+

warnings- (neck) kissing, alcohol consumption, dry humping, choking kinda?, he’s kinda manipulative lol, they’re both kinda pervy.

W/c- 3.1k

a/n- ty for all the support on the last post! I hope you enjoy

Tags- @joonsprettygf @machilattee @nosungluv

Perv!bestfriend!Jisung who couldn't stop staring at you eating ice cream. The way your lips wrapped around the ice cream cone, how your tongue swirled around the tip, chasing the dripping mess before it could reach your hand, it had him gripping the edge of the park bench to keep himself grounded. Each flick of your tongue sent a jolt of heat straight through him to his dick. He swallowed hard, unable to tear his eyes away. He couldn't help but get riled up, look at you.

"You're... really good at that." He blurted out before his brain could process what he had said.

Your head turned toward him, eyes wide in surprise. "Good at what?" You asked, blinking at him innocently.

"Oh, um... nothing. Never mind." He stammered, his ears burning as he quickly looked away, pretending to find something, anything else interesting.

You shrugged, brushing it off with a small smile.

Jisung couldn't just let it go though. He tried he really did, but every time you leaned forward to lick at the sides of the cone, his gaze was drawn back to you. The movements of your lips, the slight shimmer of the ice cream glossing your lips, it was driving him insane.

When you suddenly turned to him again, his heart nearly stopped. 

"What Jisung?" You asked, a giggle escaping your lips, his heart nearly stopping as you turned to him.

A drop of melting ice cream slid down the cone Jisung's eyes staring right at it as it dripped onto your finger.

"You might wanna get that." He said, his voice lower than he intended, gesturing to the mess on your hand.

"Oh!" You said, licking the trail of ice cream off your finger, staring directly into his eyes.

His gaze locked on you, the way your tongue stuck out to clean the sticky mess, the casual way you sucked the tip of your finger clean... It was torture.

Jisung's throat felt dry as he forced himself to look away, but the image of you was burned into his mind. He clenched his fists, trying to keep himself composed. God he wished it was him instead of the ice cream. He needed to feel your tongue so bad, your lips, your everything. To let you ruin him completely, then make him beg for more.

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Perv!bestfriend!Jisung who suggested that you both play a game while you were both in a store.

"The Chapstick Challenge... what's that?" You asked, your brows furrowing as you looked at Jisung's mischievous grin.

"It's simple. You put on different chapstick flavors, and guess what flavor it is." He explained, holding up a pack of brightly colored chapsticks from the shelf.

"That actually sounds like... fun." You hesitated, eyeing him suspiciously.

"So are you in?" He asked, grabbing a few packs and pretending to examine them closely. The way his lips twitched into a smirk made you feel as if he'd been planning this.

"Yeah, sure. Whatever." You answered, rolling your eyes.

Later the two of you sat on the couch, the pile of chapsticks in between you. Jisung ripped open a package, his fingers quickly removing the cap.

"So um... what are the rules again?" You asked, narrowing your eyes at him.

"You put on the chapstick, kiss the other person, and they have to guess the flavor.. easy." He said, leaning back casually

"Kiss?" Your head snapped toward him, brow raised in disbelief. "You didn't mention that part earlier, Jisung."

"Must've slipped my mind." He said with an innocent shrug. "Anyways, I already bought everything. It'd be a waste not to play."

"Jisung, this sounds..."

"Shh." He interrupted, pressing a finger to his lips. "It's just a few kisses. Let's play."

"Fine." You sighed, giving in. "You go first."

Jisung grinned, opening the first chapstick and slathering on a thick layer. He leaned in, his eyes locked onto yours as you moved closer.

You started with a hesitant peck, your lips grazing his as you tried to catch the flavor.

"Wait." You murmured, leaning in again for a longer kiss. His lips were soft and warm.

"Cherry." You guessed, pulling back.

"Yep." He replied, his voice a little lower than usual. "Your turn."

You grabbed a chapstick, twisting it open as Jisung watched intently. His gaze was locked on your lips as you rubbed the flavor on, his eyes darkening slightly.

"Come on." You said, motioning him closer.

He leaned in, capturing your lips with his in a kiss that was anything but soft. It was slow, his lips moving against yours roughly, tasting every part of the flavor. His hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you closer as he dragged his tongue along your bottom lip.

When he finally pulled away his lips glistened, and he smacked them. 

"Strawberry?"

"Yep." You said, your voice barely above a whisper.

"This is too easy." He said smirking.

"Yeah, it is." You replied.

"I have an idea to make it harder." He suggested, leaning forward with that familiar mischievous glint in his eye.

"And how's that Ji?" You asked, suspicious of what he was up to.

"Pick a chapstick, and I'll guess, but this time not on your lips." He said, his grin growing wider.

You arched a brow but complied, handing him a random one from the pile. He opened it, twisting the stick until the product showed. "Hold still." He murmured.

His fingers tilted your chin, and he smeared the chapstick along the curve of your neck, his touch lingering longer than necessary. Your heart raced as he leaned down, brushing his lips against your skin.

The first kiss was soft, testing, but he quickly grew bolder, his tongue darting out to taste the flavor. He sucked lightly, leaving your skin tingling, and when he finally pulled back, his breath was shaky.

"Grape." He said, licking his lips slowly.

You nodded, still caught a little of guard.

"Your turn, but I don't think you can top that." He said, leaning back with a smug look.

"Challenge accepted." You shot back, determined to win.

He handed you a chapstick and you uncapped it, smirking. "Be fair." he warned, his voice teasing. "I did a thin layer."

"Ok." You said, leaning closer. You rubbed the chapstick across his neck, your fingers brushing against his skin. 

You leaned in, starting with a gentle kiss. His skin was warm, and the faint scent of his cologne lingered around you. You licked softly at first trying to pick up the flavor, but you couldn't help yourself—you went harder, pressing your lips firmly to his skin as you sucked.

A quiet sound escaped him, a low hum.

"Hmm." You murmured against his neck, the vibrations causing a sharp inhale from him. "This is hard." You whispered, your breath on his neck making him shiver. You went back in, tongue dragging over his skin, trying to pick up any flavor.

"Don't stop." He moaned out softly. 

You froze, pulling back to look at him. "What?"

"Uh...I said hurry up." He stuttered, his cheeks flushed. "You're taking forever."

"Right..." You said, narrowing your eyes at him but deciding not to press further. You went back in, kissing and tasting until you were certain of the flavor.

"Mango." You said confidently, pulling back.

"Y-yeah." He breathed, his voice shaky. "You're good. Really, really good."

You couldn't miss the way he shifted awkwardly, his hands moving to adjust his sweatpants.

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Perv!bestfriend!Jisung who agreed to meet you at a bar for country night because you didn't want to go alone. You were really only there for the bull riding, so it wouldn't be that bad, he told himself.

When he arrived you were already a little tipsy, which always made you... touchier. That was never good for him because, tipsy or not, he wasn't as good at holding himself together when you got all touchy.

"Ji!" you called out, beaming when you saw him. Before he could respond, you stumbled up to him, throwing your arms around his neck. "Oh, you look sexy Ji. I like the whole cowboy look."

Jisung tried to laugh it off, but pretty much failed. He had thrown on a flannel and a hat as a joke, but the way you looked at him made it feel anything but funny. "Uh.. thanks." He muttered, sucking his teeth.

"You know what they say... Save a horse, ride a cowboy." You smiled, pressing a little closer to him, your hands sliding down his chest, fingers grazing his torso.

Jisung felt his breath hitch as you stared up at him, your teasing smile making heat creep up his neck. He let out a low chuckle, trying not to choke on his own thoughts. "Mm?" He hummed, tilting his head, almost like he didn't know exactly what you were hinting at.

You giggled and grabbed his hand, pulling him toward the bar. "Come on. I'm ready to bull ride now."

You were finally where you wanted to be, riding on the bull. Having the time of your life, and when the ride started, he couldn't look away.

Your body swayed, hips rolling and legs squeezing the bull as you threw your free hand in the air. You tossed your head back, eyes closing as you smiled.

The crowd cheered around you, but Jisung could only hear his own heartbeat, bitting his lip as his grin slowly turning into a smirk. He watched the way your body moved, the way your thighs flexed and your waist shifted. You looked so beautiful right now, imagine how you would look on top of him, his hands gripping your waist, guiding you as your body rocked in sync with his. 

Fuck, it was happening again, getting turned on by you in public. He's not a creep right? God, he was a mess—you made him a mess.

"So? How'd I do?" Your voice broke through his thoughts. 

Jisung blinked, forcing himself back to the present as you stood in front of him. "Oh! You did great." He said quickly, clearing his throat. "Who knew you were so good at bull riding?"

You laughed. "I'm a pro rider Ji." You joked, licking your lips slowly as your hand came up to rub his shoulder.

His body tensed under your touch. You had no idea what you were doing to him, did you? Or maybe you did, and you were just waiting for him to snap.

"Yeah..." He said, his voice quieter now. His gaze flickered down to your lips, lingering for just a second too long before he looked away. "I can tell."

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Perv!bestfriend!Jisung who had suggested staying in instead of going out, claiming it would be more fun to drink at home where you could "really let loose." You'd agreed of course.

You both were several drinks in, the air between you loose, the kind of looseness that only came with alcohol and the comfort of being around someone you trusted. The TV on in the background, but neither of you were paying much attention.

"Fuck, it's hot." Jisung muttered, fanning himself dramatically before tugging his shirt over his head. His toned chest and stomach were suddenly on full display, his sweats hanging just low enough to show his V-line that disappeared beneath the waistband.

You froze for a moment, your eyes lingering on him longer than they should have. You quickly looked away, but it was too late—he'd noticed.

"Take a picture, it'll last longer." He said, his voice low and teasing as he turned to you, his lips curling into a cheeky smile. His eyes slightly shut from the alcohol, holding a glimmer of mischief.

"Be quiet." You shot back laughing.

"Make me." He countered, leaning closer, his smirk growing wider.

You shook your head, laughing softly as you looked back at the TV unbothered, but you could feel his gaze still on you, burning into your skin.

"You know," he started, his voice dropping a notch, "you can touch me if you want. I know you like to be held when you're drunk."

Your head snapped toward him, your brows furrowing. "I'm fine. Seems like you want to be touched though, huh?" You teased.

His grin widened. "You wouldn't." He said, his tone daring as he leaned back against the couch, completely unbothered, but he knew exactly what he was doing.

"I wouldn't?" You responded.

"Nope. You don't have the guts." He said, that same innocent smirk on his face.

"Bet?" You challenged, leaning closer, your eyes locking with his.

He shrugged, but his eyes never left yours. "Bet."

Without breaking eye contact, you reached out and placed your hand on his bare chest. His skin was warm beneath your palm, and you could feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

"That's nothing." He said with a soft laugh, his voice was slightly strained.

"Oh really?" You said, raising a brow as your hand slid up, brushing over his collarbone before settling on the side of his neck.

"What about this?" You asked, your fingers lightly tracing his skin.

"Better..." He admitted, his voice dipping lower. Then he smirked, leaning closer until his lips were just a breath away from your ear. "But what about here?"

You pulled back slightly to see where he was gesturing, his hand rested boldly on his lap, right over the prominent bulge in his sweatpants.

"Ew Ji! You're such a creep." You laughed, hitting him lightly on the cheek.

"Hey, I was just challenging you." He said, grinning as if he hadn't just crossed a line. "And guess what? I told you you wouldn't do it, and you didn't."

"I would." You shot back, determined not to let him win.

"Oh yeah?" He said, raising a brow. "Prove it."

Your eyes narrowed at his challenge. Slowly, you reached out and placed your hand on top of his, which still rested on his lap.

"Your hand's in the way though." You smiled. 

"Oops." He said with a smug grin, sliding his hand out from under yours, leaving your palm flush against the heat of his lap.

You froze for a second, your fingers twitching as the situation fully registered.

"Ewww." You laughed, quickly pulling your hand away. "I still did it, though!"

"Yeah sure." He said, smirking as he adjusted his position. "Barely counts."

"It counts." You said.

"Then do it again." He challenged.

You stared at him for a second before smiling. "But I'm tired." You said, lying down, your head resting on his lap. 

"Scaredy cat." He whispered, his hand resting on your head. 

You fake snored, closing your eyes, leaving Jisung there with a painful hard on—and there was nothing he could do about it.  ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Perv!bestfriend!Jisung who suggested you sit on his lap for the road trip because the luggage took up one of the seats, you didn't think twice about it. Out of everyone in the car, you felt the most comfortable with him.

"All comfy? We're gonna be here for a while," Jisung asked as you adjusted yourself in his lap, settling in.

"Yeah, I'm good." You replied, leaning back slightly as the driver started the car.

The first hour passed without issue. You both alternated between scrolling on your phones and chatting. Every now and then, you'd shift to get more comfortable, and he'd tease you lightly.

"Quit squirming, you're making it worse." You didn't think much of it, but then the road got bumpier, and something started to feel... off.

It began with his breathing, heavier than normal. You ignored it at first, figuring he was just tired or zoning out, but soon he started shifting underneath you, subtly at first, then more noticeably.

"Ji... you okay?" You asked, turning your head slightly to speak over the loud music.

"Yeah, all good." He replied quickly, but his voice was strained, almost shaky.

"You sure?" You pressed, raising an eyebrow as you glanced back at him.

"Fuck-" He muttered under his breath, his head tipping back against the headrest. "Yes, just... just stay still, okay?"

Now you were suspicious. His flushed cheeks and the way his hands were gripping you told a different story.

Before you could say anything else, the car hit another bump in the road. You felt him stiffen beneath you, a low, breathy moan escaping his lips, just loud enough for you to hear. His arms instinctively wrapped around your waist, holding you firmly in place.

"Ji... are you-"

Another bump cut you off, and this time, he couldn't hold back a whimper. His hands tightened on your hips, pressing you down against him as he let out a shaky exhale near your ear.

"Fuck, oh my god." He murmured, almost to himself. You felt him subtly grind his hips upward, using the motion of the car as an excuse to move against you.

"Ji stop, what are you doing?" You said, your face heating up as you realized exactly what was happening.

"I... I can't." He stuttered, his voice breathy and desperate. "Just... stay still. Please."

But he didn't stay still. As the car bounced over the uneven road, he began moving you deliberately, gripping your waist and subtly guiding you to grind against him. Each bump only making it worse.

"Fuck." He whimpered, his lips brushing against your shoulder as he buried his face against your back. "I'm almost there."

Your heart raced as you froze, his breathing growing heavier, his hips pressing up harder into you as he let out another moan.

"Jisung seriously..."

"Shit, I'm coming." He groaned softly, his grip tightening as his body shuddered beneath you.

You felt him jerk slightly, and then... warmth. Your eyes widened as you realized what had just happened.

"Sorry." He whispered, his face buried against you in shame. Before you could say anything, he shouted to the driver.

 "I really need a bathroom break!"

The car pulled into a gas station, and Jisung bolted out, awkwardly covering himself as he rushed inside. You sat there, frozen in disbelief, your mind racing.

As you waited, you overheard the driver talking to someone in the back.

"Looks like we mispacked...somehow. There's enough room for all the luggage now. Y/n can have a seat to herself."

You blinked in confusion. How could they have mispacked after the trip started?

When Jisung finally returned, his face was a mix of embarrassment and forced nonchalance. He avoided your gaze as he climbed back into the car, muttering an apology under his breath.

"So uh..." He started, scratching the back of his neck. 

"Guess you don't have to sit on my lap anymore."

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[daddydindjarin]

Chapter 2: Echoes

Pairing: Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x F!Reader Rating: 18+ Mature Wordcount: 7295 Summary: You navigate the chaos of PTMC with the usual rhythm—routine, patients, and the steady presence of Robby. Your friendship is solid, built on years of takeout dinners and sticky notes, but lately, the lingering glances and unspoken tension are starting to blur the lines you've worked so hard to keep. Warnings: Pining, Self Worth issues, slight body dysmorphia/self image, general ER Content. A/N: This chapter is long long long, the first time I've written something that's so many words and I feel like I've poured so much into this. I always worry too much about there being too much filler, but I really hope you like it! And forgive me if I get something medical wrong, hours of googling and watching Grey's Anatomy does not replace a medical degree! As always, the dividers are by @firefly-graphics

You’ve walked into PTMC a thousand times, but today your badge feels heavier.

Maybe it’s the weight of four back-to-back shifts. Maybe it’s the caffeine still burning your tongue. Maybe it’s the fact that you haven’t stopped thinking about the way Robby’s shoulder felt under your cheek for three straight days.

You’re not in love with him. You’re not stupid enough to fall in love with your attending. You just haven’t figured out how to make your chest stop doing things when he looks at you like he did that night.

You shake your head as if you can physically remove the image of the way his eyes crinkle when he’s trying not to smile from your brain and focus on your surroundings. The sidewalk is wet. It’s not raining, but it’s the kind of Pittsburgh morning that can’t make up its mind. Cold mist clings to the edges of your hair, the kind that’ll freeze if you wait too long outside. You’ve got a coffee from the bodega on Fifth clutched in one hand and a Ziplock bag of muffins in the other. Homemade blueberry-lemon, your mom’s recipe. You told yourself they were for the nurses when you stayed up until midnight baking them in your fuzzy socks, wiping flour off your nose.

They’re not just for the nurses, and you can’t even lie to yourself about it.

You pass through the main ER doors with the same badge-swipe and tired smile you always wear, and the hospital smell hits you in the chest like it always does- antiseptic, plastic, that vague lingering scent of latex and too much living packed into too little space.

“Scout!”

Dana’s voice cuts through the noise, sharp and familiar. You don’t look up—just lift your hand in acknowledgment as you move toward the nurse’s station where she and Princess are watching you. There’s a stack of tablets charging on the counter, cords coiled like snakes. Dana’s already snapping one off and sliding it across the desk to you.

“You’re on North today. And there’s a runner in Central 5 that needs hands and a little diplomacy.” Her eyes flash with something like glee. “Should be right up your alley.”

You catch the tablet, your thumb already sliding through the patient list.

“Someone bribing us for love today?” Princess asks, clocking the muffins instantly.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you say in mock apathy, but you’re already handing the bag over. She peeks inside, makes a high-pitched squeal, and bolts toward Perlah like she’s uncovered gold. You laugh, turning your attention back to Dana. “Who’s covering trauma?”

“Robby,” she says, voice dry. “He’s still here, pretending he’s got nowhere else to be.”

You snort. “He’s gonna die in that hallway, I swear.”

“And you’ll be right there holding compressions,” Dana replies, raising an eyebrow. “Try to keep him alive, yeah? We’ve got enough ghosts in this place.”

You nod, slinging the tablet under your arm. “I’ll do my best.”

“Good girl,” she calls after you, voice crackling like static. “Get to it, Scout.”

Scout.

You almost forgot how it started, but then again, you didn’t think you’d ever forget.

You remember your intern year the way you remember storms- loud and blurry around the edges, all adrenaline and instinct. Everything felt too fast, too intense. The lights were always too bright, the monitors always too loud. You barely knew where the break room was until October.

And Robby? He was the attending who never seemed to leave. He was there when you clocked in at six and was still there when you clocked out at seven. You couldn’t tell if he just didn’t sleep or if he’d somehow hacked time and no one had noticed.

You remember the first day you worked under him. You were wearing brand-new sneakers that still pinched your toes, your badge clipped too high on your freshly ironed scrubs, and you still hadn’t figured out how to get your badge to work consistently when going through doors in the hospital. He introduced himself with that easy confidence of someone who’d done it a thousand times before. “Michael Robinavitch,” he’d said, extending a hand. “Robby, to anyone who doesn’t want me to ignore them.”

You took his hand a little too quickly. He didn’t seem to mind.

You started to say your first name, stuttering and correcting yourself last second to give him your last name. It still felt strange, introducing yourself like you were someone who belonged there. He just nodded.

“Alright,” he said, repeating your name back to you, and you pretended not to notice the blush creeping up your neck. “Let’s see if you’re as awake as you look.”

You followed him everywhere that first shift, footsteps falling into his without thought. He had a way of walking that didn’t seem rushed, but he was always on the move. You tried to match his stride, tried to keep up with the questions he asked that felt like tests, even if he never said they were. You remember the way he taught- never loud, never demanding. He’d ask you what you saw, and then he’d wait, and when you stumbled through your explanations, he’d nod, like he was turning your words over in his hands and checking them for cracks.

The first trauma you ever handled under him was chaos- a thirty-seven-year-old, car accident, broken femur, femoral artery nicked but not severed. You held pressure for thirteen minutes straight until the surgeons arrived. Your hands cramped halfway through, but you didn’t let go. Couldn’t.

When it was over, you were scrubbing the blood off your wrists at the sink, fingers still aching, water running pink and swirling down the drain. You didn’t hear him come up behind you, not until he spoke.

“You were quick.”

You’d jumped, turning too fast. Robby was leaning against the counter, arms crossed, watching you scrub with something like amusement in his eyes. You stared at him, a little winded, a little wild-eyed. “That was... that was okay?”

He raised an eyebrow. “You planning to do worse next time?”

You blinked, then shook your head. “No.”

“Good.” He patted your shoulder once lightly. “I don’t do charity cases.”

You had laughed, short and easy, and something in your chest unwound just a little, just enough to breathe.

He smiled back at you, his grin stretching across his face slowly and deliberately. “Reminded me of my dog growing up. She was always the first one out of the door, first to find whatever we lost in the park near our house. We called her Scout.”

You blinked, soap slipping through your fingers. “You’re comparing me to your dog?”

A grin spread across his face, unrepentant and easy. “Maybe. She was the best damn tracker I ever saw.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. So, you laughed and turned off the faucet.

It stuck. Perlah heard it next, then Abbott, then Dana. By the end of intern year, it was what they called you on the radio, what you signed your name as on the whiteboard when you clocked in. Scout. Steady hands, fast feet. First in, last out.

And Robby? He still calls you that, softly, like he’s still a little proud.

You can feel yourself smiling at the memory as you slip around the back, heading towards the locker room. You enter unimpeded for once and slide your coffee onto the break room counter to dig for your locker key in your bag. You just unzipped your coat when you see it—stuck to the inside of the locker door, written in Robby’s handwriting, blocky and rushed:

Don’t let the toddlers win. (Or the attendings. Or Princess.)

Underneath, a doodle. It’s a lopsided cat wielding a stethoscope like a sword.

You have to cover your mouth to keep from smiling. You’d recognize his handwriting anywhere. He must’ve been here before you, maybe early, or maybe yesterday. It doesn’t matter. You take the note down gently, fold it once, and slide it into your badge pocket behind your ID. It’s the sixth one this month.

You step back into the hallway just in time to hear him laugh. He’s at the nurse’s desk, talking with Langdon and one of the new residents- what’s her name, Santos? - and it’s the kind of laugh you don’t hear from him often, full-throated and warm. It hits you somewhere under your ribs.

You don’t stop walking. You don’t look at him. But your hands are suddenly too warm in your sleeves, and your throat feels tight around the sip of coffee you try to take.

You’re not in love with him.

You’re just tired. You’re always tired.

And he’s always… there.

You turn into North 5 and let the noise swallow you whole.

A three-year-old comes in screaming with a Lego up his nose. Princess rolls her eyes so hard you swear they click. You pop it out with a few drops of saline and alligator forceps, and he gives you a sticker of Chase from Paw Patrol like you’ve performed a miracle while his mother tries to pay you in leftover Easter candy. You take a chocolate egg with a grin and tell her it's against policy not to, making sure to note for discharge to get her pamphlets about the Parent’s Kiss when (not if, judging by the way the boy’s fingers are jammed in his nose currently) this happens again.

By 9:30, you’ve had two febrile seizures, a teenager with a dislocated shoulder from a lacrosse game, and a baby with bronchiolitis who just won’t stay above 90% O2 on room air. You ride the line between calling PICU and calling his bluff, while Perlah helps you position the pulse ox for the sixth time.

“He just likes you,” she says, watching the monitor stabilize the second you rest a hand on his chest.

“That makes one of us,” you mutter.

At ten-fifteen, a school bus sideswipes a delivery truck at Fifth and Atwood, and the ER swallows four kids and a hyperventilating driver in less than ninety seconds. The automatic doors barely finish sliding shut before Dana is there, clipboard in hand, voice carrying across the bay like she owns it.

She barks your last name and doesn’t wait for you to turn before two transport sheets hit your chest like she’s playing dodgeball. “North 7 and North 8. One of them’s bleeding like he’s getting paid for it. Get ‘em cleaned up, start a line if you have to.”

You grab the sheets before they slide to the floor. Glance down. Name scribbled at the top- Parker, Theo. Age: ten. Next to it, Tran, Megan. Age: nine.

“Are they stable?” you ask, already moving.

“Stable enough to make a mess,” Dana says. “Now go, or I’m sending Langdon in there.”

You snort. “That’s child abuse.”

“Only if he starts talking,” she fires back, grinning. But she’s already moving, chart in hand, muttering about someone in South 3 with chest pain and no damn sense of urgency.

You push through the hallway, weaving past the mess of paramedics still unloading stretchers. North 7 and North 8 aren’t far, doors marked with Dana’s handwriting scrawled across laminated whiteboards: CLEAN UP.

You take a breath. Knock once. Step inside.

The girl, Megan, is sitting cross-legged on the bed in North 7, hands out in front of her. Her eyes are huge and bright, and she’s watching the nurses with the kind of wide-eyed fascination usually reserved for fire trucks and magic tricks.

The boy in North 8 is holding his arm close to his chest, knuckles white where they clutch his sleeve. His face is pale, eyes blinking too fast, like he’s fighting back tears.

You start with Megan, kneeling in front of her, voice soft and hands steady. “Hey,” you begin, introducing yourself gently. “Can you tell me where it hurts?”

The little girl in North 7 blinks up at you, eyes big and wet. “Everywhere.”

You smile. “We can fix that.”

Her hands are scraped up raw and red, like she tried to catch herself, and a tiny bit of grit clings to her palms. You realize then: they must have scrambled out of the bus themselves. Maybe climbed out onto the pavement, bare hands skidding over concrete.

You peel on gloves one-handed, snapping them snug around your wrists. “Alright, Megan,” you say, voice soft and even. “You got a couple of scrapes, but I think we can make you as good as new. That sound okay?”

Her head bobs up and down, eyes still wide. “Is it gonna hurt?”

“Not if I can help it.” You pull the rolling tray closer with the toe of your shoe. “You want to tell me what happened?”

She looks down at her palms, frowning. “The bus hit this big truck. It went s-screech! And I fell out of my seat and hit the floor really hard.”

“Did you bump your head?”

“No… I don’t think so.” She scrunches her nose. “But I got out of the bus real fast. I went out the door on the back, and that’s when I fell and hurt my hands.”

“You got out on your own?” You nod, letting approval slip into your tone. “That was pretty brave.”

Her cheeks flush pink. “I’m brave sometimes.”

“I believe you.” You hold up a little packet of antiseptic wipes. “Okay, I’m gonna clean these scrapes, alright? It might sting, but I’ve got a secret.”

Her eyes narrow. “What kind of secret?”

You lean in like you’re letting her in on a conspiracy. “I’m really good at this. Barely even hurts. I promise.”

She nods, biting her lip, and holds her hands out. You start with gentle, slow swipes across the raw skin, careful not to push too deep. She flinches once, but you steady her wrist, murmuring soft encouragements until she breathes easier.

“See?” you say, flashing her a grin. “Not so bad.”

Her eyes are still damp, but she nods. “You’re right.”

“Yeah, I usually am.” You finish cleaning the cuts, toss the wipes into the bio bin, and unwrap a sterile bandage. “Do you have a brother or sister on the bus with you?”

“No.” She shakes her head. “Just me.”

You press the bandage into place and smooth the edges down. “Well, I think you did a pretty great job getting yourself out of there. You know that?”

Megan’s mouth twitches at the corner. “Yeah… I guess.”

You finish with her hands, pack up the kit, and set it on the tray. “Alright, Miss Brave. You’ve officially survived the worst part. I’m gonna send a nurse in to check you over, and then you’ll probably get to go home. Sound good?”

“Yeah.” She nods, firmer this time. “Thank you.”

You grin. “Anytime.”

You step out of North 7 and breathe out, just once. North 8 is next, and from the quiet, you’re guessing that Theo isn’t as much of a talker. You glance through the glass window before you open the door. He’s sitting there, hands clenched tight in his lap, eyes fixed on the floor.

You knock once on the doorframe, softly. It barely makes a sound, but his eyes flick up, quick and skittish.

“Hey there,” you say gently, introducing yourself and stepping in. You leave the door cracked behind you. Can I come in?”

He nods, almost imperceptibly.

You move slowly, no sudden motions to avoid startling him. The tray you wheeled over from North 7 is still stocked, but you’re not reaching for it yet, not until he’s ready. “You’re Theo, right?”

His hands tighten in his lap. “Yeah.”

“Okay, good.” You pull the rolling stool over, flip it around, and sit so your knees are just a little lower than his. It puts you below his eye line, and you see the tension in his shoulders ease by degrees.

He’s pale. A bruise is already flowering on his forearm, deep purple bleeding out to blue. He has a laceration above the bruise, but at first glance makes you think he won’t need stitches. His knuckles are scraped but not bleeding. His eyes flick back down to the floor.

“Looks like you had a bit of a rough morning,” you say, softening your voice. “Want to tell me what happened?”

He hesitates, his fingers tighten, twisting the hem of his jacket sleeve. “The… the bus hit something.”

You nod, patient. “That must have been really scary.”

His head jerks once. A nod. He blinks hard, and you can see the effort he’s putting into holding back tears. “It was really loud. I…I didn’t know what to do.”

“Did you get out by yourself?”

He shakes his head, eyes still locked on the floor. “The driver…he came and got me. He pulled me out.” His voice wavers. “I couldn’t move.”

You nod again, even softer. “That’s okay. You did everything right. You’re safe now.”

He doesn’t say anything, but his shoulders release just a fraction.

“Okay, Theo,” you say gently. “I’m gonna take a look at your arm, alright? Just a quick peek. I’ll be careful.”

He nods, eyes still on the floor.

You reach forward slowly, gloved hands light as you lift his wrist. “Just let me know if it hurts too much, alright?”

He nods again. Doesn’t flinch. His skin is cool, his hands still shaking. You press lightly, fingertips tracing the outline of the bruise and the laceration. “Looks like you took a bit of a hit. I’m gonna clean this up, maybe wrap it, and then get you some medicine for the pain. How’s that sound?”

He blinks, like the words don’t quite process. Then he nods.

You work in silence. Gentle wipes across the scrapes, cleaning and wrapping the laceration with practiced ease. You talk to him as you work, keeping your voice low. “You like superheroes, Theo?”

His eyes flick up, just for a second. “Yeah.”

“Got a favorite?”

He shrugs. “Spiderman.”

You smile. “Good choice. He’s a tough one.”

“He always comes back,” Theo murmurs.

Your hands still, just for a second. “Yeah,” you say, voice softer. “He always does.”

You finish wrapping Theo’s arm with slow, even movements, careful not to catch the edge of his jacket. He doesn’t flinch, just watches your hands work, eyes tracking each pull and tuck of the bandage.

“There we go,” you say, smoothing down the last bit. “All patched up. You did great.”

He nods, still not quite looking at you.

“Can I get you anything? Some juice? Crackers?”

He hesitates. “Grape juice?”

You smile. “Grape juice it is. I’ll be right back, okay?”

He nods again, so you step out, quickly grabbing the juice box from the snack cart and tucking it under your arm. When you push back into North 8, Theo’s still there, hands folded in his lap, eyes on the window now.

“Here you go.” You hand it to him and make a show of stabbing the straw into the foil. “I won’t tell anyone if you don’t.”

That gets you the tiniest smile. He takes the juice with both hands, careful not to spill. “Thanks.”

“You got it, Spiderman.” You give him a gentle pat on the shoulder. “A nurse is going to come in soon, just to check you over one last time before we get you on your way home. Alright?”

“Okay,” he whispers.

You leave him sipping his juice, staring out the window like maybe he’s watching for the bus to come back. You make it three steps down the hallway before Dana appears—tablet tucked under one arm; transport sheets fanned out in her hand like she’s dealing poker. “You done with North 7 and 8?”

You nod, a bit of gravel in your throat. “Yeah. They’re okay. Bruises. Scrapes. Shaken up, but good.”

“Good,” she says. She doesn’t slow her pace—just flicks a transport sheet in your direction like she’s throwing cards at a hat. You catch it by reflex.

“South 4,” she says, already halfway down the hall. “You’re gonna love it.”

You glance at the transport sheet. Weaver, Jamie. Age: 6.

“South 4?” you call after her. “What am I walking into?”

Dana looks back over her shoulder, eyes glinting. “Six-year-old with a marble up her nose.”

You blink. “Seriously? Another one?”

“Oh, yeah. It’s way up there. You might need a damn grappling hook.”

You snort, tucking the paper into your pocket. “I’ll let you know if I need backup.”

“If you find treasure up there, I get half,” she shoots back, and you laugh, the sound surprising even you.

You don’t see Robby for hours. Not really.

You hear him. His voice in Trauma 1. His name over the intercom. His laugh once, low and tired, echoing down the hall. But he doesn’t circle your bay, doesn’t drift your direction, doesn’t drop another note in your pocket or ask how the muffins turned out.

By the time noon rolls around, your stomach is tying itself in knots. You haven’t eaten. You’ve got a smear of someone else’s blood on your sleeve, and your hands shake a little when you go to re-glove.

That’s when the call comes in.

Pediatric full arrest. Five-year-old. Found unresponsive in the bathtub. Unknown downtime. EMS is coding en route. ETA two minutes.

The announcement cuts through the chatter like a blade, and the room stills. For half a breath, everything goes silent.

Then it erupts.

Princess is the first to move. She’s already grabbing the crash cart, pulling it up to the entrance of Peds Trauma Bay- North 3. Perlah’s at the monitors, flipping switches and plugging leads in like she’s running on instinct. You barely register the screech of the backboard being dragged across the floor. Your gloves are on, your mask is up, and you’re tying your hair back with practiced precision.

Dana strides by, slapping a tablet into your hand, eyes sharp. “Vitals are trash. Down for God-knows-how-long. CPR en route. They’ve shocked him twice.”

Your heart clenches. “How far out?”

“One minute.”

You nod. The adrenaline’s already kicking in, sharpening your focus, blurring out the rest of the room. You scan the vitals that have been transmitted from the field: HR 30, shallow and irregular. BP 60/40. Pupils sluggish. EMS bagging.

You don’t look away from the screen. “Princess, I need an IO ready.”

“Got it.”

“Perlah, I want that line started the second we stabilize.”

“On it.”

“You ready?” she asks, voice low.

You don’t answer. You don’t have to. The doors swing open, and for the first time all day, you see him. Robby is already there, tying his gown, snapping his gloves, firing off instructions with that unflinching steadiness you’ve come to rely on. His eyes meet yours for half a second—no hesitation, no doubt.

You fall in beside him like you’ve been doing it for years. Because you have.

Paramedics push through, a flurry of noise and motion, bagging him with hard, rhythmic squeezes. He’s pale- so pale- skin waxy, hair still wet. Water drips off the gurney wheels and puddles in uneven circles across the floor. Robby’s voice is calm, direct. “We’re at fourteen minutes down. One round of epi in the field. No defib needed. Let’s go.”

You move forward, voice loud and steady. “Let’s get him on the board. Keep compressions going. Princess, on the bag. Perlah, get that line started.”

Gloves snap. Monitors beep. The clock ticks loudly on the wall.

“ROSC?” you ask, voice clipped.

The paramedic shakes his head. “Not yet. Shocked twice, nothing.”

You take a breath. Robby’s eyes flick to yours. “Alright,” you say, voice firmer. “We shock him again on my count. Clear?”

“Clear.”

“One, two, three- clear!”

The jolt shudders through his tiny frame. The monitors whine. For a second, just a heartbeat, you think you see something on the screen, and then it flattens back out.

You swallow hard. “Resume compressions. Princess- bag him.”

“Bagging.”

You press your hand to his chest, feeling the way his ribs compress under your palm. “Let’s get that IO started. Push another epi. Dana, call for PICU backup.”

Dana’s already reaching for the phone. “On it.”

You keep your hands steady, your eyes never leaving his face. Then, suddenly, the monitor beeps once, twice. You almost don’t let yourself believe it. Almost don’t hear it. Then it flickers again.

A pulse.

Thin, thready, but there.

“Okay,” you breathe. “Okay. He’s back. Keep bagging. Perlah, monitor that line.”

The room exhales. You hold your breath until the pulse steadies out, just a little. Just enough.

Princess looks at you, eyes wide. “I think you got him.”

You nod once, barely moving, but your hands are shaking.

The kid’s not out of the woods, not by a mile, but he’s here, and you brought him back. You and Robby and Princess and Perlah and a trauma tech whose name you forget, and none of it matters because the monitor is singing again.

The PICU team sweeps in like cavalry. You hand off the chart, your notes, and the kid’s tiny, soaked shoe that someone found under the stretcher. The hallway is still buzzing when the PICU team wheels him away, but you’re rooted to the spot, watching the stretcher disappear around the corner. There’s a hush after, a moment where the world recalibrates, finds its footing again. You don’t move, just breathing for a moment to recenter yourself.

Robby is still beside you, hands braced on his hips, eyes trained on the floor like he’s watching the water droplets evaporate in real-time. The silence is comfortable, just two people sharing the same breath, the same heartbeat that still hasn’t quite slowed down.

“Nice call on the IO,” he says finally, voice low. “You got it in faster than I’ve ever seen.”

Your lips twitch. “Maybe you’re just slow.”

He barks out a laugh, “Yeah, okay, Scout.”

Your breath catches, just for a second. You haven’t heard that name from him in a while. Instead of calling attention to the way your heart thumps in your chest, you tilt your head, raising an eyebrow. “You questioning my reflexes, Robinavitch?”

“Never.” His voice is soft now, teasing edged with something warmer. “Wouldn’t dare.”

You nod once, like it’s a fact, and the silence falls again, stretching out like it’s daring one of you to break it. He’s still standing there, hands on his hips, looking like he’s waiting for something to happen.

It doesn’t. Not yet.

When he finally steps away, his hand brushes yours, not intentional or planned, but it lingers for a second too long, like he meant to stay. You open your mouth to say something, anything, but before you can find the words, Dana’s voice cuts through the hallway.

“Scout!” she calls, tablet in hand, marching towards you with that no-nonsense stride. “Got one for you. Head lac, 23 years old. You good?”

You shake the feeling off and nod. “Yeah, I’m good.”

Dana studies you for half a second longer, like she’s checking for cracks. “Good. It’s already a zoo in there. Go on.”

You glance back at Robby, but he’s already stepped away, hands back on his hips, talking with Princess about restocking the crash cart. His laugh echoes down the hallway, warm and familiar, and you don’t linger to listen.

Your hands feel strangely empty, like you were supposed to be holding something, or saying something, and the realization hits- what were you going to say? You barely remember opening your mouth, barely remember the breath you pulled in, ready to speak. But what would you have even said? Good job in there? Thanks for the note? You drew that cat really cute? Why do I keep feeling like I can’t breathe when you look at me like that?

You huff out a laugh, short and mostly at yourself. Right. Like you were going to drop that bomb in the middle of a hallway. Dana probably saved you from embarrassing yourself. Honestly, you should thank her for that.

You turn on your heel, toss your gloves into the nearest bio bin, and grab a fresh pair off the cart, the rhythm automatic- peel, snap, flex. You roll your neck, shake the tension from your fingers, and step back into the current.

By the time you hit the step back towards the central hub of the ER, the noise is already swelling. Nurses move with quick, practiced steps. Monitors beeping in tandem. You catch Javadi’s eye where she’s fumbling with a blood pressure cuff and nod her toward the right drawer. She stumbles a thank-you, and you’re already moving past.

The adrenaline hums back to life, threading its way through your muscles, and just like that, you’re back.

Hours later and the hallway is still humming with the steady rhythm of triage. The shuffle of carts, the distant beeping of monitors, and the soft murmur of voices filtering out of rooms, it all washes over you as you tuck your tablet under your arm, already scanning the board for your next patient. You spot North 2- triaged for chest pain, sixty-two, history of hypertension. You tap the screen to pull up the vitals and information, head to the room, swiping your badge at the door. 

Inside, Langdon is already there, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, a look on his face that teeters between amusement and impatience. He catches your eye and smirks. “Look who decided to show up. Thought I’d be seeing the man of the hour alone.” 

You roll your eyes good-naturedly, stepping around him to wash your hands. “I didn’t know you missed me that much, Langdon.” 

He chuckles, “More like I was hoping you’d save me from trying to convince Mr. Jackson here that Diet Coke is, in fact, not a cure for high blood pressure.”

You glance over your shoulder at the man propped up on the bed. Ray Jackson is wiry and weathered, cheeks flushed, and his hands are gripping the thin blanket like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered. He sees you watching him and grins widely, showing off teeth that are coffee-stained. 

“Well, if it isn’t my two favorite doctors,” he crows. “Didn’t think I’d get the A-Team today.”

You snort, grabbing a fresh pair of gloves from the box on the wall. “That’s because we’re the only ones that put up with you, Ray.” 

He laughs, a crackling sound that borders on a wheeze. “Come on, Scout, you know I’m indestructible. Living off bacon, and Diet Coke and God’s good graces for sixty-two years, and I’m still here to annoy you.” 

Langdon scoffs, stepping up to the monitor. “Yeah, you’re invincible. You were invincible the last heart attack, too, right? And the one before that?” 

Ray waves him off flippantly, unconcerned. “What can I say? I’m a bona fide miracle.” 

You press your stethoscope to his chest, the familiar thump of his heart filling your ears. His rhythm is steady, but heavy, like a drumbeat that’s just a little too slow. You catch Langdon’s eye and nod, and he’s already tapping through the screen with quick efficiency. 

“Can you breathe in for me?” you gently ask. He complies, chest rising with the effort, a slight wheeze threading through his exhale. “Alright, I’m gonna get you some fluids and start you back on the meds we talked about last time, just to get that pressure down. Sound good?”

He waves his hand again like he’s brushing off a fly. “You’re the boss. But I’m tellin’ ya, it’s the bacon that’s keeping me alive. Stopping now would probably kill me faster.” 

Langdon steps up beside you, his voice low. “Think it’s just the BP, or are we looking at something bigger this time?”

You glance back at the monitor, watching the numbers blink back at you. “Hard to say. I want a scan, just in case. You clear for a ride upstairs?” 

Langdon nods, already tapping on his tablet. “I’ll call it in. Again.” 

You turn back to Ray, keeping your voice even. “Alright, Ray, we’re gonna take a trip up to radiology, just to make sure we’re not missing anything. You okay with that?” 

He nods, grinning again. “Long as you’re the one driving.”

You snort, pulling off your gloves with a snap. “I’ll let Langdon do the heavy lifting. I’m just here to make you look good.” 

Langdon rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue. “Don’t worry, Scout. I’ll let you take the credit.” 

You grin, tapping your badge on the way out. “Damn right you will.” 

Langdon lingers at the door for a second, hand on the frame. His voice softens just a touch. “We’re gonna lose him one of these days, you know?”

You don’t let your smile falter, but his words settle in your chest heavily. “Not today.” 

He nods once, eyes flicking back to Ray, still grinning on the bed. “Not today.” 

Langdon wheels Ray out of the room, and you watch them go for a second, hands braced on your hips. Ray’s voice echoes back down the hall, something about his diet being better than any of your pills, and Langdon’s easy, practiced laugh in response. It’s the kind of banter that only comes with repetition- too many visits, too many second chances. You shake your head, flexing your fingers to get the tension out, and turn back toward the nurse’s station. 

Princess is there, leaning over the counter, tablet in hand. “You still alive?” she asks, eyes flicking up. 

“Barely,” you respond, dropping your tablet onto the counter with a soft thud. “Did you see the board? Ray’s still kicking, and keeping us employed.” 

Princess nods, barely hiding her smile. “He’s never gonna leave. You should’ve seen him last year- came in for chest pain, and left with a milkshake.” 

You huff out an exasperated laugh. “Of course he did.” You take a second to breathe, leaning against the counter and stretching out your back. Your shoulder cracks audibly, and Princess winces.

“That sounded like it hurt.”

“It always sounds like that,” you say, grimacing as you rub your shoulder. 

She shakes her head, tapping on the screen of her tablet again. “Well, try not to break yourself. We can’t afford to lose another body in here.” 

You grin, already moving away. “No promises.” 

You slip back into the flow of the ER easily. A fall in South 3, a fever in North 9, and a sprained wrist in Central 2. It’s a dance you know the steps to well, the kind where you don’t have to think, you just move. 

It’s nearly the end of your shift when you pass the break room and see him again. Robby is leaning back against the counter, arms crossed, sipping from one of those ridiculous oversized water bottles that you’re pretty sure he’s had since before you were an intern. The sticker of a whale you stuck to it in your second year of residency is still there, faded and peeling, but he never removed it.  He spots you and raises his eyebrows. “You hanging in there?”

“Barely,” you say again, your go-to response for everyone asking the same question in a different way. You lean against the doorframe, crossing your arms tight over your chest like you’re keeping something from spilling out. “I heard you lost a fight with Gloria.” 

He winces. “If you call listening to her talk about Press Gainey scores for half an hour a fight, then yeah. I got my ass kicked.” 

You laugh, grinning up at him. “Should’ve called me. I’d have sent Perlah in as backup.” 

Robby’s eyes sparkle with amusement. “Perlah would have made it worse.” You don’t argue, you both know it’s true. 

The silence stretches on a little too long, but you don’t move-you can’t. At some point, he ditched his jacket, his scrub top pulled tightly across his broad shoulders, and it’s not like you’re staring. You’re not. You’re just…looking. 

It’s different. 

He catches your gaze, and you blink, heat creeping up the back of your neck. You drop your eyes, focusing on the floor, the scuff marks from shoes moving too quickly. “Alright,” you finally say, your voice softer than you mean for it to be. “I gotta head back out.”

“Yeah,” he nods, picking his water bottle up and lifting it to you in a mock salute. “Don’t let the man keep you down.” 

You roll your eyes, but it’s half-hearted. “Try not to let Gloria suck your soul dry.” 

“We'll see how it goes.” 

You’re halfway down the hall before you chance a look back over your shoulder. He’s still leaning against the counter, still watching you. You almost stop walking. Almost turn around. Almost-

But you don’t. 

Instead, you keep moving, the moving parts of the ER sliding back around you like a protective armor. It’s better this way. It has to be. 

Because it’s easier to be just Scout- reliable, quick, not taking up too much space. It’s easier to be his colleague, his friend. The one he laughs with, shares coffee with, tosses sticky notes back and forth with, watches sports with (that admittedly you don’t care much about, you just enjoy spending time with him). If you stay in the background, if you don’t reach too far, then you don’t risk becoming too much.

Because the truth is, you know you take up space, too much of it sometimes. Your hips always bump the edge of the counter, and you’ve long since learned not to tuck your scrub top into your bottoms. It’s not that you hate it, but you know what it looks like. You know how it must seem. 

And Robby- well. Robby has always felt like someone who belonged in the foreground. He’s solid, clean edges, like he was carved out of something stronger, even though you know he has his demons lurking just underneath his skin, too. People notice him when he walks into a room, they clear a space for him. 

You don’t.

And maybe that’s why you don’t say anything. Won’t say anything. Because the last thing you want is to be just another person who tries to hold on too tight, who tries to be more than she should be. 

You take a deep breath and straighten your shoulders, glancing back one last time to catch him laughing at something McKay just said, and then you turn away. One foot in front of the other. Keep moving.

The shift finally comes crawling to an end with a flurry of charting, tablet taps, and handoffs. You make jokes with John Shen as you transfer your remaining patients over, blush at Ellis Parker’s flirting, and remind Jack Abbott that there are muffins in the break room, some hidden in the healthy snack cabinet just for him. Dana finds you before you leave, pressing a protein bar into your hand like she knows you’ll forget to eat otherwise. “Don’t let me find you passed out on the sidewalk,” she warns, but you can see the fondness in her features. 

You grin, sliding it into your bag. “I make no promises.” 

Perlah throws you a two-fingered salute from across the hall, her voice cutting through the noise. “Get some sleep, Scout. You look like you died three weeks ago.” 

“Love you too,” you call back, waving over your shoulder. 

The waiting room is still full as you make your way outside, and the buzz of the ER is finally snuffed out the second you pass the doors. The air hits you, immediately slicing through the warmth you’d built up inside. The city is loud, buses coughing exhaust, footsteps pounding on pavement, and distant music you can’t begin to place. 

You tug your coat tighter around yourself and start the familiar trek home. It’s a few blocks away, just enough time to shake off the adrenaline and let your mind unravel. The streets are slick with mist, glimmering under the streetlights, puddles reflecting shards of neon. You step over them carefully, sneakers scraping the wet concrete. 

You’ve walked this path hundreds of times- thousands, probably. Past the corner bodega with the flickering sign, the one that sells coffee Robby claims is undrinkable, but you get anyway. Past the bookstore with the barred windows and dusty “half off” sign that hasn’t changed since you moved to this neighborhood four years ago. Past the Chinese restaurant with the hand painted sign, the one that smells like ginger and sesame oil even when it’s closed, where you and Robby pick up chicken and broccoli (for you) and Kung Pao Chicken (for him) on nights when the Pittsburgh Penguins have a game, laughing over the fortune cookies on your couch. 

You stop at the light, waiting for the crosswalk to flash, and your breath fogs in front of you. You watch it dissipate for a moment. It’s quiet out here, nothing like the chaos you just stepped out of. Nothing like the sharpness of Robby’s laugh, still echoing somewhere in your ribs. 

You think of him leaning against the counter, arms crossed, and his grin half-hidden behind his water bottle. How easy it always is with him. How easy it would be just…say something.

But you know you won’t. Because you know better. 

The light flickers green, and you step forward, shoulders hunched against the wind, head down. One foot in front of the other because it’s what you’re good at. 

By the time you reach your apartment, your fingers are numb, and your cheeks are red and raw from the wind. You fumble with your keys, cursing under your breath when the lock sticks like it always does, and then you’re inside. The heat slams into you, almost overwhelmingly so, but you don’t move to adjust it. You drop your bag by the door, peel off your coat, and collapse onto the couch without bothering to change. 

Junebug stretches lazily from her perch on the windowsill, blinking at you like she’s judging your life choices. You toss her a half-hearted wave. “Don’t start. I fished you out of a dumpster, you don’t get to judge me.” 

She meows once, soft but insistent, and you huff out a laugh. “I know, I know. You’re starving.”

You get up, feeling the weight of the day in your bones, and shuffle into the kitchen to fill her dish. She bumps against your ankles, winding herself around you with the kind of affection only bribery can buy. When she’s fed and content, you make your way back to the living room, falling back into the couch cushions with a groan. The silence surrounds you, and you close your eyes just to breathe it in. 

Somewhere across the city, Robby is probably still at the hospital, finishing up notes, double-checking scans, leaning back in his chair with his feet propped up on his desk the way he does when he thinks no one is watching. You can almost picture it, the way he rubs the back of his neck, the way he taps his pen against his knee when he’s thinking too hard. 

You shake your head, dragging a hand over your face. Stop. You won’t think about him right now. Not when you name what it means. Not when you’re not brave enough to find out if it means anything at all. So instead, you pull a blanket over your shoulder and close your eyes. Junebug hops onto the back of the couch, curling into a loaf shape above your head. The city bustles outside your window, traffic and life moving forward, steady and indifferent. 

And you drift.

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[melwnst]

────── ⋆⋅☆BAD DREAMS PROTECTOR, DEAN WINCHESTER

summary. Dean tries to be there for you when you have nightmares.

established relationship, Dean is just so…sweet.

word count. 831

please interact and request if you have anything for me<3 this is loosely based on this YouTube video I stumbled upon last night! Helped me fall asleep lol. He’s so precious.

supernatural masterlist

my full masterlist/support my work!

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You know that you’re screaming, but you can’t stop. Your throat is burning, your hands are hurting from gripping the sheets so tight, and it’s like you’re awake but you can’t physically wake up, you’re trapped.

This isn’t the first time, so Dean sleeps with one eye open. It’s not like he’s used to sleeping well anyway, he barely sleeps at all because he’s always on alert, but with you? He wouldn’t mind having to stay awake every night for the rest of his life if he has to.

It started gradually. Most nights, you’d just wake up in sweat, and Dean would hear you move, but wouldn’t know about the nightmare, you wouldn’t tell him anyway thinking he has enough to worry about as it is.

Then the screaming starts, the panic and the screeching hoping to reach even another galaxy if it helps, because most times you can’t wake up, so you scream. You scream until your throat bleeds. You scream until it hurts so much that you have no choice but to wake up. You scream because you know that Dean is next to you trying his best to wake you up.

It keeps happening though. After the first night you hope and pray that it was a one time thing. But the second night hits, and you’re already sore. You haven’t been able to count how many nights it’s been now.

But you’re back to screaming for what feels like the hundredth time. Dean is already by your side the moment he hears you move. You’re not even screaming yet, but he’s right there with you, and god help him something hurts you even if it’s all in your head. He can’t stand the thought of that.

He shakes you, at least he tries, but no can do. You know you’re awake, you feel him, you hear him, but the images are still here, and you can’t stop. No matter how hard you try, the screaming doesn’t stop. Until it does. You’re not sure how long it’s been, how long it lasted. It could’ve been seconds, it could’ve been hours. You’re sure you heard Sam come it at some point, asking if you were okay, but Dean did what Dean does, he told him it was fine, that he didn’t need his help.

Dean holds you, you’re not screaming anymore, you’re afraid to speak because it already burns. But he holds you. His arms are around you, and he’s telling you that everything is going to be okay, he tells you not to speak, and he tells you that you’re okay. He’s trying to make you believe that, it’ll be okay. But it won’t. To you- at least, it won’t. Because you don’t even know why the nightmares started in the first place. You’ve been through rough times, all three of you, but you seemed to be doing alright. The last hunt wasn’t anything different than usually, it wasn’t that haunting, or that scary, you were used to it. You try to rack your brain to find an answer. If it’s something wrong with you, or if you’re losing your mind.

Dean holds you through it.

Dean understands, because the reason why he doesn’t sleep isn’t just to keep an eye on you, it’s because he’s afraid he’ll wake up screaming too. He can’t remember the last night he slept for more than 10 minutes at a time.

‘Shh. You’re okay. Take it easy.’ He tries to reassure you, maybe he’s even trying to make himself believe that. You hear him, and that’s when you realize that you completely crumbled, you’re a mess. You can’t even recall what the nightmare was about, but to leave you in such state, it must’ve been horrible. You’re lying in dean’s arms, and you have no control over what falls from your eyes. It just does- and you let it. Dean lets it- because he understands. Dean lets it- because he’s afraid that if he doesn’t, you’ll do more than just break, you’ll go insane. Maybe he will too.

‘It’s okay, I’m right here.’ He doesn’t have to tell you it was just a bad dream, you know. He doesn’t have to lie. He’s here- and that matters- that helps.

‘You wanna tell me about it?’ One of his hand is in your hair, gently tracing patterns there.

‘I-no I don’t remember.’ Your eyes are open still, and you look confused. Dean can’t see it, but he feels it in your voice.

‘That’s alright sweetheart. Just try to rest.’ His voice is whispery, like he’s scared that if he talks too loud, he’ll just hurt you more.

But you listen to him. You lay on his chest, and the sound of his heartbeat calms you down. You know it’ll happen again, but you’ll figure it out, because you always do. And with Dean by your side, you start to believe that maybe it’s not so bullshit.

Maybe you’ll be fine.