#it breaks down with the simplest things

[malachitezmeyka]

Idk why I thought the new year would suddenly bring immense change to me as a person, it was such a childish belief, I can’t believe I let myself fall for it. The years go by but I remain the messed up anxious wreck who starts crying the second she’s left alone with her thoughts. The new year won’t change anything, nothing will

[gf2bellamy]

love — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) summary: spencer accidentally reveals your secret relationship by kissing you in front of the whole team—oh, and blurting out “I love you” for the very first time, too. content warnings: secret relationship , mention of a case , spencer being very worried about the unsub and case but its mostly fluff !! a/n: haiiii !!!!! hope you didn't miss my secret relationship fanfics too much </3 also i finished writing this like 10 minutes ago but i was too excited not to post it

Things were heating up.

You were getting closer, so close, to catching the unsub. The map was sprawled across the table in front of you, dotted with red circles.You traced another location with your marker, murmuring quietly under your breath, a habit you'd most definitely picked up from your boyfriend.

Spencer was nearby, slouched in a chair, mumbling to himself in a similar fashion. His brows were furrowed. You could tell this case was hitting him harder than most. Maybe it reminded him of something, or someone. Whatever it was, it weighed on him, and that meant it weighed on you, too.

You took care of him as much as you could, though it wasn’t easy with your relationship still hidden from the team. Last night, you’d slipped into his hotel room after everyone else had turned in, finding him already buried in files. You didn’t ask if he was okay, he wouldn’t have answered honestly. Instead, you’d wordlessly sat beside him on the bed, running your fingers through his hair until his shoulders finally relaxed.

“Want to cuddle?” you’d murmured, and he hadn’t even hesitated before nodding, letting you pull him down against the pillows. He’d tucked himself under your chin, his breath warm against your collarbone, and you’d held him, fingers carding gently through his curls until his breathing evened out.

Of course, sneaking out at 6 a.m. had been its own mission. It took you twenty minutes to escape Spencer’s sleepy, koala-like grip. He kept murmuring thank-yous against your skin, kisses trailing from your collarbones to your jaw, like punctuation marks of affection. It had taken everything in you not to crawl back into bed with him.

Now, back in the briefing room, you had even more reason to catch this unsub.

"I got it." Spencer’s voice broke through the silence.

His head snapped up, and the words came pouring out of him like a dam breaking. Facts, patterns, dates, connections. The rest of the team, who had been working in silence, immediately turned their attention to him, hanging onto every word.

“Okay. Morgan and Reid—I want you with me,” Hotch announced the moment Spencer finished unraveling the unsub’s pattern.

Garcia’s fingers flew across her keyboard, sending the coordinates to their phones in a flurry of clicks. This was one of those rare, high-stakes cases where even she had to join them in the field. “Location’s live on your devices,” she said, her usual bubbly tone subdued. Hotch gave her a curt nod of thanks before striding toward the door, Morgan right behind him.

Spencer, however, seemed miles away as he snatched his brown coat from the back of his chair. His mind was already elsewhere, locked onto the unsub. Then, just before following the others, he turned to you.

You were still standing by the board, capping the dry-erase marker and watching him with a soft, worried smile. He seemed exhausted.

“Be careful,” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

He blinked, as if snapping back into himself for just a second, and mumbled, “I’ll be okay. I’ll see you later.”

His fingers caught your chin, thumb beneath your jaw, index curled gently under your bottom lip. Time stuttered. His kiss was fleeting, achingly tender, and then his lips brushed yours again as he whispered, "I love you," like it was the simplest truth in the world. And then he was gone, the door swinging shut behind him.

Silence.

Absolute, suffocating silence.

A pin drop would’ve echoed like a gunshot.

“Oh. my. god.” Garcia’s shriek could’ve shattered glass.

Your fingers flew to your lips, still tingling from the ghost of his kiss. The rest of the team was frozen, Rossi’s eyebrows had nearly disappeared into his hairline, JJ’s mouth was slightly open, and Emily looked like she was torn between laughing and demanding an immediate explanation.But you barely registered any of it.

Because Spencer had just said I love you. For the first time.And he’d done it in front of everyone.

Garcia was already flailing her hands, rapid-fire questions spilling out of her“Since when? How did I not know? Oh my god, the touching, the lingering looks, the—!”

But all you could hear was the echo of his voice, playing over and over in your mind like a broken record.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

Your face burned. Your heart threatened to beat out of your chest.

You didn’t even notice Emily waving her hand in front of your face until her voice cut through the haze. “Earth to lovergirl,” she teased, grinning.

Blinking, you turned toward the team, all of them staring at you with varying degrees of shock, amusement, and sheer anticipation.

“What?” you managed, voice still breathless.

“That’s all you have to say?” JJ asked, plopping onto the edge of the desk in disbelief. She grabbed a Cheeto from an open bag, crunching loudly. Garcia was still gaping at you, hands pressed dramatically over her mouth. Behind her colorful glasses, her eyes were massive. Rossi sipped his coffee slowly, clearly judging the entire situation.

“Huh?” you repeated dumbly.

Emily’s smirk softened just a fraction. “You okay?”

You stared at her, still dazed, before muttering, “He said ‘I love you.’”

Another beat of silence. Garcia gasped. “That was his first time saying it?” Her hands flew away from her mouth, gripping the sides of her head like she might explode.And then chaos. Again.

“Oh my god—”

“Since when—”

“Wait, wait, wait—that was the first—”

You spent what felt like hours fielding an avalanche of questions, barely able to catch your breath between them. At first, you tried to dodge them, played dumb, gave vague smiles, busied yourself with the files on the table, but it was pointless. Garcia saw straight through you, pinning you with a look that practically screamed, You’re not getting out of this, sweetheart.

So you caved. “Six months,” you said quietly. There was a loud collective gasp. Garcia clutched her chest like she’d been personally betrayed. ( She was. ) “Six?! Six whole months? And you didn’t say anything?”

You winced. “We were trying to be subtle.”

“You failed!” she cried, throwing her hands up.

Emily laughed. “Okay, next—who made the first move?”

You hesitated, cheeks burning. “He did.” Another round of dramatic gasps echoed around the room. Even Rossi raised his brows, murmuring, “Didn’t peg him for the bold one.”

“He’s… not. Not usually,” you admitted with a smile you couldn’t quite suppress. “But with me… I guess he was.”

And on it went, question after question, as if they were making up for six months of missed gossip in a single sitting. It was messy, chaotic, borderline embarrassing, but it was also kind of nice. Being known. Being happy. Then came the final question.

JJ’s voice was quieter than the others, softer. “Do you love him too?”

You froze.For a moment, the whole room seemed to hold its breath. Even Garcia stopped typing. You looked at JJ, then down at your hands, then back up again. And nodded.

Garcia screeched, practically launching herself out of her chair. “I knew it!” she howled.

Emily beamed, her smile so wide it crinkled the corners of her eyes, and even Rossi let out a low chuckle, shaking his head like a proud uncle.You were a little overwhelmed, okay, maybe a lot, but underneath the chaos, you also felt a sheer amount of happiness that you've never felt before.

Hotch interrupted the moment by calling Garcia. “Unsub’s in custody. We’re on our way back. Everyone’s okay.”

Your breath left you in a rush. Spencer was okay. Your heart, though, it hadn’t quite gotten the message. It was still thundering in your chest, hammering against your ribs with every second that ticked by.

The others must’ve noticed the way you kept glancing at the door, because JJ finally nudged you gently toward it. “Go wait. We’ll clean up.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but Garcia waved a dismissive hand. “Honey, please. You’ve got heart-eyes so intense it’s blinding. Go stand dramatically in the doorway like you’re in a movie or something. We’ve got this.”And so you did.

You found yourself hovering in the doorway of the conference room, a half-hearted folder in your hands, pretending to sort through paperwork as you stared through the glass. Watching. Waiting.

Then you heard it, the sound of the SUV pulling up outside. Every head in the room snapped up like it was choreographed. Honestly, for a team of professional FBI agents, they acted like a bunch of high schoolers most of the time.

You glanced back over your shoulder. Sure enough, all of them were watching you, wide-eyed and waiting like you were the final act in a romantic drama. You rolled your eyes with a half-smile, dropped the stack of files onto the table and walked out of the conference room.

As you left, you heard Emily mutter, “Garcia, don’t follow her.”You didn’t wait to hear the response.

The moment you reached the main hallway of the precinct, the doors opened and there he was.

Spencer stepped inside, his curls slightly mussed, cheeks flushed from the cold, and as soon as his eyes found yours, he smiled. That gentle, crooked smile that always made you smile.You barely registered Derek behind him, hand gripping the cuffed unsub and throwing you a confused look when you didn’t even acknowledge him. Even Hotch glanced over in surprise as you made a beeline for Spencer.

“Hey—wait, what—?” Spencer managed, eyes widening as you grabbed his arm and all but dragged him down the corridor.

You shoved open the nearest empty office, tugged him inside, and closed the door firmly behind you, leaning back against it.

“Did you mean it?” you asked, your voice urgent, breath a little uneven.

Spencer blinked. “Mean what?”

You stared at him in stunned disbelief. “You’re kidding.”

“What?” he said again, completely baffled. “What did I do? Did Morgan tell you about what happened in the field? I know I wasn’t supposed to go near the unsub without backup, but I swear, I had it under control—”He started to ramble, hands gesturing as he pouted in that way he did when he was simultaneously nervous and a little too proud of himself. “He had a weapon, but I de-escalated him. You would’ve been proud.”

“You did what?” you interrupted, your mind now juggling two emotional crises.

Spencer blinked again. “Wait—so Morgan didn’t tell you?”

“No,” you muttered, your voice flat with disbelief. You shook your head slowly, trying to process it all. The nerves, the kiss, the I love you, and the fact that Spencer genuinely hadn’t realized what he’d done.

Spencer’s expression shifted from confusion to concern in a heartbeat. “Hey,” he said softly, stepping closer, his hand reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Did I do something wrong?”

His voice was careful, gentle, and far too kind for how scrambled your brain felt. “Can you tell me what it is?” he added, tilting your chin up just enough so your eyes met his.

Your mouth opened slightly, but the words were stuck. How could he not know? How could he be looking at you like that, all wide eyes and soft brows and pouty lips, and not know?

“Spencer,” you said finally, his name sharp on your tongue.

“Yes?” he replied immediately, those puppy-dog eyes locking onto yours like he was bracing for impact.

“You kissed me.”

His brows pulled together. “I’m—I’m sorry?” he said, clearly confused.

If you weren’t so worked up, you might have laughed at his face. But your heart was hammering, and your nerves were tangled in knots.

“You did it in front of everyone,” you clarified. And then you said it , softly, barely above a whisper. “And then you said—”

“I love you.” His voice cut in before you could finish.You watched as the memory clearly snapped back into place. Realization washed over his face, followed immediately by a bright, burning blush that crept up his neck and across his cheeks.

“Mhmm,” you hummed, nodding slowly, your teeth sinking into your lower lip as you studied his reaction.

Spencer rubbed the back of his neck, eyes wide, flustered in a way that only made you want to kiss him senseless. “Oh,” he breathed, glancing away for a second before meeting your eyes again. 

“Yeah… oh.” you repeated. Both of you stayed silent for a second.

“I did mean it,” he stammered out.

A smile tugged at your lips, finally. After an hour and a half of bouncing knees, chewed lips, the words you’d been dying to hear had finally landed.

“I love you,” Spencer repeated, a little firmer this time, like he needed to hear it aloud again to make it real. Like maybe saying it twice would help his brain catch up to his heart.The warmth that bloomed inside you was instant. You weren’t sure you’d ever felt this happy in your entire life.

Then, of course, Spencer kept talking.

“Did I say it too soon? I’m not sure. On average, men say it around three to three and a half months into a relationship, while women usually wait closer to four months,” he rambled, already blushing furiously, eyes darting anywhere but your face. “And I know we’ve been dating for six months, so technically it took me twice as long, which isn’t statistically ideal, but honestly I almost said it on our first date, which definitely wouldn’t have been optimal and—”

He was spiraling. Fast.

So you did the only thing that would shut him up. You stepped forward, gently grabbed his face in both hands, and said, soft but certain: “I love you too, Spencer.”

He stared. Just stared, like he was trying to memorize this exact moment, burn it into his brain with all its warmth and disbelief and wonder. You watched his expression shift, first stunned, then relieved, then something so bright and boyish it made your heart lurch.You’d never seen him so happy before.

Well, once. That first time you kissed him. He’d looked a little like this, dazed and blissed out. But now he looked like his whole world had just clicked into place.

“Yeah?” he breathed, voice shaky with excitement, his grin stretching so wide it practically crinkled his entire face.

“Yeah.” You laughed through the word, nodding, the emotion bubbling up in your chest and spilling into every part of you. Your smile was a mirror of his.

Spencer let out a breathy laugh and pulled you into him, arms wrapping tightly around your waist as if he couldn’t stand the idea of space between you anymore. You buried your face into the crook of his neck, grinning against his skin.

“This is real, right?” he asked into your hair, voice muffled. “I’m not dreaming? Because sometimes I do dream about you saying that and then I wake up and it’s just—”

You cut him off with a kiss to the warm skin of his throat.“It’s definitely real,” you mumbled against him.

Spencer let out a shaky breath and held you tighter. You stayed like that, wrapped up in each other, both of you grinning like idiots. It felt absurdly, wonderfully perfect. Then you muttered into his neck, “You do know you outed our relationship to everyone, right?”

Spencer’s arms stiffened around you just slightly. “Yeah. Totally. I knew that. I did it on purpose,” he lied, too quickly, voice pitched a little too high.

You giggled and pulled back, hands still resting on either side of his neck. “You’re a terrible liar, Dr. Reid.”

He didn’t even bother to defend himself, just gave you an adorable, crooked grin and leaned in to peck your lips. “Yeah, I am,” he mumbled, brushing his nose against yours.

You kissed him back, just once, then poked a finger into the center of his chest. “Also, we��re going to talk about your little superhero stunt at home.”

Spencer blinked. “Right,” he echoed, suddenly very aware of his earlier reckless attempt to talk the unsub down without backup. “Are you mad?”

“I’m not not mad,” you replied, giving him a look. “But I love you, so I’m saving the full lecture for later.”

He winced slightly, then smiled. “Fair.”

You let your fingers drift through the curls on his forehead, brushing them back gently. “Well,” you sighed, “for now, we have to go out there… into the land of chaos and gossip.”

Realization dawned slowly on Spencer’s face. His eyes widened. “Oh no. Garcia definitely filled Morgan in already.”

“And Rossi’s probably already told Hotch,” you added grimly.

“And JJ and Emily—”

“—were there when it happened,” you finished.

You both stood there in mutual silence for a moment, dread creeping in. Spencer cleared his throat. “Maybe we could… go out the window?”

You laughed, smacking his chest lightly. “Nice try, genius.”

He gave a helpless little shrug. “I had to try.”

Taking a deep breath, you grabbed the handle of the door behind you. “Ready?” you asked.

“Absolutely not,” Spencer said without hesitation.

You squeezed his hand anyway. “Come on, lover boy.”

To say that the conference room was chaos would’ve been an understatement.Garcia let out a sound that could only be described as a squeal-gasp hybrid, immediately launching into a breathless barrage of questions that involved timelines and pet names. Morgan clapped Spencer on the back so hard he nearly stumbled, muttering something about “my boy finally growing up.” JJ just smirked from the corner, quietly sipping her coffee.Hotch had walked by at one point, muttered something that suspiciously sounded like “About time,” and kept moving without missing a beat.

The jet ride was somehow worse.

You’d sat next to Spencer, hoping for a quiet, post-case decompression. Instead, you were subjected to Garcia and Morgan playing twenty questions from across the aisle. Rossi, pretending to read, chuckled behind his wine glass the entire time. At one point, you tried to rest your head on Spencer’s shoulder, and he’d blushed so hard you thought he might combust.

You weren’t sure if he was embarrassed from the attention or just overwhelmed from finally saying what he’d been keeping in for months. Probably both.

But the days that followed? Even worse.

Because the teasing never stopped. Emily sent you heart emojis during briefings. Morgan kept calling Spencer lover boy, which you regretted giving him the vocabulary for. Garcia had created a mood board on her computer and refused to delete it. Even Hotch raised an eyebrow when you asked to share a rental car with Spencer.

But through it all, Spencer stayed by your side. Every awkward joke, every embarrassing comment, every not-so-subtle glance,he never flinched. If anything, he leaned into it. He held your hand in the bullpen and he kissed your cheek at the end of the day. It was domestic chaos.

Romantic disaster. Beautiful, awkward, completely perfect hell.

[patchwork-crow-writes]

Ralsei has known what's been going on with Kris the ENTIRE time, and once you realise that, EVERYTHING he says and does around them makes a thousand times more sense. And you realise that, far from dismissing Kris's "true" self in favour of a copy, he has been working tirelessly to prop them up, to validate their most basic and fundamental choices, to keep them from the brink of despair, and perhaps even death.

We always thought it was strange, how Ralsei seems to baby Kris at times - how he offers heaps of praise upon them for performing the simplest of tasks, how he lets them express themself through violence while chastising Susie for the same thing, how at every turn he puts so much emphasis on Kris's choices, their talents, their intrinsic personhood, almost above the very prophecy he serves. We thought him mollycoddling and completely out-of-touch at best, and downright malicious at worst. We presumed he was encouraging the player to keep playing, and was in fact speaking over Kris's head directly at us. We presumed that the prophecy was all he cared about, and him encouraging Kris was simply a means to that end.

And we were wrong about all of it. Because we didn't know what Kris was truly going through until now. We thought that our possession was the worst thing that was happening to them, and that he was complicit in their suffering by trying to downplay it.

But Ralsei knew. Because Ralsei knows Kris better than anyone else - better than Susie, better than Noelle, and certainly far better than us.

Kris is hopelessly trapped, at all times. There is no hope for them, they cannot see a way to escape their bonds... not alive, in any case. Their suffering is so great, the pressures upon them so immense, that they have been hollowed out into a catatonic shell of their former self - unable to move except through great effort, unable to speak except through stilted phrases. They don't sleep or eat well at all. They don't try at school. They cannot tell anyone about what's happening, and they cannot make friends because of it. For all intents and purposes, they have given up.

But it's worse than that, because they KNOW that what they're being made to do is wrong. They don't want to do any of it, and yet they feel they cannot refuse. That knowledge eats away at them, to the point where they feel like they are inherently Bad, because only Bad people do Bad things, and they're doing Bad things all the time. They don't feel like they deserve the good things in their life because of it. They feel like they're living a lie. And no-one else knows - no-one else can possibly know.

But Ralsei knows.

Why does Ralsei go to the trouble of arranging a tutorial battle for Kris, when they've already demonstrated their capabilities fighting against Lancer? Because Kris doesn't know what they're doing during that fight. They're issuing commands, fighting alongside Susie, and they don't know how or why. They're scared, they don't know where they are, and the one other person they knew from school just ditched them. Through the tutorial, Ralsei breaks down each combat function step-by-step, walking Kris through each one with patience and restraint. And he lets them go off-piste up to a point - he'll let them attack his mannequin and say it's alright if they want to hit him too, he'll let them hug him several times throughout the tutorial, and he will show remarkable restraint throughout the entire endeavour, despite his obvious frustration at their uncooperativeness.

Seen this way, the Tutorial becomes less about the GAME teaching the PLAYER how to battle, and more about RALSEI providing to KRIS some semblance of structure and context to a new and frightening world. Both of them are literally starting at Zero, and have to establish the basics before anything further can happen.

This in turn establishes the framework for their relationship - not an annoying tutorial fairy lecturing an experienced player on things they already know, but a kindly tutor gently guiding a broken teen, one tiny step at a time. Not lashing out at mistakes, not admonishing when they try to assert themself against the established framework - he will let them fight, and let them command him to fight as well, because his desire to help Kris find themself again means he has to provide leeway for if they "misbehave". There have to be bounds, but they must feel like the choices they make matter - even if they actually don't.

When you're drowning in a world that has seemingly conspired to take your agency from you, and break you down into nothing more than a pawn that does what it's told and nothing else... even the illusion of choice is a life-preserver that you'll cling onto for dear life. The support Ralsei provides Kris in this capacity is what gives them the drive to protect Susie from King's attack - to make a choice to protect their friend, even if it wouldn't have meaningfully changed anything.

It explains his secret conversations with Kris too - while we are busy watching Susie, Ralsei is free to let Kris know that despite being literally controlled, the one controlling them is on their side, and that we will help them break free from the more insidious influence of the Knight. He has to tell them to trust in us, trust that we will do right by them to the best of our abilities. And indeed, by Chapter 2, they have become more willing to express themself through their tone of voice, through how they choose to interpret the instructions given to us, either to play pranks or to show their appreciation for the people who, despite everything, still care for them.

And even Ralsei's apparent dismissive attitude to Spamton NEO's effect on Kris can be explained through this prism. Kris is very very slowly starting to recover from the trauma of their situation, and literally EVERYTHING about Spamton is a huge trigger for them. It's not farfetched to say that Kris sees in Spamton a cautionary tale of how they will end up - used up, cast aside, wretched and desperate and bitter and broken. All of Ralsei's work building Kris back up could be undone in an instant, and so he has to tread extremely carefully - downplay its significance, offer nonthreatening proximity (he will hug Kris, but only if they hugged him on the boat ride prior to this), distract them from the immediate trauma with very basic "nice" thinks like cake, and warm/soft things. It seems dismissive at the time because we don't yet know what Spamton truly represents to Kris - not just the fear of being controlled against your will, but of being used up and broken down, and then tossed away like an unloved toy. It's only when we have that additional context that all of Ralsei's actions towards them start to make sense - not only make sense, but also show a level of care and tact that we did not previously assume him capable of.

And I suppose the last question is: why does Ralsei do any of this in the first place? Why go to this trouble when he knows he'll just be left behind, when he knows that if he succeeds, Kris will go back to the light world and live a full life without him? Well... look at the colour of his horns. If Ralsei is the horned headband, and Kris wore him for months, he would have borne witness to Kris's deepest, darkest fears about themself. It's possible that he might have seen the inciting incident that led Kris down this unfortunate path. Either way, he would have been so close to them that he'd almost be like an extension of them.

So, again - why does he do this? Because his purpose was always to guide them back to themself - first as a pair of horns to better fit in with their family, and then as a physical manifestation of those same horns to help them overcome the terrible harm that has been wrought upon them.

But more than this, I think it's because he loves them - the same way that they would have loved him when they wore him all those years ago. And isn't that what you do for the people you love - help them when they're struggling, comfort them when they're sad, gently challenge them to expand their window of tolerance, give them the tools they need to return to the light, to heal and grow back into themselves?

Ralsei knows Kris better than anyone else. And maybe we should start listening to him.

[k1tae]

I also have a really difficult time remembering passcodes or mobile verification codes (even just for a few seconds). If I try to hold onto the numbers even by saying them out loud repeatedly, I forget or mix them up. The only technique that kinda works for me is by saying the digits kinda weird, some being in rounded up numbers so '947264' would be '90, 47, 20, 60, 4.' Maybe not related, but maybe also possibly.

Me when I do math

Funny ADHD ASD Memes

[reasonsforhope]

"Scientists in Singapore have broken a long-standing limitation on the ability to generate electricity from flowing water, suggesting that another elemental force of nature could be leveraged for renewable electricity: rain.

With the simplest and smallest scale test setup, the team could power around 12 LED lightbulbs with simulated rain droplets flowing through a tube, but at scale, their method could generate meaningful amounts that could rival rooftop solar arrays.

Singapore experiences significant rainfall throughout the year, averaging 101 inches (2581 millimeters) of precipitation annually. The idea of generating electricity from such falling water is attractive, but the method has long been constrained by a principle called the Debye Length.

Nevertheless, the concept is possible because of a simple physical principle that charged entities on the surface of materials get nudged when they rub together—as true for water droplets as it is for a balloon rubbed against the hair on one’s head.

While this is true, the power values thus generated have been negligible, and electricity from flowing water has been limited to the driving of turbines in hydropower plants.

However, in a study published in the journal ACS Central Science, a team of physicists has found a way to break through the constraints of water’s Debye Length, and generate power from simulated rain.

“Water that falls through a vertical tube generates a substantial amount of electricity by using a specific pattern of water flow: plug flow,” says Siowling Soh, author of the study. “This plug flow pattern could allow rain energy to be harvested for generating clean and renewable electricity.”

The authors write in their study that in existing tests of the power production from water flows, pumps are always used to drive liquid through the small channels. But the pumps require so much energy to run that outputs are limited to miniscule amounts.

Instead, their setup to harness this plug flow pattern was scandalously simple. No moving parts or mechanisms of any kind were required. A simple plastic tube just 2 millimeters in diameter; a large plastic bottle; a small metallic needle. Water coming out of the bottle ran along the needle and bumped into the top section of the tube that had been cut in half, interrupting the water flow and allowing pockets of air to slide down the tube along with the water.

The air was the key to breaking through the limits set by the Debye Length, and key to the feasibility of electricity generation from water. Wires placed at the top of the tube and in the cup harvested the electricity.

The total generation rate of greater than 10% resulted in about 100 watts per square meter of tube. For context, a 100-watt solar panel can power an appliance as large as a blender or ceiling fan, charge a laptop, provide for several light bulbs, or even a Wi-Fi router.

Because the droplet speeds tested were much slower than rain, the researchers suggest that the real thing would provide even more than their tests, which were of course on a microscale."

-via Good News Network, April 30, 2025

[em1i2a3]

Makes Me Want You

Pairing: The Sentry/Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Void x Enhanced!Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader!

Summary: After the incident with Walker, Sentry becomes your unofficial sparring partner during your training sessions. (Sequel to ‘Good Grief’)

Warnings 18+ Minors DNI! Smut and Fluff, Depictions of fighting, Sentry is being a little too overprotective, and Sentry volunteers to be your training dummy (cause he’s got a little crush), Sentry and the reader evidently have a bond, it’s evident (Bob doesn’t make an appearance, this is full Sentry)

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex, Body Worship, Overstimulation, Hair Pulling, Sentry is literally a god who kneels 🤷🏻‍♀️what can I say? Need I say more?, Shower Sex, Fingering, Biting (with intentions to mark and claim), Oral Sex (female receiving), Dirty Talk

Author’s Note: I had two different requests for Sentry smut and they were both fairly similar and they were both anon's...And on top of that they fit really well with this story! Fantastic for me, I just combined them! Thank you for reading and I hope y’all enjoy <3

Word Count:10,002

Sentry stood in the middle of the training room, unmoving, watching as you wrapped your hands with slow, distracted care. Not a word passed between the two of you, just silent glances from you to him. He didn’t shift, didn’t blink, didn’t so much as adjust the angle of his stance. He just stood there, solid and patient, like a monument forged from fire and waiting for someone who was brave enough to strike it.

His presence was gravity incarnate.

You could feel it coiling tight in the air, bending the atmosphere toward him like everything in the room was caught in a sort of orbit. He wasn’t glowing the way he sometimes did when adrenaline flared or when his power leaked through the cracks of Bob. There was no blinding light, or burning heat. But he radiated something much quieter. Heavier. It was the kind of silent energy that didn’t demand attention–it commanded it…Just like any God commanded their followers to go to war for them.

The fluorescents above him buzzed faintly, and then one flickered–twice–before dimming into a low, stuttering pulse. The light didn’t break entirely. It just hesitated, like even the electricity was aware of who stood beneath it. As if the current in the walls had paused to watch him too.

The air was warm–too warm for a room this size with the ventilation system running. There was a faint smell of ozone lingering beneath the cleaner’s citrus scent. Not sharp, not overwhelming, but present. You tasted it when you inhaled. It sat on the back of your tongue like a storm about to break.

He wore the simplest thing possible–grey sweatpants hanging low and loose on his hips, the drawstring frayed and untied, cuffs brushing the tops of his bare feet. His black t-shirt looked worn, lived-in, the hem slightly uneven and the sleeves clinging too well to the thick lines of his arms. It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t tactical. It looked like something pulled from the top of his drawer that morning–and yet on him, it looked almost ceremonial.

Casual clothing on an apocalyptic being. The softness of the fabric clinging to muscle so dense it might as well have been marble. And still, he stood there like a temple waiting to be tested. Not arrogant. Not restless.

Just ready.

The mat beneath him didn’t creak. It didn’t shift. But you could feel the weight of him in your spine–like if he took a step, the sound would echo down into the foundation of the building.

You tightened the last loop of tape around your knuckles, pulse beginning to rise–not from effort, but from proximity. From the way his gaze held you. Not predatory. Not curious. Just fixed–like your movements were the only things keeping the world spinning, and if you stopped wrapping your hands, something ancient and dangerous might uncoil.

You exhaled slowly and finally looked up, catching his golden kissed eyes.

They didn’t waver.

“Is this seriously necessary?” You asked, voice rough with disbelief. “I didn’t get hurt, Sentry. I literally got the wind knocked out of me for a few minutes. You can’t just ban me from training with other people.”

Still, he didn’t move. His weight remained balanced, his stance loose, but every inch of him alert.

“I’m not banning you,” He said evenly. “I’m replacing them.”

You let out a quiet, incredulous breath and rose to your feet, stepping fully onto the mat. “Oh, that’s not the same thing at all,” You muttered sarcastically. “You’re not banning me, you’re just volunteering to be my sole sparring partner for the foreseeable future like that’s not completely–”

“I’m the safest option,” He interrupted, voice soft but unshakable. “You know that.” You scoffed under your breath, stepping farther onto the mat until your toes brushed the edge of the taped centerline.

“I’m sure you’re the safest option,” You said, stretching your shoulder in a lazy roll, “but I don’t normally spar with people in general. The whole Walker and Bucky thing was literally one time. A fluke…You know what that is right?” You asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

Sentry blinked once. Then–deadpan, voice laced with something dangerously close to sass–he replied, “Yes. I know what a fluke is.”

The corner of your mouth twitched.

Before you could speak again, he added, “But have you ever thought maybe…I want to see what you can do?”

That made you pause.

You took a slow step forward, then another–only closing half the distance between you, but it was enough to feel the tension in the air tighten, the warmth of him like a soft current against your skin.

“You already see what I can do,” You countered, gaze steady on his. “You watch me all the time. With Bob.”

He tilted his head slightly. The movement was subtle. Smooth.

“See, that’s not what I want though…” He murmured. “Maybe I want to feel it.”

You stopped walking.

One foot planted, one slightly lifted mid-step–like something in you had gone still in response. Your brow rose, arms slowly crossing over your chest, muscles shifting beneath the fabric of your tank top.

“Okay,” You said carefully. “I think you’re overestimating my strength. Because I’m pretty sure you won’t feel a single thing if I punch you.” You gestured broadly toward his chest, to the absurdly built wall of him standing there like a modern-day colossus in soft cotton. “If I threw an anvil at you, I don’t think you’d even blink. It’d be like… a gust of wind blew too hard in your direction. A mild inconvenience.”

That made him smirk. Not teasing. Not ego-driven. Just…Amused. Like you’d said something that charmed him in a way he didn’t quite know how to explain.

“Well,” He said, that golden glow flickering over his irises–pulsing like a heartbeat almost, “You haven’t tried doing anything to me, have you?”A slow breath. A beat of quiet. “So you wouldn’t know how I’d react.”

You stared at him for a moment longer than you meant to.

Then you exhaled and crossed your arms tighter. “Okay. Fine…Are you going to fight back at least?”

“No,” He replied quickly, “Of course not.”

“You’re not even going to put up a challenge?” His silence was answer enough, but you pushed anyway, gesturing toward the training dummies lined up along the far wall.

“Now that’s not realistic at all, Sentry. I would actually prefer to punch the dummy. At least it wobbles.”

He shook his head–just once–but the motion was full-bodied, slow and deliberate, like a parent too tired to keep arguing with a child who refused to listen.

“I’d end up accidentally putting you through a wall if I fought back,” he said, the words a little too dry to be dramatic and far too sincere to be a joke. “And no, I’m not exaggerating when I say that.” His golden eyes flicked over your face, unreadable but steady. “Can’t you just go with it? For the love of God?”

You groaned loudly, letting your head fall back for a beat, eyes rolling toward the ceiling as if the cracked tiles might have an opinion.

Then you stepped forward again.

And again.

Until you were within reach–close enough that the heat coming off him felt almost physical. Like a pulse. Like the sun was leaking out of him in slow, restrained breaths.

You didn’t touch him. Not yet.

But your chest was rising a little faster now. Your heart thudding louder than it had any business doing. Because up close, the scale of him was…Impossible. Even dressed down in soft cotton and loose sweatpants, he was still carved from something the universe had only built once.

“Fine,” You muttered, the word slipping out like a reluctant surrender. Your fists dropped loosely to your sides. “But if I break my hand on your chest, I’m making you carry me to medbay.”

He didn’t respond.

Didn’t smile. Didn’t tease.

He just stood there.

Still as stone.

Waiting.

You flexed your fingers once.

Then raised your fists.

You circled him–half a step, then another. Your bare feet were silent against the mat, but every motion sent a ripple through the silence like a blade carving through water. His head turned ever so slightly to follow your movement, but he didn’t tense. Didn’t shift.

He was perfectly relaxed.

You studied him.

His posture. His balance. The faint flicker of gold behind his eyes.

And then–without warning–you struck.

A clean, tight right hook. Not full-force, not your strongest. But fast. Sharp. Enough to feel.

Your fist slammed into his side–just below the ribs, right at the spot where a normal opponent might recoil.

And he didn’t even flinch.

Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

It was like hitting the surface of something just this side of indestructible.

The impact reverberated through your knuckles and into your forearm, a shock of resistance that felt almost mechanical. The kind of hit that should’ve yielded some reaction–but instead, it just…Landed.

And stayed there.

Like you’d punched the hull of a goddamn battleship.

You hissed through your teeth, shaking out your fingers slightly as your feet adjusted on the mat.

“Okay,” You muttered under your breath, eyeing him, “That was not a dummy.”

“Do it again,” Sentry said quietly, his voice low and steady like thunder just barely rumbling in the distance.

You looked at him for a moment, lips parted, then exhaled and rolled your shoulders back with a sigh. “You sure? I’m not exactly delivering haymakers here.”

“I’m sure.”

Another step forward. Your muscles adjusted on instinct, your stance falling into its natural rhythm. And then you swung again. And again.

Punch after punch landed against him with the same result: nothing. No shift. No stumble. Not even a ripple of tension in his frame. Just the steady, unflinching wall of him absorbing the strikes like they were wind brushing against a mountain.

But you kept going.

Because something about the way he stood there made you want to see if you could draw any sort of reaction. A grunt. A blink. A goddamn eyebrow raise. Anything.

The rhythm grew sharper. Your jaw set tighter. Sweat began to bead along your spine, down your temple. The sound of your fists hitting his chest echoed sharply across the training room–thud, thud, thud–like muffled war drums. Every strike reverberated back into your arm with bruising density, but you didn’t stop.

You were breathing harder now.

And Sentry was still just… watching you.

Not bored. Not blank. He was studying you–like a scholar with a sacred text. Like every move you made was worthy of reverence. There was a faint gleam of something pleased in his expression, golden irises flicking between the set of your shoulders and the tension in your clenched jaw, like he was cataloging every shift in your form with quiet admiration.

It wasn’t desire. Not lust. Just awe.

And then, finally, you stepped back. Your arms hung loose at your sides, wrists sore and shoulders flushed with exertion. You shook out your hands with a grunt, sucking in a slow breath.

“I have a question for you,” you said, voice uneven from the effort.

Sentry straightened a fraction. Cleared his throat softly, like he hadn’t spoken in a century.

“Go ahead.”

You stepped closer–again. The heat between your bodies was tangible now. You stopped just short of brushing his chest with yours, close enough that you could feel the hum of him buzzing beneath the thin layer of his cotton shirt.

“You and Bob…” you began slowly. “You share thoughts, right? Like… You can talk to him inside his head?”

Sentry nodded once. Calm. “Yes. Of course.”

He didn’t ask where the question was going–but there was a subtle flicker of curiosity behind his gaze. A glint of wariness.

You tilted your head slightly.

“So that means… You know what he thinks of me?”

That made something in his face change.

Not visibly–but internally. Like a shift in gravity.

His jaw tightened. His eyes narrowed, but not with anger. Just with the weight of knowing exactly what you meant.

“Yes,” He said finally. “Isn’t it obvious?”

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling, but it didn’t quite work. A smirk tugged at the edge of your mouth anyway.

“Just wanted confirmation.”

He squinted at you suspiciously, head tilting. “I feel like you’re trying to set me up to say something that should be coming from Bob.”

“I’m not,” You said quickly, voice light. “I swear I’m not. I’m just…Curious. That’s all.”

You held his gaze for a beat, then let it slip for just a second–just long enough to flick down to his neck. He didn’t miss it.

And when your eyes darted back up to his, there was something different there. A spark. A glint of mischief. A subtle shift in the air that sent a new ripple of heat down your spine.

“Do you guys share similar…” You began slowly, teasingly, “Weaknesses?”

Sentry blinked. Cautious. Confused.

Then he huffed a quiet laugh, low and incredulous. “That is where we differ. I’m practically indestru–”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

Because in one smooth movement, your fingers darted out and skated lightly up the side of his neck–just under his jaw, where the skin was most sensitive to both Bob…And him.

And the sound he made–

Was not godly.

It was sharp. Undignified. Somewhere between a yelp and a startled grunt, the kind of noise someone made when they’d been caught off guard in the worst way. His whole body jerked back half a step, and his knees bent as if something in his godlike frame just short-circuited.

“Jesus Christ,” Sentry hissed, glaring at you like you’d committed some sort of war crime.

You burst out laughing. Bent at the waist, arms braced on your thighs as the sound poured from you uncontrollably.

You couldn’t breathe. Could barely talk.

Between wheezes, you managed, “I didn’t expect you to react like that–but holy shit–it’s good to know that gods get ticklish sometimes too.”

He straightened slowly.

“Guess it’s one of the disadvantages,” He muttered, “Of being attached to Bob.”

You wiped your eyes, still grinning, as you leaned your weight back onto one foot.

“Damn,” You said breathlessly, “If the team ever finds out about this…”

“They won’t.”

You just smiled wider.

“Sure, Sentry. Whatever you say.” His eyes narrowed as he straightened fully, his arms slowly dropping from where they’d hovered in a mid-defensive reflex. His jaw clenched once, golden gaze burning hot beneath furrowed brows. There was no real danger in his posture–no spark of fury or divine wrath–but something shifted in his voice, something dry and faintly amused.

“It really seems like you’re trying to push me into fighting you.”

You raised your eyebrows, already taking a half-step backward with that same glint in your eye.

“What? Because I’m probably going to go tell the entire team that Sentry’s ticklish like Bob?” You teased, voice light and sing-songy as you began to edge toward the door. “Because I might casually bring it up at dinner next time Walker starts bragging about his bench press? ‘Oh yeah? Well, Sentry can bench the moon, but he also squeals like a kid if you touch his neck.’”

Sentry stared at you, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was fighting the urge to smile–or maybe grit his teeth.

You pointed a lazy finger at him as you backed up farther, heel tapping the edge of the mat.

“You know I’ll do it. I’ll tell Yelena. I’ll tell Alexei. And he’ll never let you live it down.”

His hands fell loosely to his sides, the veins in his forearms flexing subtly beneath the black sleeves as he took one slow step forward. The overhead lights buzzed again–just once–and then went completely still.

“Alright,” He said calmly, “You asked for it.” You barely had time to register the words before he moved. You blinked.

And then ran.

A breathless laugh tore from your throat as you pivoted hard and booked it toward the exit, bare feet silent across the mat. You knew he’d follow—but you weren’t expecting how fast. You barely made it five steps before the air shifted behind you.

He was there.

You didn’t even hear him move.

Strong arms slipped around your waist, lifting you clean off your feet like it was nothing. You shrieked—half indignation, half delighted surprise—and squirmed hard against him.

“Put me down!”

“Nope,” Sentry grunted, voice steady with amusement. “You opened this door.”

You twisted hard, elbow aiming for his ribs—not to hurt, just to annoy. He caught it easily, body flexing behind you as he adjusted his grip, lowering you just enough that your heels skimmed the mat. His chest was warm against your back, too warm, and you could feel the restrained strength in every inch of him. He wasn’t trying to hurt you. He was holding you like something sacred—delicately, even when your body writhed with every ounce of mischief you had left.

“I will scream,” You warned.

“I’m counting on it.”

You gasped-half laugh, half breathless–and hooked your ankle around his shin to try and trip him. He didn’t budge. Instead, his arm shifted, sliding up to wrap around your chest and pull you flush against him. You could feel the thunder of his pulse now–buried deep behind the quiet of him. That cosmic stillness. It made your own heart race faster, like it was trying to match something much older, much heavier.

“God, you’re obnoxious,” You huffed, yanking at his arm.

“You’re the one who threatened to tell Alexei I’m ticklish,” He countered.

“And I will!”

“Then I guess I’m justified.”

You twisted in his hold, managing to face him fully–and he let you. Didn’t resist when you grabbed his shirt in both fists and tugged like it would help.

You were panting now, flushed and laughing, but there was a fire behind it–something not quite amusement. Not anymore.

He stared at you for a moment, his eyes glowing softly, shimmering with the classic Sentry gold.

You were so close your noses nearly brushed. Your chest rose and fell in fast, shallow pulls, brushing against his. One of his hands was still resting low on your side, fingers spread wide–grounding you, maybe, or steadying himself.

You swallowed.

Your voice, when it came, was quieter. Rougher.

“…You don’t have to hold back this much.”

Sentry’s expression shifted. Not smug. Not surprised. Just sharp–with awareness.

“I do,” He said simply. “But it doesn’t mean I don’t want to see what you’re like… when you’re under pressure.”

You tilted your chin up, breath catching. “Why?”

A pause.

And then:

“Because I like how you burn when you’re pushed.” The air between you pulsed like something alive. Charged and hot and thrumming with everything neither of you had said. You didn’t know if it was Bob in that second, or Sentry, or both–but you burned too.

You stared at his mouth. Then his throat. Then back to his eyes.

And he saw it.

He saw all of it.

Something clicked behind his gaze–snapped, maybe–and suddenly his hand slid to the back of your neck, warm and sure and deliberate.

And then his mouth was on yours.

The kiss wasn’t tentative.

It was hungry.

It hit like a gravitational collapse–like the breathless moment between lightning and thunder, the second before a star goes supernova. His mouth claimed yours like he had waited centuries for this moment and wasn’t going to waste a second of it. There was no soft warm-up, no gentle build. Just the press of lips that had held back too long and a low, almost feral sound from his chest as you kissed him back with everything you had.

Your hands curled in the front of his shirt, tugging him closer. His body pressed into yours like he was trying to memorize the exact shape of you–like restraint was no longer an option.

Your back hit the nearest wall–not hard, just enough for him to anchor you there with the weight of him, arm braced beside your head. He broke the kiss only long enough to gasp against your mouth, voice shredded and low.

“You have no idea what you do to us.” You barely had time to breathe before he continued, his voice rasped and reverent, breaking on the edges like it hurt to hold the words in.

“When you ask questions that you know the answers to.” The heat in his eyes didn’t flicker. It burned steady. Fixed. Like he was looking at the only thing in existence that had ever managed to make him feel truly alive.

His hand was still cradling the back of your neck–thumb brushing slow arcs along your skin, grounding him as much as it grounded you. His other hand had settled at your waist again, fingers flexing, as though he didn’t trust himself to hold you tighter.

And still he spoke, each word barely more than a breath, like a confession pulled from the center of a god.

“When you look at me like you see me. Not what I am. Not what I can do. Just…Me.”

You swallowed, chest rising fast against his.

He dipped his head slightly, golden eyes flickering over your mouth again.

“When you touch us like we are yours…Even when we haven’t even claimed you as such…Yet.”

And then–

He kissed you again.

But this time, you leaned into it.

Your fingers slid up his chest, over the slope of his shoulder, until they reached the nape of his neck and tangled in the softness of his light brown hair. You pulled—gently, but enough. Enough to make him groan against your mouth, low and wrecked, like your hands on him were something he’d dreamed of and denied himself for too long.

The sound vibrated into your jaw, into your throat, and you kissed him harder in response. Hungrier. The kind of kiss that made your knees soften and your lungs burn and your body ache.

He shifted then–closer, impossibly closer–his hips brushing yours, his chest a wall of heat against your front. You were pinned between him and the wall now, not trapped, but held. Like he wanted to keep you there forever. Like you were a prayer he didn’t know how to say out loud yet, but couldn’t stop whispering beneath his skin.

Your hands fisted tighter in his hair, and he made that sound again, louder this time. His hand slid from your waist up your spine in a slow, aching drag that left you trembling, fingertips pressing between your shoulder blades like he needed to feel every part of you rising to meet him.

You gasped against his mouth, lips swollen and breathless, and he took that as an invitation to devour the sound, to kiss you deeper, and to drink from you.

And the truth was…

You both were starving.

For touch. For closeness. For something that didn’t end in fear or retreat or silence. Something that pulled instead of pushed.

And now, here he was–Sentry, Bob, both of them–finally holding you like you were the only thing in this world that had ever felt real.

And you didn’t want to waste this moment on overthinking.

You didn’t want to question it, to slow it down, to analyze the weight of his hand or the heat of his mouth or the way your body arched so desperately into his—because for once, it all made sense. This wasn’t strategy. This wasn’t timing. This was inevitable.

The kiss became sloppy fast.

It was still all teeth and tongue and soft, panting sounds that echoed between the cracks of restraint–but now your hands were dragging down the planes of his back, curling in the hem of that soft black shirt like you could pull him closer than physics allowed. He groaned into you again, louder this time–richer, rougher–like he hadn’t realized how much he needed this until he had it, and now he didn’t know how to stop.

Your legs shifted on instinct–widening just slightly for balance as you arched into him–and he responded immediately.

Sentry shifted.

The movement was fluid and almost too smooth for something that carried this much desperation, but you didn’t care. You barely even noticed the transition–your world had narrowed to the feel of him, the weight of his mouth, the stretch of your lungs trying to keep up.

You felt the moment his knees hit the mat.

The world tilted, and suddenly you were lower–his arms supporting you as your back hit the padded floor with a quiet, muffled thud.

And then he was over you.

Not crushing. Not smothering. Just there–braced on one arm, hovering above you with his chest heaving and his golden eyes wild, like he hadn’t expected to find himself here either, but now that he was, there was no chance he’d leave.

Your hands cupped his jaw, thumbs brushing the warmth of his cheeks, and he leaned back down like he couldn’t stay away–not even for a second.

His mouth found yours again. Hot. Messy. Open. His tongue brushed against yours and you whimpered, breath catching as your hips lifted just slightly into the space between his. You weren’t even thinking anymore. Not about the compound. Not about the team. Not about anything except him.

And then–without warning–he pulled back.

Only a few inches. But it was enough for the cold air to kiss your spit-slick lips. Enough to make your brows pinch with protest.

But Sentry was staring at you.

His eyes were wide. Dark with heat. Glowing with something that went beyond hunger.

He looked wrecked.

“Do you know,” He said softly, voice hoarse, “How many times I’ve wanted to do that?”

Your breath hitched.

He shook his head slightly, chest still rising and falling like he’d just run a marathon. His voice dropped even lower.

“I’ve imagined it in every damn room I’ve been in. The med bay, the kitchen, my room, your room, the living room…Fucking everywhere.” He let out a breathless laugh, pressed his forehead against yours. “I can barely breathe when you’re near me. I try to act normal, I try to just watch, like Bob does, like I’m supposed to–but it’s never enough.” You blinked, heart in your throat.

He leaned down again, brushing your jaw with his mouth.

“I think about your hands when you’re not here,” He murmured. “I think about the way you talk when you’re irritated. The way you look when you’re focused. How your voice sounds when you laugh. I remember every fucking sound you’ve ever made.”

His mouth kissed a line down the side of your throat–hot, reverent, barely restrained. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, body arching into his like gravity was conspiring with him.

He lifted his head again, gaze locked to yours, barely more than a breath away.

“I think about touching you every time I close my eyes,” He whispered, “I think about what it would mean. To be yours.” You stared up at him, chest heaving beneath the weight of everything he’d just said. Everything he’d confessed. There was no filter in him now. No veil. No divine wall of restraint.

Just truth.

Raw and devastating.

And yours.

Your hands slid up the sides of his face, thumbs grazing the delicate dip beneath his cheekbones, palms cupping the sharp angles of his jaw like you were trying to hold the entire sun between your fingers. He leaned into the touch–starved for it–and you surged forward.

You kissed him hard. Biting his bottom lip gently, tugging just enough to make his body jolt above yours, a sharp, shuddered groan escaping from deep in his chest.

Then, breathless, lips still brushing his, you whispered with a crooked smile:

“God, you really know how to make a girl feel wanted, huh?”

That made him laugh.

Low and stunned and wrecked, like the sound had been dragged out of somewhere deep in his ribcage. His forehead dropped to yours for a beat, and he let out a warm, shaky exhale.

Then he kissed you again–harder this time, deeper, the kind of kiss that tasted like a thank-you and a promise and a claim all at once. One hand slid down your side to hook beneath your thigh, adjusting his body above yours, fitting himself to you with a precision that felt nothing short of divine.

“I could go on forever,” He said, voice low and thunder-warm, “About how much I’ve wanted you.”

His eyes flicked over your face like you were scripture carved into flesh.

“I could tell you how many times I’ve had to hold Bob back from saying your name in his sleep, how he’ll flinch when someone says it in a hallway because his heart just–stops.”

He dipped his head, kissing the corner of your mouth like a prayer.

“I could tell you how he made me promise I’d always be near. Always listening. Just in case you needed something he couldn’t give fast enough.”

Another kiss–your jaw, your cheekbone, your temple.

“He tethered us to you.” His voice dropped into something reverent. Barely audible. Worshipful. “Not out of fear. Not duty. But because his love for you has become instinct.” You didn’t realize you were trembling until his hand was cupping your side, warm and grounding. Sentry felt it—felt the way your body vibrated with something between overload and surrender, the way your breath stuttered beneath his palm. He shifted just enough to look at you properly again, his thumb dragging softly across your ribcage.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured, not with concern, but awe. Like your reaction was the most sacred thing he’d ever witnessed.

“I’m fine,” you whispered back, though your voice cracked at the edges.

He searched your face for a beat, then dipped his head, pressing a gentle kiss beneath your jaw. Slower now. Calmer. He lingered there, lips barely brushing your skin, just breathing you in like he needed it to steady himself.

But you didn’t want steady.

You wanted more.

And he could feel that too.

“…This floor isn’t exactly comfortable,” you said softly, your hands still buried in his hair, voice tinged with a breathless laugh. “And I’m pretty sure you’re leaking nuclear heat through your t-shirt.”

He huffed, and the sound vibrated against your throat.

“I’m trying not to melt you.”

“Too late,” you murmured.

His mouth curved into a crooked smile against your neck. “Come with me,” he said—quiet, but sure. “Before I forget how to be gentle.”

You didn’t ask where.

You didn’t need to.

He rose slowly, cradling your hips with one arm as he guided you upright with him. His other hand stayed on your lower back, grounding, reverent. You stood together for a beat, close and flushed and breathing each other in–your body barely keeping from leaning back into the mat out of sheer sensory overload.

But he kissed your forehead like a promise, and you followed when he took your hand.

The hallway was quiet.

He led you through it barefoot, fingers laced with yours, his other hand resting low on your spine to steady you whenever your steps faltered. The air felt cooler outside the training room–barely, but enough to raise a chill along your sweat-damp skin.

You didn’t realize where he was leading you until the scent of clean steam and citrus hit your nose.

The locker room.

He pushed the door open gently, the fluorescent lights humming above, diffused by the quiet fog curling in the air. You hadn’t even asked if anyone else was around–but somehow, you knew they weren’t. They wouldn’t be.

Not right now–especially this early in the morning.

Sentry released your hand just long enough to walk over to one of the shower stalls. You heard the soft hiss of water turning on–heard the shift in his breathing when he adjusted the temperature with pinpoint care.

By the time he turned back to you, the steam was rising in slow tendrils around him.

His shirt clung damp to his chest, darkening in the heat. You watched the golden flicker in his eyes catch the haze and hold it there, like light bending for him alone.

You stepped toward him slowly.

“You sure this isn’t just adrenaline talking?” He shook his head–slowly, reverently, steam curling around his jaw like a shroud.

“Please…” His voice was quiet. Unsteady in that way gods rarely allow themselves to be. “I think the admission of what we felt for you was long overdue. It’s not the adrenaline talking.”

He stepped closer. Just one pace, but it made your breath catch in your throat.

Then he reached for the hem of his shirt.

It was wet now–sticking to the hard lines of his torso–but he peeled it off in one fluid motion, revealing what you had only ever glimpsed in slivers beneath battle-torn fabric and half-buttoned uniforms. And even then, nothing had quite prepared you for this.

For him.

He looked like something carved out of devotion. Like a figure from myth brought to life in firelight and steam. Dense, sculpted muscle corded through his frame, every inch of him wrapped in strength that seemed impossible yet undeniable. Not exaggerated. Not grotesque. Just…Perfect in that terrifying, celestial way. His skin was flushed from the heat of the locker room, as steam caught along the slopes of his shoulders, trailing down the valley between his abs.

Your gaze traced the scars scattered across him—some faint and faded, some darker, older, deep with memory. Not many. But enough. Enough to know that even gods bled sometimes.

And then there was the light. The quiet flicker of gold beneath his skin, pulsing faintly at his sternum and branching like veins of starlight across his chest. Glowing. Alive. Like divinity itself was trying to escape through him.

He was beautiful in a way that defied logic.

And you stared.

You had always wondered—always imagined. The way his shirts clung when he lifted something, the way muscles shifted in his back when he moved too quickly. You’d dreamed of what was underneath, fantasized in quiet, guilty moments.

But now, there he was. Bared. Unashamed.

And he was looking at you.

Not demanding. Not expecting. Just…waiting.

You swallowed, the heat rising in your cheeks as your fingers found the hem of your own tank top and slowly pulled it upward, peeling it away from your flushed skin. It slipped over your head in one smooth motion—and you stood bare-chested before him, breasts exposed to the low locker room light, skin flushed with effort and anticipation.

Sentry’s breath hitched audibly. You saw his jaw flex. His eyes—already glowing faintly–went molten.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

Just stared at you like you were some divine vision made flesh. Like you were something sacred he was afraid to reach for in case he ruined it.

Then his eyes dropped.

You saw the moment they landed on your breasts. Saw the subtle twitch in his mouth as he bit the inside of his lower lip–hard. A sharp, restrained motion that made the muscle in his cheek jump. He didn’t speak, but he exhaled roughly through his nose, like he was trying to calm a fire that had just started to roar.

Then, with one slow, fluid motion, he pushed his sweatpants and underwear down in a single breath.

And your brain short-circuited.

Because even semi-erect, he was…Big.

Thick. Heavy. Perfectly shaped. You could already tell that when he was fully hard, it would be something else entirely–something that bordered on surreal. And the way he carried it–no posturing, no arrogance, just naked truth–made your thighs clench so hard you nearly gasped. It was instinct. A raw, involuntary reaction that ran straight down your spine and pooled low in your gut.

He caught the movement.

His gaze flicked from your legs back to your face, golden eyes smoldering with understanding. Hunger. But he didn’t pounce. He didn’t move forward or press his advantage.

He just let you look.

And maybe that was what undid you the most.

That even now–even with your nipples tightening under the locker room air, with your mouth parted and breath shallow, with your eyes darting back down to the weight of him hanging between his legs–he waited. Like this wasn’t about lust or claim or need.

It was about offering.

“Tell me what you want,” He said, his voice low. Gravel rough. Unsteady in a way that told you he was holding himself back with every ounce of divine willpower he had.

“Because I’ll give it to you,” He added. “All of it. Anything. Just say the word.”

You stared at him–at the awe in his face, the restraint braided through every muscle in his body–and for a moment, you couldn’t breathe.

Not from nerves.

Not from fear.

But from knowing.

Knowing that whatever this was, whatever it became, you’d never feel anything like it again.

Your lips parted.

“I want you,” you whispered. “All of it. All of you.”

A beat. Your voice dipped lower, rougher, shy despite the heat rolling off your skin.

“But more than that… I want you to do what you want to me.”

Something cracked in him—visibly. A flicker of gold pulsed brighter across his chest, blooming in a stuttered vein of light over his collarbone like lightning caught beneath his skin.

And he breathed your name.

Once.

Just once.

Like it was a prayer too holy to say more than once without unraveling the world.

You took a small step back and hooked your thumbs in the waistband of your shorts, shimming them down your hips with quiet, fluid ease. They fell to the damp tile around your feet, and you stepped out of them with a soft exhale.

You were bare before him now.

No shields. No distance. No more questions.

Just you–and the way his eyes drank you in like he hadn’t believed you were real until now.

Sentry moved before the silence had a chance to grow heavy.

His hand reached out–strong, open, reverent–and he took yours like he was terrified you might change your mind if he moved too fast. His fingers curled around yours, warm and solid, grounding you even as he pulled you gently into the shower stall beside him.

And then the water hit.

Hot.

Steam curling instantly around your joined bodies.

And just like that–

His mouth was on yours.

Not rough. Not frenzied.

But urgent.

Like something eternal was unraveling behind his ribs and the only way to stop it was to feel your breath in his lungs. The kiss was full and deep, lips parting around each other with soaked, open-mouthed need as the water poured over both of you. His hands roamed–slowly, reverently–one skimming down the side of your waist, the other cradling the back of your head as he pressed you into him, skin to skin, heat to heat.

Your nipples brushed his chest and you whimpered against his mouth. His answering groan was low, ragged.

The kind of sound a man makes when devotion collides with desire.

He pulled back just far enough to look at you, his thumb brushing your cheek. Water ran down his face, catching the light stubble along his jaw and the ridges of his collarbone, tracing the light glowing faintly beneath his skin.

His voice was soft. Almost broken. “You don’t know what this means to me.”

“Then show me…” You whispered. The water cascaded over your skin in steady, rhythmic sheets, hot enough to sting faintly where tension still lived in your muscles. Steam coiled around both of you, clinging to every surface, wrapping your bodies in something sacred and unseen. And he kissed you like the storm had broken inside him.

There was no hesitation now.

His mouth moved against yours with growing heat–messy, wet, open, and needy. Every time your lips parted, he drank from you like he couldn’t get enough, like the taste of you was something he’d craved since the moment Bob first laid eyes on you. You moaned into him when his hand slid down your waist and cupped the curve of your ass, squeezing with a low, desperate growl against your mouth.

His hips pressed forward—slow, grinding, not to take, not yet, but to feel. To savor. His cock, heavy and flushed, dragged against your stomach as he kissed you deeper, your thighs trembling from the sheer tension rolling through your core.

And then—he broke the kiss.

Just barely.

Only enough to trail his lips along your jaw, then lower–down your neck, where the skin was flushed and damp, where your pulse pounded loud and hot. He kissed there once. Twice. Then again, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp and tilt your head back against the tile.

“That sound,” He whispered, his voice rasping low over your throat, “I want to hear it again.”

And he kissed lower.

Your breath caught.

His lips traced the arch of your collarbone, then down to the swell of your breasts–open-mouthed, reverent kisses that dragged over your skin with unbearable heat. When his mouth closed around one nipple, tongue flicking and lips sealing tight, you gasped–body jolting forward, one hand flying to the back of his neck, the other bracing against the wall behind you.

“Sentry–” You whimpered.

He moaned softly against your skin, the sound vibrating through your chest as he suckled just hard enough to make your knees tremble. Then he shifted to the other breast, lavishing the same wet, aching worship there, tongue teasing, lips tugging.

Your body arched against him, chasing every touch.

Every kiss.

And still–he moved lower.

Slow. Deliberate. Like he was reading you through his mouth, tasting every inch of what was his now, what he’d been denied for too long. He kissed down the slope of your stomach, tongue dipping to trace the curve of your navel, his hands anchoring you in place as your thighs trembled under the water’s steady heat.

Then he knelt.

Slow. Controlled.

God-like.

The moment his knees hit the tile, it felt like worship. Like he was built to kneel here. For you.

The sight of him looking up from between your legs–hair plastered to his forehead, steam curling around his cheeks, eyes glowing gold beneath thick lashes–made your lungs seize. One of his hands slid behind your thigh, lifting it gently, reverently, until your foot braced on the small edge of the bench beside you. He coaxed your leg up over his shoulder, eyes never leaving your face.

“I’ll hold you,” he murmured, voice low and grounded. His palm pressed firm and warm to your hip, the other bracing your opposite thigh against the wall. “I’ve got you.”

And then he leaned in.

You cried out softly the moment his mouth found the inside of your thigh—kissing there first. Not rushing. Just dragging his lips across the tender flesh like he wanted to memorize the texture of your skin.

He nibbled gently, the scrape of his teeth just enough to make your hips twitch.

Then lower.

A breath against your folds.

Then–his mouth.

The first brush of his tongue made your whole body tense, spine pressing against the wall like it was the only thing keeping you upright. His lips parted around you and he groaned—loud and low and so deeply aroused it sounded like it had been pulled from his chest by gravity.

“You taste…” He didn’t finish the thought. Just moaned again and buried his mouth between your legs like he was starving.

You gasped, one hand flying to his hair, tangling in the soaked strands as your hips jerked forward.

His tongue moved slow–dragging through your folds with a precision that made your thighs clamp instinctively around his head. He didn’t stop. Didn’t falter. He just groaned into you, hands tightening their hold to keep you in place, and he began to work you open with steady, fluid movements. Licking. Tasting. Worshiping.

Every pass of his tongue was devastating.

Soft, then firm. A flick, then a slow, sucking kiss. He circled your clit with unbearable care–taking his time, mapping you, learning you. And when he finally sealed his mouth around it and sucked—

You moaned.

Loud.

High-pitched and wrecked, echoing off the tile, lost in the steam.

“F–Fuck–” You gasped, your head hitting the wall behind you.

Sentry grunted at the sound, tongue flicking faster now, more precise. One of his hands left your hip and slid between your thighs, two fingers parting you gently, spreading you open as he devoured you. His mouth moved in time with his hand, tongue teasing, lips sealing, fingers slipping lower–coaxing you closer and closer to the edge with every devastating pass.

You couldn’t think.

Couldn’t breathe.

The world had narrowed to the heat of his mouth, the slip of his fingers, the weight of your leg trembling over his shoulder as he dragged moan after moan from your throat.

Your hips rolled on instinct.

Your fingers tightened in his hair.

And Sentry groaned against you–louder this time–like your pleasure was fueling him. Like your moans were what he needed to keep breathing.

He pulled back just far enough to look up at you, lips soaked, eyes wild.

“Let go for me,” He whispered hoarsely. “I want to feel it.”

Then he buried his face in you again–tongue flicking against your clit in quick strokes, fingers curling, hitting just the right spots, and his entirety finding a rhythm so perfect it felt otherworldly.

And you shattered.

Your release hit hard–sharp, hot, trembling. Your cry echoed off the shower walls as your body seized, thighs trembling, hands gripping his hair like you might fall into the heat of him and never crawl back out. He held you through it–mouth never breaking contact, swallowing every moan, every quake of your body, drinking your pleasure like holy water.

Only when the aftershocks made your hips twitch did he finally ease back to look up at you. His mouth lingered just above your inner thigh, lips parted, breath hot against your trembling skin. You could still feel the aftershocks pulsing through your body, each one fainter than the last, but no less devastating. And Sentry–this god of heat and reverence–was still kneeling between your legs, steady as stone, as though worshiping you wasn’t something he wanted to do.

It was something he was made to do.

His fingers were still inside you, thrusting slow and deep, curling just right, coaxing soft, wrecked little gasps from your throat that you couldn’t have swallowed even if you tried.

He kissed your hipbone, tender and warm.

Then he whispered, voice husky and low:

“Give me another.”

Your chest hitched. Your hand was still tangled in his soaked hair, your hips twitching each time his fingers pressed into that unbearable spot. You were so close to the edge already, but his voice—that voice—it broke something in you.

“I want to watch you fall apart again,” He murmured, teeth grazing the hollow where your thigh met your pelvis. “I want to feel you break for me. To taste it. To swallow it down like it was made for me alone.”

You whimpered.

And he didn’t stop.

“I’m not asking for much,” He rasped, lips moving like a hymn across your skin. “Just one more. One more time, and I’ll make it so good for you… you’ll forget there was ever a world outside this.”

Your voice cracked. “Y-Yes…Okay–God, yes–please.”

That was all he needed.

His eyes burned gold–molten and bright–and then he adjusted.

Slow, precise strength carried your other leg up over his other shoulder. He adjusted with you like it was effortless, like your weight was nothing to him–just something sacred he got to carry. The wall steadied your back. He steadied everything else. You were open to him now, bare and flushed, your thighs trembling over his broad shoulders, your hands braced in his hair like you might fall to pieces if you let go.

And then he devoured you.

There was no teasing this time.

No hesitation.

Just need.

He pulled his fingers out of you, and replaced the emptiness with his mouth. His tongue plunged deep in you before dragging up in a slow, sinful flick that made your entire spine arch. You cried out, head falling back with a sharp thud against the tile, but he didn’t stop. He held you there–hands firm under your ass, keeping your hips tilted up, off the ground, pinned to the wall by nothing but his mouth and the carved weight of his divine strength.

He moaned into you, loudly, the sound vibrating straight through your core. Then his tongue found your clit again–slick and swollen and already aching from your last orgasm–and he wrapped his lips around it and sucked.

You screamed.

Your hands flew from the wall back into his hair, yanking hard, grinding forward instinctively, trying to press yourself deeper against his face. And he let you.

No–he welcomed it.

He groaned like it fed him, like your hips grinding into his mouth were the prayer he’d been waiting centuries to receive.

His tongue worked faster now, flicking and circling, relentless, worshipful, and when you moaned his name he made a sound you’d never heard from him before.

Unholy. Wrecked. Like he’d just been blessed.

He slipped his fingers back inside you again–curling, thrusting, fucking into that perfect spot while his tongue ravaged your clit, every motion synced like a symphony of sin and praise.

You were crying, now.

Not in pain.

In pure, trembling pleasure.

Your thighs clenched around his head, your body lifting against the wall, barely tethered to earth by the strength of his grip and the heat of his mouth. His teeth grazed your clit and you shattered with a sob.

Your orgasm hit like a wave breaking over a cliff–hard, hot, unstoppable.

You screamed his name. Your hips jerked, bucked. You held his head to you like it was life or death, grinding against his mouth as your body convulsed through a release so sharp it made your vision white out.

And Sentry?

He groaned into your core like it was his reward. He kept his mouth on you through every twitch, every moan, every desperate grind. His fingers stayed buried, stroking you through the aftershocks until your cries softened into gasping whimpers and your thighs shook uncontrollably around his ears.

And only then–only then–did he slowly pull back.

He let your legs slide gently from his shoulders, your body trembling as your feet found the tile again, barely standing. But you didn’t have time to breathe before you saw him—

Lips slick. Face soaked in you. Gold eyes burning like wildfire as he slowly pulled his fingers out of your body.

And then–

He licked them clean.

One at a time.

Tongue dragging up each finger, slow and deliberate, moaning like you were ambrosia poured straight from the heavens.

“That,” He rasped, licking the last drop from the web between his fingers, “was the most divine fucking thing I’ve ever tasted.”

You stared.

You couldn’t speak.

You could barely stand.

But your body was vibrating with heat and want and disbelief–because no one had ever touched you like that. No one had looked at you like that. Like you were something sacred. Like your pleasure was a commandment.

Sentry rose to his full height, golden eyes flickering with restrained need as he looked down at you–soaked, flushed, trembling, and utterly undone beneath the weight of his devotion.

His breath was ragged. Controlled, but only just.

And then, voice low and rough, he whispered:

“Taste yourself.”

He leaned in–slowly, reverently–and kissed you.

His mouth was slick, drenched with the echoes of your pleasure, and when your lips parted to meet his, you tasted it. The sweetness. The salt. The heat. You moaned softly into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound with a low, aching groan that rumbled against your chest like thunder curling behind the clouds.

He deepened the kiss, tongue sweeping into your mouth with deliberate, hungry care, like he was giving you everything he had—everything you’d poured into him—now returning it in full.

His hand rose to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing gently across your cheek, and the kiss turned hot, messy, intoxicating. You were gasping now, hands pressing against his chest, your body aching with the overwhelming desire to be filled, to be claimed. To be his in every way.

You broke the kiss with a soft gasp, panting against his lips.

Your voice trembled, desperate and sure.

“Sentry, please…Please take me.”

His breath caught.

“Mark me. Claim me. Make it so I’m officially yours. I want to walk around and make sure people know who I belong to.”

The sound he made was something between a groan and a laugh–a stunned, reverent huff that left his chest trembling.

He looked at you like he was seeing a miracle. Like the universe had answered every prayer he didn’t know he’d made.

“ I will carve my name into the marrow of your soul with every stroke, every breath, every cry of mine that fills you.” His hands slid beneath your thighs, and with effortless, godlike strength, he lifted you. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, your arms clinging to his shoulders as your back pressed gently against the slick tile behind you. He held you there like you weighed nothing–like you were made to be in his arms, always.

“You want the world to know who you belong to?” He rasped against your throat, voice molten. “Then I’ll make sure they never question it again.”

His cock, thick and heavy, slid against your slick core–hot and pulsing between your thighs. The sensation made your breath hitch, your hips rolling forward on instinct, chasing the contact.

“Sentry–”

“I’ve got you,” He whispered, kissing your jaw, your cheek, your mouth. “I’ll always have you.”

And then–slow, devastating, divine–he pushed inside you.

You cried out, head falling back with a soft, strangled moan as your body stretched to take him. He was massive, thick and perfect, and the way he filled you made stars burst behind your eyes.

He stilled once he was buried deep, forehead pressed to yours, breathing heavy. Your nails dug into his back, thighs trembling where they wrapped around his hips. You whimpered, rolling your hips. “Move–please, just–fuck, move–”

And he did.

He pulled out slow, just enough to make you clench, and then drove back in with a low, guttural moan that sent a tremor through your spine. His thrusts were deep. Measured. Devastating. Each one stole the air from your lungs, each one carved his presence deeper into your body like a brand.

The sound of your bodies meeting was wet, sinful–echoing in the steamy air with every hard grind of his hips.

“You’re mine,” He growled into your neck, biting gently where your pulse pounded. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” You gasped, clinging to him like a lifeline. “I’ve always been yours.”

His pace quickened–thrusts growing hungrier, sharper, your back braced against the tile as he fucked into you with divine rhythm, every stroke hitting so deep it made your eyes roll back.

“You take me so fucking well,” He groaned, his voice breaking, “So perfect, so tight-God, you were made for me–”

Your cries filled the room–his name a mantra on your lips, every gasp an offering, every moan a confession.

You felt your climax building again–fast, furious, overwhelming. Your walls clenched tight around him and he let out a broken moan, his thrusts turning erratic. Each one punched a gasp from your lungs as he slammed up into you, the full weight of his strength braced into your hips, your back pressed tight to the slick tile. You clung to him like gravity had forgotten you existed—your fingers buried in his soaked hair, tugging hard with every roll of your hips to meet his.

And he loved it.

“Fuck—yes,” he groaned, his voice breaking against your throat. “Pull harder—don’t stop—God, I need—”

The sound of your slick heat swallowing him over and over again echoed off the steamy walls, and you could’ve sworn—

You heard it.

A soft sizzle in the air.

Not from the water.

From him.

From the radiant heat pouring off his skin–golden veins pulsing beneath his shoulders, sweat and steam beading off his spine, chest glowing like a furnace that had reached the edge of combustion. It rolled off him in waves. The kind of heat that seared. That warned. That branded.

And then–

He bit you.

His mouth opened wide over the curve of your shoulder, and his teeth sank deep into the tender flesh there–not teasing, not playful, but primal. Claiming.

You screamed.

Not from pain.

From devastation.

Your body seized violently against his, a sob torn from your throat as your climax ripped through you, sharp and fast and absolute. The pain and pleasure twisted together, blooming like fire through your blood. Your muscles locked, your walls clenching down so hard on him that he choked on a groan, arms trembling where he held you.

You could feel it.

His teeth.

Breaking skin.

Not deep enough to destroy–but deep enough to mark. Permanently.

To scar…To mark.

”You’re all mine.” He grunted against your skin, voice shredded with need. You were already shaking, still riding the aftermath of your orgasm when he growled into your throat:

“I’m gonna fill you up.”

A savage thrust.

“I want it dripping down your thighs.”

Another.

Harder.

Deeper.

You moaned so loud your voice cracked, hips bucking helplessly as he thrust into you again, again, again–

And then he buried himself to the hilt, grinding hard against your hips, and his forehead dropped to your burning shoulder–right over the mark he’d made–as he let out a long, broken moan.

His body shuddered, muscles locking, cock throbbing deep inside you as he spilled into you with everything he had.

It was endless.

Hot. Heavy. Worshipful.

You could feel him–his release pulsing inside you in thick waves, his breath stuttering against your skin, his hands shaking where they clutched your thighs like he didn’t trust himself not to fall apart completely.

And he was falling apart.

You felt it in every twitch of his hips. Every tremble in his chest. Every wrecked, holy sound that escaped his throat as he stayed locked inside you, trembling from the force of his own climax.

“You’re…Fuck–You’re everything,” He rasped, voice barely a whisper. “I don’t care if I burn for this. I’d burn again. A thousand times. Just to feel you like this.”

You clung to him, panting, overwhelmed, every nerve still humming.

And when his arms finally loosened and he kissed the wound he’d left on your shoulder–soft, gentle, as though to apologize even while owning it–your breath caught all over again.

Because this wasn’t just sex.

This was immolation.

[grymghoul]

Arthur gripped your hips, he suggested this position, not really suggested. He mostly had lifted you off him the second you had clenched around him, he took advantage of your orgasm to reposition you. His hand held your hips, keeping you up. He gave the curve of you ass an affectionate pat. "You're alright.." His voice was soft, the roughness of it soothing your nerves as your thighs trembled. "Arthur.. please." You weren't even sure if you wanted a break or more, the please seemed to go either way. "You okay?" He mumbled, that rough hand that was always gentle with you smoothed up your spine to the nape of your neck as he leaned over to kiss your shoulder. You panted as you nodded, soft hairs stuck to your forehead. "Want more?" It took you a second to process what he was asking and before you even processed what you were doing, there was a faint nod. He smiled against your skin, "Atta girl.." Arthur had never ending praise for you. For even the simplest of things. A good job for eating dinner or waking up in the morning. Any act of living earned praised, you were his world. His girl. His everything. During these tumultuous times, he found solace in the tiny hotel room he was able to steal you away in. He was able to pretend it was all different. Maybe you two had a home or at least the gang wasn't falling apart.. he snapped out of it as he leaned back, bringing your hips up again.

He eased into you, a breathless gasp followed by a higher pitch moan left your throat. He kept your back arched with one big hand pressed between your shoulders as his other gripped your hip. His blunt nails biting at your skin, leaving little crescents. He wasn't being particularly gentle but nonetheless paused to catch his breath. Your velvet walls were clenching around him, almost painfully tight and too hot. He let out a throaty groan, it came from up in his chest. Almost a breathless noise. Arthur threw his head back, his fingers drumming on your back lightly. He huffed, pulling his hips back, he could feel how you suctioned around him, so he didn't pull out completely. He didn't was to lose that. He snapped his hips, grinning at your breath hitching, nice and loud. You had abused your pussy riding him, until she was puffy and soaked. He offered occasional help, but he mostly thrusted upwards to surprise you when he felt you getting close. He liked watching you do all the work, so it was time to return the favor. Each time he pulled out and rolled his hips forward, they got faster and stronger. He leaned over you, slowly pressing his chest to your back. It was strong and warm, damp with sweat and his hair soft. His hand flew to the headboard, caging you between one arm next to your head and his firm bicep. Built like a piece of sinewy lumber, strong and unmoving, he had you trapped. The noises coming from your dripping cunt were filthy. How could you be soaked for him? A tough, gritty man. A killer. An outlaw. A bad, bad, bad-

"Arthur..!" The way you squeaked his name caught his attention, he could feel your walls around him, shit, your poor pussy never caught a break. He could feel you clenching and writhing and your nails dug into his thick wrist. But he didn't let up, even when you were pushed forward by the sheer force of his thrusts. "Don't- run from me." He gritted out, teeth clenched, his head pressed to the back of yours. His arm shifted, his forearm pressed to the front of your shoulder, keeping you from jolting forward. You were ruining the sheets, his thighs were sticky and slick with you, his dick coated in your cream, his hairs frothy. He wasn't even attempting to quiet himself now. "God.. damn it." Your legs gave out without his hand holding you up, you pressed flat on your stomach, feeling the sheets sticking to your wet skin, beads of sweat sliding down the column of your neck.

"Look'atchu.. You're a good girl.." His praises deep and guttural, he pressed you further into the mattress. Your moans had progressed into soft screams, your face half hidden in your pillow, hair messed. His hand that wasn't white knuckling the headboard slid between the mattress and you, finding your clit. Poor thing was twitching at just the slightest touch from him. "There ya go.. Takin' me and lookin' so pretty.." His lips pressed to the crown of your skull, your hair tickling his nose. With just a few soft circle from his finger, he ripped another orgasm out of you, you soaked his cock while he pounded you into the mattress. You were a sobbing mess, choking on your words. A mix of please, Arthur, I can't do it and don't stop, harder, deeper. He liked fucking the brains right out if your pretty head. Feeling your cunt drenched him and constrict around him so perfectly, like your pussy was made to take his thick cock and keeping it nice and tight and warm, seated so deep within you, made his stomach taught. His own legs trembled at the way his release hit him like a damn freight train.

"Fuck-" he had no words, nothing to describe how it felt, rutting his seed deeper in you with his dick twitching. He collapsed, mind empty, body numb, nearly crushing you and keeping the wind knocked from your lungs. Your hand patted his head. "Good job.. I can't breathe." Arthur's laugh was soft, his eyes closed. "Sorry, sweetheart."

[landossnorriss]

Pairing: lando x she. Summary: a small series of lando loving his girl through her life when her endometriosis is being a pain. Word Count: 1.4k Warning: health mentions , then just fluff. AN: this was requested and i tried to do it justice with as much research and realism as i could! i hope you enjoy it.

it was two in the morning when lando felt her shifting beside him again . she lay curled in on herself , a small knot under the duvet , her breathing shallow and shaky . he knew that sound by now , the way she tried not to wake him . he hated it more than any DNF he’d ever had .

“hey,” he murmured , his voice thick with sleep as he rolled closer . he slid a warm hand over her hip , careful and protective . “ you hurting again ? ” she didn’t answer right away , just nodded , eyes squeezed shut . her pyjama top was damp near the collarbone . silent tearss. he hated that too . he pressed a kiss to her temple . “ alright , love . let’s get you more comfortable , yeah? ”

he had a routine now , the little things he could do when he couldn’t take the pain away .

he slipped out of bed and padded to the bathroom for her heat pack . he rubbed his eyes while it hummed in the microwave . back in the bedroom , he helped her shift , draping it over her lower belly with gentle hands . she let out a tiny hiss at the heat, but he knew it helped .

sometimes she tried to apologise , “i’m sorry, you’ve got to be up early, i’m sorry , ” , but he cut her off every time . he cupped her cheek and wiped away a tear with his thumb . “ don’t be sorry ,” he told her, like it was the simplest truth in the world . “ it’s my job to look after you. "

when it was really bad , when her whole body seemed to lock up with the pain , he sat behind her . he let her curl into him like a comma, her back pressed to his chest . his hand slid under her top , resting over the warm pack. his palm was steady and warm , and she always said it helped , just that tiny weight , his thumb tracing lazy circles near her belly button.

he murmured soft nonsense into her hair , stories about next week’s race , what they’d do when she felt better , how he’d make her pancakes in the morning if she wanted them . he would have read the dictionary to her if it would keep her breathing through the pain . not that he was sure he knew how to read that many words . still , he would try .

lando couldn’t fix it , couldn’t pit stop her pain away , couldn’t trade places with her , but he would always be there in the dark , heat pack ready , hands steady , heart breaking and mending for her every time .

there were times when she hated needing his help . when the fact she was this young and needed him for more things than she should got him down . the bathroom was steamy and warm , but the heat did little to dull the sharp ache curling through her lower abdomen . she sat in the tub , fingers gripping the slick edge , trying to will the cramps away .

when she tried to stand though ? the pain hit like a punch — sudden, fierce, and unrelenting . her legs trembled , and she faltered , heart sinking with the helplessness she hated so much .

a soft knock at the door startled her .

“ love? you okay in there?” lando’s voice was gentle, filled with quiet concern , the way it always was when he knew she wasn't asking for the things that she needed from him . she swallowed hard , cheeks flushing with a mix of shame and frustration . “ i.. i don’t think i can get out.”

the door creaked open , and he stepped in , careful not to slip on the wet tiles . without hesitation , he eased down beside the tub , offering his strong hands . “let me help you,” he offered. of course , she hesitated for a moment , embarrassed to need him like this , but her trembling hands found his . there wouldn't be a way to do this without him so instead , with his steady support she used his hands to help lift herself out of the tub .

her legs wobbled , but lando held her firm , guiding her carefully out of the bath and onto a warm towel on the floor . she pressed her face into his chest, a whispered apology catching in her throat.

he shook his head, brushing damp hair from her forehead . “ no apologies . you’re not alone in this . ”

" but it's so embarrassing lando . " her huff came as she looked up at him , there was nothing sexy about this , nothing appealing for him , she had seen the girls that went after him . she was pretty sure none of them had to fight their bodies every day but lando wouldn't hear any of it if even if she tried to tell him so she clung to him instead .

he wouldn't ever let anyone else say anything about it either.

they were at a friend’s birthday, just a small gathering, people they trusted , lando had still told her not to come when he had realised she had been masking her pain all morning but she had insisted . now she was curled up on a garden chair , a blanket pulled over her legs , laughing at something carlos was saying when one of the newer team guys , young , eager , clueless , leaned over and said , " she’s always tired , huh ? must be nice , using you as an excuse to skip stuff. ”

lando’s eyes flicked up , sharp . he didn’t raise his voice — he didn’t need to. several other drivers moved their heads towards lando waiting for his response , braced for impact. but lando ? he just tilted his head, one arm dropping protectively along the back of her chair. “ it’s not an excuse ,” he said , his tone calm but leaving no room for argument . “ she’s in pain . a lot of the time , actually. ”

the kid went pink, stumbling over a half-apology , lando didn't care . she reached for lando’s hand under the blanket , squeezed it once . the driver squeezed back . when the kid slunk off to the bar , she exhaled , cheeks warm. “ you didn’t have to do that. ”

“ yeah, i did, ” lando said. he kissed the side of her head , low enough that only she could hear . “ i’ll always do that.”

she hated it most when it interupped his world . when the focus was pulled from where he really needed it to be . the roar of engines and the buzz of the paddock felt distant to her , like a world she was only half part of . race weekends were supposed to be thrilling . sometimes they were , sometimes she stood at jons side and hoped the older male could keep her propped up whilst her man did his thing .

the pain flared unpredictably , sharp and exhausting , stealing energy she needed to just stand , to smile , to be present . she was great at masking now , she had to , to nod when others spoke , to catch lando’s eye when she absolutely needed a moment .

he never missed those looks . always there , steady as the lap times ticking down on the screen , his hand finding hers in the crowded garage, a quiet anchor amid chaos.

one evening , after a particularly rough day , they sat together in their hotel room . she traced the curve of his scar across the bridge of his nose with tired fingers, voice low . “ i hate how this steals moments from us ” she admitted.

lando shook his head , pulling her close . “ you don’t have to carry it alone . we’re a team . on and off the track .” she let herself lean into him , relief softening the edges of her pain . no matter how hard the race , no matter how relentless the ache , this was their victory , holding each other through it all .

landonorris just posted:

liked by, maxverstappen1, lilymhe, herusername, quadrant and 342,134 other people.

not all battles are on the track . my girl is a true warrior .

@hotforleclerc: a warrior AND putting up with you? give that woman a trophy 😂❤️ @sophie_gasly: true love is dragging each other through the pits and paddock. Queen behaviour! 👑 @carlos55: Mate, she deserves a medal AND a lifetime supply of snacks for dealing with you. @maxverstappen1: True warrior — she’s even braver for choosing you. Respect! 😂 @pitlane_paul: strongest girl in the paddock and lando’s personal champion. we love to see it! @crazyf1fan69: If she’s a warrior, you’re her emotional support driver 😂 @trackside_tina: she deserves a championship ring for surviving the cramps AND you, king! @unhingedf1fan77: when’s the parade? we need a ‘queen of endo warriors’ float immediately. @george63: I think we’re all agreeing she’s out of your league, bro. Well done 👏😂 @f1wagclub: you two = ultimate paddock power couple. she’s iconic. @speedy_sam: protect this woman at all costs. and give her all the snacks.

[webism]

KINKTOBER DAY THREE: bondage with nanami.

kinktober masterlist

Nanami, your other half, is meticulous and an overbearing perfectionist on the best of days. You love it about him, love the way that when it comes to you, everything has to be perfect to no fault. You love his dedication to the simplest of things, his attention to detail, you love his patience.

You don't love it when he's using said perfectionism to prolong your time being tied up. You see it in his pretty eyes, that knowing look—he's not taking his time for the sake of perfection, he's taking the time to perv on those frustrated whines that you let out the longer he takes.

Your wrists are bound at your front, a soft shibari rope wrapped around your skin. He had picked it out himself, opted for a more expensive option as it was less likely to irritate your skin—after all, you're being bound to further enjoy yourself, not to decorate your skin with marks he'd much rather leave with his mouth.

Still, he works on the rope around your waist with no sign of eagerness or a rush towards completion. Instead, he continues to watch your body in what looks like a clinical examination, hands working gracefully as he knots the rope against your skin and builds a harness, no doubt good to hold onto so you can't start to shift away once thinks become overbearing. You sit on your shared bed, eyes heavy and stuck on his face as he works—calculated ministries become just a little quicker as you pout.

"Ken," you whine, subconsciously trying to pry your wrists apart to grab at your lover. Your fingers find nothing but air, your arms bound, rendering you useless.

"I'm almost done," he says calmly, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips. He finishes before any other complaints can leave your lips, though you suspect he could have been finished fifteen minutes ago if the sight of rope against your bare skin didn't send blood right down to his cock.

He stands back from where he's working with satisfaction, a pleased look in his eyes that makes you want to squirm, wanting to crawl into his lap and beg forgiveness for whatever you might have done wrong in your past life if it means he'll just fuck you already. But you keep your head up, eyes set on his.

Your legs are bound thigh-to-calf, your throbbing cunt forced onto display by your bindings—if Kento were a worse man he'd leave you like this, bound with a vibrator against your pretty clit for hours on end as he files some paperwork or catches up on the novel he's been reading.

And although the thought is enticing, turning your moans and drawling orgasms into ambient music for the house you share, he's a selfish man at heart and could never deprive himself of you—not when you're like this.

"I think you're beautiful, my love," he leans over you, brushing a cool knuckle over your warmed cheek. A flush spreads across your cheeks, warmth blooming in your belly. His touch doesn't last long, his hand trailing off your shoulder and dipping down to tug at the rope that twists around your torso.

"You're perfect, you know that?" He tries again, and pulls so hard on your rig that your back meets the mattress and, all of a sudden, your Kento is hovering over you, cock hard against his slacks. "And you know that I love you."

"I know," you nod.

His hands fumble for his belt, and he's hooking his cock out of his pants in the same breath—too eager to fully undress. "I appreciate your trust in me," he tugs at a rope around your thigh to get you just that little bit closer to him; you can feel the heavy weight of his length against your stomach—and he can see just how deep inside of you he will be soon enough, "Though I fear seeing you tied up like this… it makes it hard to be gentle with you, love."

You lean up to kiss his jaw, his lips, anything you and reach while bound so intently. "I don't need you to be gentle with me. I am at your disposal."

Something in your lilt breaks the band of resistance that holds your lover still—he groans as he presses forward, pushing into you without any preamble. You're beyond wet, he hardly feels bad for not prepping you on his tongue beforehand. He has plans of ruining you with his mouth once he's fucked you full of him. "How can I possibly deny you?"

As he bottoms out inside of you, Kento grabs the rope that binds your wrist and lifts them above your head, pressing them into the sheets and rendering you completely motionless. Try as you might, you can't move an inch—you're entirely at his lust-glossed mercy. "That's better, hm? Much easier now, yes?" He pushes deeper into you, grunting out as he fills you in. "You don't have to think, don't have to move, you don't have to anything but take me."

The words are familiar to you—you've heard them hundreds of times before. In the throes of ecstasy, they sound like a lullaby to you—though this time there's some truth to his words. A genuine lack of need to move, to speak, to try and keep your hips at pace with his. As Nanami pulls back, drags his aching cock out of you before rutting right back into your tight core, you're able to completely relinquish control.

And god is it narcotic. The ruthless pace that he sets, muscles that cord his arms keep you in place as he bullies his cock into you. His mean thrusts are occasionally broken up with an open-mouthed kiss to your waiting lips, though the world is spinning too fast for you to register much other than raw, undiluted pleasure. You barely have the voice to announce your orgasm, let alone ask for permission to cum, so when your orgasm wracks through you like tropical waves against a cliffside, your lover can't help but bite at your exposed neck in feigned disappointment.

"Oh, love," he coos, but doesn't slow the roll of his hips even slightly. "You know I don't like it when you don't use your words."

You can't, not with the way he's fucking a second orgasm into you before you've even recovered from your first. Not when you're bound so tight that you know you have no way out of his ministries, not that you want one. You haven't felt so blissed-out in a long time, and there is no place safer to lose your mind than in Kento's arms. Though there's a dangerous lilt to his voice when he leans own, thrusts sharp into your overstimulated pussy, and whispers against your ear. "You're going to wait, and you're going to cum alongside me, love."

It's all too much, your vision is near-white with hot pleasure and you worry that you'll never think a straight thought again if he keeps rendering you dumb like this. You try desperately to climb up the bed, away from his overwhelming size, but he's got an iron-wraught grip on your bindings. "Ah," he chides. "Don't run, take me- I know you can."

The moans that rip from your throat are made for porn, especially in conjuncture with his groans and bitten praises. It's not long before his ruthless pace starts to falter, and the slap of skin against bruising skin starts to stutter as your lover reaches climax.

"With me," he chokes, the hand that had held your wrists up finally falling down to rub relentless circles over your sensitive clit. You're overwhelmed, orgasm cresting almost painfully as your mind blanks and you come harder than you think you ever have before. Nanami releases inside of you, his free hand holding you as close as humanly possible through your bindings.

And once he's cum, stolen a few breaths to steady himself enough to lift himself up and look down at you, Kento Nanami fears he might be a bad man. Because with the way you look, tear stained cheeks and complete lack of freedom, he can't help the words that slip from his lips.

"You can handle another, can't you, love?"

tags: @medusamara5 @echodead @aliisinwonderland @curiositykilledthecatx3 @hirainne

@plinkuro @sooouth @megumiiiswife @nyxiswrites1200 @yveiscringe

@sharks31 @lenahathunger @aydene @dreamyokai @n0tviv

@chiiinglebells @timetoletmyimaginationfly @nayely45 @waffless-simp-blog

@zoozvie @gothicchildofthenight @repnights @flwerie @soundofraindropss

@ushijimas1simp @aliidarling @aeswin @peachygelic @silvermet

@rinadisapproves @theshxaverse @cipher00 @milkkteary @snackeyalleyjuice

@cvipped @toadtoru @keiette @satosugu4-ever

@sugurubabe @wickedpoison6 @simp-plague @tojis-ball-sack @ventila98

@xxbookdrunkdemigodxx @oikawasthirdleg @yogichi @theycallmesia

@kdrama-anna @vurelliex @anonnieghost @tadabzzzbee

@luvofbows @crywolfix @hhonaoin @gigiiiiislife @aviesnapkindoodles

@ninikrumbs @bijuu-naginata @baekhyunsbestie @grimmshold @dalnimmie

@domainexpansionmypants @5tarx @1depressedsimp @beachaddict48 @jadeis0nline

@sukunasbbygrl @luna-v-roiya @sukunaspillow @starsval @vamqyx

@laaalaaaloooppppsiiieeeee @mermaid-jewels @sugusmonkeyy @sammywo @noyaskneepad

@astrideverstar @lordchula-thagrandrula @chuuminn @angel1of-death @flooftoof

@rumi-rants @dysphoricsanity @coolcephalopod @satoruslxt @xoxo1mira

@whosmarjj @kikosaidbye @iceddragonfruit @amisuh @lotties-ashwagandha

[dreamiie4her]

if 1 + 1 = 2, why are you overcomplicating the loa?

@𝓭𝓸𝓵𝓵𝓲𝓮𝓬𝓸𝓭𝓮𝓭 𝓲𝓼 𝓽𝔂𝓹𝓲𝓷𝓰…

Once upon a time, I was writing down notes in my lesson, while we were learning about holism (viewing things as a whole) & reductionism (breaking down phenomenon to its most simplest form), and i lowkey had a ‘EUREKA!’ moment.

Now you may be asking, why on earth am i giving a storytime when this is supposed to be an informative loa post, well grab a hot cocoa because imma give u a nice reminder about the law of assumption & shifting, if u feel like you’ve just overconsumed alot of posts & overcomplicated it.

Instead of viewing manifestation/shifting as a ‘whole’ (methods, techniques & all that other unnecessary stuff) ,u gotta simply break it down to,

1. pick what u want

2. persist in that assumption (affirming)

thats basically it! stop overcomplicating manifesting/shifting to all these methods, etc.

lemme scream that for the crowd in the back

STOP‼️OVERCOMPLICATING‼️SHIFTING/MANIFESTING‼️

& that also means, stop contributing to factors that lead to this overcomplicating. I’m talking about overconsuming content because trust me, all you need is picking & persisting & thats basically it.

Once you realise, shifting/manifesting is as easy as pick what u want & persist, life will become 100% easier 😚

urs truly, @dolliecoded

[kingkat12]

art on art (eric draven x reader)

WARNINGS: 18+, piv sex, oral sex (female receiving), drug mentions, nasty fluff tihi

summary: why hasn't Eric reached out after leaving rehab yet, and how long does it take for marker ink to fade?

word count: 5,272 PART 1, PART 2, PART 3

a/n: this is part 3 of my Eric Draven fanfic draw you! thanks again for the overwhelming support of this series, and enjoy!!<333

Some broken part of me never expected to see Eric again. I knew that the previous men in my life would leave the second they got what they wanted out of me, so why should I hope for this one to be different?

I had been out of rehab for exactly two weeks now, and I knew this meant that Eric was out as well. He had my address, he had my number, and he weirdly enough also had my email address... yet I hadn't heard anything from him. Not a single thing. I wasn't quite sure why my heart was breaking at the realization I had been thrown away again-- I should be used to this.

In actuality, I knew exactly why my hopes were up.

The last time I saw Eric, had been right before I was about to leave rehab. We were standing in my room, the guards no longer watching me as I was technically excused and only there to get my stuff. I was packing everything into a big cardboard box, unable to meet Eric's green eyes as he sat on my bed-- he just looked so damn sad, I couldn't bring myself to watch. 

At the same time, I couldn't believe that he was upset about me leaving; no one had ever cared for me like that before. "Why do you look like that?" I eventually asked, stuffing his drawings into a book so that they wouldn't get ruined during the move. 

"Like what?"

"Like I'm about to shoot a puppy,"

Eric snorted, a slight smile finally forming across his lips. "Just thinking about how shit these next days are going to be without you here,"

I dared to gaze at him, watching his chest rise and fall in a long sigh. Even while doing the simplest act of sitting, Eric looked downright gorgeous. His dark hair had grown even longer during the time we had known each other, which allowed slight curls to form along his forehead. Draped in pink, tattoos peeking up from the collar of his jumper, green eyes soft with feelings-- the sight was almost enough to make my breath hitch.

"Oh, you won't notice I'm gone," I mumbled, trying to lighten the mood at the same time as I tried to be discreet about shoving my underwear down into the box. "Time will fly by, don't you worry."

Eric shifted, moving closer to the edge of the bed. He stopped me from picking up the next batch of my stuff, leading my hands into his as his rounded eyes sunk into mine. "You're saying that as though I won't miss you,"

I held my breath, unsure what to say. 

Eric noticed my hesitance, squeezing my hands; "I will miss you. Do you understand that?"

Oh, I most certainly did not understand that. Not at all. But it didn't stop my heart from swelling, beating harder than it probably ever had before. It also didn't get any better when Eric led me between his legs, letting go of my hands so that he could put his against my waist. He looked up at me through his thick, long lashes, clearly trying to make me understand the longing lingering in his body. "Will you miss me?"

There was no question in my mind that I would. I'd miss him every second of every day, as I already did. However, I wasn't sure whether it was smart to tell him this, or whether that would make him lose interest like my previous flings. But weirdly enough, something told me I could trust this guy-- or was that just his pretty face doing the talking? "I will," I said, taking his face into my hands, brushing my thumbs over his cheeks in a newfound sense of affection.

Eric's previously glossy look suddenly became a hopeful one-- he pulled me even closer, my hands going up into his hair as he buried his face against the crook of my neck. 

There was something so sincere about him, that I couldn't help but smile. Even now, as I remembered it. Was I stupid to imagine that it had all been real? That he hadn't acted like he would miss me just out of pity?

This was definitely my insecurity talking. I needed to get it all out of my head-- which is exactly why I ended up going out tonight, my friends by my side as we made our way into our usual spot at the club downtown. Being back in the darkness of this place, music blasting through my ears, brought a lot of memories back; specifically the dark ones. 

However, I wasn't drinking. I wasn't taking anything, and I wasn't planning on doing so. In the back of my mind, I kept imagining a scenario where Eric would finally reach out and find me relapsed... and that was certainly not ideal. Then he'd definitely not want to be with me.

Maybe I just needed to forget about him?

And so I began trying-- it didn't take long before I sat down next to some guy trying to tell me about his life story. I had never been this disinterested in my life, allowing him to put his arm around me as I stared up at the light-show on display across the roof, lost in thought.

I wondered where Eric was. What he was doing, who he was with, where he was. Whether he thought about me at all. It quickly hit me that being sober at a club took away all the fun, and with alcohol floating around right before my eyes, I wondered whether I should bother staying sober or not. I didn't exactly have anyone to stay clean for, as I thought I would. 

And just as I was about to ask the guy next to me whether I could have the tiniest sip of his beer, I spotted a familiar tall frame across the room. I blinked several times, straightening up in my seat as though I was a woman possessed. I was sure it was him-- I immediately knew the second I saw the tattooed poem on his back peeking through the top of his shirt.

As though I had heard a gunshot, I got up from the couch, my whole body tingling with unexpected excitement. This was an adrenaline surge unlike anything drugs could give me, and it only grew stronger as Eric seemed to be leaving. 

Panicked, I sped up into a light jog despite being in heels, making my way through the crowd on the dancefloor. It didn't take long before I caught up to him, grabbing the sleeve of his shirt.

Eric had a bewildered look about him as he frantically searched who it could be that had held him back from leaving. When his big, green eyes finally landed on me, they widened as he broke out into a look of relief. "There you are!" he exclaimed, his large hands grabbing my shoulders. "I've been looking for you all over!--"

I was sure I would've started crying if I hadn't reached for the collar of his shirt, tugging him down to my level to press my lips against his in the neediest kiss I had probably ever shared. I flung my arms around his neck as he pulled me closer, both of us letting out relieved sighs at our reunion. 

I wanted to stay like this forever, swimming in the bliss of being reunited with the man who had haunted my every waking thought. However, I couldn't let myself revel in the joy before I got the answer to my question; "You never called!" I said, my hands now at the sides of his face. "You never fucking called!"

Eric hummed, connecting our foreheads as he closed his eyes. "I did... just from a different number. You never answered, so I had to track you down all the way here,"

My thumbs stroked over his cheeks, my anger simmering down into a slow ache. The thought of Eric calling without getting a response made me feel worse than bad. "How?" was all I was able to say, leaning forward to kiss the tip of his nose.

Eric blushed a little before pulling away, and I was unsure whether the reason for my sudden dizziness was the loud music or his smile. God, he was gorgeous. "Our dealers are cousins," he said, wrapping his arms around my waist as we swayed on the dance floor. "And your guy told me I could find you here."

"I see," The loving look in Eric's eyes nearly made me melt— it was clear that he had missed me as well. But my questions kept coming to me; "Why did you get a different number? Is everything alright?"

With that, Eric's smile faltered just a little. His grip around my waist tightened as he brought one hand up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear in a loving gesture. "I... suppose there's a lot I have to tell you, now that I've come all this way,"

I could sense that this was serious— I had seen enough of those guilty eyes for one lifetime. "I see," I repeated, pulling him in for another kiss, reveling in the feeling of tasting him again. There was nothing I had missed more about rehab than this. "Let's talk it out somewhere else, then?"

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

It wasn't every day that I brought back men from the club— my policy was no men at my place at all, just in case I encountered a serial killer in disguise. But this thing with Eric was different; he could've moved in for all I cared. He could also proceed to burn it all down, rip me apart with his bare hands, and I'd let him.

However, the difference between Eric and the other men in my life was that I knew, deep down in my heart, that he would never hurt me; which is why I let him into my apartment.

I watched as Eric took a look around, his hands tucked into his front pockets as he whistled; "Quite the place,"

Shrugging, I made my way towards him as he towered over everything in my living room. "Sure is,"

Eric turned to me, a raised brow on display. "You're telling me you're loaded?"

I felt a bit embarrassed— I knew that once Eric found out the truth, he'd think of me just as all the other ones did. The spoiled girl who had nothing else to do but turn to drugs to get a high out of life. I couldn't help but grow nervous, unsure how to explain the truth to him; "Well... It's my parents' money,"

Eric nodded to himself, stepping towards me. "Are they around much? I didn't see them visiting you in rehab,"

The truth stung. "They don't want to look their biggest disappointment in the eye," I mumbled, my gaze falling to my feet. "But they make sure I'm still alive, I suppose. So it's not that bad."

There was a silence before I suddenly felt Eric's long, slender fingers beneath my chin, tilting me up so that I could meet his gaze. I wasn't sure what I was expecting to see, but it certainly wasn't this; compassion. "Their loss," he said, the emerald green of his eyes engulfing my being with unexpected kindness. "At least you got a great apartment out of it."

I let out a warm laugh, now keening against the palm of his hand as he placed it to my cheek. "I've missed you,"

As Eric smiled down at me, it was obvious that his heart fluttered at the sight of me. I had never thought someone would ever look at me like that. "I've missed you too," he breathed. "Thought about you during every waking moment of every day. You have no idea how glad I am that I found you."

I could barely believe this was real— didn't stuff like this only happen in movies? "If only I had known you called," I mumbled, placing my hand on top of his. "Being without you was just hell... What happened?"

Eric inhaled a sharp breath, an unintelligible emotion swimming in his eyes. "I want to be honest with you, but... I'm afraid you'll run,"

In a flash of desperation, I placed his hand against my heart. "I have nowhere else to run but to you,"

Eric's green eyes rounded out, his lips parting in confusion— was I maybe not the only one stunned by the confessions of complete and utter love tonight? "I— Fuck," 

With that, Eric's strong hands gripped my waist, pulling me towards him as our lips came together in a hungry kiss. The sheer force of it, along with the element of surprise, nearly had me stumbling a few steps back. But Eric only followed; I nearly moaned out as I felt his tongue against mine, my hands flying up into his dark locks and pulling him closer. I had missed him more than I had ever missed anything in the world, including drugs— all my swarming feelings of never-dying love had me pushing away all my needs for an answer from him regarding his phone, and I let my back hit the surface of the couch as Eric hovered above me.

"Missed you," he breathed in between kisses, a slight growl to his voice. Something told me Eric was trying to melt himself into me to make sure we would never be apart again— it only made my need for him stronger. I clung to him, my legs wrapping around his tall figure as I attempted to pull him even closer than he already was. 

Fuck, his lips were so soft. Deadly soft. The way Eric was nipping at my lower lip, occasionally sinking his teeth into it to draw out a whimper, was making a familiar knot form in my lower abdomen. I barely registered that my dress was gone before I watched him discard his shirt somewhere on the floor— now that we finally had time, I let my fingers run over his tattoos, smiling into the next kiss as I realized we would finally have that messy morning I was promised. I couldn't wait to lie in his arms, tracing every piece of art on his skin, taking it all in— this was heaven. Everything about finally being alone with Eric was heaven. 

"Missed you too," I eventually managed to moan out, feeling him grow hard against the apex of my thighs. "I don't ever want to be without you again." My breath hitched as Eric left wet kisses down jaw, neck, breasts, and stomach, knowing exactly where he was heading. I drew my hand towards my mouth, gently biting down to suppress a rather girly squeal. 

"You'll never be," Eric purred against my skin, sinking his teeth gently into my thigh to evoke a sound. "If you think we're ever going to be apart from now on, I need you to scour that pretty little brain of yours once more."

It was impossible not to smile, and I squirmed against the couch before Eric's big, strong hands grabbed my hips, holding me in place as he pressed a kiss against my clothed sex. However, I couldn't shake the feeling that he was doing this to avoid telling me what had happened in the moments we had been apart. Despite wanting to give in to the pleasure, let him tease me and keep me on the edge through the night, my mind wouldn't let me.

In the moment Eric threw my underwear to the floor, now kissing up my thighs and leaving me breathless, I propped myself up on my elbows; "Hold on," I breathed, reaching down to run my fingers through his hair in hopes of getting his attention. "Eric, wait--"

As he looked up at me through his brows, eyes wide with confusion as he paused for me, I didn't know whether I could go through with it. This moment was so damn precious, something I had been longing for ever since the moment I saw him; so why couldn't it wait? With a sigh, I laid back down. 

"You okay?" Eric asked, his thumb rubbing a soothing circle against my hipbone. "Wanna stop?"

That was definitely not it-- I let in a lazy breath, my eyelids drooping over my eyes as my body shivered at the feeling of his hot breath against my cunt. Everything about this situation was making my brain shut down. "No... I don't want to stop," My hands reached for his, and Eric let out a hum, his free hand now ghosting over my sex. "Just wondering whether you drew it or not."

"Drew what?"

"What we did in that stairwell,"

Eric's eyes sparkled with amusement as he laughed, placing a wet kiss against the inside of my thigh. "You bet I did,"

"Will you show me?"

He hummed against my skin; "Later... I'm a little busy here, as you see," Eric hooked his arms around my legs, dragging me closer to him as I yelped. I could only laugh, the realization that I had finally gotten all I had ever wanted hitting me just as I felt the warm trickle of spit running down my cunt-- my hips bucked up in surprise, my breath escaping me. I was about to prop myself up on my elbows for a second time, hoping to get a look at what the fuck he was doing, but as he ran his tongue up between my folds with a ridiculously soft touch, I could only whimper.

The memory of Eric saying he would take his time with me when we were out of rehab suddenly dawned on me-- I was in for the long run.

It didn't take long before he had me writhing beneath him, a whimpering, panting mess. With every swirl of his tongue around my clit, every time he sucked in my aching bud between his plush lips, I held back the urge to buck my hips up against him. It got increasingly hard to keep still, especially when Eric pulled away to simply breathe down on my sex, knowing exactly where he had me. 

"Fuck," I cried, reaching down to run my fingers through his hair-- I did my best not to tighten my grip, fighting the urge to use his dark locks as handles. 

I could feel Eric smiling against me, leaning down to press a soft kiss against my clit; my breath immediately hitched, bucking up against his mouth in an attempt to beg for more. His fingers dug themselves into my thighs, driving my legs further apart as he made space for his broad shoulders. I whined at the loss of friction when he tilted his head to look up at me, and a shiver ran up my spine at the look of his face, slicked with my arousal. 

A mischievous smile spread across Eric's plush, glistening lips; "Someone's impatient,"

I could feel my cheeks redden with embarrassment, lolling my head back down against the couch-- looking at him only made it worse. "Can you blame me? You're doing this on purpose," 

Eric hummed, one hand leaving my thigh to lazily rub soft circles around my clit, using my slick as a lubricant. It only made me squirm, letting out a shaky moan as my back arched slightly off the couch. Even worse, was that I started to feel a small tremble appearing in my hands. "Can't handle a little teasing?" he said, biting his lip as he watched me attempt to suppress my noises. "You keep saying you've waited for me... What happened to your patience?"

I held back the urge to simply kick him-- but that thought immediately slipped out of my mind the second Eric flattened his tongue against me, licking a stripe all the way up to my swollen clit. It was impossible to suppress the hitch of my breath, and the tug I gave his hair in response was purely instinctual. It surprised me further to hear him enjoy it; I decided to keep that observation stored for later.

I had a feeling Eric knew my mind was buzzing, that he wouldn't be able to toy with me much longer. There might've been a few giveaways that I was at my wit's end-- all of which left me feeling like an even bigger mess than I already was beneath him. "I- I can't," I whined, my words leaving me as Eric sucked me in once more. "Wait, please!--"

He hummed against me, now pressing his lips against the crease of my thigh as a chuckle built in his throat. "Fine, fine," he said, playfully sinking his teeth into my skin, his green eyes watching my every move. "I suppose I'm dragging this out... I don't know why I'm feeling nervous."

Nervous? Eric didn't look very nervous to me. "It's just me, though?" I tried, attempting to catch my breath as I laid my hand on top of his. My next words came out shakier than anticipated, especially now that he was kissing his way back up my body; "You don't need to be nervous."

Eric hummed, his large, tattooed hands kneading my chest, kissing along the hem of my bra. "It's just... When you left rehab," he started, his lips pressing along my collarbones. "I realized it took me days to recover after a dream with you in it."

The rush of joy surging through my veins reminded me of a hit of amphetamine-- it was all-taking, consuming, and I wanted nothing more than to press him so closely that we'd melt together. "Eric--"

"I've drawn you over and over," he breathed, kissing up my neck with a toe-curling softness. "In every way possible. Imagined the way you'd look at me after waking up in the morning, how it would feel to kiss your pretty little face good night..." Eric's lips hovered above mine, our shared breaths hot and shaky against one another as he continued; "I want you to burn into me like warm glass, mold into one. It sounds insane, but... how else can I ensure we stay together?"

My eyes were wide, finding his, as my hands reached up to cup his face. Like this, I finally had the time to admire the tattoo above his right brow, the deep scar on his cheek, and the tattoo above it. I stroked my thumb over the ink, holding back from connecting our lips just yet; "If you think I'm ever leaving you, I need you to scour that pretty little brain of yours" I breathed, watching his pupils dilate as I bit back a smug smile. "Do I need to remind you that I'm all yours?" My fingers now ghosted over his lips, still wet with my slick, as an idea suddenly hit me. "Actually..."

Eric watched in confusion as I shifted beneath him, now reaching for the table right by the couch. There, I had left a marker which I had previously used to write a birthday card, and I took it into my hand before laying back down, looking up at the puzzled look on his face. "I'm not able to physically melt into you, but..." 

Eric's green eyes widened further, watching as I popped the cap and drew a tiny little heart on the peak of his shoulder.

I met his gaze, beaming up at him; "I can leave my mark,"

The most unexpected thing happened-- The sight of Eric welling up in tears was not something I had counted on when I let my impulses take the lead. For a second, I got genuinely worried I had overstepped all boundaries until he pinned my hand above my head and pressed a needy, passionate kiss against my lips.

I couldn't control the moan that escaped me, my hips bucking up against his, feeling his hard length grind down and brush up against my clit as our chests came together, pulling each other in as close as possible. The need I felt for Eric was undescribable, ravaging through my being-- I had never wanted anyone as bad as this. 

Mind dulled by anticipation and pleasure, I barely registered that he had managed to pry the marker from my fingers and pull it into his hand. Eric disconnected the kiss, pressing his wet lips against my cheek before propping himself up on his knees, scanning his canvas. "I'm definitely dreaming now," he whispered, mostly to himself, hovering above me as he drove the marker tip to the point where my ribs met on my chest. 

I could only smile, watching my favourite artist at work with admiration blossoming in my chest. Knowing I would be decorated with his work made me even more hot and bothered; I did my best to get a look at what he was drawing without disrupting his process. 

Eric drew a line down my chest, a few leaves scattered along it-- it dawned on me that he was drawing a rose. A beautiful, big rose, with that same scratchy style that I recognized from his previous creations. I watched him dart his tongue out, keeping it between his lips, focused; I couldn't help but find it endearing.

"Art on art," he breathed, pulling away to drink in the sight of what he had drawn on my body. Eric's green eyes found mine, his shy smile returning to his plush, glistening lips. "You're beautiful. You're so beautiful."

"So are you," I held back the urge to cry happy tears, my hands reaching out for him. "I love it, Eric. I'm scared of needles, so I won't be able to get this tattooed... Meaning you'll have to draw it over and over. Would you do that for me?"

Eric let out a choked laugh, eyes glossing over as he put the cap back on the marker, discarding it somewhere before returning to his place above me. "I'd do anything for you,"

I hadn't smiled so brightly in what felt like years. Like this, at this moment, I was sure this was it. He was it. 

Before I knew it, we were completely lost in the fiery kiss that ensued-- Eric's tongue against mine, hands lost around my waist as my fingers hooked into his dark locks, our chests heaving at one another. I was so gone, so dizzyingly aroused, that when I felt his thick cock pushing past my sopping entrance, I could only gasp. 

Eric let out a grunt, both of us moaning into the kiss at the immediate relief-- I could barely believe that this was real, that we were back as one. In a sense, this was the melting together that we had both craved so badly. 

My nails dug into his back, leaving crescent marks in their wake as I let him push further into me. Eric buried his face in the crook of my neck, letting out a breathy groan against my skin when he finally moved. His cock stroked my walls the same way it had that one evening in the stairwell, the exact feeling I had chased as I buried my fingers deep inside of me every night since-- I had forgotten how the real deal had felt. How mind-numbingly good it felt to have Eric in me.

I whimpered as I felt his cock throb upwards, immediately hitting my sweet spot, and I wrapped my legs around him, wanting nothing more than to stay like this forever. Knowing I bared his mark on my chest, knowing he had dreamed of this as well, only strengthened the electricity running all the way up to the tips of my fingers. I didn't know how I was supposed to last long at all, especially when I heard Eric moan out my name-- I shivered, pressing my lips against the heart I had drawn on his shoulder. 

I noticed a blush creep up his cheeks before he connected our lips once more, but it was hard to kiss properly when we were both in a heavy daze of pleasure-- we ended up mostly breathing against one another, Eric's green eyes watching as I let out a string of moans with every stroke of his cock. 

"You're everything," Eric rambled, nipping at my lower lip to suppress another grunt. "You're everything, you're-- Fuck!--" His hands dug into my hips, fucking me properly into the couch as he deepened his thrusts. 

My heart fluttered in my marked chest as I realized we were both looking down to watch our union-- the sight of Eric's cock pumping in and out of me, the wet sounds of our love filling the room, was almost enough to bring me over the edge. I also caught a glimpse of the petals drawn over my body, realizing I was admiring both the art and his body against mine. 

My back arched off the couch as Eric shifted, angling his thrusts upwards-- now, he was dead on pumping his cock against my sweet spot, which had me mewling out against his lips. "Eric, I-- I'm not gonna last, a-ah!--"

With glossy eyes, I watched a smirk spread across Eric's lips; "Let go if you need to," he cooed, his dark hair now kissing his forehead as he let out a laboured grunt. "We'll go again, baby-- hah, don't worry."

That was all I needed-- my heart fluttered, realizing we had all the time in the world to fuck all through the night. 

Forever, if we wanted to.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

This was nice. Stupidly nice. Nothing in my life had prepared me for this moment.

The softness of his fingers running up my bare shoulder, the kindness with which he bathed me-- I didn't even know this existed before now. I looked up at Eric, my head nuzzled against his broad, tattooed chest as we lay in post-coital bliss. I reached out to trace the heart I had marked him with, and I wondered what else I could draw on his beautiful body.

However, I knew I had to ask the question he hadn't been willing to answer yet. I had to look past how heavy his beautiful lashes looked in his drowsy state, and how badly I wanted to reach out and trace the upward slope of his nose, to ask what needed to be asked. "Eric?"

He hummed, glancing down at me. 

It was incredibly hard to take my eyes off his kiss-swollen lips. "You never told me,"

"Told you what?"

It felt as though we'd had this conversation about three times now; "You didn't tell me why you changed your number. Or why you waited to reach out. Or, better yet, why you didn't just show up here... I even gave you my address," I couldn't stop the imminent pout appearing across my lips-- I had forgotten how upset I was about this. "I waited for you. I nearly drove myself crazy thinking I'd imagined it all."

Sighing, Eric's gaze diverted to the ceiling. "I'm sorry. I will tell you everything. Just... could I have one more day?"

"What?" Something told me that his secret was a lot more damning than I initially thought-- why was he so reluctant to tell me? Did he think it would change how I felt?

"One more day," he echoed, his tattoed hand mindlessly traveling up into my hair as his eyes glossed over.  "Just give me one more day..."

I didn't know what to say, at a loss for words. Instead, I popped the cap to the marker in my hand, realizing I wouldn't be the one to deny him his one wish. Eric closed his eyes with a sigh of relief as he felt the tip of the marker against his skin once more; time was a gift I was willing to give him.

I was willing to give him absolutely anything he'd ever want-- I just hoped it wouldn't be the death of me.

(a/n: PART 1 and PART 2 linked here<33 thank you for reading!!)

[topherwrites]

𝘈 𝘍𝘖𝘙𝘌𝘚𝘛 𝘍𝘐𝘙𝘌

jack abbot x fem!reader — you have a shared understanding of each other, it's the worst sort of relation. warnings: mutual pining, angst, burn out, grief, terminal illness of parent, attending x resident, hr hates to see them coming. a/n: wrote this while sick and sleep deprived, so it's in third person for some reason. let me know if ya'll like this!

Jack has seen burnout, the way this job chips away at even the soundest of doctors. He’s used to tired eyes and cracked hands and sore backs. But this is different. It’s like watching a ghost move through the hospital.

She's crumbling under the weight of grief. She’s always clocked in; there’s no escape from it. No air to come up for. There’s just a void, deep and dark, that she pulls with her through every day.

And she doesn't sleep well anymore—or at all—terrified every time she closes her eyes that she won't be there when it—the horrible thing rapidly approaching—finally happens, that her mother will be alone. That she’ll have failed in the simplest of tasks.

She doesn’t feel human now, not really. She’s a candle burning at both ends—wick nearly gone. 

He sees it, the barely hidden exhaustion, the forced smiles, the vacant stare when she doesn't know anyone’s looking. But he is—always, watching her for a reason he can’t face, knows is wrong.

And so he’s there to witness her collapse, a full breakaway. They lose a patient—young. Stupid young. One of those ones who should’ve made it. Who would’ve made it, if the universe cared for things like fairness.

His eyes stay on her as he calls it, as she slowly stops compressions, discards her gloves silently, and slips from the room like if she’s quiet enough, she can just disappear. He knows that look. He follows her at a distance, checking in with Dana, the other residents, keeps his eye on her the entire time. A ticking time bomb. He sees the tremble in her hands, the measured way she’s taking in every breath. 

And then she bolts—not truly, but in her professional way, she does. Sets the chart in her hand down and goes straight for the stairwell.

Dana catches him watching her and tells him to go.

He pushes the door open, stands in the doorway as he watches her fold into herself on the cold, concrete stairway floor—knees pulled to her chest, shoulders shaking in that awful, silent way. The dam has broken. 

She sees him then, her breath hitching, and a sob, uncontrollable, leaves her throat—because now there’s a witness to her failure. She’s failing her patients and her mother and him. The door shuts behind him with a click, the sound of her breaking echoing around them. 

He moves, kneeling in front of her, as well as he can, every old part of him protesting all the while. He tries not to crowd, just be there. 

“Hey,” he says, voice firm, “Look at me.”

He knows what she needs, her Type-A constitution: someone to tell her what to do, give her permission to stop brute forcing her way through this.

She tries to swallow her emotions back down, regulate her breathing, get back to it. Her eyes raise from the ground, but she doesn't quite look at him. That's fine.

“You’re off.” She opens her mouth. “Don’t argue.”

“I can’t, I just,” her throat clogs, she imagines going home, to that house that shouldn't be as quiet as it is, just dead air and the sounds of machines. 

He sighs a long breath out of his nose, thumbing it as he offers something up to her. A piece of his own grief. 

Death, the great equalizer. 

He husks out, “If you stop for even a second, it’ll all go to shit, right?” 

He waits to see her eyes. 

He knows some of how she’s feeling, not the same, but close. She was there one day, gone the next. No in between, dead in everything but name. He imagines her version is worse. The long goodbye. The drawn-out cruelty of it.

His hand, large and calloused, cups her knee, thumb rubbing gently at the tendon there, grounding. She swallows down hard. Finally, her focus returns to him, and the look in his eye—understanding—draws her out of her spiral, if only for a moment.

“It won’t," he takes a breath, waits to see if she's really listening, “Not unless you don’t take a moment for yourself.”

She wants to believe him. But the thought of having to go back—to that house, to the hospice nurse, to her mother’s living death—makes her stomach churn. She feels ungrateful, selfish. 

Her mother’s dying, and her daughter’s trying to figure out a way not to go home. 

She finds she keeps having a particular thought, more and more these days, I want to go home. And yet she never seems to find herself there in the quiet of her childhood home. There’s no relief or sense of safety. Just quiet dread. I want to go home. And it’s the cool skin of her mother, paper thin. The occasional brittle sound that works its way out of her throat. 

She thinks, I want to go home. 

But there’s no home anymore. Just a ticking clock.

And she’s trying to let go of something that isn’t even gone yet. 

He keeps his eye on her. He’s sure that his words won’t sink in until later, the truth of them hard to swallow for people like them.

“My shift ends in an hour.” He leans back. Reaches into his pocket. His knuckles prod her closed fist, and something cold is placed into her grasp. Keys. He says, “Wait for me.”

She nods. 

What else is she going to do?

Then he leaves her in the stairwell. 

Eventually, she gathers herself together, eases back up onto her feet, and ambles her way out of the sliding doors. In a haze, she clicks the lock button and locates his car by the responding beep. It’s nice, smells like leather and pine—attending salary, she supposes.

She sinks into the passenger seat, numb; it’s the first time she’s sat still in weeks.

The car is quiet when he slides in beside her.

She doesn't open her eyes, just hears the soft click of the door, the sound of his bag hitting the backseat, the sigh he lets out like he’s been holding it in for hours.

He doesn’t start the engine right away. Just sits with her.

“You hungry?” he asks, like any of this is normal routine. Like this could be a date. 

Her tired mind pauses. Like she isn’t very obviously in the midst of a clinical breakdown.

So, she shrugs halfheartedly. Can’t quite remember the last time she ate, especially the last time she ate without her mom’s nurse forcing her to just sit and chew. She feels reduced to a child, unable to care for herself. 

His fingers tap against the steering wheel.

“Okay.” 

The engine turns over. She sits there with her head against the window, watches the city lights blur past in the dawn. He doesn’t talk, doesn't force conversation onto her. But she can feel his eye occasionally drift over; she can’t think about the beat of her heart when it does.

His place is clean in a lived-in way. Coffee cups in the sink. A stack of foreign medical journals on the kitchen counter. Throw slung over the back of the couch. 

She doesn’t say anything, just stands in the doorway. A tad uncertain and eyeing. 

He toes his shoes off onto a rack. Shrugs his jacket off and hangs it on a hook next to her.

He motions for her to turn around, helps her out of the stiff shell of her scrub top with gentle hands. Careful. Like she might break.

She shivers against the cool air of his apartment, sweat clinging to her skin and tank top. 

His hands purposefully don’t linger. He steps away, through the large sliding barn doors at the back, where she assumes his bedroom is. A moment later, he comes back with a sweatshirt and blankets in hand. 

He presents the sweatshirt to her silently. Their fingers brush as she takes it, slipping it on over her head. Worn cotton. Faded logo. It smells like detergent and him.

Already, she feels a little more alive.

“You can take the bed,” he offers, already walking toward the kitchen, giving her space. “I’ll be on the couch.”

It takes a moment. And then, “What?”

She pads quickly after him, floorboards creaking under her foot. 

He doesn’t answer right away—just opens the fridge, peers down, and makes a vague sound of confirmation—nothing particularly edible left.

“I can’t cook for shit, so…” 

She glances past him, can't help the comment, “And your fridge is sad.”

His eyes narrow and slowly, he straightens up, but there’s the giveaway, a little twitch of his lips. “I invite you in and you go in on my-”

“It’s, like, mostly condiments.” 

And beer, but she doesn’t mention that. She’s pretty sure Harrison, McKay's kid, would call it divorced dad core. He pulls two out, silently tips one toward her in offering. Why not, she figures, reaching out and taking the bottle from him. She cracks it open, takes a sip, and leans on the counter—the taste reminds her of college, probably the last time she can remember relaxing. 

Then, she sighs, returning to the topic, despite his attempt at a detour, “I’m not kicking you out of your bed.” Voice scratchy with fatigue, she adds lamely, “Don’t be stupid.”

He exhales through his nose, sentiment he doesn't know how to word staying firmly in his throat. 

Arms tucked into the sleeves of his sweatshirt, she watches him over the counter. 

There’s something buzzing in her chest. Inappropriately tender. 

“Not a big deal,” he says finally, then drinks, his eyes on her. Not in a waiting-for-her-to-fall-apart way. Just… on her. He’s watching her like she’s a person and not a patient, not a problem to be solved. 

She’s not quite sure what to do with it. At work, at home, she has to keep it together, pretend in equal measure that nothing is wrong, that she has it all together. So now, with the space to just breathe, she falters. She doesn't know how to be anymore. 

“You let strange, frazzled women crash your place often?” she says, trying for levity, settling into a stool across the island.

He seems to ignore her self-deprecation entirely. Doesn’t smile, doesn’t flinch. Not even a pity laugh thrown her way. The quiet that’s left sobers her. Again, he sees her. 

She shifts, realizing how near he is—how inconsequential the island is between them.

“No,” he swallows, looking down at the counter, then up at her, “just you.”

It lands with weight. She wonders what it means, if he even knows. 

She tries to take it casually. But as it rests in the quiet, she’s forced to swallow down her clashing confusion of feelings. 

She wants to say something, anything, to fill the void. Make a joke about him agreeing with her—she is frazzled. More so now. And there’s something dangerous crackling in the quiet. Instead, she sits there, eyes tracing the lines of his shoulders, the way his jaw tightens slightly when he notices her watching him. 

She’s so fucking tired, and her brain is a mess—fogged by grief, adrenaline, the echo of chest compressions, the tremor still in her hands. She could be imagining it all. Probably is.

Just you.

“You need sleep,” he says, firm. “Real sleep. Not just half-hour naps when your body gives out on you.” 

“Look that bad, huh?”

“Little worse for wear,” he starts, a familiar tilt to his mouth, “Still better than most on their best.”

Again, he throws her a fraction off-kilter. 

She takes it better this time. A quick study—as he’s told her before. She’s usually better at volleying, but today she’s an exposed nerve. In the ED, the banter feels harmless, a way to pass the time. Here, in the confines of his place, it feels charged, intentional. Dangerous. 

Jack sighs, more at himself than anything else, and pushes off the counter. Releases himself from looking at her. His fingers flex at his sides, a twitch like muscle memory, like he’s already imagined what it’d be like to touch her. Pull her close. Lay his palm against the back of her neck and give in to the worst of his urges, the ones that have built up in him since he very first saw her.

But he doesn’t.

He won’t.

Because she’s grief-struck and unraveling, and he knows this would be a sort of theft.

He wouldn't be able to take it back. And she rightfully may not forgive him. He might shatter this bit of comfort he’s been able to extend to her. Or perhaps worse, she’ll want him, this, now, but not when the fog dissipates, when a clearer head prevails. 

“I’ll order in,” he says as he turns from her, flicks open a drawer overflowing with takeout menus. Mindlessly, he rifles through them as he takes a breath. He feels her eyes on his back, that prickling awareness at the base of his neck.

She knocks her knuckles on the counter, “Kay. I'm forewarning you, I’m gonna snoop.”

His eyes meet hers over his shoulder, and he nods to the low shelves in the corner, “Records over there.”

He watches her turn, the corners of her lips lifting in response. She unwinds, that last little bit of tension leaving her as she falls back into a familiar rhythm. 

“You're such a hipster piece of shit.”

“No, just old,” he states dryly just to get a smile out of her. He’s rewarded with it, accompanied by a short exhale out of her nose. 

She wanders over to the corner, squatting down as her fingers run over his collection. Taking her time gently sorting through them, she occasionally pulls one from the shelf, eyes scanning the tracklist. He can’t help the interest that’s settled into him: Which ones are to her taste? Which are bands she’s never heard of?

He’s curious about her, always—the briefest glimpses of her leading to more questions.

“You,” she starts, declaring as she pushes to stand, “are a fleetwood mac stan.”

“Of course I am, I'm a self-respecting child of the seventies.”

Her eyes stay on him for a moment before she hums, approving.

It’s that bit of curiosity that’s going to do him in. 

He hasn’t told his therapist about her. Not exactly. Not in a way that counts. The predicament that’s not a predicament. Because he’s kept his head, kept things mostly professional. 

His voice rings in his head, saying what he knows the man would, placid to promote some amount of self-reflection: 'Are you sure that’s a good idea, Jack? '

No. He’s not.

But he’s already in it. Not much farther to fall from here.

She watches as Jack pulls out a diner menu, asks her, “You like pancakes?”

“I'm partial to them.”

They remind her of weekends and summer and her mom. Of giggles and the smell of burnt batter. So yes, she supposed she likes pancakes.

Jack pulls out his phone. Presses it between his ear and shoulder like it’s muscle memory. Always multitasking.

“You a chocolate chip or blueberry kind of gal?”

An hour later, they’re sitting side by side, quietly eating. Forks clink against ceramic. Her elbow brushes his every now and then. Neither moves away. 

He’s taken his leg off. She’s let her hair loose from its bun. Something about it feels telling. 

Too comfortable for what their relationship should be. 

Beer and pancakes. Two things that shouldn't mix.

“Thank you for,” she sighs, “you know.”

The air is still around them. 

He looks over at her, and his eyes are as soft as she’s ever seen them, kind and unguarded in a way that’s a punch to the gut. They quietly roam her face—pinning her. It sits between them—this vast unnamable thing. She wonders what he’s looking for in her face. Perhaps the same thing she’s looking for in his. 

When his gaze lands on her lips—momentary, maybe accidental—it zips down her spine, lands hotly in her stomach.

He doesn’t know how to formulate the devotion on his tongue, say, I’d do anything for you or I’m sorry or Maybe if circumstances were different.

So instead he says, “You’re not a machine. You can’t run on two hours of sleep and caffeine forever.”

She hums in return.

He knows she’ll show up to the next shift the same way—dark circles, thermos in hand, too much tension in her shoulders. Tonight, his words, will probably change very little in the grand scheme of things. Change is difficult at any scale. Especially for people like them. He’s learned that much.

But if she sleeps soundly, lets some of that tension in her shoulders release, even if only for a few hours, then maybe that’s enough.

The rest of their meal is finished over hushed conversation—him digging up the remnants of his past for a good story. A few close calls, some risky maneuvers, the periodic breaking of protocol all teased out to keep her eyes on him. But eventually, time runs out, she stifles a yawn into her fist and her lids grow heavy. 

Quietly, he takes her empty plate and slides it into the dishwasher, urges her up with a hand between her shoulder blades. A gentle push to bed. His grip slides down to her waist as she reaches up onto her toes and thanks him with a press of her lips to his cheek. 

And then she’s gone, the sound of her feet padding down the hallway. She doesn’t say goodnight.

She thinks, in another version of this night, he might have followed her.

But in this version—the only they have—he just stands in the kitchen, eyes on the hallway long after she’s disappeared. He rinses the cups. Wipes down the counter like it matters. Like it keeps him from thinking too hard.

He turns the record player on. Starts an album. Keeps the volume low.

Jack sinks into the couch like it’s an old friend—his hip cracks, his back protests. This isn’t his first stint sleeping in his living room. On certain nights—bad ones—his bed is too big, too empty, too quiet, too full of memory. He’ll grab a blanket and crash out here, maybe catch an hour or two of actual rest before his next shift.

Now, he stares at the ceiling as if it might offer him clarity, like it’s penance.

It doesn’t. It never does.

He remembers how she looked—backlit by his kitchen light, sipping beer like this was any normal Tuesday, like this morning wasn’t a death sentence for his already fragile grip on propriety. It’s not even the presence of her that wrecks him—it’s the ease of it. Like she belongs here. Like it’s natural. Like the universe didn’t put a giant red do not fucking cross this line between their lives and laugh every time he toed it.

She’s asleep in the other room.

And nothing happened.

Nothing will happen.

But still, there’s that buzz in his fingertips. He wanted something to happen. It burns behind his eyelids.

Somewhere, faint through the speakers still murmuring in the background—

Billy Joel starts to hum again.

She steals like a thief, but she's always a woman to me.

Jack sighs, closing his eyes. 

Sun starts to fill the room.

Oh, she takes care of herself; she can wait if she wants. She's ahead of her time.

A/N: Thank you for reading!

[harstyle]

Fourteen Years

Summary: They became fast best friends at ten years old - fourteen years later, not much has changed. Now they're twenty four, spending a few weeks together in her Berlin apartment as he takes a well earned break from work. He's a world famous singer, she has an office job she hates. Their paths couldn‘t be more misaligned - but that's what makes them work. Everything falls into place when they're together, a quiet routine building in the shadows, easy and organic. They move around each other like life is the simplest thing in the world.

But what happens when a drunken conversation on a balcony threatens the livelihood of their friendship forever?

What happens when all bets are off and they're forced to be honest with each other?

Word-count: around 4k

Warnings: nothing really, mentions of alcohol, swearing

A/N: Hey there, it's been months! I haven't really written much except from this little thing because I’ve had a lot going on. I'm not a huge fan of this tbh, but something about it feels comforting, so I thought I'd post it. Get ready for the cheesiness of it all and hope you're having a good day!

By the way he calls her Tinkerbell in this lol (don’t ask).

Also, there‘s weird time jumps because I wanted to try out something new, but it basically just switches between the night the conversation went down (italics) and the morning after and her thoughts on the night (normal). Hope it‘s not too confusing!

—

“Because you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever known, Tink.”

That’s what he said last night. He was drunk, even though he insisted repeatedly he wasn’t, but she smelt the alcohol on his breath, a mix of beer and mint that was harmonious enough to smell good. His pupils were dilated, cheeks a shade of red they only are when he’s downright gone but trying to act like he isn’t.

She knows him like the back of her hand. Fourteen years together, every step of their lives since childhood. Elementary, secondary, early adulthood to now— all of it, she’s known him better than anyone. She’s seen all of his phases, however successful or downright devastating— she’s gotten to know all the cousins, all the girlfriends, all the enemies. They’re the it couple, the loves of each other‘s lives. In the most platonic way imaginable.

Last night he wasn‘t like himself. He spent most of the night keeping to himself despite the rare company of their friends, chucking drink after drink like alcohol isn’t the gateway drug it‘s known to be— so unlike the man who always paces himself so as to preserve his health. And then he spoke to her. And at first, it went like always.

“Tinkerbell!”

“What?” She breathes softly, turning to face him whilst pressing her back against the railing. She’s biting the inside of her cheek, having just thought of him as she looked over the scenery from her balcony thinking how nice it’d be for him to be by her side. “You okay, there, cowboy?”

“Never been better, Tink.”

And she remembers, even now, the smile that tugged at her face when she realized he was different. Because it wasn’t a bad different; it wasn’t like he became cold, or dismissive, or mean— no, he just seemed happy. Too happy, like there was nothing in the world that warranted enough importance to be worried about. A version of him she’s never fully gotten to know, but has seen snippets of. And it isn’t like he’s not a happy person— he is; never too worried, never too scared. But this was a different kind of happy.

He seemed lighter. Like the years of experience and maturity had washed away momentarily, leaving her with the eighteen year old Harry she once knew standing in front of her.

“Oh is that why you can’t walk straight?”

He shushes her, coming to lean his front against the railing. She inches closer to him, head falling comfortably against his shoulder. Then she says softly, “we haven’t spoken much today.”

“Yeah, we haven’t.”

She prompts her chin on his shoulder, staring hesitantly at the side of his face. There’s barely any lighting and she can barely make out the shapes, but it’s enough. She watches as his lashes flutter softly, as his facial muscles tighten a little. “And why is that?”

He looks ahead, breathing in and out gently, like he’s deep in thought.

He shakes his head. “I don’t know, Tink.”

“Okay,” she nods subtly. “Well if you want to talk about it…”

“…you’re here.” He finishes for her.

“Like I always am,” she emphasizes, the extra squeeze to his arm substituting for a thousand words she could be saying instead. But she doesn’t really need to. Never has.

Now she’s waiting. In the kitchen, back in the living room. Then in the kitchen again. She’s pacing, thinking, worrying about what Harry will say when he’s up. If he even remembers what he said, if he meant it the way she thinks he must have.

She never had to worry about losing him. Because she always knew, even at 12 years old, that risking it would mean losing it forever. It being the friendship; the bond with the kindest, most precious boy she had ever laid eyes on. So even though throughout the years sparks of feelings have crept up on occasion, she’s never pursued that dream.

But it would be sucha dream, wouldn’t it? To be loved by the boy she grew up loving. To be loved by the boy who knows how to appreciate her without having to be taught. To be loved by the boy who always puts her first, treats her best, makes her feel whole.

It hurts sometimes to think she might never find someone like him again. It’s psychotic, really, the fact that she’s so frightened of losing him that she’s deprived herself of the best man on earth. Just so she can keep him a little longer. Even if it means walking down the aisle to him and not being the one wearing white.

For a lingering moment, all there is between them is silence. Dead silence, just the rhythm of Harry’s heartbeat exposed underneath her fingertips.

He breathes in deeply, almost as though preparing himself to say something earth shattering. But then he doesn’t. His fingers twitch, she sees it.

“What is it, H?”

He looks at her, eyes filled with something indescribable. But she speaks his language, so even though he doesn’t say it, she knows what he means to convey. Thankfulness. Gratitude. And she feels it too, any time she’s sad or conflicted, any time she’s in a place she doesn’t want to be in— a glance of his eyes and there it is. All the words. Never spoken out loud, but crafted together perfectly in the space between their bodies.  She always wonders how. She knows he’s wondering it right now too.

But it changes something in his face. It pushed him over the edge, the look of determination solidifying into something more serious.

“You get me, Tink.”

“I do,” she says lowly, making sure to tilt her lips into a smile. “And you, H, get me.”

“That’s crazy, isn’t it? How rare must a connection like ours be?”

“Pretty rare, probably,” she replies with an easy chuckle, eyebrows furrowing ever so slightly.

“Yeah, probably. I don’t even think it and you know. Y’know before I do, every time.”

Her breathing changes with his. It’s sporadic, slower, almost like otherwise she would be risking a solid ground to stand on. “Yeah, I… I guess so, H. Are you okay?”

“I’m always good when I’m with you. Which is—“ he laughs, almost like at himself, “which is kind of the point, you know. I—“ he looks away, running a shaky hand through his disheveled hair, “I’ve been thinking about how weird it is that we’re… I mean, I’ve never felt that way about…” he pauses again, taking a short leveled breath. “About anyone, really. Anyone but you.”

Her eyebrows pinch, pulling together to crease the center of her forehead.

She doesn’t know what to say. Maybe she shouldn’t say anything. Maybe then he’ll realize he shouldn’t be doing this right now, that he’s entering dangerous territory.

“And I saw you with… with that guy. Tim, you said?”

He nudges her when she remains quiet.

She clears her throat,”Tom, actually.”

He huffs a breath, “right, Tom. I see him, you know? I see what he could be, but it really doesn’t matter that he’s a good guy. It doesn’t matter that he picks up the bill, doesn’t matter that he opens your fucking door. I can’t shake this feeling that he could never be good enough. Because nobody is— not for you. Not even if he kisses the ground you walk on.”

And finally, it’s like she understands a little better what he’s trying to say. She snickers quietly to herself, but lenient worry spreads throughout her chest regardless. “well, that’s a little silly.”

“Is it?”

“If nobody’s gonna be good enough then might as well pick the next one in line, right?”

A pause. Then a cough. “Yeah, right,” he nods, but it looks and feels as though there’s something more to it.

Gently, she brushes a lone finger over his cold wrist. “Harry, what’s happening right now? I’m confused.”

He shakes his head, taking a breath to brace himself. “Is he the next in line?”

For some reason, her heart beats faster.  “What?”

And when he looks into her eyes again, they’re red. “Tom. Is he the next in line? The next best guy?”

For the first time, she allows her gaze to linger, to glide over his nose down to his mouth, then back up again. She swallows, the options of what to say made available to her in her head, yet both too risky to choose from. But she has to say something. “No, he’s not. You’re the best guy, you know that. But it’s different with you, with us.”

And he nods his head, taking in the answer with special consideration.

After a long pause, he takes a deep breath. “Would I be good enough?”

“Would you be good enough for what, H?”

“For you.”

And it was truly instinctual, her laugh. It was racked with nervousness, a sense of unease because she was left thoroughly confused. Looking back, it was probably demeaning of her to laugh— but then again, she still has no idea what happened last night. Where it came from.

She can picture it in her head now, the nervous look on his face as he asked her the question and probably the only time she’d ever recognized anything resembling insecurity in his voice. She’s pacing, a feeling of disgust overriding her stomach at the thought. She hadn’t wanted to hurt him, to undermine him. But she didn’t know.

“Why are you laughing?”

She detaches herself from him, dismissal evident in her every step. Maybe it’s the kind of dismissal that needs to be expressed so that nothing moves and everything is left untouched— enough for him to just drop it. Because she’s terrified of it all falling apart. The first domino tile has been flicked; now it‘s only a matter of when will the rest fall in line? “Because you’re being ridiculous, Harry. Stop doing that, you’re freaking me out.”

But it’s not enough. He follows after her, struggling to walk a straight line.  “What’s ridiculous about me asking you a serious question?”

“I just— you know you’re good enough!”

“Do I?”

She glances at him shortly before continuing in stride. “Oh come on! Stop acting so oblivious and innocent.”

“What does that even mean, Y/N?”

“I can’t talk about this right now. Not when you’re this drunk.”

“I’m not drunk!”

“Yeah and the fucking pope isn’t catholic.”

He scoffs aloud. “Tinkerbell!”

“What?” She swivels around, her arms coming to hug around her middle. She looks at him as though repulsed, because frankly, she is. Things were fine before he had to go and get himself drunk and spurt things he couldn’t possibly mean.

He pauses, an expression of defeat on his worry-ridden face as he inches closer. And when he speaks again, it’s timid, not like anything she’s ever known him to be.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Tink.”

“What are you even talking about, Harry?”

“I don’t want to be the guy you regret, or hate, or hurt over. When we’re old, I want to be the guy you look back on with affection. And I— I didn’t really care about anything when we were younger, but I always cared about that. About you.”

He‘s terrified, she can hear it. With every breath he takes, every word he sounds out, there‘s an undertone of hesitation that keeps poking through the surface. It‘s like he‘s fighting with himself.

“Harry,” she warns, because this is all becoming too intense.

And that’s when he said it. Because you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever known, Tink. He said it with sincerity dripping from his words, a type of vulnerable that neither of them had ever demanded from one another. Who could’ve thought that he would ever reserve those words for her. Not for the women he’s dated, not for the woman he’ll marry. For her.

He must be kidding her.

“I can’t do this right now. I’m sorry.”

She walked away then, slamming the door behind her with considerable force. She was ready to leave this behind. Ready to sleep and wake up renewed, indifferent to last night’s shenanigans.

But she couldn’t sleep. She left bed at seven this morning and now she’s just sitting at the counter waiting for the air to shift. She wants the reassurance that things will continue to be the same.  

But deep down, she knows things can never again be the same, not even if they move past it graciously. It‘ll always live on in their subconscious, gnawing away at their minds until either of them caves and decides it isn‘t worth the hassle. Because it doesn‘t matter how much she wishes she could deny it; there‘s always been something there. And that something has gotten bigger and bigger, becoming too enormous to stay invisible to the human eye.

The clearing of his throat snaps her out of a trance. He’s standing in the doorway, sweatpants hanging low from his hips, shirtless. His arms are hugging loosely around his frame and something about about it causes her stomach to stir. Last night, of course, but also just him. Seeing him on a bright summer morning in all his glory, just how he is. There‘s a sense of domesticity that she supposes became normalized in their friendship but is now itching for a different kind of attention.  

She wonders how long he‘s been standing there.

“Hey,” she offers a warm smile, the relief at the sight of him enough to ease some of the tension in her body. “How’d you sleep?”

“Good. It’s just now that I’ve got a bit of a headache.”

“Oh! I actually thought you might so I— wait,” she rounds the island to her purse and fishes around for the pills, “I bought a new pack of advil yesterday—“

But the distraction doesn‘t work on him.

“Tink, I meant it.”

It’s abrupt. Even in his delivery, she can tell he’s been keeping it in, been aching to say it.

She freezes however, turning in her spot with a squint in her eye, “what?”

He releases a deep sigh. “I meant it. What I said about you last night. I know you’re hoping we can move past it but it’s been on my mind for a long time.”

“Oh,” she replies quietly, dumbfounded, “I’m sorry about how I reacted—“

“It’s fine, you don’t have to apologize. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said it that way. Usually I’m good at keeping these things to myself but there was something about last night that— it just fucked with me. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. You should always tell me when something’s bothering you, I’m sorry I’ve made you feel like you have to keep things to yourself.”

He laughs. It’s subtle and soft, but it’s there, barely a release of breath. He pushes away from the doorway, coming to stand by the island next to her. “You don’t mean that, Tink.”

“Yes I do.”

“You didn’t even want to hear it last night.”

“I was just confused.”

He shakes his head. “And if I told you all of that now? Would you react any differently? Because however much you might hate it, I wouldn’t take anything back.”

“I don’t hate it.”

“But you’re confused.”

“I mean— out of fucking nowhere, you drop this bomb on me and it’s… fourteen years, Harry. That’s how long we’ve been friends.”

“Do you mean to tell me that you’ve never thought about it? Because if you can look me in the eyes and tell me that, I’ll drop it right this moment.”

And she can feel herself becoming increasingly more frustrated because she can’t really tell what exactly he’s trying to say. Communication has always been their strong suit, but this… whatever this has come to, it’s not like anything she’s ever experienced with him before. It‘s messy, slopey, unchartered territory. “Thought about what, Harry? I’m so lost right now and I don’t know what you want from me.”

“I want you to be honest!” He exclaims wildly, running a hand through his hair whilst gesturing with the other. “There’s been so many times, Tink. The dance, prom, our graduation, fucking last week where there’s been this— this switch. And I feel like something is going to happen but you’re— it’s like you don’t want it to. So be honest with me.”

“Well I just— that’s not fair!”

“How is it not fair?”

“Because you always seemed too fucking good for me, Harry!” She cries out. “Everyone would say it, literally everyone— those fucking girls at school, people at home, the media. I mean, how could I ever think you would settle for someone like me?”

“Someone like what, Tink? Someone who loves unconditionally? Someone who has always put the happiness of others before her own? Someone who is so damn perfect and selfless and kind that I couldn’t imagine anyone being good enough for her? Someone like that, you mean?”

She shakes her head, the words describing her thoughts heavy on her tongue but too vulgar to be spoken aloud. How could she ever be honest with him if honesty means admitting to every feeling of insecurity she has ever harbored at the prospect of her best friend? How could she ever be honest with him when honesty means making him realize she’s not nearly as perfect, selfless or kind as he believes? “Nobody has ever loved me. I don’t think it takes a degree to figure out why, Harry.”

“That’s not true.”

“Oh, it isn’t?”

“Look around, will you? If nobody loves you why are all of these pictures of our friends hung up on the walls?”

A chuckle escapes past her lips, “man, you really don’t get it, do you?”

“What?”

“That’s not the kind of love I’m talking about.”

He scoffs, shaking his head to regain an inkling of composure and rid himself of annoyance - not of her, but her tendency to make herself the villain in every story, “you can’t possibly be blaming yourself for all of those failed relationships right now. Half of them fucking cheated on you.”

“Yeah, why? if I’m so perfect and lovable why would—”

“God, would you ever blame me if someone cheated on me? Why are you always treating yourself the way you would never treat anyone else, huh? Why are you always so harsh on yourself?”

“You’re perfect, Harry. I mean, perfect career, perfect family— there’s nothing wrong with you. You can’t possibly compare that to me, can you? I’m a fucking mess. I haven’t found my passion—“

He rolls his eyes. “We’re twenty four, for god’s sake—“

But she continues. “And I’m emotional. I get annoying and clingy, my family fucking hates every guy I’ve ever brought home— and even worse, they hate me. So I’m sorry if I’m a little pessimistic when it comes to relationships, but I can’t fucking afford to be all rainbows and sunshine about it.”

“I get it, Tink, I do—“

But she’s had enough of misunderstandings, enough of him pretending like it’s that easy to let go and trust. “No you don’t! And you don’t get to walk in and say all those nice things about me wasted off of your mind pretending like all along it’s you who’s been yearning! Ever since we were kids, Harry, it’s always fucking been you! All of it, everything. I was crushed when I met your first girlfriend, you know that? Fucking crushed!”

There’s fury in his eyes, a fire that keeps getting bigger and bigger, burning at the sight.  “Why didn’t you fucking tell me then?”

“What did you expect me to do? You had never even looked at me twice!”

“You must know nothing about me if you really believe that.”

And it gets to a point where all she sees is red. He’s blurry in her line of vision, spewing words she can’t possibly digest in this moment.

She begins to walk away from him, cursing to herself like he can’t hear her. But he can, and he follows her every step.

“Is this how it’s going to go from now on? You’re going to walk away and pretend like nothing happened?”

“I don’t know what you want me to do.”

Frustration anchors at his every word and she can tell, even though she’s only able to hear his speech, that his eyebrows are pinched deeply, his forehead creased with intensity. She knows that he’s hurting to some capacity, that his heart is going wild in his chest.

He wraps his fingers around her wrist, tugging her back into his front. “Tink, just fucking look at me.”

Their chests collide, hearts equally beating faster for one another.

She stares into his eyes, waiting for something to be said, anything. But as seconds pass, and words still remain unspoken, her shoulders start to lose their tension and her heart plummets to the pit of her stomach.

He’s dangerous because she could never stay mad at him. She could never hate him, no matter how badly she wishes she could.

She clears her throat, but fails to move. She doesn’t find herself wanting to. “Harry.”

His eyes trail southward toward her mouth and she wishes so badly he would just kiss it. “Does it really matter what happened back when we were kids? Does anything other than what I said matter at all?”

She swallows around a lump in her throat, staring into the green of his eyes that have always had the power of swaying her in every which way. And as he’s doing the same to hers, the air shifts in a more familiar direction.

“I’m scared.”

He nods, “I know.” Interlacing their fingers with one hand, he allows the other to rest comfortably against her neck.

But she can no longer look at him, not when he’s so close, expecting her to open up to her like a flower in spring. “I can’t lose you, I wouldn’t forgive myself if I messed this up. I’ve wanted it for so long, but I’m bad at being more than a friend. I’m bad at saying what I truly feel, I’m bad at being the girl guys want to bring home to their parents. I’m bad at time management. I’m bad at being vulnerable . You know all this about me, but it was always different before. With you it was easier. But if this were to happen… you’d get to know my ugly sides.”

His eyes are glassy, as are hers. From the outside they probably look like a mourning couple, one at the brink of heartbreak. And in a way, this feels similar to every heartbreak she’s been through, only this time the risk of loss is much greater. And so is the sense of hope.

“Y/N, when I asked you last night about Tom,” he nudges a finger underneath her chin, coaxing her to look at him, “I asked because for fourteen years, I’ve always felt like I wasn’t enough for you. At first I thought you would never be into me. You were too smart, too confident. It’s ridiculous, I know, but we were teenagers,” he smiles at the memory. “But then I joined the band and I didn’t want to expose you to a world I hadn’t fully understood myself. I didn’t want you to have to deal with all of that, so I tried to protect you. I hid you from the cameras, lied to people when they asked me about you. Clearly I didn’t do it very well because you just told me it still got to you—“

“That’s not-“

He squeezes her fingers, a silent appreciation of her reassurance, “but I tried my best, you know? I’ve always kept my distance because I didn’t want this — everything I do and everything I am — to become a burden to you. Because I’ve always loved you. I’ve always wanted to make you happy, to be the best guy for you. There were times I didn’t know it, sure, but deep down I’ve always known it’d be you, Tink. These last few years I just wasn’t sure I was enough. Because you deserve the best a person could get.”  

“Of course you’re enough, H.”

“I still think you deserve better than me, baby, so much better. But if you give me a chance, I promise I’ll try my best. I love you as you are; whatever you call your ugly side, that doesn’t exist to me. You’re you, Tink, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’m done cowering away because I’m scared of fucking up and I’m begging you to do the same. Let go with me and explore this. Please.”  

She supposes this feeling in her chest is so indescribable because she’s never felt it so intensely before, but it resembles sheer and raw admiration. There’s a hint of fear brewing in the deep abyss, but hope surfaces at the top. And as she looks into the eyes of the love of her life, she sees safety. Love. A Future. Together.

Her face inches closer, “I’m so terrified of losing you.”

He nudges his nose against hers. “Won’t let it happen, I promise. You’re never getting rid of me.”

A smile breaks out on her face.

“Then kiss me, H.”

And so he does.

—

That‘s a wrap! Hope you liked it :)

[jihoonjuseyo]

Woozi Boyfriend Headcanons (NSFW)

pic creds not mine !

c.w.: fem!reader, mild exhibitionism, fingering, slapping, hair pulling, biting, strength play, jihoon moans yw, cumming inside (warninggg), etc

⊹༝̩̩̥͙ ༓༝̩̩̥͙

mdni <-

• we all know, woozi loves to fuck in the studio.

when you come knocking on his door at 7pm while he’s leaned over his guitar, adjusting sounds on his mixing board, he doesn’t even have to say anything before you’re coming in. you’d take a seat next to him like usual, and with barely ten minutes flying by you find yourself perched in his lap.

that’s how it always happened, his slender fingers digging into your waist, pushing down a bit to feel your heated core grind against the growing buldge in his grey sweats. tongues entangled, hands dragging through his hair - it’s a scene you’d both replayed multiple times. sometimes it ended with you gasping against the empty spot on his desk, breath fogging the surface while his hips roll into you, a gentle slap hitting your hips before he’d squeeze and pull you back against him.

• woozi likes to start by touching your hair; if it’s short he’d run his fingers through it, if it’s long he’d pull and twirl it around his finger.

he’s the type to stroke your hair and whisper something sweet into your ear. “such a pretty girl… pretty hair…” he’d hum, before grabbing your locks and pulling it - not enough to hurt, but enough to make a point. it would be then he’d smile cheekily, lips puckering to smooch you almost innocently with your head pulled back.

• he has a thing for showing off his strength.

expect for a triggered jihoon to come home from the gym and search his area for you. when you come rushing to greet him, his sweaty form bulked and dick obviously hard from the sweet picture you sent him, his arms looped your waist and lifted you. you’d note how he pushed you against his waist as you dropped to wrap your legs around him. he’d hum, turning to have you against the wall, lips molded against yours. “hey, pretty girl..” he’d purr into your mouth, hands squeezing your ass from how he’s holding you.

• he’s weak for lip biting.

you could be at an outting with seventeen, or simply resting at his studio dorm, and he’d go in for a soft and subtle kiss, only to be met with a soft pull of his bottom lip. he’d groan to himself, eyes catching yours with a warning. it wasn’t just lip biting - no, he loves his mouth, tongue and teeth on your skin. he’s so affectionate sometimes, feeling like the best way to be close to you is with a blunt bite to your collarbone.

• woozi is an ass man.

does he love tits? of course, who doesn’t. but he’s got ass appreciation for days. it doesn’t matter if it’s big or small, his hands will make sure that whatever the size, it’ll have his handprint permanently on it one day. he audibly hisses when you come out wearing something particularly short or tight. he’d never tell you to change, but you’d be lucky to even make it out of the dorm. even walking through a hangout with seventeen, he’s not even shy about tapping your ass a few times as you walk past him.

• woozi can’t help but to moan.

and it’s always those “aaahhh…. yeah…” type of moans, the ones with the most praise in the simplest form? remember the hair pulling? yeah, his hand doesn’t leave your head when he’s balls-deep in your wet mouth, pulling and pushing to satisfy himself loosely - at your own pace.

but even with him on you, or you on him, he’s often seen shuddering or closing his eyes to try and help his volume. but you can break him, even without trying. when he leans his head back, his adam’s apple bobbing with each beautiful moan leaving his lips, you couldn’t help but to lean down and bite his soft spot, causing him to drive his hips up wilder into you.

• woozi loves to eat pussy.

face buried between your legs, he’s able to test his strength at keeping your legs open. he’d suck, lick, tease, and run his tongue from your entrance to your clit, pausing to encase it between his lips as he sucked. then, he’d go back to licking, moaning into your pussy as he devours your sweet juices. it was addicting, and sometimes he’d get messy with it, smearing his spit and your juices over your cunt and pressing it to your clit with his thumb, while his pointer and middle were buried in you, squelching and being squeezed around your entrance.

• prefers top to look down.

i understand he’d like to be laid back, but thinking about him on top, with his hands on your knees, spreading you wide so he could watch his dick slide in and out of you. and you bet he has a hard time trying to focus on your eyes and tight cunt at the same time. he’d grind into you, watching your face contort to one of surprise as he reached uncharted territory in your cunt.

• he loves to cum on your stomach, sometimes his load reaching your breasts.

he’d be in one of those moods, where he’s feeling a little selfish but you’re willing to give. he’d have your ass on his thighs, your own encased in his strong arms as he drilled into you. finally, as soon as he felt your orgasms wash over you, his cum was spurting out onto your tummy while he grinded the underside of his cock against your clit, helping you both through the aftershocks of the orgasms.

• he also loves kissing while cumming, tongues tangled and bodies pressed entirely together. it’s usually an emotional type of intimacy, where you both are moaning into each others mouths with what sounded more like sobs, his hips stuttering inside of you as he reached down, spreading your ass cheeks to grip something while you both came. woozi fucks.

[sukunasweetheart]

fem!reader, heaps of cum, somnophilia, handjob, blowjob, lots of masturbation, its just mindless smut so um... yea.... i need to go to horny jail fr for this one.

word count: 1k

I just need more perv!sukuna man.... fucking pathetic and desperate and horny, i want him with that degenerate behaviour. hes alr a horny ass mf but ohhh my goodness do YOU light a fire in him that nobody else can... You make him question his fucking dignity bc he gets a raging boner every time you do the bare minimum...

Perv!sukuna who needs to take a bathroom break every now and then around you bc his dick just wont stay down - fucking his fist desperately in a toilet stall being as quiet as possible because this is so out of character for his image, he's supposed to be the nonchalant, mean, coldhearted guy!!

Perv!sukuna who shudders from how turned on he is at the simplest things you might do, like when you bump into him on accident and the scent of your perfume hits his nose like an aphrodisiac, he wants to bury his face against the crook of your neck and inhale deeply - let the smell of you reach deep into his lungs. he wants to run his tongue across your skin so he can check if you taste as good as you smell.

Perv!sukuna who eventually makes his moves on you slowly... but its really difficult when every little kiss makes all the blood rush to his cock. He drops you off to your house after a date, and he makes out with you a little bit in his car before you have to leave, and there, he's sitting in the driver's seat with a tent in his pants. He waits until the window to your room lights up, and begins to stroke himself while thinking about how're you're probably stripping in your bedroom right now, to change your clothes. and speaking of clothes....

Perv!sukuna who likes to bring any of your scented clothes against his nose and jack off vigorously, unable to get enough of it. eyes rolling back when that orgasm hits him while every breath he takes in has your smell embedded in it.

Perv!sukuna who somehow manages to snatch up one of your panties one day and jerks himself off with it... he didn't want to cum directly on it yet, but he couldn't help himself and soiled it so quickly. he'll need to wash it now, and your scent's gonna be lost. if that's the case, he'll just use it a few more times to get himself off. (by the end of it, he's ruined it beyond washing with his seed by going a bit overboard...)

Perv!sukuna who starts nosebleeding the first time he actually gets to wet his dick with your pussy. You were mortified when drops of blood started running down from his nose once his cock was inside you. He wipes it away with tissues from your bedside and insists hes fine with a wolfish grin... he's just overtly aroused. that night, he wound up using a whole box of condoms from just your cunt alone. milked completely. so satiated. at one point, he had forgotten to change condoms after cumming once and blew a couple of loads into the same one, making you balloon up a bit.

Perv!sukuna who has a libido of an endless pit, he can stay hard and just cum over and over and over again... could stuff you so full you'll be pushing his seed out of yourself for literal days after having sex with him, once you're on the pill. he's just dumped his seed into you but his hips are still thrusting, cock heavy and ready to give you another one without pulling out once.

Perv!sukuna who is obsessed with any and every part of your body. the way he gropes your tits, ass, thighs, hips, etc. resembles a perverted old man - those grabby hands are always finding a way to squish your flesh whatever chance he gets. those large, searing and calloused hands are constantly gliding across your skin, making you wet your panties without failing all the damn time. his arms snake under your clothes very sneakily. you can push him away and verbally chastise him all you want, but you can't hide how much you enjoy all of it...

Perv!sukuna who becomes relentless with somnophilia once you give him the consent-- it starts off with just pathetic and desperate dry humping, but soon you'll be waking up with his dick anywhere on the surface of your skin or inside you, and you're greeted with a 'good morning' that's riddled with a deep groan, followed by ropes of his hot cum spilling in or onto you.

Perv!sukuna who just HAS to drag you to somewhere like the public toilets, in order to get you to suck him off or stroke him or SOMETHING bc his boner is getting too painful (you caressed his thigh). you always opt for jerking him off when you're outside, because things tend to get too messy when you let him in. he has no self control smh... now he's fucking YOUR fist in a stall, panting in your ear and saying things like "fuck, yes, baby... squeeze me more- fuu-ck," before painting the toilet with spurts of his cum. you grip firmly onto the base of his dick and he almost buckles over from the pleasure. you feel his pulsating cock in your hand and bite your lip hard.

Perv!sukuna who gets an oral fixation after you gave him head once. things get difficult for you. those pretty lips wrapped around his erection makes him absolutely feral. now he's thrusting in and out of your throat mumbling "fuck- i can't- help myself-" because you're tightening up on him so nicely and it feels too good. releases straight inside with your nose pressed onto his pubic bone, hips jerking as you feel the spurts hit the back of your throat and seep down to your stomach. his eyes half-lidded, high from the pleasure.

sukuna might be the greatest pervert of all time, but what does it say about you when you stay with him regardless? you enjoy being his live fuck toy. thankfully, he gives you great aftercare and spoils you silly behind the scenes. (i wasnt bothered to write the romance aspects so please imagine it yourselves <3) the way i wanted to add MORE but refrained bc it would get a bit too repetitive :)

Masterlist

[this-is-tiny-mia]

Smudged Nail Polish (+18)

General Masterlist ceo!harry x fem!reader / assistant!reader

Summary: Late nights at the office often meant brainstorming sessions and a ton of work undone. But one evening, the line between work and pleasure begins to blur. A simple roleplay dynamic all for the sake of the project ends up in something more real.

A/n: Hello pretty people! i hope you enjoy this as much as i did, just a little one shot i did out of small inspo, i have some requests pending that i'll be working on next week, but for now i hope you like this 🥰 as always thanks to my @eileenrry

Word count: 3k

Warnings: SMUT, workplace dynamics, soft dom, roleplay, spitting, breeding kink, small anal play, dirty talk, protected sex, inappropriate workplace relationship. (If i'm missing something pleaseeee tell me)

It was a late night. Late nights in the office always felt strange—quiet and oddly intimate—but you didn’t mind at all. Just a few months ago, you had landed your dream job: Creative Assistant to the CEO of Pleasing. The title alone sounded impressive, but the perks? Even better. Flexible hours, generous benefits, and the freedom to manage your own schedule on certain days. It was everything you’d hoped for.

But the real dream? That was Harry Styles.

Harry was a force of nature—successful, sharp, and effortlessly charismatic. He was always impeccably dressed in a perfectly tailored navy suit that seemed to be his signature. The faint trace of his cologne lingered in the air whenever he passed by, a scent you couldn’t place but would recognize anywhere. And then there was his demeanor: respectful, composed, and so disarmingly kind that it almost felt unfair.

Tonight, though, the air in his office felt different. It was just the two of you. Everyone else had already gone home, but with the project nearing completion and half the marketing team either on vacation or out on maternity leave, the workload had piled up. 

“Alright,” Harry said, breaking the silence as he rummaged through a stack of papers. “We’ve got the main framework done, but we still need to draft some scenarios for the campaign since the focus group couldn’t deliver.”

You glanced up from your laptop, frowning. “But how are we supposed to do that? We need feedback from the potential users for each specific scenario they proposed.”

Harry’s gaze flicked up to meet yours, a small, confident smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Oh, we’ll do it ourselves,” he said like it was the simplest thing in the world.

You blinked, trying to make sense of his calm demeanor. “What do you mean we’ll do it?”

He leaned back slightly in his chair, his smile growing as if he was letting you in on some great secret. “Roleplay,” he said casually, the word hanging in the air between you.

“Roleplay?” you echoed, your brow furrowing as you tried to process his words.

“We’ll act out the scenarios ourselves,” he explained. “It doesn’t need to be Oscar-worthy, just convincing enough to predict how well each idea might sell.”

You stared at him for a moment, unsure whether he was being serious or if this was some kind of elaborate joke. “Okay… I mean, I’m not exactly an actress,” you admitted, a nervous laugh escaping, “but if it helps finish this project, I’ll give it my best shot.”

His lips curved into a small smile— “That’s the spirit,” he said, glancing at the papers spread across his desk. “Let’s start with the luxury skincare line scenario. Imagine you’re the target customer—fancy, discerning, and effortlessly chic.”

You straighten your posture, pretending to smooth an imaginary designer coat, and adopted your best posh accent. “Oh, darling,” you began, with an exaggerated wave of your hand, “I simply must have that serum. It’s the fountain of youth bottled, isn’t it?”

Harry chuckled, shaking his head. “Not bad, but tone it down just a bit,” he said, gesturing toward you. “Think confident, not cartoon-ish”

“Right,” you replied, clearing your throat and trying again. As the exercise continued, his focus on the scenarios was unwavering, but there was something about his presence—calm yet bossy—that made the small office feel more intimate.”Stop laughing!” 

“I’m not, i’m sorry…continue” he said obviously holding back a laughter that tried to disguise as a smile

Each line you spoke, each moment of collaboration, seemed to shift the atmosphere slightly. You weren’t sure if it was the late hour or the proximity, but it felt as though the boundaries between professional and personal had started to blur, ever so slightly.

Harry glanced at the next sheet of paper in the pile, his expression flickering with something you couldn’t quite place—anticipation, maybe? “Alright, now let’s switch gears,” he said, holding the paper up. “This one’s targeted at men. The campaign focuses on nail polish as a statement piece for confidence and individuality.” he read.

You tilted your head, intrigued. “And who’s playing the confident, self-expressive man?”

His gaze met yours, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “That would be me.”

You couldn’t help but grin, the image of Harry Styles—polished, corporate Harry—role-playing as a nail-polish-loving trendsetter suddenly lighting up your night. “Alright then, Mr. CEO. Show me how it’s done.”

He reached into the desk drawer, pulling out a bottle of nail polish. Black, of course. “We’ll use this as a prop,” he said casually.

“Where did you even get that?” you asked, trying to suppress a laugh.

“It’s from one of the older product lines,” he replied, shaking the bottle lightly. “Okay, here’s the scenario. You’re the interviewer, and I’m the guy explaining why nail polish isn’t just for women—it’s about breaking boundaries, blah blah blah”

You leaned forward, picking up a pen as if it were a microphone. “Alright, sir,” you began, adopting a mock-serious tone, “what inspired you to wear nail polish?”

Harry leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. He extended his hand, pretending to examine his nails like a pro. “Confidence,” he said smoothly, his voice dropping an octave. “It’s not about following trends; it’s about creating them. Nail polish isn’t just color—it’s an attitude.”

You raised an eyebrow, fully immersed in the act now. “And what does black say about your attitude?”

“It says I know who I am,” he replied, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that momentarily made you forget this was all pretend. “Strong. Bold. Unapologetic.”

You faltered, your pen lowering slightly as you tried to keep the playful mood intact. “That’s... a very convincing pitch,” you admitted, your voice softening.

Harry smiled, uncapping the bottle and holding it out toward you. “Want to try?”

You blinked, surprised. “You want to paint my nails?”

He shrugged, still holding the bottle steady. “Why not? Consider it part of the roleplay.” You hesitated, glancing between him and the tiny bottle of polish. “Alright,” you said, holding out your hand with a mix of curiosity and nerves. “But if this ends up a mess, It’s on you.”

Harry chuckled softly, taking your hand in his. His fingers were warm, steady, and unexpectedly gentle as they held yours. “Trust me,” he murmured, dipping the brush into the black polish. “I have a steady hand. You’ll be fine.”

The first stroke of the brush sent a shiver up your spine, the cool polish meeting your nail while his grip remained firm yet careful. “You’re oddly good at this,” you said, watching as he filled in the nail with precision.

He glanced up briefly, a smirk playing on his lips. “Years of being in this business, love. You pick up a thing or two.”

Your heart stuttered at the casual “love” nickname, though you weren’t sure if he even realized he’d said it. You shifted slightly in your chair, trying to play it cool. “So, is this part of your usual day? Painting nails after hours?”

He chuckled again, his eyes focused on the task. “Not exactly. You’re the first.”

Something about the way he said it—low and intentional—made the air between you feel thicker. You swallowed, feeling his thumb brush lightly against your knuckle as he moved to the next nail.

“Done,” he said finally, releasing your hand and holding it up to inspect his work. The glossy black polish caught the light, neat and perfect. “Not bad, if I say so myself.”

You looked at your hand, then back at him, a playful smile tugging at your lips. “Alright, Styles. You might be working on the wrong department”

“Ready for the next scenario?”

“Ready”

He reached for another paper, scanning it briefly before meeting your gaze. “We’re supposed to act as a married couple discussing which products fit into their daily routine.”

Your stomach flipped, though you weren’t sure why. “A married couple?”

“Yep,” he said, standing and straightening his suit jacket. “We’ll set it up in the kitchen. I’ll be making coffee, and you…” He gestured toward the mock product setup on the counter. “You can decide which items fit into our routine, like something we both can share”

You followed him to the makeshift set, your polished hand still tingling from his touch. As he walked, he loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves, suddenly looking far more casual—and far more distracting.

“So,” he said, moving behind the counter and grabbing a prop mug, “how long have we been married?”

You leaned against the counter, crossing your arms. “How long do you think we’d last?”

His lips twitched into a sly smile. “Forever, obviously. You’re not getting rid of me.”

Your cheeks flushed despite yourself, and you rolled your eyes to hide it. “Alright then, Mr. Perfect Husband. Let’s see how good you really are at this.”

You stood in the imaginary kitchen, fiddling with a bottle of moisturizer from the array of products set out on the counter. Harry leaned casually against the opposite side, arms crossed, the tie around his neck loosened just enough to make him look effortlessly handsome.

“So, darling,” he began, his tone dripping with mock affection, “are we really going to argue about whose moisturizer is better again?”

You rolled your eyes, holding up one of the bottles. “Well, Mr. Styles, when your so-called favorite leaves your skin looking like it’s been through a desert, I think it’s fair to say mine is better.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, stepping closer and picking up another bottle. “Excuse me, but this—” he pointed at the label, feigning offense—“is luxury. You just don’t appreciate the finer things.”

“Luxury doesn’t mean effective,” you shot back, placing your hands on your hips. “And besides, we both know you’ve been stealing mine anyway.”

He smirked, setting the bottle down and closing the distance between you in two easy steps. “Caught me,” he admitted, his voice lower now. “But can you blame me? Yours smells better. And…” His eyes flickered over you, playful but intense. “It works.”

You froze, the playful banter suddenly charged with something else. Harry’s presence was overwhelming, the way his voice dipped and the heat in his gaze as he looked at you made the air in the room feel heavier.

“So,” you said, trying to regain control of the moment, “does that mean you’ll finally admit mine’s the better choice?”

“Never,” he said with a grin, though the teasing edge in his voice had softened. His hand brushed past yours as he reached for the product, and the brief contact sent a shiver down your spine.

You swallowed hard, clutching the moisturizer as if it were your lifeline. “Well, then I guess we’re at an impasse.”

“Guess so,” he murmured, but he wasn’t looking at the moisturizer anymore. He was looking at you, his expression unreadable but undeniably intense. His hand lingered on the counter next to yours, the proximity making your pulse quicken. He took a step closer. Inches away.

“Harry…” you began, but your voice faltered.

He tilted his head slightly, his gaze never leaving yours. “Tell me to stop,” he said softly, his voice steady but with a hint of vulnerability. “If this isn’t okay…”

But you didn’t say anything. Instead, you found yourself leaning into him, your pulse racing. His hand moved to your cheek, tilting your face up to meet his gaze.

“This doesn’t feel like roleplay anymore,” you whispered, your voice trembling with a mix of nerves and anticipation.

“Good,” he said simply before his lips met yours.

The kiss started slowly, tentative, as if testing the waters. But when you didn’t pull away, he deepened it, his other hand sliding around your waist to pull you closer. The desk pressed against your back, and all thoughts of work, scenarios, and professionalism melted away.

His lips left yours briefly, trailing down to your jaw and neck as his hands explored, his touch igniting every nerve. “You have no idea how hard it’s been,” he whispered against your skin, “pretending this wasn’t on my mind.”

Your fingers tangled in his hair as you gasped softly. “We shouldn’t—”

“But we are,” he cut in, his voice firm yet laced with desire. “Tell me to stop, and I will. But if you want this…”

“I do,” you admitted, the words tumbling out before you could second-guess them.

That was all he needed. He lifted you effortlessly onto the desk, his lips finding yours again as the world outside his office ceased to exist. you could feel his growing thickness against your thigh, and a surge of anticipation shot through you.

It was risky. It was unprofessional. But god, did it feel right.

He pushed your skirt up, his fingers hooking in the waistband of your panties and tugging them down. His breath was warm against your skin, the faint stubble of his jaw rough and enticing.

Your body responded eagerly to his touch, your heart pounding with every brush of his lips against your skin. and the heat and wetness between your legs just growing bigger and bigger by the second

As he kissed his way down your body, his hands exploring every inch, a new, raw sensation overtook you. He was unraveling you—piece by piece, moment by moment—until all that remained was need.

When his mouth finally found the place between your thighs, you had to bite back a moan. His tongue was slow and deliberate, savoring every inch of you until he found the perfect spot. Your fingers gripped his hair, pulling him closer as the sensations overwhelmed you.

His grip on your thighs was firm, holding you in place as he worked his magic. When your orgasm began to build, it felt like nothing you had experienced before—hot, heavy, and urgent. It swept over you, making your legs tremble and your breath catch.

Afterwards, he stood up and leaned over you, a smug grin on his face. "My perfect wife" he said in almost a moan before capturing your lips again "Fucking perfect sweet wife"

"Fuck, Harry..."

"I'm not done yet"

Before you could process his words, he pulled off his boxers, and his cock was right there, thick and pulsing and begging for attention.

You couldn't take your eyes off him. You licked your lips.

He reached into the pocket of his suit pants, pulling out a condom and tearing open the foil wrapper with his teeth. The sound of his belt and zipper being undone sent a fresh wave of excitement through you. He slid the condom over his hard length and pressed into you, filling you with one smooth thrust.

"Oh god"

"God has nothing to do with this" his voice thick with lust

"Fuck, Harry, please"

"Please what?" he asked, his tone low and teasing “Use your words”

"Just fuck me"

He didn't need to be told twice. His hips snapped against yours, driving him deeper inside with every thrust. It was primal, urgent, and everything you didn't know you needed. You gripped the edge of the desk, bracing yourself as he pounded into you.

The tension coiled in your belly, hot and electric. He reached down, his thumb finding your clit and drawing tight circles.

"Knew right when i chose you to be my wife" he said as if he was still roleplaying but god both of you were too far from it.

"You're mine" he groaned, his breath hot against your skin. "All mine"

"Yes"

"Say it"

"I'm yours"

He thrust into you harder, the edge of the desk pressing against your ass. He was relentless, his fingers and cock taking you apart bit by bit. "Gonna knock you up, fill you up with my babies"

Your toes curled at his words, a jolt of pleasure shooting through you. It was wrong, so wrong, but the taboo only made it more exciting.

"God, yes"

He drove into you again and again, his rhythm frantic and desperate. "Gonna put a baby in m'wife"

Your legs tightened around his hips, pulling him deeper, you felt one hand on your ass gripping you tightly, him calling you wife made things twist inside you, this was a roleplay that wasn't in the work papers.

"Turn around" he demanded as he pulled back.

"What?"

"Now"

You turned around, tummy on the desk and raising your ass up. He slammed into you again, his fingers digging into your hips as he pulled you against him.

"That's it, love, take it"

His words were filthy, but they only fueled the fire inside you. He reached around, his fingers finding your tightest hole teasing just a bit to see your reaction.

"Mmm, fuck. I can't wait to ruin this pretty little ass too"

He spit directly into your hole. He pressed against your entrance, pushing the tip of his finger in as his cock pounded into you. It was too much, the sensations overwhelming and intoxicating.

"More"

"Can't do more love i don't have lube in here and i don't want to hurt this pretty hole"

"Next time..." you breathed

"Next time" he echoed, his voice full of promise

You clenched around him, feeling the tension building. His breath was hot against your neck, his thrusts relentless. "Gonna fill you up, m'pretty wife"

"Yes"

"Come around my cock, Gonna put a baby in this tight fucking cunt"

That was it, that was all you needed to hear. Your orgasm tore through you, leaving you shaking and breathless. He followed soon after filling up the condom, his cock pulsing inside you.

For a few moments, neither of you moved, the reality of what had just happened hanging heavy in the air. He pulled out slowly, tying off the condom and tossing it into the trash. He helped you off the desk, his fingers brushing against your skin.

"Are you okay?" he asked softly, his voice tinged with concern.

You nodded, your heartbeat still racing.

“My nail polish it’s ruined” you said breathlessly looking at your nails. the nail polish, all smudged.

“Oh love, i’m going to ruin more than nail polish on you”

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Taglist: @hermionelove